shape. All of her. Was she pulling a tease number on me, or just doing
what comes naturally? Sad to say, I fear it was the latter. I guess
she'd somehow internalized this Japanese idea that nudity is no big
deal.
"Tam"--I finally found my voice--"you're something else. I know you're
smart, and I'm beginning to remember you never were all that retiring.
How about refreshing me on a few of the other things I seem to have
forgot."
"I think I wanted to be a boy." She laughed as she sampled the water
with her toe. "I thought they had all the fun." Now she was pouring in
a test portion of Amy's Mr. Bubble. "Then I found out girls could do
anything boys could, but usually better. So I stopped worrying about
it." She stepped in.
"Easy. You're talking to an unreconstructed male chauvinist."
"What else is new? You all are at heart. At least you have the decency
to admit it." She dumped in the remainder of the pink gunk. Will
somebody please tell me why women, all women, go for that stuff? An
exaggeration, you say? Ever see one turn it down?
"Hey, I'm trying to deprogram myself, but it's uphill work." I watched
as a perfectly formed breast disappeared beneath the foam. "I tend to
be old-fashioned."
"I recall all too well."
"Well, give me a chance." I leaned back against the sink. "You know,
this striptease isn't helping repress my primal male instincts a whole
heck of a lot."
"Matt, for somebody who's supposed to be an expert on Japan, you've
understood very little about us."
"Us?"
"You know. I'm half and half." She flashed me a Mona Lisa smile as she
was wrapping her hair in a towel. I found myself thinking that at least
she shaves her underarms, a minor concession to conventional propriety.
"Well, so what. I'm an equal-opportunity seductionist. That is, when I
get the opportunity."
"Not making much headway tonight, I fear." Another tricky smile. She
was starting to drive me distracted.
"Thought you'd never notice."
"Matt, you're an emotional basket case. I've seen plenty." She looked
me over sympathetically. "Sorry, but I've got enough problems of my
very own. You'll have to manage your own salvation."
"Could be you're just deceived by my sensitive nature." I leaned
against the counter, playing peek-a-boo with a tan nipple now half-
concealed in the bubbles. "Mistaking it for brain damage."
"Uh, uh." She shook her head in the negative. "I read your gender
pretty well."
I was beginning to get a little annoyed. Who needed this? "Tell you
what, Dr. Richardson, for all my putative failings, I do happen to
possess a modest allotment of native wit. And my male intuition tells
me your dance card is full right now. That same right-brain perception
also suggests it has something to do with this MlTl honcho Asano."
"So?"
"So that upsets me for a couple of reasons, only one of which will
probably be of any interest to you. I don't think you have an entirely
open mind on the possibility MITI or somebody may be about to try and
nail this country to the wall. Because if you admitted that, you would
also have to admit something you apparently find distasteful to concede
about your Prince Charming." I watched her eyes grow sad. "Stop me if I
cross the line from preaching to meddling--to use a little expression
from my youth."
"Matthew, you've just ceased being nice." She looked down. "What do you
do if you think you trust somebody and then you find out maybe that
trust is . . . misplaced?"
"Old Ecclesiasticus, back in Bible times, told us, 'In the time of
adversity, consider.' As advice goes, that's still probably sound value
for the dollar. Like for example, you might want to back off and do a
little thinking on whether Noda and his crowd have been using you, and
me for that matter, like a couple of patsies."
When she said nothing, I pressed on. "I walk into the office yesterday,
the first thing I hear about is some MITI connection, then tonight I
hear about your MITI connection, and it's starting to sound like the
same tune. Like maybe these guys have been playing you like a violin."
"But why me?"
"Credibility. And low profile for MITI's grab. By sending you out to
meet the victims, they've thrown the hounds off the scent. Dr. Save-
American-Industry has come to help. You're so goddam clean, Tam.
Impeccable credentials. You're gold to those guys." I was set to give
her a blast, but I decided to try keeping the lid on for once. "Maybe a
better question than why they chose you is why you went for it. How did
they brainwash you?"
"Nobody brainwashed me. I still think Noda's being straight. He can
think in global terms. That's a rarity."
"And how about this Asano character? You sure gave me the message to
back off when I questioned his intentions."
"Maybe I've been thinking with something besides my head." She sighed
and leaned back. "But then, maybe not. I have no reason to believe he'd
mislead me."
"Look, I don't know anything about the situation. But I respectfully
suggest you ought to reflect on that possibility." I looked at her. "By
the way, I seem to remember you said there was something else about the
list that struck you as odd."
"It has to do with the kind of research being done by those new firms
on the list. A pattern." She paused.
"What pattern?"
"I'd rather not say just yet. Until I'm sure. It's probably just my
imagination."
Something snapped inside me about then. Anger. Tam Richardson, I was
rapidly concluding, was being used by those bastards. And as best I
could tell, this idealistic woman couldn't let herself believe it. The
situation royally pissed me off. Even more when I also suspected this
Asano operator had somehow been playing fast and loose with her
heartstrings. I decided then and there I wasn't going to let them get
away with it.
A strange psychology takes hold of you when you sense you've been
temporarily outflanked; I think it's that primal human response
somebody once dubbed flight or fight. You realize you've got two
choices: you can either stand your ground, or you can make a run for
the sidelines. So what to do about Dai Nippon and Noda and Mori and
Asano? Right then and there I made a tactical decision. I decided that--
like the caveman facing the saber-toothed tiger--the best defense would
be to try and make the beast back off.
More to the point, it wasn't merely Tam that was imperiled. Maybe
Henderson's suspicions were right; maybe this was the handshake that
turned into a karate flip, the beginning of World War II, Part B. So I
figured I owed it to myself and everybody else to at least uncover the
truth.
No entity, I've always believed, is unstoppable, no matter how massive.
There's always a soft underbelly somewhere. After a while any big
organization gets cocky and makes a blunder. Sometimes, in fact, you
can lure them into it. I concluded there was only one way to go, head-
to-head with Dai Nippon. You want peaches, you shake the tree.
"Okay, you've got your theories, I've got mine. But for both our sakes,
I think it's time we moved on them."
"What do you mean?" She looked up.
"I suggest we start with a little information gathering." I turned on
the hot water again, nice and noisy, then continued. "What do you say
we go up and take a little private look around the offices."
"Tonight?"
"What better time. Weather alert, right? Nobody's there. It's perfect.
We can fast-talk the security, get in, and check the place over."
"And where, exactly, do you propose we look?" She examined me
skeptically. "I'm there every day."
"How about that new office Mori commandeered for herself. I think we
ought to poke around and see what she's got. Maybe try and locate the
rest of that document, if nothing else."
"I'm not sure we ought to be doing anything quite that drastic, at
least not just yet."
"I didn't claim it was approved by Amy Vanderbilt. I just say we ought
to give it a shot. If we don't look into this, who will? Maybe we'll
find something to explain the so-called pattern you think you see."
"Matt, for all I know, that may be nothing more than a coincidence. If
Noda found out we'd done something like this, the whole ball game would
be over."
"That's the chance we take. Let's just see what we can come up with,
okay? Personally, I'm beginning to think Noda and your pal Asano are
both world-class con artists." I poured a little more cognac for us
both. "But whoever's right, we should at least try to find out. Who
knows? What if it's becoming a MITI show now, for some purpose neither
of us can imagine?"
"All right." She looked apprehensive for a second, only a second, and
then her eyes hardened. "You know, Noda and Mori claim I'm Fujiwara ...
on my mother's side naturally." She laughed. "And you know something
else? I feel in my bones that it's true. I believe it. I'm Japanese,
Matthew, and I'm proud of that."
I glanced over at a set of samurai armor stationed just outside the
bathroom door, glistening enameled steel. '"Tell you the truth, I'm
second to nobody when it comes to admiring Japan's ethic and their
guts. But I tend to draw the line at 'master race' talk. As a matter of
fact, I wouldn't object too strenuously if they did manage to beat us
in a fair contest. Hell, we won round one and they were remarkably
sporting about it. But what I want is to make sure round two is fought
on level ground. No inventing new rules, no rabbit punches or below-
the-belt stuff. That's all I ask."
"How about showing me some of those swords you claim you collect?" She
came out with it, just like that.
"My pleasure. Like nothing better."
Besides, it seemed a good time for a change of pace. I straightened up
and headed for the back parlor upstairs, then around the corner to the
sword room, its door now fully repaired from the strange break-in. I
fished out the key and snapped open the lock.
Funny thing, but walking around fully dressed / had started feeling out
of place. Maybe it is merely a state of mind.
All right now, where to start? This was a crucial moment. My first
impulse was to go all the way to gold, that marvelous _katana _dating
from the early Kamakura, or even before, said to have come from the
forge of the Shogun Yoritomo Minamoto's personal swordsmith. But wait a
minute. After that, what? Maybe the absolute tops should be saved for a
more auspicious moment. That sword was, to my mind, an almost sacred
work. Maybe instead we ought to start with something a little offbeat,
then gradually work up to the best and sharpest.
The obvious choice, in fact, was a piece I considered a real curiosity,
racked there on the left, top slot. As I lifted it off and slipped it
out of its scabbard, the metal glistened like a mirror, reminding me
how long it's been since I'd oiled and pampered my playthings.
"I'm afraid nothing here was handed down by the Sun Goddess." I was
coming back down the stairs a little unsteadily, like a half-drunk
samurai. "But this one's kind of like the old style, at least the
metallurgy is. Unusual. Heavy on copper and tin. In a way almost closer
to bronze than steel."
Then I proceeded to point out a few interesting features--the nice curve
of the face line, the burl grain, the Shinto deities on the elliptical
_tsuba_ hand guard, that kind of thing-- taking care to keep it out of
the damned bubbles. I was starting to get wound up, as all enthusiasts
do with a captive audience, when she tactfully cut me off.
"How's the handle attached, or the grip, or whatever it's called?"
"That's the hilt, the _tsuka_. Held on with a little wooden peg stuck
through a hole in the metal. Here, let me show you." I had a small
brass punch on my key ring that was specially designed to push it out.
"Under the grip there's a wrapping of silk braid, and then a layer of
the belly skin of a stingray, to protect the steel. But you just remove
this peg and the whole ensemble slides right off." I removed the handle
and laid it on the sink. "Now you can see the untempered end of the
sword, the tang or _nakago _as it's called." I passed the weapon to
her, blunt end first. "That's where a swordsmith engraved his
signature, his title, the place it was forged. So you always should
check. On a really important piece, there may be cutting tests noted
there. Like maybe they tried out the blade on a criminal or two just to
see if it worked. Quality control."
"God." She shuddered. "Really?"
"Licensed testers did it and certified it in gold engraving on the
nakago. Some of the ones upstairs have it. But this one's an ubu,
virgin." I watched her turn it in the dim light. "Careful now. That
edge is very sharp."
"How can you tell if it's really old?"
"Lots of ways. The grain, the signature, and then too a good one should
have some rust there on the _nakago_, black not red."
She held it up a second and examined it.
"Virgin, huh? No signature?" She had a funny, almost embarrassed,
expression on her face.
"Correct. But like I said, this one's not--"
"Then who was 'Nihon Steelworks: Nagoya'? Somebody you bought it from?"
"Anybody ever tell you you've got a crummy sense of humor." I wasn't
smiling as I reached to take it back. Her crack annoyed me and I'm
afraid I showed it. Some things you don't kid around about. "That's a
modern foundry that turns out crappy--"
"Don't get testy. I'm only reading. Right there." She pointed to some
very faint English engraved into the metal.
"_Christ_!"
I grabbed it back and held it under the light to look. No mistaking.
There it was, plain as could be.
That's when I finally realized the thing was a copy. A goddam replica
of the original. Okay, a remarkably good one, but a fake nonetheless.
How did this get in my closet?
Could somebody have broken in and . . . ?
Suddenly it hit me. The robbery. Whoever had lifted my records must
have also pulled a switcheroo on this _katana_, leaving this piece of
Nagoya junk and disguising the deed by replacing the original grip and
tsuba hand guard. I'd been too loaded to notice.
I wanted to crack the goddam fraud over my knee like in the movies, but
you don't do that with a samurai sword, even a phony modern one. So
instead I flung it down on Jo's Italian-marble floor and headed back
upstairs to check the others. What in hell had happened? Had they
cleaned me out after all. My God, thousands . . .
I began yanking down swords, starting with the aforementioned
centerpiece of the collection, scrutinizing them in the light. But
after about half a dozen proved to be all right, I started calming
down. Nothing else seemed to have been touched. Well, what the heck, I
thought. It wasn't exactly a crippling loss. Finally I grew a little
ashamed of myself and sheepishly wandered back down, collecting the
ringer off the floor.
"Tam, I'm sorry. Somebody broke in a while back, and they must have
stuck this fraud in my collection. It's not the one I thought it was."
"Sure." She just looked at me, with some sympathy. "Matthew, it's all
right. Really. Lots of people own replicas of art. I have a few prints
myself. It's not a crime." She touched my hand. "Don't worry. It
doesn't matter--"
"You--" I bit my tongue to squelch the unpleasant word forming on my
lips, stomped back upstairs, and returned with a real sword. Then I
gave my lecture all over again, dwelling on every insignificant detail.
I was going to bore the woman till she cried uncle. Finally I
succeeded.
"Okay, you win. I apologize." She leaned back in the bubbles. "You
really love this hardware, don't you?"
"Tam, I love the samurai ideals. I admire craftsmanship. I revere
courage. The guys who made and used these blades had it all. If I'm
going to collect art, why not something that inspires me."
She just looked at me and nodded. I think she really understood.
"Then let's make a pact, Matt, you and me." She finally spoke up.
"We'll face Dai Nippon or MITI or whomever honorably. And we'll keep
them honest."
"Samurai." I smiled. "Lineage to lineage. And may the best . . . person
win."
I returned the sword and locked up, then lounged in the bedroom and
chatted through the open door while she finished her soak. It didn't
seem proper to lug a chair into the bath, and there was something too
undignified about perching atop the loo. Why, I kept wondering, had
somebody taken such elaborate pains to lift a single antique and plant
a fake? So I wouldn't miss it? But why bother?
Finally she got into a robe and came out, whereupon we went downstairs
and proceeded to put away more brandy, sleet slamming against the
windows. That was when she refreshed my recollections of her early
life, the peripatetic half-breed army brat. I think, truth be told, she
was currently about as adrift as I was. She was too wary to admit it; I
was too incapable of touching my own fractured emotions. So we talked
around things, saying everything except that maybe we needed somebody.
All the while the storm outside continued to rage. But once again I was
feeling those stirrings that I'd kept on ice for way too long.
Alas, though, it had to end. About one A.M. we geared up. She retrieved
her coat; I banked the fire; and we straggled out into the sleet. After
finally managing a cab, we headed uptown. We'd agreed on the rules; now
we were off to face the beast.