Rainfall

“It’s an interesting theory,” I allowed. “But an aggressive outlook toward other cultures has never been an American monopoly. How do you explain the Japanese colonial history in Korea and China? Attempts to save Asia from the tyranny of Western market forces?”

He smiled. “You are being facetious again, but your explanation is not so far from the truth. Because market forces — competition — are what drove the Japanese into their own imperial conquests. The Western nations had already taken their concessions in China — America had institutionalized the plunder of Asia with the ‘Open Door.’ What choice had we but to take our own concessions, lest the West encircle us and gain a chokehold on our supplies of raw materials?”

“Tell me the truth,” I said, fascinated despite myself. “Do you really believe all this? That the Japanese never wanted war, that the West caused it all? Because the Japanese launched their first campaigns against Korea under Hideyoshi, over four hundred years ago. How did the West cause that?”

He faced me directly and leaned forward, his thumbs hooked into his obi, his toes taking his weight. “You are missing my larger point. Japanese conquest in the first half of this century was a reaction to Western aggression. In earlier times there were other causes, even such base ones as the lust for power and plunder. War is a part of human nature, and we Japanese are human, ne? But we have never fought, we have certainly never built weapons of mass destruction, to convince the world of the rightness of an idea. It took America and its bastard twin, communism, to do that.”

He leaned closer. “War has always been with the world and always will be. But an intellectual Crusades? Fought on a global scale, backed by modern industrial economies, with the threat of a nuclear auto-da- fe for the unbelievers? Only America offers this.”

Well, that confirmed the crackpot-rightist diagnosis. “I appreciate your speaking frankly with me,” I said, bowing slightly. “Ii benkyo ni narimashita.” It’s been an education.

He returned my bow and started backing away. “Kochira koso.” The same here. He smiled, again with some seeming discomfort. “Perhaps we will meet again.”

I watched him leave. Then I walked over to one of the regulars, an old-timer named Yamaishi, and asked if he’d ever seen the guy who was walking off the tatami. “Shiranai,” he said with a shrug. “Amari shiranai kao da. Da kedo, sugoku tsuyoku na. Randori, mita yo.” I don’t know him. But his judo is very strong. I saw your fight.

I wanted to cool off before showering, so I went down to an empty dojo on the fifth floor. I left the fluorescent lights off when I went in. This room was best when it was lit only by Korakuen Amusement Park, which twinkled and hummed next door. I bowed to the picture of Kano Jigoro on the far wall, then did ukemi rolls until I reached the center of the room. Standing in the quiet darkness, I looked out over Korakuen. Just barely, I could hear the roller coaster ratcheting slowly up to its apogee, then suspended silence, then the whoosh of its downward plunge and the screaming laughter of its passengers, the wind whipping away their cries.

I stretched in the center of the room, the judogi uniform wet against my skin. I came to the Kodokan because it’s the premiere spot to study judo, but, like my neighborhood in Sengoku, the place has become much more to me than it was at first. I’ve seen things here: a grizzled old veteran who has been doing judo every day for half a century, patiently showing a child in an oversized gi that the proper placement of the hooking leg in sankakujime is at a slight angle to, not straight behind, one’s opponent; a young sandan, third-degree black belt, who left his native Iran to practice at the Kodokan four years ago, hardly missing a day of practice since, drilling his osoto- gari in such precise and powerful repetitions that his movements come to resemble some vast natural force, the movement of tides, perhaps, the dancer becoming the dance; a college kid quietly crying after being choked out in a match, the crowd cheering for his victorious opponent and taking no heed of his dignified tears.

The roller coaster was making its familiar ratcheting sound, the last of the light fading from the sky above it. It was past seven, too late for me to get to the Blue Note. Just as well.

9

I HAD NO special plans the next day, so I decided to stop at an antiquarian bookstore I like in Jinbocho, a part of the city best known for its warren of densely packed bookshops, some specializing in Eastern fare, others in Western. The shop’s proprietor had alerted me via pager a few days earlier that he had located and was holding for me an old tome on shimewaza — strangles — that I had been trying to find for a long while, to add to my modest collection on bugei, the warrior arts.

I picked up the Mita subway line at Sengoku Station. Sometimes I use the subway; other times I take the JR from Sugamo. It’s good to be random. Today there was a priest in Shinto garb collecting donations outside the station. It seemed like these guys were everywhere lately, not just in front of parliament anymore. I took the train in the direction of Onarimon and got off at Jinbocho. I meant to leave the station at the exit nearest the Isseido Bookstore, but, distracted by thoughts of Midori and Kawamura, I wound up taking the wrong corridor. After turning a corner and then coming to a sign for the Hanzoman line, I realized my error, turned, and rounded the corner again.

A pudgy Japanese was moving quickly down the corridor, about ten meters away. I flashed his eyes as he approached but he ignored me, looking straight ahead. He was wearing a pinstriped suit and a striped shirt. Must have heard somewhere that stripes make you look taller.

I glanced down and saw why I hadn’t heard him coming: cheap shoes with rubber soles. But he was carrying an expensive-looking black attache case, a lid-over model, maybe an old Swain Adeney. A businessman who knew good attaches but assumed no one would notice his shoes? Maybe. But this wasn’t really the place for business — Kasumigaseki or Akasaka would be more likely. I knew the shoes would make for comfortable attire on a long walk — if following someone were part of the likely itinerary, for example.

Aside from the attache, his hands were empty, but I tensed anyway as we passed each other. Something about him bothered me. I slowed down a little as we passed each other, looked back over my shoulder, marked the way he walked. Faces are easy to disguise, clothes you can change in a minute, but not too many people can conceal their gait. It’s something I look for. I watched this guy’s walk — short stride, bit of an exaggerated, self-important arm swing, slight side-to-side swaying action of the head — until he turned the corner.

I cut back the other way, checking behind me before I left the station. Probably it was nothing, but I’d remember his face and gait, watch my back as always, see if he showed up again.

Principles of Strangles was in excellent condition, as promised, with a price to match, but I knew that I would greatly enjoy the slim volume. Although I was eager to depart, I waited patiently while the proprietor carefully, almost ceremoniously, wrapped the book in heavy brown paper and string. He knew it wasn’t a gift, but this was his way of showing his appreciation for the sale and it would have been rude for me to hurry him. Finally, he proffered the package with extended arms and a deep bow, and I accepted it from a similar posture,