The Tiger's Gate, page 18
Oshima could see Mizo had already decided, but he still had to go through the motions. He accepted it was tricky, but he just wished he would get on with it. This was taking more out of him than he had anticipated. He talked Mizo out of his objections one by one, the excitement still in his voice, the optimism.
‘Look at us. Don’t you think we deserve something after what we went through, after what we lost? This is our chance. It won’t come again, you know that.’
‘I do. But we can’t rush into it. We have to be careful. You said it... there are others.’
‘But that’s why we must be quick. We don’t have time to wait.’
‘All right. Come to my workshop tomorrow. No,’ he corrected himself, ‘the day after. Early is fine. Bring the bowl and I’ll show you the others.’
It was agreed. Oshima paid the bill – he insisted. He left the tea shop and turned north, towards Nihonbashi. It was the signal they had agreed on. He trusted Hirano was there, watching, but he knew better than to look.
He walked smartly along the street. Mizo had been right, it was getting warmer. As he stood in the shade, waiting to cross the street, he took off his hat and fanned himself. He had done it. Mizo was anxious even before they met. He was only too eager to agree. Perhaps he was feeling pressure from someone. The break-in a few days earlier showed he was still looking, or at least, someone was. Desperate times made strange bedfellows – wasn’t that what they said? He might have actually convinced Mizo he was on the level. That was all he needed, for the moment.
The more he thought about it, the more he was certain Mizo had believed him. He couldn’t tell what he was thinking of doing once they had the code broken. Of course, Mizo shouldn’t have trusted him an inch. Maybe he didn’t. He certainly didn’t trust Mizo. He wondered, too, if Boss’s death was connected with this. The paper he had wrapped the clip of bullets in could well have come from Mizo. Oshima would do whatever he had to. He was was sure that Mizo, too, persuaded himself he was doing right.
The signal changed and he stepped out into the street. The traffic was brisk, and he wondered idly whether he would get back to driving soon. He hadn’t even considered it since he came back, but with the heat building up it began to seem more attractive. He looked at his watch – there was plenty of time, yet. He had agreed to meet his client at eleven. Even with this business, life had to go on. Work was work, and he had bills to pay. He pulled out his handkerchief as he walked and wiped the back of his neck. The General had been right about the rains coming – he could feel the heaviness in the air. It would be time to get his summer suit out soon. Miss Nakajima would soon be earning her keep, he reflected, when the damp and the mold seemed to touch everything.
The signal up ahead was red. He stopped and searched in his pocket for his diary. Someone brushed past and he half-turned, momentarily annoyed. The shove in his back took him by surprise. He stumbled forward, his mind torn between anger and self-preservation. He had a momentary impression of a dark mass hurtling towards him. He felt his body react and then the images came too fast for his mind to process. There was blood in his mouth, a scream from somewhere, the great ache of impact, then blackness.
Chapter 31
He felt the cold first. He knew there were people around him but he couldn’t see them, not the faces. His vision wasn’t blurred, but they didn’t register. Voices, yes, and the roughness of the road on his hand and the blood in his mouth.
The road felt warm to his fingers, the skin burning. He felt the grit, the warmth, the burning. He felt it all and suddenly he was awake, heart pumping, nerves raw. The sounds rushed in.
‘Oshima, easy now. Don’t try to move. Just stay there.’
He recognized the voice, but he couldn’t place it. He felt a hand behind his head. Someone had placed a jacket there. He relaxed, felt for his legs, his arms. He was silently relieved. He waited, ignoring the voices, felt his cut lip, his mouth numb. His client would be waiting, he thought. Then his mind went to the box next to Adachi’s cash box, paulownia wood with a woven silk cord, wrapped again in an old cloth from the shop. That was safe.
‘See if you can sit up. Here. Easy, now.’
He pulled up his leg, the good one. Hands helped him to sit. He waited. Was he dizzy? Did his head hurt?
‘I’m all right. Nothing hurt. Help me up.’ His own voice sounded strange in his ears.
He stood; people helped him, steadied him. Someone handed him his cane, his hat. He dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. He was being led away to a seat in the shade. He was given a glass of water. As he sipped his head cleared. He remembered. He saw someone – it must be the driver – being questioned, but he couldn’t hear what was said. He sat, calm, seeing but not seeing. Someone was speaking to him, close, a quiet voice in his ear. It was Hirano. He nodded, but his mind was far away. Someone was in front of him, bowing. He listened to the apologies.
‘No, no, there was nothing you could do. Not your fault. Someone moved, I just stumbled. It’s this bad leg of mine.’
The man apologized again, then he was gone.
‘Come,’ said Hirano. He had gone, and now he was there again.
There was a cab. Oshima stood. He walked, unaided to the cab. The driver held the door open while Hirano helped him.
‘Nihonbashi Mitsukoshi,’ said Oshima, leaning back and massaging his right arm with the other. ‘Did you see what happened?’
‘Not really. I was some way behind you. Looked like you stumbled out in front of the car – too late for him to stop. You spun off it and went down. Are you sure you’re not hurt?’
‘After the years I spent being thrown in the judo hall, I should be able to handle a fall like that. Mind you, I haven’t tried it with a car before. How long was I down for?’
‘Seconds – five? Ten? Not long. Enough for people to gather round. That’s it. You should take it easy, though. It might not hurt now, but I’ll bet you’ll feel it later.’
Oshima nodded.
‘I was pushed, you know, by someone who knows what they’re doing.’
‘You didn’t see anyone?’
‘I was hoping you had.’
‘No. Too many people.’
Hirano looked out of the cab. He wasn’t nervous, thought Oshima, just careful.
‘I don’t like this,’ he said.
‘It’s all right. I don’t know if this was serious or just a warning, perhaps.’
‘That man you just met?’
‘Or the people he’s working with. I doubt he makes those decisions. Maybe they don’t know what we just arranged, and they just took the chance. Or maybe someone else.’
He leaned his head back. It felt good. A brush with injury nearly always made him feel like this, a secret pleasure in feeling his body, its vulnerability and its strength.
‘This is getting interesting,’ said Oshima. ‘We’ve made someone worried.’
‘You sound like General Akagi,’ said Hirano.
‘Where do you think I got it from?’
‘I guess you know what you’re doing, then.’
‘I guess so. Just a bit further,’ he added, for the benefit of the driver, ‘Stop at the side.’
He stood on the pavement looking up at the big white building, more than ten years old now, and wondered when he had become the kind of person who met clients in a department store. Since he had picked up some rich clients, rich female clients, who were happier meeting him over tea than in his dusty office, was the answer. He didn’t mind, either. It got him to see a bit more of the life of the city than he would have done otherwise. His aunt went here, of course. She had come here before, when it was only the well-off who shopped at places like this.
He looked at Hirano and beckoned him over.
‘The telephones are in here,’ he said as they went up the steps to the side entrance. ‘I’ll be in the tea lounge. It’s on the second floor,’ he added, aware that this was not the kind of place Hirano was used to.
‘I’ll catch up with you there. It won’t take long. Watch yourself.’
‘I can’t see anything happening to me in the middle of Mitsukoshi.’
‘All the same...’
‘All the same, I will.’
Oshima walked between displays of umbrellas and scarves, towards the toilets near the back of the building. There was something different about the shop. He had not been there since April, the season of the cherry blossom, when all the shops outdid themselves in their displays. It was always a particularly pleasant time of year, a time of new beginnings, when the cold of the winter was just a memory and the heat of the summer merely a thought in the distance. But even so, he was surprised at how dull everything looked. It had none of its usual brightness and sparkle. Perhaps it was as they said, a drive for austerity because of the war. It was sad if that was so, but he could see the logic.
Stepping into the gents, he looked at himself in the mirror. He splashed his face with water and smoothed his hair. He stood there for a full minute, forcing himself to breathe slower and calm the wild look in his eye. He noticed his hand was scratched; he hadn’t seen that before. He ran it under the cold water, then looked again in the mirror. Hirano had been right; the pain would come later. For now, he was fine.
He walked out onto the floor and made his way to the escalators. He got off the first floor and walked over to the tea room. Mrs Uno would be there soon.
Chapter 32
Oshima had been thinking about something for what seemed a long time. As the light grew, he realised it was no longer night, and he wasn’t very clear exactly what it was he had been thinking about. The images in his memory were very mixed and some of them quite strange. He looked down at the ash tray where he saw three cigarette butts. They were all Golden Bats. He hadn’t smoked that much since the early days of his injury, and he wondered what it was that had provoked him to do so now.
It must still be early. There were no noises from the kitchen, so Ms Nakajima was not up yet. He was not wearing his watch, so he made to get up and felt an unfamiliar sensation running up his right side. It did not hurt, but he knew that it would do so later as he remembered the accident.
It was not serious, but that was only due to the hours he had put in on the mat at the Kodokan in his younger days. Judo had not been his first love but the reactions were still there. His body was not used to that kind of exertion and he worried he might have pulled a muscle. Had it been convincing, though? The thought made its way around his head till he realised he was thinking about something else entirely. It was the burnt photographs he had seen in Yamazaki’s place. They must mean something, but he could not see how they fitted in with the stolen lacquer. Chance? People did burn things for perfectly innocent reasons. He had heard nothing at all that seemed connected to them. Maybe he had just been looking in the wrong places.
He recalled thinking about them earlier, or at least, that image had surfaced in his thoughts, but he couldn’t remember reaching any conclusions. The missing lacquer had taken precedence, forced itself on his notice. He seemed to have become embroiled in something bigger. He didn’t know if he was still trying to find Yamazaki’s killer, or whether he had lost sight of that goal somewhere in the excitement of the hunt.
What was it they were looking for, anyway? The missing lacquer? The murderer? The cache of whatever it was – money, drugs, or who knew what – that Keisei had left clues to? If they were all connected, if he found any one of them, that would tie it all up. Perhaps Yamazaki was no longer important, as if his death was just a signpost along the way toward a bigger goal. He was sure the General saw it that way. There were other forces at work. Koda knew Yamazaki, but Oshima was not keen on involving him any more. That was for Koda’s sake. He did not want to draw attention to him in any way, not with even the slightest possibility that the Kempeitai were interested. He believed the General’s interest was strong enough to protect him, but Koda? – he doubted it.
He was also unsure about Seiun. Meeting him once – well, that was his own doing, but the second meeting? He didn’t like that. It suggested someone else was interested in him. He wasn’t sure if the priest was the disinterested collector of art he made himself out to be, or whether there were other people he was acting for. Oshima wondered idly whether the photographs at Yamazaki’s had anything to do with him. Unlikely, but their nature, from what he could tell, may well have been compromising. And Mizo had been to see both Seiun and Yamazaki. That would have been a connection. He dismissed it for the time being – he thought he might have to look into Seiun further. Yes, he might indeed, but very carefully.
His mind wandered back to the General and the trap they had set. It could work, but they couldn’t predict how Mizo would react when he saw the piece. He mused about that for some time. Who else was looking for that damned bowl? Mizo was – obviously, as were the Germans, but were there more? His accident didn’t make sense unless someone didn’t want Mizo to solve Keisei’s puzzle. And that made his position more difficult. Bait in a trap was not a role he felt easy about. There was a lot that could go wrong.
He thought he heard a noise from the kitchen – Nakajima. He reflected that he also had to consider her. As part of his household, she was also, in some way, his responsibility. He didn’t want to put her in any danger, whatever he was up to himself. She looked like she could take care of herself, but a couple of bullets wouldn’t go very far. The General was right, though. They did need to start exerting some control. Up till now, they had simply been trying to sort out what was going on.
He sat there thinking until Ms Nakajima popped her head in to say she was going to set out breakfast. He murmured an answer off-handedly and rose slowly to his feet. Another idea had lodged itself in his mind.
It had been growing for the last few days – a tiny seed at first, but now it was too big to ignore. It stayed in his head as he slurped down his miso soup, picked the meat off the bones of his fish and crunched on the pickles that rounded off his breakfast. He had put this off for longer than he should have done, but it had to be done, and this was as good a day as any.
Two hours later as he rode in the taxi along the bumpy road from the station, his mood was very different from what it had been that morning. He certainly didn’t feel that today was a suitable day for this at all. He looked out at the houses and smallholdings, trim and tidy. He felt envious of the people going about their daily chores, and wished he had stayed back in the city. He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror – he really wasn’t looking forward to this. Hirano had accompanied him to the station, but Oshima had told him he didn’t need to come any further. Hirano wasn’t happy about it, but when he explained where he was going, he had relented. Now, Oshima almost wished he had brought him along, just for the company.
The taxi stopped and he got out. He thought about asking it to wait, thought very seriously, but decided against it. He had his reasons for being here, and knowing there was a taxi to take him away was not going to help him. He had made his decision that morning; now he was committed.
The driveway sloped up to the house, a solid looking building that must be some seventy or eighty years old by now. He knew if he took the path round the side, he would see another building, the dojo. The word meant to the practice hall, but it was also used to refer to the organisation as a whole. This building was newer, but still a good fifty years old. He knew it intimately, but he hadn’t set foot there for more than three years. It pained him to think about, but he still believed he had been right.
He walked up to the front door. It was unlikely no one had seen the taxi, but that didn’t mean they would be out to greet him. He stood there, looking at the building, feeling its age, its tradition, the memories. It wasn’t that old, but it could have been. Things hadn’t changed out here for hundreds of years. It was just close enough to the city that it wasn’t totally isolated, but far enough that it could choose to stay the same. The first time he had come with his grandfather, he had been just seven or eight. It had looked the same, only bigger, more forbidding.
It had been a demonstration to mark the anniversary of the founder’s death some 300 years ago. Oshima had sat there entranced by the speed and ferocity of the demonstrators. They fought with wooden swords and smooth wooden poles, or just their hands. Oshima was used to the respect his grandfather commanded. Here, too, there were low bows and crisp greetings, but he could sense a rippled undercurrent that was, he suspected, about him. His hair had been lighter when he was young, marking his father’s blood far more clearly than it did now. His eyes, too, seemed rounder in that young face. There was no mistaking his foreign blood, and though no-one would say it out loud, he knew that there were those who resented the powerful countries of the West, and wondered what a boy like him could be doing at something as Japanese as this.
He would not have understood the political undercurrents that surrounded this world and, indeed, his world at home. Later, he would come to know them only too well. His fellow students threw themselves into causes and measured the rightness of the cause by the degree to which it could inspire devotion. He could never follow such simplistic notions, but felt the tension when his more considered approach conflicted with the line taken by his seniors in the dojo. And his sensei.
He knew when to keep quiet – well, everyone did. He did not feel the need to speak out on every issue, and was able to answer appropriately when he had to express an opinion. But sometimes, there are occasions when even the most cautious of people are drawn out. Words were spoken, and he went against his sensei’s wishes, his commands, even. The wooden tag with his name on it, hung on the dojo wall, was taken down and he knew he had no place there anymore. He did not weep or beg, or kneel head down, waiting for forgiveness. Had he done that, perhaps all would had been well. But he didn’t. He bowed deeply, turned on his heel and left. He had not expected to return.
