ground, so we can only imagine what is there. I want to believe what I see and hear, but I must not ignore what is imagined.’
Eliza’s shoulders sagged. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘suppose I show you the documents. That should prove he’s a free man.’
‘But you say these papers are only for the eyes of Kazuo.’
‘I came to deliver a message to O’Hara,’ she said. ‘If I must show you the letters first, then that’s what I’ll do.’
‘That would appear logical.’
He sipped his tea and delicately placed the cup back on the saucer. ‘This must be a very powerful man, this one with the message for O’Hara.’
‘That he is.’
He finished his tea and dabbed his lips, and, very abruptly, he stood up. ‘You will be at your ryokan later today?’
‘Yes, yes!’
‘I must think about this, Gunn-san. You have a quality I admire. You are naive. It will help in the thinking. Sayonara.’ He bowed and turned and left the tearoom.
‘Well, what am I supposed to do,’ she called after him, ‘just sit and wait?’
He waved his umbrella at her without turning. ‘A disease can be cured,’ he called out. ‘Fate is incurable.’
‘Oh hell,’ she said, ‘just what’s that one supposed to mean?’
But he was gone.
The day had turned warm and pleasant and, with the Kimura ordeal behind her, she strolled back to the eki, stopping along the way for a snack, ordering a bowl of soba, a kind of buckwheat noodle popular all over Japan, managing her chopsticks like an expert. Now, as she opened the door to her room, she felt for the first time that maybe, just maybe, she would find the elusive O’Hara.
She knew something was wrong before she went in, so she entered the room cautiously. It was as if someone were there with her. But she could see the entire room from the door. The closet doors were open, as was the door to the lavatory.
She checked outside. A gardener was weeding the lawn in the rectangle formed by the one-story inn. ‘ Shitsurei shimasu,’ she said.
He looked up and smiled. He was young, and very good-looking, a strange combination of the East and West, with his tenugui headband and his Adidas sneakers. She got her Berlitz translation book, and very carefully pronouncing each word, asked him if he spoke English: ‘Eigo o hanashimasu ka?’
He shook his head.
‘Aw, forget it,’ she said and went back inside.
She decided it was a delayed reaction to all the excitement.
Just a little paranoia, and why not. It had been one crazy day.
She needed to go down to the ofuro and relax in a hot bath.
Then she saw the suitcase lying on the bed.
It wasn’t there when you left, Gunn, old girl.
The maid, perhaps?
Then why is it open?
She went over and lifted the top very gingerly. The O’Hara file lay on top, very neat, but not where she had left it. And on top of it, a slip of paper. The message said:
Give to the taxi man, he will take you to the proper place.
Leave at 7:30. It will take 30 minutes. Go to the pier at the rear of the ground floor. Red Dragon Fireworks. 8 p.m.
The address was spelled out in calligraphy.
Swell.
III
Kimura walked slowly through the park, past the topaz gardens and the Zen pools, which were marvelously lush and green, even this early in the spring, and headed toward the city. A priest from the Tenryu-ji temple on Mount Hiei scurried by, taking the path down through a stand of tall Japanese cypress trees, setting off on a lonely vigil, the Walk of a Thousand Days, one which the Zen Buddhists believe would grant him special powers. A thousand days of austerities which the Buddhists believed would reveal to them the secret powers of Zen.
Kimura remembered his vigils well. Three times he had done the Walk of a Thousand Days, and even now he could remember those lonely times vividly. The last was just after his wife had died. He was fifty-five at the time and had walked almost a thousand miles in the three years he was gone, begging at doorways for his meals, as is the Custom. The mystical journey had eased the hurt of her death.
He remembered her constantly, and the things he loved most in the world still reminded him of her: their
