by Amy Tasukada
“Now, Saehyun. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they get delivered.”
Sunlight filtered through the window, waking Nao. He pulled the covers over his face to return to sleep, but thoughts of the parade surfaced. He sat up, familiarity washing over him. The room had been his from the time his mother had left until Nao moved out.
A red yukata lay on the wooden floor by the door, along with Nao’s phone and wallet. The yukata was too bright for him, but seeing how his yukata was covered with the blood of two Koreans, he had little choice. He dressed. The floorboards creaked as he stepped across them.
He examined where the two boards met, and after finding the right one, he pressed down. A click, and then a two-foot square of the floor popped up, revealing the stronghold of the Matsukawa’s arsenal. Over thirty guns were nestled in the trap door, mostly pistols but an assault rifle and shot gun. Ammo stacked up in their cardboard boxes, a bulletproof vest, and a short sword was on top of the stronghold.
When Nao was thirteen, Oyama, Miko, and three other Matsukawa had come into the room in the middle of the night. Miko had sat beside Nao’s bed, whispering to him while the others grabbed the weapons.
Nao reached into the exposed pit and touched one of the guns. His muscles relaxed, holding the gun, and a sigh of relief washed over him. He could help the city with—no. Last night was a delusion brought on by the sight of drugs. Father wanted him to stay and not help. He didn’t need to cross his wishes yet again.
Nao returned the gun and closed the hatch. He turned to the window. The sun looked too far up in the sky for it to be early enough to get a good seat at the parade. He bit his lip. Father always reserved seats. Perhaps if he brought some sweets he could convince his father to give one up.
He stepped out of the room, the air filled with the aromas of onions and roasted garlic. Nao’s stomach grumbled. He would’ve had better luck if he’d gotten takoyaki from one of the street vendors rather than a fortune stick.
The new recruit continued chopping cabbage as Nao entered the kitchen and started to open cabinets. “Where does Father keep his sweets?”
“Bottom drawer.”
Nao opened the drawer, pressing down on the various bags of pink and blue candies to get it open.
“Can you find someone to take me to the parade?”
The recruit stopped cutting the cabbage and stared at Nao. Nao’s eyes narrowed. He no longer deserved to be gawked at like a heretic. He’d found the most vital information for the family.
“I won’t get there in time by train,” Nao continued. “Father won’t mind.”
“The parade is over.”
“What do you mean it’s over? I’ve seen that parade since I was born.”
“Maybe they have it playing on TV?”
Nao closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. Thoughts took him back to every parade in his life, from sitting on the main float to the last few years when he’d stood alone, a nameless face in the crowd. Each year was another stab in his chest. He missed keeping one of the oldest traditions alive.
The front door slammed shut, releasing Nao from his anguish.
“Everyone be on your guard!” Oyama yelled loud enough to be heard throughout the home.
Nao followed the sound of Oyama’s voice to the entryway, where the street leader didn’t bother taking off his shoes, and then to the living room. Oyama took his phone out, his hands jerking. At the same time, he walked around the living room, pushing a few of the recruits off the sofa and throwing the pillows to the floor.
“Why are we on guard?” Nao asked.
“Father was ambushed.”
“What?”
Oyama looked up and snatched the TV remote out of a recruit’s hand to change the channel. A news station flashed Father’s van riddled with bullets. Nao gasped, and cold numbness sank into his core.
“When it took them too long to meet us at the bar, we knew something was up,” Oyama said, not looking up from his phone. “We tried calling but received no response, then the news cut into the feed. The van was armored. We had five decoys. I can barely understand how it happened.”
Nao leaned against the arm of the sofa. The cold reached his fingertips. He pushed them into the sleeves of his yukata and hugged his arms. But those, too, were frozen. So many countless bullets were in that van, and there was not a single white body outline amongst the scene. It meant they didn’t have to move anybody to a hospital.
“Wh-where’s Father?”
“They’re all dead.”
Nao’s ears rang. He didn’t hear that right. He couldn’t have heard that right. Nao blinked. The chill stung his eyes.
“But Father’s safe. He made it out.”
“Nao, we can talk later. Right now isn’t the time.” Oyama pushed past Nao to the recruits. “Be on your guard. We don’t know if the Double Moon will do something stupid like attack headquarters. Sakai is safe, and the street team has their eyes on every inch of Kyoto. This is our home. We have to keep it secured!”
Nao sank to the floor. Everything fell into darkness, and Nao’s thoughts collapsed into an incomprehensible blur.
The intercom buzzed, and Oyama shouted more orders. Moments passed in a fog. Nothing Oyama said made sense. A blur of new recruits came through. The front door opened and closed, followed by a loud scream, but Nao only dug deeper into himself, curling into a ball on the floor.
Darkness.
Nao opened his eyes. He was sitting at the dining table, and a teacup sat in front of him. He had no recollection of how he ended up there. An underling must’ve moved him there. He reached for the cup. Pressing the brim of the cup to his lips, he found the once-warm liquid cold.
He drank. Nothing. It tasted like nothing. He put the cup back on the table and stood shakily.
The house was quiet. Was everyone out? Yet even then, Nao’s ears rang. They could be yelling at him from every direction and Nao would never know.
Each step he took toward the front entry he shook. He leaned against the walls for support. A half-dozen pairs shoes laid in the vestibule. They were usually put away in the cubbies to the side, but they weren’t even put in ordered pairs. An opened giftwrapped box sat in front of all the shoes.
Nao peered inside and dropped to his knees.
A wineglass stood inside, but no wine was inside. Instead, two eyeballs, along with a half dozen lapel pins of the inverted arrows of Matsukawa, filled the glass. His stomach lurched, hot acid searing up, but he swallowed his vomit while the acid churned down his throat. Nao’s hand shook as he reached for the note, but his uneven movements knocked over the glass.
The note was not written in blood, and the writing was steady. Each character correctly written and proudly proclaimed these were the eyes of the Matsukawa leader so that he could witness the downfall of Kyoto. If complete surrender did not happen before the next parade, then it would be the death of every Matsukawa.
“Father?” Nao whispered to the eyeballs staring up at him.
Nao stood out from the other Matsukawa and the various yakuza who had gathered from every city in Japan for Father’s funeral. They all dressed in black suits and ties while he wore a formal kimono. Its black-and-white striped hakama pants and black jacket with the family crest swallowed him. Even though Nao was wrapped in tradition, it didn’t help wake him up from the numbness paralyzing him.
Police dotted the clusters of people, a large group of them directing traffic and controlling the media behind their line. Having so many top mafia members in one place made national news. Tomorrow, the media would go back to their newsrooms, and the police would continue their standoffish relationship with the Matsukawa.
A cop walked up to Nao. “Make sure this is peaceful, like yesterday’s wake. We want no funny business.”
Nao heard the cop but didn’t respond. Instead, he imagined how the tea dust would
fly up when he added a fresh bag of leaves to a container. The world would be veiled and shut out for a moment. Nao welcomed the veil, wanting to be trapped in a world masked in tea.
He turned away from the cop and took out his phone. Who did he want to call? Saehyun? He was part of the mess that killed Father, but when Nao needed his family most, they didn’t respond. He longed pathetically to be held in Saehyun’s arms, to allow his warmth to drive back the numbness. It was stupid to think of the Korean like that. He was part of the plan that killed his father and was destroying the city.
He pulled up Saehyun’s number. In the past week he’d called and left so many texts, Nao had let his phone die so he didn’t have to be tempted to answer.
Why did his thoughts try to lie to him?
The phone was only charged today because Sakai made sure it was, and here no more than one hour with it in his pocket, he was already thinking of Saehyun.
“Miko will call after the funeral,” Sakai said and pushed his hand in front of Nao’s phone.
Nao pressed his lips together. The dusty tea veil descended upon him again. There was no way he could call Saehyun with Sakai looking over his shoulder. Nao pushed the phone back into his sleeve and gazed to the inverted arrows of the Matsukawa displayed prominently on Sakai’s lapel pin.
“Don’t worry.” Sakai placed his hand on Nao’s shoulder. “Once Miko tells you the next leader, you can go back to pouring tea and worrying about profit margins.”
Nao stepped away. His father was dead, and Sakai was worried about his accounting? That’s all anyone cared about—who the next leader was going to be. Nao shook his head. Who was he to talk?
“I’m going to the temple,” Nao mumbled.
“Good idea. It should be starting soon. I’ll round everyone up so we can keep to the schedule.”
The strong scent of chrysanthemums hit Nao, long before the white flowers came into view. Vases lined the walls filled with the blossoms, leading a trail to his father. The final room held more flowers than it did white folding chairs in front of the casket, which sat in a gilded box. In front of it was a picture of Father surrounded by flowers.
If Nao kept walking, would the blossoms swallow him too? He could disappear like he should’ve done when he’d brought shame to the Matsukawa.
“Don’t worry about the funeral. The police have it guarded,” Oyama said. “But with you here, the Koreans will think twice before attacking. You gutted them open like…”
Oyama continued the conversation, but the words washed over Nao, indecipherable. He took a deep breath in and out. The scent filled his nostrils.
“Nao.” Oyama guided Nao to a chair. “Have a seat. The priest says we’ll start in about fifteen minutes.”
Nao wondered if he’d ever see so many flowers in one place again.
“These things are always rough. You’ll be the first to nail the lid shut. So sit here beside me.”
Nao closed his eyes. The image of what was to come flashed before him. Could he even lift the stone to nail the lid of his father’s coffin shut? Why did he have to be here? Couldn’t he go home and lock himself away, like before?
“I hope Miko doesn’t pick Sakai.” Oyama plopped down beside Nao. “Knowing him, he’d set up some kind of treaty, and half of Kyoto would be owned by the Koreans. Then we’d be just like the rest of Japan with half their territory belonging to foreigners—”
Nao held up his hand. “Please stop.”
“Sorry, yes. It’s hard to think straight with all this shit going on.” Oyama sighed. “We could use you in the fight. You were good. Your skill level doesn’t go away.”
Nao pressed his lips together and looked back at the flowers. Why was Oyama going on like that? Nao didn’t have the energy to stop him.
“If you want to stop, too, I understand. Go back to the teahouse. I’ll still stop by and play mahjong. Though it’s probably best to stay at headquarters until the end of the Gion festivals, like Father Murata wanted.”
Looking back to Oyama, Nao wanted to make a comment about not gambling in his teahouse, but the effort overwhelmed him. The colorless flowers—those were easy to think about.
Nothing…white…
The whole world could have vanished, and Nao wouldn’t have noticed or cared. Fading away would be easier than dealing with a death again.
“Come on, let’s go.” Oyama pulled Nao up by his elbow.
The room was filled, and three priests dressed in red and white were chanting a sutra. When did that start? Musky incense hit his nose. Climbing the stairs, he looked out at the crowd. Suits and so many empty faces. How many of them actually knew Father?
Sakai handed Nao a round stone and a long nail. He blinked and froze. It was too quick. He wasn’t ready. Sakai pulled him down. It wasn’t hard, but even the gentlest of touches would’ve brought Nao to his knees.
Father’s black casket shone within its golden shell. Nao shut his eyes and dropped the rock with a thud onto the wooden stage, and the nail pinged after it. Murmurs from the guests echoed in his ears, and the stifling flowers lacing the air made him gag. He pulled his fingers into a fist. His fingernails dug into his palms, but no pain shot through him. He needed to feel the pain. He needed a connection to reality to prove he was alive, but the harder he dug, the more he realized how numb he had become today.
“Come on, Nao. You can do it.” Oyama pushed the stone into Nao’s hands.
Looking into the crowd of faces, Nao realized he couldn’t escape. He took a deep breath and rubbed away the tears streaming down his cheeks. With one hand, he put the nail on the bottom edge of the coffin and held the stone up high. If he missed, he’d at least smash his fingers, and maybe then he could feel something.
His shoulders heaved forward, and a guttural cry surfaced from his stomach and passed his lips. He couldn’t even fuck up right; he hit the nail. He grabbed the stone with both hands and raised it high again, his sleeves falling to his shoulders. Another sob left him broken, and the nail went a few centimeters deeper.
It took only two more strikes for the nail to become flush with the coffin. Heaving, Nao kept his clutch on the rock until Oyama pulled him up.
“Go back to your chair.” Oyama took the stone.
Nao walked back down the stairs and watched as Sakai and Oyama hammered their nails. The others in the room placed flowers around the casket. The air grew hot. Nao couldn’t stay any longer.
The priest still chanted as he walked into the adjacent room. A few leather sofas and chairs dotted the space. Waiters were already arranging food on trays. The sight of food only made him want to vomit.
“Would you like some tea?”
It wasn’t a waiter but a woman dressed in a suit who offered the familiar relief. He nodded, and she disappeared. People started to shuffle into the small room. Their faces were familiar; they were all from headquarters. Nao stood up, wanting to hide from them all. His steps couldn’t carry him far, and Nao found a corner of the room to sink into.
The woman placed the teacup on the floor beside Nao and offered no other words. Steam coiled above the white cup. He took it and stared at the greenish-yellow liquid. He paused for a moment, wondering if she knew how the tea was supposed to be steeped. How the water had to be at the perfect temperature for the leaves not to be burned and develop a bad taste.
He shook his head and brought the tea to his mouth, but he did not drink. He smelled it. Subtle but with a hint of something different. He put the cup to his mouth, sipped, and a feeling he’d never had before flooded his tongue. His nerves twitched alive; the tea tasted like butter. Another sip was the same, coating his sore throat with a velvety texture. That tea… it ignited the feelings within him, and he knew it was what he had been missing.
He stood up and searched for the woman when the room became filled with the guests. Once he spotted her, he moved with dete
rmined steps.
“Excuse me, miss.” Nao held out his cup. “Could you tell me, what is this tea? Is it a yellow tea?”
“Oh no, sir. It is an oolong.”
Nao blinked. It was an oolong? Oolong was deep and rich. The tea she’d offered him was light, calming his throat and his spirit. “This is oolong?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “It’s a milk oolong, but milk is not used in preparing the tea.”
“Where does it come from?”
“Taiwan. I can write down where we purchase it for you.”
“Please.” Nao took a long sip, loving the way the liquid coated his throat.
Another sip of tea and he knew it was perfect. It was the tea he’d been searching for. He wanted everyone that entered his tea house to share this tea with him, but none of the guests would care about the tea. No one else really cared about him at all. Oyama saw him as the fighter he used to be, and Sakai saw him as the legal face behind a Matsukawa property.
Nao’s fingers brushed against his phone, and he pulled up Saehyun’s number. Saehyun knew how hard he’d sought his next oolong. Saehyun cared about him more than anyone else in the room did. Yet there was no way he could have had nothing to do with his father’s death. He trusted Saehyun’s feelings for him, and Nao had no doubt Saehyun still loved him. He was trapped between his own desires and that of the family. Saehyun was part of the Double Moon and the reason his father was in a casket in the other room. Nao should’ve never replaced the image of Saehyun with Shinya the first time he’d gone down on him.
Nao’s phone flashed an incoming call. He didn’t recognize the number, but it had to be Miko. He switched lines, hanging up his call with Saehyun before it was answered.
“Hello,” he said.
An officer at the jail responded, telling Nao he had only five minutes on the phone. Miko was a criminal after all. Nao headed into a different room, quiet and away from everyone else. Sakai and Oyama stepped into the room a minute later.
“Nao?” Miko said. Her voice was as Nao remembered, aged from a pack of cigarettes a day for as long as Nao could remember.
