“My darling. You know that the essence of chijo is honesty. You have to move into chijo, you have to put pixels behind you and share the beauty of your womanhood with all Japan.”
And chijo was the essence of his empire. Chijo: “lewd woman” or “slut woman.” It was based on a counterintuitive fantasy, that behind those demure Japanese women, soft-spoken and polite, hardworking and demure, all delicate beauty and exquisite wardrobe, there lay a demon of sexual flame.
The Shogun had been the first to see this. The teacher, revered and feared, so central to the Japanese culture and the Japanese tradition: yet behind her classical looks and reserved dignity lay a wanton, a debauchee, who would assault her students, demand sexual surrender from them, force them into girls’ clothes, literally rape them in all possible positions.
It started with teachers, moved quickly to the other figures of authority: airline hostesses, office ladies, nurses, campaign girls, even finally, as they grew older, the surprising “mature housewife” category.
He had tapped a vein. The money just poured in. The hunger out there was amazing.
“Think of it this way,” he said to the troubled young beauty. “We have our Japanese ways. The world, particularly the Americans, hunger to dominate us. They would change what we do, and destroy us. Not with atom bombs and firestorms, but with their culture, their crude, aggressive, unknowing ways. You, you little Sakura, you must stand against that. You are not merely an actress, you are a frontline soldier, a samurai, in the battle against America. Do you see, my dear, why it is so incumbent upon you to find within yourself that samurai spirit, to display it before the cameras, to let us distribute it, to become full chijo. Really, chijo is the samurai of the flesh.”
The girl Sakura delivered a boffo performance.
19
It was through the good auspices of the retired Lieutenant Yoshida of the Osaka Homicide Squad that the distinguished Dr. Otowa agreed to see Bob Lee Swagger. Dr. Otowa, with graying temples, was well tailored, articulate, and multilingual. He did not know Lieutenant Yoshida, but upon receipt of a letter, a quick call to people who would know (and Dr. Otowa was very well connected) proved Yoshida’s bona fides as a first-rate man, almost a legend, who had retired to Oakland, California, to be near his daughter, who had married an American of Japanese ancestry.
The two men met in Dr. Otowa’s office in the Tokyo Historical Museum, a shrine of antiquities that looked like a cathedral, grand and somber, enshrouded in its own parklands near Ueno, where the doctor was curator of swords, with a specialty (and worldwide reputation) for the Bizen smiths of the fifteenth century. His office, appropriately, was a room of blades: they glinted brightly from their glass cases, wickedly curved constructions that represented to many the highest and most articulated accomplishments of the Japanese imagination for more than a thousand years. The museum had one of the best collections in the country, only a small portion of which was on display to the public.
“Mr. Swagger, would you care for some sake?”
“Thank you, sir, but no. I’m a drunk. One sip and off I go.”
“I understand. I approve of self-control. Now, Lieutenant Yoshida’s letter said there had been some sword thefts in the United States, blades worth many thousands of dollars. A killing as well. As a westerner, you wonder, How could a piece of steel made five hundred years ago for slicing up brigands and executing conspirators and splitting one’s own bowels be worth killing for all these years later?”
“I know the swords are works of art. They can be incredibly valuable. That would be worth killing for just on the profit motive.”
“So you are here to find out about the market. But surely you have seen men kill for insignificant sums.”
“For quarters. For pennies. For harsh words, bad jokes, and cheap gals. Men will kill for anything and nothing.”
“You know a thing or two, I see.”
“But I do believe there was some craft here. The killer had to know about swords. Possibly he represented or was himself a high-level collector. Possibly he meant to hold the blade ransom as you would a child. Perhaps…well, I don’t know. But I’ve checked and the very best sword might go for two hundred thousand dollars. Would that justify such a crime?”
“Possibly it was a historical blade. It had validated provenance and was associated with something extraordinary. That would accelerate its value exponentially. That would be something on the order of Wyatt Earp’s Colt.”
“Wyatt Earp’s Colt sold for three hundred fifty grand. That’s a lot of money.”
“Swords mean more to the Japanese than guns to Americans. Such a sword might go for ten times as much here. Say, three point five million. That’s worth killing for easily.”
“Yes, but the more famous the blade is, the harder it would be to sell for a profit. You could steal Wyatt Earp’s Colt or even the Mona Lisa, I suppose, but who would you sell it to? That’s why the idea of a crime for profit seems not to fit here. Maybe just having it would be enough, but still…it doesn’t make sense.”
“Possibly not to an American. Possibly to a Japanese,” said Dr. Otowa.
“I have to hope I can make sense of it. If not, I’m pure out of luck. I have to presume some sanity and logic behind it, sir.”
“Fair enough.”
“So let me ask this. Is there one sword? By one, I mean something like a grail. Maybe its beauty, maybe its history, maybe both. It exists only in rumors. It’s never been verified. But if it came to light, it would shake up everybody. I mean a sword so special that…well, I don’t know Japan well enough to say. But it would translate into instant power, prestige, attention, something more valuable than money. Something really worth killing for?”
“Killing not merely a man, though. Killing a family? A wife, a husband…”
Swagger sat back and squinted at the doctor. “Hmmm. You saw clean through my little game.”
“Mr. Swagger,” said Dr. Otowa, “I am in regular e-mail contact with blade societies, collectors, and curators all over the world. If a man was killed in America and a rare blade stolen, I would know. On the other hand, several months ago, a man named Philip Yano and his family were destroyed not twenty miles from where we now sit. It was very puzzling, very sad. The next morning an American made a scene at the site of the crime, claiming before witnesses that he had given Yano a rare sword that had been stolen. For his efforts, he was rather unceremoniously asked to leave the country. The investigation concerning Philip Yano has stalled and it seems that nothing is being done, as if certain police officials believe some crimes are best ignored. Now there is an American in my office seeking to discover something about what blades would be worth murdering for. It wasn’t a hard connection to make. I don’t see how you got back in the country, though.”
“I have a very good fake passport in another name.”
“You realize what will happen to you if you are caught illegally on Japanese soil.”
“I know it will go hard.”
“Yet you risk that?”
“I do.”
“The way of the warrior is death. It is not fifteen years of masturbation in a Japanese prison.”
“I will do what I must do.”
“Mr. Swagger, I suspect you are a capable man. You had the sponsorship of Yoshida, who would not lend use of his name to a criminal. So the misrepresentation itself speaks of your righteousness.”
“I only mean to see this thing out, sir.”
“I’m going to tell you a story. I’m going to tell you the story of a sword. Of a sword worth killing for, a sword worth dying for, a sword that would make its possessor the most important and revered man in Japan. Are you ready?”
“I am, sir.”
“All right, Mr. Swagger,” he said, “let’s begin. Now, so that you understand, let me give you something to hold on to.”
