by Alan Russell
Richard said the appellation had come to him almost like a burning bush (further interrogation revealed his inspiration arrived shortly after his sixth gin and tonic). He had heard some of the Hotel gossip about Hiroshi, and when he had seen him on the evening news, “everything clicked.” Archimedes yelled, “Eureka.” Richard yelled, “Urechis.” Archimedes was thinking about gold; Richard was contemplating a sea worm.
That’s what a fat innkeeper is, an invertebrate that lives in a U-shaped burrow, but not alone. The innkeeper shares his lodge with other guests (“symbionts” was Richard’s preferred term), including some species of pea crab, small bivalves, and different species of worms and goby fish.
The convivial innkeeper sees to the needs of its guests (“commensals,” Richard was quick to tell anyone, was the better word) through its fussy eating habits. The twenty-inch worm sports a ring of mucus glands around the top of its trunk, glands it expands against the side of the burrow. A mucus net is sent out that filters out tiny organisms and particles flowing through its den. As the filter fills, the worm moves forward and devours the bag and its contents—or some of them. The larger detrital matter, and whatever other food the innkeeper eschews, passes down the line to its tenants.
Richard had called and told Am about his fat-innkeeper revelation, then had supplied him with articles, pictures, drawings, and assorted miscellaneous information about Urechis caupo. Am had made a few copies for his co-workers, and then watched everything snowball. The most popular off-duty staff shirt featured a fat innkeeper sitting contentedly in its burrow. Even the perennial Hotel California softball team had changed its name. Now they were the Urechis Caupos, with their nickname “the worms.” The new name hadn’t helped the team. They were still in last place.
Somehow it heartened Am to think that out in the ocean there were invertebrates essentially practicing his own trade. It allowed him the kind of connection that mystics would have ascribed as demonstrating the universality in all nature, but all the same, Am wished he had never heard of the fat innkeeper. Everyone attributed the naming to him. Court jesters (let alone the palace guard) know better than to dub their rulers “stinky,” or “slimy,” or worst of all—“wormy.” That was essentially what Am had done. He had figured (or more likely, hoped) Hiroshi’s nickname would be short-lived, but now it was part of the Hotel nomenclature. Sometimes nicknames do stick—like his own. His real name was Ian, but that had been in another life, before hotels. Now he was Am, an abbreviation of the assistant manager he had once been.
The door opened and the Fat Innkeeper (“Mr. Yamada, dammit,” Am reminded himself) entered the room, followed by Takei, Matsuda, and Fujimoto. Contrary to popular opinion, the three men really didn’t look that much alike (Sharon said most Japanese were convinced all Americans looked alike, so apparently it’s a universal prejudice), even though all of them were roughly the same age, around forty-five, and wore the same dark suits and red ties. Takei, in charge of daily operations, was the thinnest of the lot, his face almost skeletal. Matsuda was the numbers man, the chief financial officer who supervised the Hotel finances. He had more gray hairs than the others, and a nose that was big by Japanese standards. Fujimoto oversaw the food-and-beverage operations, and was the sportiest of the three. Am suspected he sometimes moussed his hair, and on a few occasions he’d even been spotted wearing paisley ties.
Am jumped to his feet, and walked toward the men. He hadn’t expected all of the Japanese bigwigs to be meeting with him, but he wasn’t totally surprised either. The Three Musketeers might have coined the phrase, “One for all, and all for one,” but the Japanese live it. The Fat Innkeeper made the introductions. The Hotel has more than a thousand employees, so it wasn’t too surprising that Am had never talked with Matsuda or Fujimoto. Takei was another story, if not a more pleasant one. Am thought the man more termite than human, so great was his love for paper. Takei was always asking for reports and contingency plans from security. Am admired his diligence, but he was tired of reinventing the wheel. Takei loved minutiae, seemed delighted to come up with more “what ifs” than Rod Serling. He had planned for countless disasters. Sharon said there were several reasons for this: the Japanese pursuit of perfection; their need for a sense of control; and, most of all, the almost instinctive Japanese fear that there is trouble waiting around the corner. It is as if they always expect, she said, the worst. Takei had wanted to see earthquake plans, and fire-safety procedures. They’d gone over how to deal with bomb threats and power failures. About the only thing they hadn’t put down on paper was what to do in the event of a murder. Welcome to America.
The Fat Innkeeper announced the Japanese names first, then he offered up Am’s name and his position. With the timing of a veteran performer, and the accompaniment of a slight smile, Hiroshi then added, “He is also the Hotel samurai.”
The Fat Innkeeper explained further in Japanese. Paranoia is always quick to surface when you’re being discussed in a language you don’t understand. When he finished, no one was laughing. Not that Am ever expected belly laughter out of this group, but the silence weighed in as more oppressive than usual. The only noise was from Takei. Almost so as not to be noticed, he was sucking air through his teeth. Am had been warned that such inhalation was the Japanese equivalent of a Bronx cheer, though in their usual understated way.
“Your business cards,” said Takei at last, “are open to misinterpretation.”
That was about as straightforwardly censurious as the Japanese were ever likely to get. When in doubt, Sharon had told him, employ sumimasen—apology without end. But Am wasn’t about to play Uriah Heep for anyone.
“I will discard the old cards immediately,” he said, “and have new ones made up at my own expense.”
And I’ll try to suppress the suddenly very strong urge, thought Am, to have the new cards announce myself as a proctologist in Japanese.
It wasn’t sumimasen, but no one objected to his solution. Am waited for the other men to find their seats, Sharon’s words again in his ears: “Sometimes they play a form of musical chairs. They know who belongs in the seat of honor, but there’s often a hierarchical infighting for the other chairs.”
Am’s mother had taught him to say please and thank you. He knew to excuse himself after inadvertently belching, kept his nails clean, and closed his mouth when he chewed. Am was good about cleaning up after himself, and the sermon of his youth had been, “Treat others as you would like to be treated yourself.” He didn’t spit in public, and didn’t even much spit in private. Having been able to impart those behaviors onto him, Am’s mother had reckoned herself a success. Mom hadn’t prepared him to be Japanese.
He took the last seat. The meeting didn’t begin with a call to business, or an agenda. The Fat Innkeeper commented about the heavy fog, and Am found himself explaining about the coastal marine layer. It was something, Am figured, that Hiroshi was already acquainted with. The Japanese way was scripted; he had only to remember his part. An American owner probably would have asked, “What the hell happened in room three seven four?” Hiroshi would get to the same question, but not without the proper sacrament. What Am feared, though, was that they might talk to cross-purposes. Sometimes even the Japanese didn’t understand one another, losing their way among the etiquette.
The talk of fog was winding down. Am wondered if it was time to bring up the death of Dr. Kingsbury. It was tiring to have to think before speaking, definitely not in keeping with the American way.
“In this country,” said Am, “every year the hotel industry puts up guests for more than a billion room nights.”
Am let the figure sink in. “By the odds of probability alone,” he said, “sometimes bad things happen.”
First the Fat Innkeeper nodded, then the other three dark heads followed. They had found that all-important point of agreement. “Tell us about the bad thing that happened,” said Hiroshi.
They heard about Kingsbury, and his death, and McHugh’s suspicions that he
might have been murdered. “The detective had received a call from Dr. Kingsbury the day before he died,” said Am. “They set up a meeting for eight o’clock tonight. Although Kingsbury wouldn’t detail the specifics of their proposed get-together, he did tell McHugh that a fraud was being perpetrated, and that he had uncovered enough incriminating information to warrant a police investigation.
“McHugh tried to get him to say more over the phone, but Kingsbury prevailed upon him for a face-to-face. The detective got the feeling that the doctor might have been fishing, seeing if he really did have a crime the police would be interested in pursuing. McHugh sensed that Kingsbury wanted the police involved for the sake of a public forum. That’s one thing the good doctor always excelled at—getting publicity.”
“Dr. Kings-bur-y,” said the Fat Innkeeper, stretching out his name to three words. “I have heard of him.”
“He was also known as Tommy Gunn the Magician,” said Am, rhyming the name with his stage profession. “Kingsbury studied magic and illusion to learn the tricks of the trade, to get an understanding of just how people could be fooled. It was his life’s work to expose the charlatans and reveal their staged miracles.
“Kingsbury was staying at the Hotel as part of the UNDER convention, a gathering of those who have had near-death experiences. Supposedly, he was skeptical of the ‘proof’ of life after death that these near-death groups have been circulating.”
“What kind of proof?” asked Hiroshi.
“Many who have almost died claim similar experiences. Most remember leaving their bodies and traveling toward a bright light. Some say they talked with friends and relatives on what they call ‘the other side.’ Many reminisce about the overwhelming peace they perceived when they were clinically dead, and claim that anyone who has had a near-death experience no longer fears death.”
“You have not told us how this doctor magician died,” said Takei.
Am sensed the other man’s hostility, even if his animosity wasn’t exactly manifested in word or deed. Maybe Takei didn’t like the idea of a gaijin lecturing them. Maybe it grated against him that Am had once been in charge of many of his own duties.
“That’s because neither I, nor the authorities, yet know,” said Am. “Detective McHugh said that Kingsbury’s death looked suspicious, and he’s seen a lot more bodies than I ever have. The autopsy will tell us if he’s right.”
“So, all this alarm might be unnecessary?” Takei’s question wasn’t a question.
“That’s right. Even Kingsbury’s dying words seem to support a natural death. Some of the UNDER people now believe he joined their movement at the end, even publicly endorsed their cause.
“His last words were ‘Be positive.’ That goes hand in hand with the near-death experience.”
The men were silent, lost in contemplation of Kingsbury’s last words. Norma had told Am that Thomas Edison’s final utterance was “It is very beautiful over there.” She said she had seen that beauty. The only last words Am knew were those of Eugene O’Neill as he expired in Boston’s Shelton Hotel: “I knew it. I knew it. Born in a hotel room—and God damn it—died in a hotel room.” Am had half a mind to usurp O’Neill’s words on his own deathbed.
“It is fortunate,” said Takei, “that we have a samurai to deal with this situation. You know bushido, of course?”
Am wondered if it was a form of martial arts. The Fat Innkeeper decided to interpret. “Bushido is the way of the warrior, of the samurai. It is a manner of living, of acting, of being. Bushido is a discipline, a code of bravery. It is a way, and a truth, and an inner guide.”
Bushido sounds like bullshit, thought Am.
“But no samurai,” said Hiroshi with that little half-Buddha smile of his, “however noble and determined, has ever conquered death.”
“I don’t intend to be the first,” said Am. “But I do intend to get better acquainted.”
Chapter Seven
It is against the nature of most men to accept the fact that they are not qualified to do something. Prop a beer in their hands, steer the conversation in the right direction, and before long they’ll wax eloquent on the finer points of brain surgery, battlefield tactics, nuclear engineering, coaching a football team, and the most elementary task of all, how to run the country. The wonderful thing about being an armchair quarterback is that you’re not called to go out on the field. So just how, thought Am, had he managed to get himself in the middle of a very visible situation in which he had absolutely no idea how to proceed? It wouldn’t do to tell the Fat Innkeeper and his cronies that he was content to let the police handle the investigation. He could just see Takei raising a damning eyebrow at that one. To concede without trying wouldn’t be the samurai way.
Am’s ruminating was taking place in his own bathtub. Hot water, he thought, seemed to be his proper medium that day. Am eased his shoulders and neck farther into the water. His tub wasn’t nearly as large as those in the Hotel spa. It wasn’t filled with milk and/or herbs, and there wasn’t an attendant waiting to offer the requisite pampering (a bathing session one copywriter had alliteratively labeled as the “electrolyte enrapturement experience”). But for all the Hotel’s touting of their “ultimate liquid escape,” they didn’t, to Am’s knowledge, offer a rubber ducky. The yellow duck was placidly floating, stirred by the small waves of Am’s movements. It was alone in the water tonight. Am had opted not to bring out the floating whale that usually accompanied it.
He reached for the duck, and squeezed. The resulting quack sounded somewhat waterlogged. Certified in lifesaving techniques, Am worked on the victim, draining water out of the duck. Along its underside he felt raised ridges and investigated what was there: “Made in Japan.”
“My geisha house and welcome to it,” he said, then tossed the duck aside. It quacked, much more assertively this time, on impact with the floor. That, or it laughed.
Am sank even farther into the tub, imagined himself an alligator with only eyes and nose clearing the liquid. The warm water took away some of the harder edges of the day, but he couldn’t drift very far from his concerns. A guest had died at his Hotel. He wanted McHugh to be wrong, hoped the autopsy would prove Kingsbury’s death was the result of natural causes, but his instincts told him that was wishful thinking.
While the medical examiner was figuring out how Kingsbury died, maybe Am should be considering why he died. Cops were always looking for motives, and Am decided that would be his first order of business in the morning. If bushido couldn’t solve the case, then maybe Yankee ingenuity could.
As if to emphasize that point, Am reached for a small pump. San Diego averages less than ten inches of rain in a year, and Am had decided to irrigate his garden through his baths. Tubing ran from the pump into the garden below. The so-called gray water wasn’t exactly legal, but his plants were thriving. He dried himself off while the pump made short work of his bath. The strangling calls of a pump going dry prompted him to turn it off. Perhaps because Am’s fingers had been underwater for so long, they were unusually sensitive. On the underside of the pump was a small metal plate with upraised bumps, the embellishments of identification. He stopped himself from looking to see where the pump was made, afraid to discover that he was sharing his bathtub with all of Japan. Who would have guessed World War II would have paled against the larger conflict, the rubber-ducky war?
Am’s bedtime dilemma was whether to call Sharon. It was late, but he knew she’d be up. She said women had to work twice as hard as men to get ahead. Whether that was true or not, Am couldn’t say; he only knew her work was like the old rhyme—never done. Did he resent her for that? Did it injure his male pride that he was the one who kept calling her and not vice versa? Sharon had told him that she didn’t have time for a relationship. He had made that same speech once or twice himself. The shoe was on the other foot, and the phone was in the other hand. He called anyway.
She answered on the first ring. That was at least some consolation. Sharon was in British Colum
bia, part of a negotiations team looking to purchase another hotel for Yamada Enterprises, or at least one of its subsidiaries. The family business, the doozuku gaisha, was immense and still expanding. Sharon had said an anthropologist would be hard-pressed to figure out all the familial players and relationships in the company. She had told him that if you analyzed the shinseki, the networks of households, you could find scores of businesses. They were bedfellows—literally. Like royal lineages of old, marriages of ranking families were arranged to strengthen positions. By American thinking, the result was almost incestuous. It was also tough to beat. These days American firms never compete against one company; they compete against a consortium. In Japan, whenever an important marriage is announced, the newspapers routinely document the network of shinseki. Marriages can mean a mating of major automotive and electronic concerns, with kissing cousins in chemicals and computers and other enterprises—even hotels.
“Interrupting your metamorphosis?” asked Am. He liked to tease Sharon that she was turning Japanese.
“Call me Madama Butterfly,” she said.
“That explains it,” he said. “Today felt like an opera.”
