ten hours later, she was exhausted; wracked with jet tag, sick of bad food, weary from lack of sleep and piqued with frustration.
What the hell was she doing there? In a strange land she knew nothing about, staying in a ryokan, a traditional Japanese hotel, rather than a big American spread. Thousands of miles from home. Alone. And chasing a ghost.
Terrific, Gunn, way to go. Little wonder O’Hara had eluded a dozen or more money-hungry assassins. He was as elusive as a dream. A bad dream at that.
If O’Hara was alive, and at this point she really wasn’t too sure about that, he had to be here. She felt it. It was the only place left in the world where he might find sanctuary.
She made the first of nine phone calls to Kimura on a Tuesday. Kimura was a Japanese professor who had taught philosophy and martial arts at the American School. It took several phone calls to learn that he was now a Shinto master and that he lived in Kyoto. There was a phone number where she could leave a message. But, she was told, Kimura-san was strange, sometimes he did not return phone calls.
When he finally called back on Thursday morning, she said, ‘I am interested in acquiring an akita. Some friends have a puppy they got from you. The Smiths in San Francisco?’
He was abrupt. ‘I have no friends in San Francisco. It is a mistake.’
‘They got the dog from you, according to the kennel club.’ There was a long pause, and then: ‘Miss Gunn, you are not interested in a dog.’
She was flustered by his honesty. Then she decided to be honest too. ‘Please — dozo —1 am a journalist with an American television station. I am trying to find Frank O’Hara. We are peers, O’Hara and I.’
‘O’Hara-san has many peers, but his friends are fewer than the months of the year,’ the voice on the other end of the line said. It was a soft voice, almost a whisper—his English perfect, his diction impeccable — and yet she felt intimidated by it.
‘I have good news for him. Please see me, talk to me?’
‘I have heard the same story before - There is one difference, however. You are a woman. They have never sent a woman before.’
‘Please, just talk to me. If you don’t believe me, you’ve only lost an hour or so of your time.’
‘I have not said I even know his whereabouts. I was one of his teachers in high school. That was...’ He hesitated a moment, trying to remember.
‘... seventeen years ago,’ she said. ‘He graduated the summer of 1963.’
‘Hal. And I am over seventy. I doubt that I can be of help.’
‘Dozo, Kimura-san. I am desperate. Just have tea with me. I will convince you I’m sincere.’
‘You have a denwa in your room?’
‘Hai.’
‘And the number?’
‘Uh ... it’s 82-12-571.’
‘I will call you back. Konnichi Wa.’ The line went dead.
‘Well, damn,’ she said and hung up. She went to the window and slid the panel back and watched a young gardener, his hair tressed in a tenugui headband, raking the sand garden outside her room, picking up every leaf and twig until the beige island surrounded by moss was spotless. He worked soundlessly and seemingly without effort. She stared back at the phone. Her shoulders ached and she felt like going down to the ofuro to take a bath, but she was afraid she would miss his call. Eliza had overcome her modesty in the public bath very early in the trip. Now she found that the hot waters not only were rejuvenating but cleared her mind and helped her think.
A half-hour passed, and nothing. She fluffed up the futon quilt and lay down, but her mind was much too busy for napping.
When the phone finally did ring, she snatched it up before the second bell. ‘Yes... this is Eliza Gunn.’
‘Miss Gunn, this is Dr Kimura. I will meet you but the time will be short. And it must be today. Can you leave now?’
‘Yes. Right this minute.’
‘The train station is ten minutes west of the Hishitomi Ryokan. You may take the local train from the ekion the San’in Main Line and get off at the Hanazano station. From there it is only a few blocks to the Tofuku-ji temple. I will meet you at the hail of the Ashikaga shoguns next to the temple. It is now nine forty-five. Eleven-thirty should give you ample time.’
‘Thank you,’ she said sincerely. ‘Arigato ... arigato very much.’
‘You have nothing to thank me for yet, Gunn-san. Sayonara.’
‘Sayonara, Dr Kimura.’
The gardener, who had worked his way to the shrubs outside Eliza’s room, turned abruptly and left the courtyard. He went down the hail and knocked on a door. A big man with a beard opened it. ‘What’s happening, Sammi?’ he asked.
The gardener went in. ‘She’s leaving now,’ Sammi said, changing into his black jogging suit and sneakers.
‘Good,’ the big man said. ‘I’ll give her a few more minutes.’ Sammi worked quickly but he was not worried about losing her. He knew where she was going. When she left the hotel he was in a pachinko parlour nearby. He watched her go by and waited several more minutes before leaving. He was more interested in the man who was following her.
