by Alan Russell
He considered excerpting from the Tales of Genji, revealing to her that the Japanese could wax romantic themselves, but that wouldn’t be a folktale, and the time for that was already past.
“In northwestern Japan,” he said softly, “the snow sometimes reaches a depth of ten feet or more. Half the year the landscape is covered with snow.
“She arrived with the first snowstorm. The young man, a bachelor, heard a noise outside the door, and opened it up to find her. She was naked, but not shivering, her hair long, her skin very white. The young man helped the beautiful woman inside. Within a week they were married.
“Their love was deep and full. The snow wife asked him not to talk about how she had come to him, made him swear that he would not. To please her, he made that promise. The snow fell, and they were happy.
“As spring approached, and the weather grew warmer, the snow wife became thinner and thinner, her complexion ever more wan and pale.
“The man threw a party just before summer. All of his friends were there. Everyone was drinking sake and being boisterous. When his friends asked him how he had met his beautiful bride he told of their first meeting. Then he called for his wife to come out, but she did not answer, and when he went to the kitchen he found only his wife’s kimono lying in a pool of water.”
Sharon was quiet for the better part of a minute. “I wonder if she would have lived through the summer,” she finally said.
“Some love is only meant for certain seasons,” said Am.
“Thank you.”
He pretended to be Bogey. “We’ll always have Paris,” he said. “Or was that Tokyo?”
She laughed, said “Sayonara,” then ended their connection.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
His clock radio gave him the option of being awakened to “alarm” or “music.” Am chose a more drastic alternative, waking to a local news station that believed in broadcasting its call letters with Klaxon intensity every five minutes (even more frequently during Arbitron rating periods). Between the call letters and commercials were the usual international stories of war, famine, and devastation, followed by more call letters and commercials, then the invariable local news of congested freeways, city budget problems, the Padres losing, and pleasant weather, save for morning and afternoon clouds. The news was delivered in “happy format,” which was as satisfying as a chocolate-coated suppository. Am managed not to move through two reveille charges of call letters, was just beginning to rouse himself when the broadcasting team announced their teasers before yet another break.
First happy voice: “In national news, the President will be going on a peacekeeping mission to the Middle East.”
Second voice, slightly happier: “In local news, surprising autopsy results at La Jolla Strand.”
Third and final voice, happiest and with more inflection than all: “And in sports, it went to twelve innings at the Murph” (the “Murph” was short for San Diego’s Jack Murphy Stadium, but Am had already heard the Padres had lost).
The autopsy. Am reached for the radio and turned up the volume just in time for an additional blaring dose of call letters. It must be sweeps week, he thought, then reconsidered. If that were the case, there would have been a teaser on local massage parlors, or, he thought guiltily, an announcement about a week-long series on swingers.
He had to wait five minutes for the story he wanted, which gave him too much time to worry. There would be press all over the Hotel’s grounds, with the kind of stories that might panic the guests. The media would probably try and resurrect other calamities that had occurred in the Hotel’s past, or—worse—might dig up some buried stories. When you have 712 rooms, there are a lot of closets for skeletons.
“Surprise autopsy results,” said the announcer. “Sea World pathologists…”
Sea World, thought Am. What do they have to do with Thomas Kingsbury?
“…announced today that the beached gray whale that turned up in front of the Hotel California on the La Jolla Strand died from having ingested some drift net. Our own Brian Fisher has more on the story.”
Am had heard the story before, but this time it touched him personally. He knew how the monofilament drift-net lines used by the modern fishing industry could stretch ten, twenty, even hundreds of miles, how these lines often broke off and became traveling death, trapping fish in their wake. The lines were deadly ghosts, drifting and killing, drifting and killing. The smaller pieces weren’t any less deadly. Sea turtles mistook them for jellyfish snacks, and ended up with their intestines twisted inside out. Sea lions ended up with sometimes slow-acting garrotes around their necks; as they grew, the net tightened and constricted, cutting deep into the flesh, leaving open wounds with the end result of strangulation. Even giants weren’t impervious to the nets. What the lines couldn’t capture they could invade, ultimately tangling and entwining innards and making the kill. The uncontrolled drift lines were man’s great black magic, immortal, without mercy, created to rove and kill.
Am turned off the radio. There was no word yet on the other autopsy, a headache yet deferred. He had wanted to get to work early, but decided there was another priority. He looked through his album collection, mentally acknowledging that he was still a dinosaur for having one. These days it’s hard to find record stores. LPs are endangered species, kept precariously alive by a few fossils.
He found the album, took off the record sleeve, and wiped some dust off the vinyl. Then he played the whale songs, and added a few cries of his own.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Annette’s radio had never worked as long as Am had owned her. Her relative silence, which usually lasted as long as they were in sight of the ocean, was one of the best things about her. One of his friend’s young sons enthusiastically called her a “big horse.” She was a horse of a different color for sure.
Annette drove contentedly along the coast, humming her “life’s a beach” chorus. When Am arrived at the Hotel he pulled into Outer Mongolia, sliding in next to a silver Infiniti that was being parked at the same time. Most employee vehicles knew the potholes of Tijuana only too well, with fully half the staff carpooling from south of the border every day. The average employee’s car was witness to a score of dings, and was a hundred thousand miles removed from the dealer’s showroom. You didn’t often see luxury cars in employee parking, which made Am notice the Infiniti, and especially its driver.
He was surprised Hiroshi didn’t have the valets bringing his car to and from the Hotel. Am remembered how his former GM had never deigned to walk out to the parking lot. He always made a point of marching over to the valet stand and turning on the stopwatch mode on his watch, a motion that struck fear in the hearts of the parking staff. If his car was there within five minutes, the valets were safe. Anything over that time, and there was major trouble. It was refreshing to see an owner parking his own car. If that was the Japanese way, it wasn’t all bad.
The Fat Innkeeper had not yet noticed Am, but he had noticed Annette, was walking around her making little noises.
“Good morning,” said Am. Even though he had listened to the entire whale album, it was still a little before 8 AM.
“Good morning,” said Hiroshi, slightly bowing. There was an excited look to his eyes. He pointed to Annette and asked “1950?”
“1951,” said Am.
“Beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Am was convinced Annette heard all the compliments directed her way, and responded vainly.
“May I see under the hood?” Hiroshi asked so politely, and looked so shy, you would have thought he was asking to look under a woman’s skirt.
Am opened the hood. Compared to modern cars, there wasn’t much to see. The engine, a flat-head 3.9 liter V-8, was remarkable in its simplicity. His neighbor Jimbo claimed the car was incredibly easy to work on, but then he didn’t have to pay for the parts. The Fat Innkeeper traced his fingers along the engine, gently touching here and there. He had a big smile on his face. “Beautiful,” he said again.
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“Would you like to see inside of the car?”
“Yes,” he said. “Very much.”
There’s a lot of room in a 1951 Ford wood-paneled wagon. Hiroshi explored most of its inches. Then he sat behind the wheel, looking as happy as a kid navigating a bumper car.
“I’d tell you to take her for a spin,” said Am, “but getting used to the gears takes a little bit of doing. Maybe later we can go for a ride.”
“Today?”
Hiroshi’s eager response surprised Am. He obviously didn’t know that the American translation of “maybe later” was “when hell freezes over.”
“That’s fine,” said Am. “How about this afternoon?”
“What time?”
“Is three o’clock good for you?”
“I will be here,” Hiroshi said.
Reluctantly, the Fat Innkeeper took his leave of Annette and joined Am. They fell into step, walking along one of the garden paths toward the Hotel.
“America was a wonderful place in the nineteen fifties,” said Hiroshi, his nostalgic tone surprising Am. It wasn’t as if he had lived in America during those times. Hell, thought Am, the man hadn’t even been born then.
“It ruled the world,” Hiroshi said. “All nations fell in respectful step behind it. And it offered such abundance, such wonderful ostentation. Like your car.”
Hiroshi’s English was very good. Most of Am’s American friends wouldn’t have even attempted the word ostentation. But he wasn’t sure he liked the Fat Innkeeper’s speech. It sounded like a national postmortem. The country still had a heartbeat, didn’t it?
“America was great then,” said Hiroshi. “It was the hope of the world. It was the flagship.”
And now there was a new rising sun. Am decided to argue. It was, after all, the American way. “Maybe the United States is just navigating a new course,” he said. “Ostentation had its time. So did goldfish swallowing and panty raids. Another era has arrived. Now we have to try and reinvent our greatness.”
“Goldfish swallowing and panty raids?”
Sushi before anyone in America knew the word, innocence before being jaded. Was the thought translatable? Were white picket fences, main-street parades, and coffee shops with homemade pie? Or were those just nostalgic images, and no longer the heartbeat of the land? The new America was a place where salsa now outsold ketchup, a place of change.
“No one ever told us puberty was difficult,” explained Am.
Hiroshi might have understood, or he might have just been acting polite. He offered a considerate nod. They walked along in silence. Am was about to excuse himself and cut over to the security hut when the Fat Innkeeper asked him: “How is Dr. Kingsbury?”
Am wasn’t sure if Hiroshi’s question sounded funny because his English was inadequate, or whether there was a cultural interpretation involved. The Japanese treat death very differently from Americans, in particular if a family member has died. Their ancestor worship often confuses westerners, who sometimes hear them referring to the dead as if they were still among the living.
“Dr. Kingsbury was a very committed man who was not afraid of stepping on toes,” said Am. “I’ve already found several people who would have welcomed his death.”
Go ahead, Am thought. Be the messenger and give him more bad news. “The autopsy results should be released this morning, and his murder announced. You might consider keeping a low profile. The media is sure to be around.”
The Fat Innkeeper didn’t seem to be as concerned with the media as with Dr. Kingsbury. “It is a shame he died here”—he searched for the word—“incomplete.”
Am interrupted. “A shiryoo.”
Hiroshi shook his head slightly. “Worse,” he said. “A muenbotoke, a wandering spirit. It is that sad existence between life and death. I think that is where Dr. Kingsbury is now. He is disconnected from his household.”
Was there some autobiography in his remark? Sharon had discussed Hiroshi’s relations with his own family. The oceans weren’t the only expanse between him and his kin. If she was right, in many ways the younger Yamada was in exile.
Am considered the new word. Muenbotoke. Westerners often call Japanese “the devil’s language.” American youngsters (some of them) learn 26 letters; Japanese children (all of them) learn a minimum of 1850 characters. The Japanese language itself has fewer sounds than any other major language, which requires its speakers to ascribe numerous meanings to its sounds, and the listeners to understand all the nuances. Mastering the language was difficult enough. A westerner who is proficient in the devil’s language always surprises, even frightens, the Japanese, but their language is often thought to be a lesser hurdle to understand than their culture. Most Japanese are convinced that their culture can never be interpreted by a westerner. A gaijin will always be just that—an outsider.
“There is a waiter on the Hotel staff named Adnan,” said Am. “He’s from the Middle East. Adnan says he drives slowly in America because he doesn’t want to die here. He wants to die back home, where he says people know how to show that they care.”
“Adnan drives slowly in America,” mused Hiroshi, then thought a little more about what Am had said. “Is that why you work so hard investigating the death of Dr. Kingsbury? To show that the Hotel cares?”
Was that the point of his story? The Japanese were always analyzing even casual conversations, searching for meanings. No wonder talking was scary to them. “Something like that,” said Am.
“Listen to his spirit,” said Hiroshi. Had he taken a course from Brother Howard? “Don’t be afraid to use your dai rokkan—your> sixth sense.”
“I have problems enough with my five senses,” Am said.
He regretted his petulant tone of voice, but the Fat Innkeeper didn’t seem to notice. “I go this way,” said Am.
Hiroshi paused to bow. “I will see you at three o’clock.”
Am returned his bow, and then they parted paths, the Japanese man continuing west, and Am going east.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
For the second morning in a row Am was greeted with the message that Mr. Takei wanted to see him immediately. At least Flanders wasn’t on Control. The information was passed on by Jan Calvin, a dispatch who resembled the “old” Aunt Jemima, the one who was fatter than her successor, and didn’t have a modern ‘do. The same sort of corporate thinking had replaced a gray Betty Crocker with a younger brunette. It was only a matter of time before the government entered into the lipo and hair-coloring act and started offering a youthful George Washington on the dollar bill without his white wig. Probably without his fake choppers, too.
“What’s up?” asked Am.
Jan much preferred giving out her homemade cookies than bad news. “Another pretender,” she said.
“No,” said Am. “No. No.”
“I’ve already sent Officer Wilson to Mr. Takei’s office,” she said. “Carlos Calderon is also there.”
Carlos was a reservationist. “Why Carlos?” asked Am.
“The new wannabe general manager doesn’t speak English very well,” said Jan. “Carlos is translating.”
Great, thought Am. The HRD imposter was running out of gullible Americans. Now he was recruiting Mexicans. Mierda. Translate that.
“Anything else?” He hoped they were at least up to the Bs on an alphabetical Hotel trouble list. Botulism and bubonic plague came to mind.
“Ward Ankeney called,” she said. “He had a question about a charge you submitted.”
So soon? One of the last things Am had done the night before was submit an expense form for his session with Brother Howard. He had tucked the chit in the middle of other paperwork, hoping against hope it might just be processed. Red-flagged first thing. Why was it that the Hotel was invariably efficient when it went against his interests?
“He wants you to see him whenever it’s convenient for you.”
So he can give me a face-to-face no, thought Am, instead of one over the telephone. Am picked up
his walkie-talkie, gave Jan a weak imitation of a Roman salute, then went outside and commandeered a utility vehicle. There are some mornings you feel every pothole in the road was carved with your name on it. Am found more than a few of those. Halfway to the administrative offices the vehicle died. He abandoned the cart, kicked it, and walked the rest of the way.
Diana Wade was the only person in the administrative offices. She smiled at Am, said that “this boss was easier to evict than the last,” and that he was being interviewed in the Board Room.
“What do you mean, ‘interviewed’?” asked Am.
“Mr. Takei’s decided to go into the detective business,” she said.
He hurried over to the Board Room, regretting that he couldn’t speak Japanese better. In particular, Am wanted to know how to say “shit.”
Takei had probably seen some American films where the suspects were interrogated under strobe lights. The Board Room was a meeting planner’s dream, had lights designed to key on speakers, or spotlight whatever necessary. Takei had the lights on the kid. He was eighteen or nineteen, and looked scared. He was sweating a lot (the bright lights weren’t helping), and declaring what must have been his innocence in high-pitched Spanish. Takei wasn’t buying any of it. He was pacing around smoking a cigarette, had his own personal black cloud hanging over his head. Carlos was translating and looking like he felt sorry for the kid. Security Officer Wilson, a Camp Pendleton Marine who worked a few shifts a week to supplement his pay, was eyeing the suspect disdainfully. The kid wasn’t putting up a fight, and he was giving out a lot more than name, rank, and serial number.
“Wilson,” said Am.
The flattop Marine squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”
That was one good thing about the Marines. They taught you how to kill politely. “Why don’t you go write up a report and leave it on my desk.”
“Yes, sir.”
Takei wasn’t as easily dismissed. It was clear he was not pleased to see Am, but that wasn’t anything new. He ignored him, continuing his pacing. “Ask him,” said Takei, “if he could make a selection of this man out of a police assemblage of characters.”
