without the refinement. Apparently Yuki had met him several times before. Leading us around to the back of the house, he introduced himself as Makimura's assistant.
«I act as his chauffeur, deliver his manuscripts, research, caddy, accompany him overseas, whatever,» he explained eagerly. «I am what in times past was known as a gentleman's valet.»
«Ah,» I said.
I felt sure Yuki was about to come out with something rude, but to my surprise she said nothing. Apparently she could be discreet if she wanted to.
Makimura was practicing his golf swing in the backyard. A green net had been stretched between the trunks of two pines. The famous writer was trying to hit the target in the center with little white balls. When his club sliced through the air, you'd hear this
Makimura set down his club and wiped his forehead with a towel. «Good to see you,» he said to Yuki, who pretended not to have heard. Averting her eyes, she fished a stick of gum from the pocket of her jacket and began to chew with loud
«How about a hello at least?» Makimura tried again.
«Hello,» Yuki sneered, plunging her hands into her pockets and wandering off.
«Boy, bring us some beer,» Makimura called out rather
curtly.
«Yes sir,» the manservant answered in a clear voice and hurried into the house. Makimura coughed and spat, wiped his forehead again. Then ignoring my presence for the time being, he squinted at the target on the green net and concentrated. I concerned myself idly with the moss-covered rocks.
The whole scene seemed artificial—and more than a little absurd. There wasn't anything specific that seemed odd. It was more the sense that I had happened upon the stage of an elaborate parody. The author and his valet—except that Gotanda could have played either role better and with more sophistication and appeal.
«Yuki tells me you've been looking after her,» said the famous man.
«It wasn't anything special,» I said. «I merely got her onto a flight coming back from Hokkaido. More important, though, let me thank you for the help with the police.»
«Uh, oh that? No, not at all. Glad to be able to return a favor. It's so rare that my daughter asks me for anything. I was very happy to help. I hate the police. I had a run-in with them at the Diet way back in the sixties when Michiko Kanba was killed. Back in those times—»
At that he bent over from the waist and gripped his golf club, tapping its head on his foot. He turned to look me in the face, then glanced down at my feet and up at my face again.
«—when a man knew what was right and what wasn't right,» said Hiraku Makimura.
I nodded without much conviction.
«You play golf?»
«I'm afraid not,» I said.
«You dislike golf?»
«I don't like it or dislike it. I've never played.»
He laughed. «There's no such thing as not liking or disliking golf. People who've never played golf hate golf. That's the way it is. So be honest with me.»
«Okay, I don't like golf,» I said.
«Why not?»
«I guess it strikes me as silly. The overblown gear, the cute carts, the flags and the pompous clothes and shoes. The look in the eyes, the way ears prick up when you crouch down to read the turf. Little things like that bother me.»
«The way ears prick up?»
«Just something I've observed. It doesn't mean anything. But there's something about golf that doesn't sit well with me,» I answered, summing up.
Makimura stared at me blankly.
«Is there something wrong with you, son?»
«Not at all,» I said. «I'm perfectly normal. I guess my jokes aren't very funny.»
Before long, the manservant brought out beer on a tray with two glasses. He set the tray down, poured for us, then quickly disappeared.
«Cheers,» said Makimura, raising his glass.
«Cheers,» I said, doing the same.
I couldn't quite place Makimura's age, but he had to be at least in his mid-forties. He wasn't tall, but his solid frame made him seem like a large man. Broad-chested, thick arms and neck. His neck was thick. If it were trimmer, he could have passed for a sportsman, as opposed to someone with years of dissipated living. I remembered photos of a young, slender Makimura with a piercing gaze. He hadn't been particularly handsome, but he had presence, which he still had. How many years ago had it been? Fifteen? Sixteen? Today, his hair was short, peppered with gray. He was well-tanned and wore a wine-red Lacoste shirt, which couldn't be buttoned around the neck.
«I hear you are a writer,» said Makimura.
«Not a real writer,» I said. «I produce fill on demand. Negligible stuff, based on how many words they need. Somebody's got to do it, and I figure it might as well be me. I'll spare you my spiel about shoveling snow.»
«Shoveling snow, huh?» repeated Makimura, glancing over at the golf clubs he'd set aside. «Clever notion.»
«Pleased you think so,» I said.
«Well, you like writing?»
«I can't say I like or dislike it. I'm proficient at it, or should I say efficient? I've got the knack, the know-how, the stance, the punch, all that. I don't mind that aspect.»
«Uh-huh.»
«If the level of the job is low enough, it's very simple anyway.»
«Hmm,» he mused, pausing several seconds. «You think up that phrase, 'shoveling snow'?»
«I did,» I said.
«Mind if I use it somewhere? It's an interesting expression.»
«Go right ahead. I didn't take out a copyright on it.»
«It's exactly the way I feel sometimes,» said Makimura, fingering his earlobe. «That it doesn't amount to a hill of beans. It didn't used to be that way. The world was smaller, you could get a handle on things, you knew—or thought you knew—what you were doing. You knew what people wanted. The media wasn't this huge, vast thing.»
He drained his glass, then poured us two more glasses. I declined, said I was driving, but he ignored me.
«But not now. There's no justice. No one cares. People do whatever they have to do to survive. Shoveling snow. Just like you say,» he said, eyeing the green net stretched between the tree trunks. Thirty or forty white golf balls lay on the grass.
Makimura seemed to be thinking of what to say next. That took time. Not that it concerned him, he was used to people waiting on his every word. I decided to do the same. He kept pulling at his earlobe.
«My daughter's taken to you,» Makimura began again, finally. «And she doesn't take to just anyone. Or rather, she doesn't take to almost everyone. She hardly says a word to me. She doesn't say much to her mother either, but at least she respects her. She's got no respect for me. None whatsoever. She thinks I'm a fool. She hasn't got any friends. She doesn't go to school, she just stays in her room alone, listening to that noise she calls music. She's got problems with people. But for some reason, you, she takes to you. I don't know why.»
«Me either.»
«Maybe you're a kindred spirit?»
«Maybe.»
«Tell me, what do you think of Yuki?»
This was starting to feel like a job interview. «Yuki's thirteen, a terrible age,» I answered straightforwardly. «And from what I can see, her home environment's a disaster. No one looks after her. No one takes responsibility
