Tam was headed east in the black Nissan limo, listening to the talk.
And thinking. Seated alongside was Kenji Asano, wearing a light tan
suit and gold cufflinks, while the space opposite was occupied by two
individuals who made her very uneasy. One was the instantly famous
Matsuo Noda, the other his niece, talk-show economist Akira Mori. Noda
was wearing a black three-piece banker's suit, the perfect
accompaniment to his silver hair, and small wireless spectacles that
magnified his penetrating eyes. Mori, in designer beige, looked as if
she'd just stepped from the NHK studios, which in fact she had only a
few hours earlier.
Three days had passed since Noda's Imperial press conference, four
counting today, with this sudden trip being only the latest in a series
of unexpected events. The major new twist: getting her interviews
rolling was turning out to be a lot harder than it should have been.
Before leaving New York, she'd arranged for a day with Dr. Noburu
Matsugami of the Electrotechnical Institute at Tsukuba Science City to
go over the latest progress of MITI's Advanced Robot Technology
Project, now the world leader, the undisputed state of the art in
robotics. Matsugami had even volunteered to supply introductions to the
other MITI labs at Tsukuba. Everything was set.
Except now it wasn't. When she called Friday to confirm their meeting,
Dr. Matsugami advised her that some unexpected schedule conflicts had
come up. Most apologetic. Perhaps they could try again week after next.
What's more, that was her last call for the day, because immediately
afterward her hotel phone had gone dead for five hours. Management was
strangely evasive about the problem. When a temporary line was finally
installed, it had a curious whine that made conversation all but
impossible.
My luck, she thought. Japanese technology, the best in the world,
breaks down on me.
Consequently it was almost a relief to get out of town. Not the least
of reasons being Tokyo still had a hangover from all the sword
celebrations. Its streets were strewn with debris, and services
remained haphazard. As planned, she and Ken departed the next afternoon
on the Shinkansen bullet train-- first class, where the porters wear
white gloves and bow after making an announcement to the car. The only
way to travel. Finally some peace and quiet after the madness of Tokyo,
she'd told herself. It felt like the Concorde, except with legroom. She
leaned back to watch as the white peak of Mt. Fuji flashed by at a
hundred and forty miles per hour and chatted with Ken, who was sitting
next to her, glancing through some MITI memos he'd brought along.
The trip down, zipping through industrial Nagoya, had helped to settle
her mind. Kyoto. For her there was nowhere else quite like it in the
world. If you knew the byways, it could be a universe away from the
mania of Tokyo. Time to lighten up. At least she had no reason to
suspect Ken was giving her the runaround. He'd seemed genuinely
disturbed when she told him about Matsugami's polite refusal to talk.
Didn't say much: just frowned, was strangely silent for a moment, then
declared he'd make a few phone calls and check into it when there was
time.
Kenji Asano, she noticed, seemed to have a split personality: one for
her and one for the rest of the world. In public he was all Japanese,
striding ahead and ostentatiously barking opinions. But that, she knew,
was merely for appearances; he'd have been the object of silent
derision by elders if he'd displayed the slightest consideration for
his female companion. (She recalled that famous Japanese proverb: The
man who falls in love with his wife merely spoils his mother's
servant.) Okay, she told herself as she trailed along, when in Rome . .
. Japanese men need to strut and bully their women in public; it's the
only chance they get. Everybody knows the obedient little helpmate
dutifully pacing behind garnishees his paycheck and doles back whatever
she likes.
Ken's stern, traditional public face, however, was merely one of his
many personas. Alone with her he could be as Western as any Japanese
man would permit himself. For a Japanese, of course, "Western" doesn't
mean all the glad-handing bonhomie of an American; there's always an
element of reserve. Just the same, he was nothing like the typical
sexless, oblique Japanese businessman. He had a superb body, taut and
athletic, which he knew better than to bury in some cheap off-the-rack
Japanese suit. No polyester; strictly silk and finest wool. He had a
sense of style: the power look. And he really was a widower, whose wife
had died in a freak auto crash soon after their marriage.
In short, Kenji Asano was complex, not easy to categorize.
The same went for Matsuo Noda. As she and Ken were coming down on the
train, a porter had come through the car announcing "_denwa_," a call
for Dr. Asano. When he returned, he reported that Matsuo Noda needed to
make a quick trip down to the famous Shinto shrine at Ise tomorrow
morning, to review the site for the new museum Dai Nippon,
International would build to house the sword, and wanted him to come
along, a good time to discuss their mutual interests.
"He always seems to know everything that goes on." Ken smiled
wistfully. "He also 'suggested' that perhaps my visiting American
colleague would like to make the trip too."
Oh, Tam thought, why me? That's not the way Japanese executives go
about things. Women aren't part of their high-level conferences.
"I don't understand this, Ken." She'd been half dozing, but now she was
coming awake very rapidly. "Seems a little strange, don't you think?"