by Alan Russell
“You make her sound like a black widow.” That wasn’t how Am thought of her, not at all. Like all men, he thought that any woman who was receptive to him showed remarkably good taste. “Off the record, you should know that she’s been having some death threats. I was called up to her room last night, just after you left, to investigate one.”
“Oh?”
Was that suspiciousness Am heard, or only his guilty conscience? Not that he should feel guilty, he told himself. Hadn’t he been virtuous? Rather than fully answer that question in his mind, Am told Marisa about how McHugh had agreed to let him look over the questionnaires and Kingsbury’s notes, and what he had traded to get that concession. She should have been consulted, he told her, but opportunity seemed to be knocking. Then, uncertainly, he told her why he wanted to look at the questionnaires. In the telling, he became that much more convinced it was a tenuous and silly thread to be following. But Marisa didn’t see it that way. She agreed with him that it was a lead, however unlikely, that needed looking into.
They didn’t get a chance to talk any further, as the mostly disappointed media were taking their seats. The shrimp and the roast beef hadn’t lasted very long.
“See you later,” said Am.
Marisa nodded, and he returned to the back of the room. McHugh’s questioning started anew. Am listened carefully. In his bullpen he still had baked ham, two desserts, as well as chilled beer and wine. Was the Hotel safe? one questioner wanted to know. Was the poisoning random, or had Dr. Kingsbury been singled out for death?
Am signaled Cathy for the ham.
Chapter Forty-Four
Annette’s gears ground again. Am could feel the grating in his fillings.
“So sorry,” said the Fat Innkeeper.
Am faked yet another smile and waved his hand. He should have just called off their little drive, and not only because of the damage done to Annette. Am had thought he could kill two birds with one stone, both give Hiroshi his driving lesson and make a necessary stop, but he hadn’t counted on the killing including his car. The gears ground again.
“So sorry,” said the Fat Innkeeper.
Annette’s bucking shook both of the passengers. So this is what epilepsy is like, thought Am. “W-why d-don’t y-you p-p-p-pull o-over there?” he said, pointing.
Hiroshi complied, but not smoothly. Learning how to handle the three-speed manual transmission wasn’t proving an easy task for the Fat Innkeeper, but even after a shaky and abrupt stop he looked anything but defeated. The man was beaming. He had managed to get half the car in a parking space; the other half had jumped onto a concrete island. Their testing ground was a parking lot near the University of California at San Diego’s BioMed Library. It was a pleasant enough place to learn how to crash a car, with stands of eucalyptus surrounding the lot and only students to run into.
Having no inclination to play car-pachinko anymore, Am managed to say with a straight face, “Since you seem to be getting the hang of this, why don’t you keep practicing while I run over to the library. I shouldn’t be more than five or ten minutes.”
“No problem,” said Hiroshi.
Am felt a slight twinge of guilt. “She’ll operate better,” he said, “if you head her west toward the ocean.”
“The ocean?”
“Never mind. I’ll be back soon.”
Am ran off. Hearing the grinding of gears made him run away that much faster. He was out of breath when he walked through the library’s doors, had to stop and take in several deep breaths. His hyperventilating attracted the attention of a student, who looked upon his deep breathing with undisguised disdain. Was I ever that young? thought Am. Was I ever that arrogant, ever that smugly immortal? Breathless, he continued to chase death.
He approached the computer catalog with some trepidation. When Am had been a UCSD undergraduate, there had only been card catalogs. He looked at the prompts, saw that he could conduct his search through author, title, words, or subject. Am typed “blood” and the search was on. He looked at the bewildering array of articles and books cited, most with incomprehensible titles. I need a bloodhound, he thought.
Am decided on an author search, and typed in the name of Thomas Kingsbury. Several of the doctor’s books were in the library, and Am went looking for them. He quickly scanned the texts, marked some pages that were of interest to him, then went and made some hurried copies. Despite his rushing, everything took longer than he expected. He literally ran out of the library, started sprinting to the parking lot only to be stopped by a familiar honk. Annette glided to a standstill in front of him, this time without any grinding of gears. Hiroshi looked as if he had won the Indianapolis 500.
Am checked the time. He was supposed to meet McHugh at four o’clock, and it was already a quarter to. “I better drive you back to the Hotel,” he said.
Hiroshi reluctantly gave up the driver’s seat, moving his bulk over to the passenger seat. Am handed him his pile of copies to hold, and quickly pulled Annette away from the curb. His hurried movements didn’t go unnoticed.
“I have no need to get back to the Hotel,” said Hiroshi, “if other matters demand your attention.”
“I am running a little late,” Am admitted. “I’m supposed to be meeting with Detective McHugh at four o’clock in downtown San Diego.”
“You will be discussing the death of Dr. Kingsbury?”
Am nodded.
“Then we had better hurry.”
“It could be several hours before we get back,” warned Am.
“My afternoon is clear.”
“If you’re sure…”
For once, Hiroshi didn’t try and outpolite him, just nodded, got himself comfortable, and looked the picture of someone out for a drive in the country. Am steered Annette along La Jolla Village Drive, then turned onto Interstate 5. She bucked a little, and Hiroshi looked concerned.
“It’s okay,” said Am. “She just doesn’t like traveling away from the coast. Makes her cranky.” Then, louder, to Annette more than Hiroshi, “But we’re going to be driving to a building that’s not very far from San Diego Bay, and we might even cruise back along the harbor.”
Annette’s ride steadied. Her behavior seemed to intrigue Hiroshi all the more. “Have you,” he inquired gently, “considered selling this vehicle?”
As far as the Japanese are concerned, everything in America is for sale. It’s an opinion that Americans themselves are responsible for, having chosen to withhold virtually nothing from the auction block.
How many times had Am threatened to give Annette away? To have her towed to a junkyard? By no stretch of the imagination was she reliable transportation. But for whatever misplaced reasons, he still hadn’t gotten rid of her. “She’s not for sale,” Am said.
The Fat Innkeeper nodded, as if that was the answer he expected, as if that was the only appropriate response, and went back to enjoying the drive. He swiveled his head frequently, taking in the sights along the freeway. Am didn’t think most of the route was particularly scenic, but then he wasn’t Japanese. A friend of his had once driven cross-country with a student from Japan and said that what had impressed the foreigner most were the open stretches of land.
“I hear Dr. Kingsbury was poisoned,” said Hiroshi.
Am nodded, then told him what he knew, which made the Fat Innkeeper look unhappy. “Being poisoned is not a good way to die,” Hiroshi said with some vehemence. “I was poisoned once. It was not pleasant.”
The Fat Innkeeper smiled at Am’s startled look. “I dined on a fugu fish,” he explained. “Just as I was telling everyone how delicious it was, the numbness set in.”
Am had heard about the tropical fish, and how it was considered a delicacy in Japan. There was a potentially very high price to pay for eating such fare, though. Deaths had occurred when the poison sacs of the fish had not been properly removed. Chefs had to be specially licensed by the government to prepare the fugu fish. Even so, sometimes poisoning resulted.
“Did yo
u feel you were going to die?” asked Am.
The Fat Innkeeper nodded. “Yes,” he said, “but the paralysis passed after a few minutes, and then I only felt foolish.”
Hiroshi shook his head, as if that movement would rid him of the memory, then he stuck his head out the window, and for a minute or two looked as happy as a dog catching a breeze. When he reentered inside the car, he smoothed his hair and said, “Mr. Takei came and visited me today.”
Without overtly condemning or probing, with saying very little, he still managed to say a lot. Am responded in the same minimalist format. “He won’t be troubled again,” he said confidently. “That’s a samurai promise.”
Hiroshi raised an eyebrow, then nodded, accepting the good news without question. “A samurai used to have the right of kirisute,” he said, “to use his sword on those who did not show him the proper respect. He could legally kill, with no questions asked.”
“In this instance, there wasn’t that need,” said Am, “but I would like to reserve that right for the future.”
The Fat Innkeeper gave him a questioning look, then realized Am was joking, and with a little smile of his own went back to looking out the window. Mission Bay, and all of its colors, seemed to fascinate him. There were tanned bodies running around in Day-Glo shorts, a skyful of rainbow kites, and a bay crowded with windsurfers racing along blue water.
“Do you surf?” asked Hiroshi.
Before I became a serf, thought Am. “Yes.”
“I would like to learn.”
Am wasn’t about to volunteer that “maybe later” he’d take him out. Helping an obese Japanese man navigate the rigors of a surfboard wasn’t something he wanted to do. How could you translate “my wave” with the right emphasis into Japanese? Banzai? Kamikaze pilots could learn a thing or two about single-mindedness from a surfer claiming a wave.
“Excuse my foolish talk,” said Hiroshi. “This land offers too many diversions. This is my time to prove myself as an ii hito, a good person. My family thinks I have been wagamama far too long.” He remembered Am wasn’t Japanese, offered the one word translation: “selfish.”
A deep breath, and then another explanation: “On several occasions I have not agreed to a seiryaku kekkon, a strategic marriage. As the choonan, the eldest son, this kind of obedience was expected of me. What made my selfishness worse is that I’m a shachoo-no-musuko-san, the son of a company president. My family expected me to be the atotori, the successor, but I never proved reliable. I have always been diverted by useless studies, and travels, and thoughts, and distractions.
“Like wanting to take up surfing,” he admitted. “I am considered the fukoo mono of the family, the unfilial child.”
The admission was personal, and unexpected. Am had been told that the Japanese rarely revealed themselves to their own countrymen, let alone gaijin.
“My sister Reiko had to bring in a muko-yooshi,” he said. “She took a husband so that the family could have an appropriate successor. He gave up his name and took ours. There is an expression for what my sister had to do. It is called kazoku no giseisha, and it means Reiko sacrificed for the household. I should have been able to do that on many occasions, but never did.”
Sharon had told Am about how the Hotel California was a proving ground of sorts for Hiroshi. The Hotel had been likened as the beachhead for Yamada Enterprises. The company was now in the process of building maquiladoras, industrial plants along the border of the United States and Mexico, and had purchased other commercial real estate for a variety of enterprises. Hiroshi was supposed to be the company standard-bearer in this part of the new world.
“I came here to change,” said Hiroshi. “I keep reminding myself about the tale of Rosetsu, and that gives me inspiration.”
Am looked interested. There was a story here. Maybe even a folktale. “Who is Rosetsu?” he asked.
“A painter,” said the Fat Innkeeper. “He lived over two hundred years ago, was an apprentice under the great master Okyo—Maruyama Okyo in Kyoto.
“It is said that Rosetsu was Okyo’s worst student. For three years he tried hard, but he did not get better. All the other students quickly advanced, but not Rosetsu. Okyo could offer him little encouragement, and Rosetsu became more and more distraught.
“He left Okyo’s school one cold winter evening, walked away from being a painter. Rosetsu wasn’t sure whether his journey was to kill himself, or to try and make it all the way home to his distant village. He only knew that he was giving up on art, and life itself.
“He walked all night, and then all day, and then into the night again. He had no food, and no sleep. A few hours before dawn he collapsed under some pines, fell down into a pile of snow. Rosetsu thought he was lying down to die, but his final rest was denied him. He kept hearing this noise of splashing water, and he had to see what was making the sound.
“Rosetsu crawled forward and saw a large carp jumping out of the water. It was trying to reach some food lying on the ice. For three hours Rosetsu watched the fish struggle. Time after time the fish jumped, bruising and bloodying itself on the ice. It tried all ways to get the food. The fish pushed at the ice from underneath, and jumped on top of it. Finally, the carp’s persistence paid off. Its valiant leaps broke down enough ice for it to reach the food. Bloodied, with broken scales, it gained the hard-fought prize.
“This was Rosetsu’s inspiration. He resolved that he would be like the carp, and give his all. He would, if necessary, die trying.
“Rosetsu returned to Kyoto. He told Okyo the story of the carp, and said that he would be as determined as the fish to succeed. He was as good as his word. In time, Rosetsu became one of Japan’s greatest painters. On his paintings you can always see the Rosetsu trademark, the crest of a leaping carp.”
Every nation has its stories of perseverance. Am was going to tell Hiroshi about Bruce of Scotland, who had drawn inspiration from the persistence of a spider, and eventually won his throne, but Hiroshi was not yet through with his musing.
“I think Rosetsu’s symbol of the leaping carp was a wonderful reminder to him,” said Hiroshi. “In his every painting he reaffirmed that turning point in his life.”
He looked at Am. “I understand I have you to thank for my new badge, my emblem.”
“What do you mean?” asked Am, confused.
“You have provided me with my leaping-carp crest, my bond with nature.”
Am still didn’t understand.
“I am considering having it placed on all my stationery. It would probably be too presumptuous, though, to have a signet made of it.”
No, Am thought, not that. Not now, not ever.
Hiroshi pulled out a folded piece of paper from a coat pocket, spread the paper out for Am to see. It wasn’t exactly the fearsome lion crest of Richard the Lion-Hearted. It wasn’t even a carp, for God’s sake. It was a sea worm, Urechis caupo to be exact.
The Fat Innkeeper.
“I have heard,” said Hiroshi, “that I bear an amazing resemblance to this.”
There was a long silence. and a long worm, between them. Am thought of a lot of explanations. He looked at the drawing, then looked at Hiroshi. What would Ikkyu-san have done?
“It is a damn good-looking worm,” Am said.
Chapter Forty-Five
The San Diego Police Department headquarters wasn’t exactly on the Bay, as Am had alluded to Annette, was in fact over a mile inland from the water. Downtown redevelopment hadn’t spread as far as its 1401 Broadway location. The in-vogue restaurants, luxury hotels, and upscale stores weren’t part of its neighborhood, but then neither were the tattoo parlors and adult movie dens. It was situated in a neighborhood in transition, but one that looked undecided as to which way it was heading.
“To Protect and Serve,” read Hiroshi. The caption was printed on all SDPD black-and-whites. “Perhaps I need a slogan along with my crest. What do you think?”
“Mozukashii ne,” said Am. That had been one of the first phrases Sharon
had taught him. She said that as a round-eye, he would be frequently hearing those words. The translation was “a difficult question,” and usually resulted in the avoidance of an answer. Am and Hiroshi seemed to be reversing roles.
Nothing else had been said about Urechis caupo for the rest of their ride, and Am had been content to let a sleeping worm lie. He couldn’t tell whether Hiroshi was teasing him, truly angry, or for some reason actually taken with the idea of a worm logo. The Japanese had their own reasons, and aesthetics, for everything. Where else but in Japan would a dove be considered a messenger of war?
To his own way of thinking, Am believed a fat worm was not likely to draw the walk-in crowd. It wasn’t cuddly like a sleepy bear, or inviting like an apple. Am considered all the hotel logos used by the various chains, and then decided a fat sea worm wasn’t such a bad thing after all, but he didn’t tell Hiroshi that.
They were twenty minutes late even before having to take on the police bureaucracy. Their way forward was blocked by an officer sitting at a desk. After dutifully making a few calls, the sentry informed them that Detective McHugh had not left word for them to be admitted, and that they couldn’t get by without a pass. McHugh wasn’t in, and there was no word when, or even if, he would be back. The officer pointed to a waiting area, said that they were welcome to wait for Detective McHugh, or that they could leave a message for him.
There were several messages Am was tempted to leave, but chose instead to wait. Am suspected a delaying action on McHugh’s part, or a power play, or both. As time passed, Am fumed all the more. Hiroshi was content to watch the cast of characters come and go. He engaged, even initiated, a few conversations with passers-by. Am was tempted to tell him to act more Japanese, having read of a Japanese government poll where two-thirds of the Japanese stated they had no desire to associate with foreigners. Hiroshi was all but flagging them down.
