The Samurai Strategy

by Thomas Hoover

CHAPTER TEN

It was almost dark when they reached the spa, one of those vast Japanese resort hotels catering to the middle class. It had a fake-traditional exterior and hundreds of rooms inside, as though the Temple of the Golden Pavilion had somehow been hollowed out and enlarged to encompass a health club. Strangely, though, it had been completely cleared, guests sent on their way; it was totally, absolutely empty. The parking lot was cordoned off, and gardeners were busily clipping and manicuring the grounds. Tam was impressed. Dai Nippon must have plenty of clout, she told herself, to be able to commandeer an entire hotel.

The manager came out to meet Noda, deferentially bowing and sucking in his breath, after which their few bags were summarily swept away. When Noda returned he said nothing, merely smiled and suggested they all retire to the big public baths on the lower level. Since the hotel was a vacation retreat, the basement was almost entirely devoted to the one universal love of the Japanese public—scalding water.

Down they went through the concrete hallways, attendants and staff bobbing. The sauna-like baths, like the hotel, seemed to be theirs alone. While Noda and Ken retired to the men's section down the corridor, Tam and Mori entered the women's side, a cavernous tile-floored room with a steaming pool at one end. Local women in white head-kerchiefs immediately appeared and began to fuss over their guests, scrubbing and rinsing them while praising the famous Noda-sama. Then, as Mori's towel dropped away, Tam looked her over.

Good figure. She had always believed that, judged by Western standards, Japanese women tended to be somewhat flat-chested and to have shortish calves, characteristics the high-waisted kimono was well designed to disguise—which also explained why a Western woman wearing one could easily look like a buxom stork. Mori, however, had a lithe, well-proportioned shape, and her breasts were positively generous.

The intimacy of the bath didn't noticeably humanize her however. While they soaked and steamed, she volunteered nothing beyond a few routine pleasantries. No more tirades about Yamatoism and American treachery, but no informal talk either. After a polite interval Tam excused herself to go upstairs to her room and freshen up for dinner. Mori's agenda clearly differed from Noda's; this woman, she concluded, had a game plan all her own. But what?

Not long afterward she heard Ken tapping lightly on the door. Just as she'd hoped. After the hot, steamy bath, he couldn't have been more welcome. In fact she took one look at him, pristine and elegant in his blue silk yukata, and briefly considered undressing him right there in the doorway—with her teeth.

He was a wonderful lover, by turns gentle and forceful, as though their being together was some exquisite ceremony. Their lovemaking always had a particularly Japanese quality, a heightened appreciation of the erotic, derived no doubt from a tradition that values subtlety and sensual satisfaction. Afterward they shared a brief soak in the little redwood tub there in her room, then he headed down the hall to change.

Well, she told herself, coming down to Ise has been well worth the trip. Matsuo Noda is definitely eccentric, but all the same he's a Renaissance man by any gauge. Still, why did he want to meet me? Just to tell me ancient fables? No, that's some kind of prelude. The real theme is yet to be announced.

As she started putting her hair up in some quick curlers to try and recover from the steam, she pushed aside her misgivings. Although she only had the suit she'd worn down, intended for business, she decided it didn't matter. Surely tonight would be informal.

She was just finishing up with her hair when she heard a frantic pounding on the door. Very un-Japanese. Puzzling, she cracked it open.

Ken was standing there, no slippers, still in his yukata, which he hadn't bothered to tie, all the color gone from his face. Behind him were two uniformed hotel maids, bearing what was surely the most gorgeous kimono she had ever seen, heavy silk with a hand-painted landscape, edged in gold brocade.

"Tamara, I had no idea, honestly. Noda-sama only found out when we got here, and he couldn't say anything. It was all top secret, heavy security. They only just arrived a few minutes ago, and he's asked Noda to dine with him." He paused for breath. "We're invited too."

"Who's just arrived?"

Asano was so nonplussed he didn't hear her. "Apparently he wanted to review the site plans personally, tomorrow, to see where the museum will be. I hear the Imperial Household was set against it, but he insisted."

"Who, for God's sake?" The impossible answer was rapidly dawning.

Abruptly he paused, embarrassed by his own mental disarray.

"His Majesty. Tam, we're about to meet the Emperor of Japan."

In marched the bowing maids, lots of long-vowel honorifics—they apparently assumed the honorable Richardson-san must be America's First Lady—and took over.

Tam knew full well that donning a formal kimono was no small undertaking, but she'd forgotten what a major task it really could be. First came the undergarments: cotton vest and silk under-kimono, secured twice, once with a cord and then with an under-sash. Next was the kimono itself, right side folded under the left and then bound at the waist with a cord, the excess length being pulled up and folded over so that the hem just cleared the toes. That fold was in turn secured by another waist cord, after which came yet another under-sash. Now it was ready for the all-important outer sash, the obi, a heavy silk strip wound around the waist twice, cinched hard, and knotted at the back, long end up, short end down. Then the long end was folded into a sort of cloth origami, this one a butterfly, after which it was rolled into a makeshift tube, into which the short end was stuffed. Finally this obi sculpture was secured with yet another waist cord, knotted in front.

It was all done with minute precision, including the rakish display of a prescribed few millimeters of silk under kimono at the neck, an erotic touch for traditionalists. Finally she put on special tabi stockings, bifurcated at the big toe to accommodate her thonged slippers.

Then they attacked her hair, brushing, spraying, adding

ornaments. The makeover took a good three quarters of an hour and even so it was a rush job.

As the sashes and cords and cinches got ever tighter and more suffocating, she remembered what wearing a kimono can do to your psyche. The obi seemed designed to demolish breasts, the multiple waist sashes and cords to totally immobilize the torso from rib cage to thigh. When Ken finally escorted her onto the elevator she felt like a walking mummy . . . this, she remembered, is why a lifelong kimono wearer minces along in short, pigeon-toed steps that suggest she's been shackled at the knees.

Downstairs the kitchen had been placed on war footing, and what awaited when they entered the tatami banquet room was the tableau for a full-scale feast. The lacquer table was dotted with delicate rice-straw mats, on which was marshaled an array of ancient stoneware plates and cups—rugged black Raku, creamy white Shino, green-tipped Oribe. The kakemono picture-scroll hanging in the tokonoma was a severe monochrome landscape in the angular ink style of the great master Sesshu. Was it authentic? she wondered. Where'd they get it?

After a few minutes' wait the stately man she'd first seen on TV appeared in the doorway and began removing his shoes, surprisingly relaxed and informal despite the Household guards standing just outside for security. While everybody bowed to the floor, he greeted Noda—apparently they'd met when Noda presented the sword—and exchanged a few pleasantries. His speech was now ordinary Japanese, not the archaic court dialect of the news conference. This was the real man. Noda bowed politely from time to time, then turned and introduced his party.

The Emperor of Japan, Tam noticed, seemed to have an eye for the ladies. When her turn came, he was all easy smiles, saying something about how pleasant it was to meet such a charming American, since he rarely had the honor. He then complimented her kimono.

After that, His Majesty took the place of highest status, his back to the tokonoma alcove (traditionally the safest spot to be, since it was the one location in a room sure to be backed by a solid wall), and motioned for Noda to sit next to him on the left, the second-highest place of honor.

Then he nodded toward Tam, calling her his honorable foreign guest, and asked if she would indulge him by sitting on

his right. She bowed back and took her place. Mori, whose own kimono was a pattern of delicately shaded autumn leaves, was seated alongside Noda, while Ken was placed next to Tam. As he was settling everybody, an important ritual of prestige, the Emperor kept repeating how delighted he was to meet a real American—his exposure to the outside world these days apparently consisted mainly of television.

He started things off by toasting Dai Nippon, International with a saucer of sake, after which he asked Noda to repeat for him again exactly how the sword had been recovered. Since his late father had been an ardent marine biologist, he loved the part about the computerized magnetometer and pressed for all the details.

Finally the banquet got underway, course after course of a little sliver of local seafood and an ornamental portion of seasonal vegetable, everything on some unexpected serving piece. It was a feast of sight as much as taste. A delicacy called mukozuke came in a black lacquer bowl, hassun on a bamboo tray, hashiarai in a brown Raku cup, konomono in a weathered earthen dish, yakimono on a gray Oribe platter tipped with green. The sake pot was cast-iron, sixteenth-century, with a pale turquoise porcelain top. They all drank from saucers of crusty white Shino ware—the Emperor's tipped in gold.

By then Tam's legs had begun to ache. She knew that sitting in formal Japanese style, on the heels, can eventually induce what seems like semi-paralysis of the lower extremities. As she glanced around, she decided that only Ken, who'd told her he was accustomed to kneeling traditional style for hours practicing the tea ceremony, actually seemed comfortable.

Finally the table was cleared for the famous specialty of the spa, which His Majesty had specifically requested. It was an ornate yosenabe, a lusty Japanese bouillabaisse of artfully sculptured components, each of which signified some episode in the fateful battle of Dan-no-ura—in fact, the very engagement in which the sword was lost. That was eight hundred years ago, Tam reminded herself, yet you'd think it was only last week.

They were just concluding the meal with the traditional serving of gohan or rice when the manager of the spa entered and announced that their special entertainer was now ready. He apologized that, although he could offer nothing truly worthy of His Majesty, his humble spa had brought from Kyoto a performer he hoped would not be judged too harshly. He then ordered more sake sent in.

Although drinking more sake after a banquet's closing round of gohan is normally judged impolite, His Majesty just smiled and thanked their flustered host. Around went the small flagons once more, maids scraping the tatami with their foreheads as they refilled the Emperor's gold-trimmed saucer.

Then the fusuma parted and the evening's surprise swept into the room, wearing an austere autumn kimono of finest silk and holding a shamisen, a three-stringed instrument with a cat-skin face and gold fittings. Her lips were vermilion, her lacquered wig coal-black, her face chalk. As she bowed low before His Majesty, only one visage in the room was paler than hers.

She was, Ken whispered to Tam with great delight, none other than Matsuo Noda's former "protégée," Koriko.

After she had bowed low before the Emperor, she greeted the president and CEO of Dai Nippon as though he were merely another guest. He nodded and mumbled back a reply both curt and incomprehensible. Next she tossed a mildly flirtatious acknowledgment to Ken, who returned her wink and toasted her with his sake saucer.

That ended the formalities, since she treated the women in the room as though they were composed of thin air. Their presence violated all tradition, an embarrassment that could be papered over, Japanese style, simply by pretending they didn't exist. Tam could have cared less, while the pained face of Akira Mori indicated she was positively relieved.

Koriko took immediate command of the room with an easy poise that confirmed her professionalism. Tam guessed she was pushing forty but knew that aficionados of geisha prefer talent over youth. Using a large ivory plectrum, Koriko strummed her shamisen twice, its wound-silk strings piercing and whiny, then began a high-pitched song from her ancient repertoire. Tam couldn't follow the words and doubted if anybody else could either. However, she knew it was the convention that counted. Then at a dramatic moment two more geisha entered with a flourish and began a classical dance, all fans and rustling silk. It was a stunning floor show for those who appreciate slow-motion poses and flirtatiously exposed napes of neck. Between dances Koriko urged more sake on the men, joked with His Majesty and with Ken, and induced them both to sing a racy song. Noda, who sat there glaring, was diplomatically ignored.

For her own part, Tam was finding this traditional "geisha party" extremely juvenile and silly. Was this what supposedly intelligent Japanese businessmen consider the height of refined amusement, all this fake flattery and cajoling, mixed with not a few ribald double entendres? How depressing.

After a few more songs and dances Koriko and her ensemble began preparing to depart, whereupon His Majesty presented her with a small gift, or perhaps an honorarium, wrapped in gold paper and tied with an elaborate purple bow. In keeping with etiquette she didn't open it, merely thanked him graciously and tucked it into her obi. She then caressed the ivory pegs of her shamisen with reverence, saying she would treasure it forever as the unworthy instrument that had solaced the ears of His Imperial Majesty.

With a final bow to Noda, never hinting she knew him, she backed out the door and was gone, followed by the others. His look of relief reminded Tam of a man who'd just walked away from a collapsing building.

Whatever may have been Tam's, or Matsuo Noda's, secret thoughts about Koriko, the Emperor clearly had had a rollicking time. Presumably he didn't have all that many occasions to flirt with geisha. Now slightly the worse for sake, he began to wax pensive, turning to his American guest and offering to provide an account of the battle of Dan-no-ura. It was a definite switch of mood, but Koriko's traditional songs seemed to have struck a nostalgic nerve. Or perhaps the sword had brought him a new enthusiasm for the past he wanted to share. As he started recounting the battle, Tam smiled to think it was like having the Queen herself brief you on that family squabble of yesteryear called the War of the Roses.

"That battle, Richardson-san, between the Heike and Genji clans, was a turning point in the long history of our country; it represented the rise to power of the warriors. The shogunate." He smiled politely. "I'm afraid the monarchy never quite recovered.

"In fact, today the crabs in the Inland Sea have a mark on the back of their shells that people say is like the insignia of the Heike, that they represent the fallen banners of the Heike nobles." He paused while a maid topped off his tiny cup with more hot sake. "I suppose you've seen them?"

"Hai, miraremashita." Of course, she nodded, stretching

out her vowels to maximum politeness. She wasn't sure she had actually, but this was no time to appear like a dumb gaijin.

"Well, after many years of fighting, the Heike nobles and the boy emperor they were defending fled to an island across the Inland Sea. But the Genji forces pursued them and eventually they were forced to take to their boats once more. Finally the battle was joined. Since the Heike were experienced sailors, they assumed they would prevail in a naval encounter, and thus their commander unwisely elected to make his stand in the straits, where the riptide was as quick and treacherous then as it is today. At first he had the tide in his favor and they held the enemy, but around noon the tide changed and was against them. Gradually the forces of the Genji surrounded the ship bearing the emperor and the court."

His voice faltered slightly, and she realized the story was still as fresh for him as if it had happened yesterday. Finally he continued.

"As the sad story is told in the Heike Monogatari, the court nobles saw a school of dolphins coming toward them. They said, 'If these turn back, the Genji will be destroyed and we will triumph. If they proceed, it will be a bad omen.' When the dolphins continued on, even diving under their ships, the Heike realized they were lost. And sure enough, at that moment the Genji ships began closing in.

"Now the tragic part. The nurse of the boy emperor— Antoku was only eight—resolved what she would do. She donned a double outer dress of dark gray, the color of mourning, tucked up the long skirts of her heavy silk hakama robe, and wrapped the sacred sword in her girdle. Then, taking young Antoku in her arms, she moved to the gunwale of the vessel and looked down at the waves. Finally she said to the men of the court, Though I am only a woman, I will not surrender myself to our enemies. I will accompany our Sovereign Emperor on his journey.'

"At that moment little Antoku looked up, his long black hair streaming down his back, and asked, 'Where are you taking me?'

"Tears began to flow down her cheeks. She said to him, 'Bow to the east and bid your farewell to the Great Shrine at Ise. Our capital will no longer be Kyoto but a place beneath the seas, where there is no sorrow.'

"So the young Antoku, his white robes the color of the

dove, bowed east to Ise—whereupon the nurse, holding him in one arm and the sacred sword in the other, leapt into the waves.

"Next, another woman tried to jump overboard with the casket holding the sacred mirror, but an arrow pinned her hakama to the gunwales, and the Genji soldiers retrieved it. All we know of what happened next is the dispatch they sent back to the new rulers in Kyoto, which declared, 'The former emperor is at the bottom of the sea, and the sacred mirror has been recovered. But the sword is lost and a search is being made.'" He turned and nodded toward Noda. "Only tonight, eight centuries later, can the rest be told. At last, the sword has been restored to Us."

Noda bowed low and offered a toast to the Imperial line.

It was then that Akira Mori first spoke. Although she addressed her words to Tam, they were obviously meant for His Majesty. "Richardson-san, recovering the sword is a more important historical event than many realize. Its loss coincided with the end of Imperial power in Japan. After that, the emperor became a figurehead, a captive of the shoguns." She shot a quick glance at Noda. "If the sword means nothing else, it should remind us all that no shogun must ever be allowed to rise again."

What's she driving at? Tam wondered.

"Of course." His Majesty took up the theme. "Although there was a time in this century when the militarists once again made a tool of the emperor of Japan, I agree it was wrong." He looked at Mori with admiration. "The respect your words show for the Imperial house of Yamato touches me deeply."

While she bowed in acknowledgment, he turned to Noda. "In the same manner, Noda-san, Japan's important place in the modern world brings special respect to Us as well. For that We must thank you and all those helping to fashion the new Japan,"

Tam watched Noda, puzzling. Something was going on, some kind of coded cross-talk she didn't fully comprehend. Shogun. Emperor. What was everybody's unspoken agenda?

At that point His Majesty rose unsteadily and announced he had a heavy day ahead, whereupon he summarily bade everyone good evening and exited, Imperial Household guards in attendance. Tam noticed that Mori watched his departure with a wistful . . . worshipful, gaze.

After he was gone, a reverent stillness settled around them. Even Ken, normally talkative, was subdued. What's going on here? she puzzled. One thing was sure: Japan was like a magical onion, with layers to be peeled away slowly. Each time you learn something new, yet you never really get to the core.

When the last dishes had been cleared and nothing remained on their low table except fresh kettles of sake, Noda leaned back and broke the silence. She realized he was speaking to her. Matsuo Noda, it quickly came to light, was fully familiar with her books.

But that was merely the beginning. Next, Akira Mori, who'd been quietly waiting her turn, joined in.

"Were you moved by the story of the nurse who threw herself into the waves, Richardson-san? The one who sacrificed her own life to honor her ideals?"

"It was a very touching account." Tam looked at her, surprised by the sudden friendliness. "I understand even more now why everybody's so excited about the sword."

"Presumably you know," Mori continued evenly, "that the young emperor's nurse was undoubtedly Fujiwara. Perhaps of low rank, but nonetheless a member of the family that historically has been closest to the throne."

"Of course, the Fujiwara were always Imperial retainers—"

"Have you taken no interest in that family?" Mori continued, her face still revealing nothing.

"I . . . no, not really?" Tam studied her.

"Perhaps you should, Dr. Richardson." She switched to flawless English. "Are you aware that your own mother was Fujiwara? In fact, it is possible that in your veins runs the same blood as the nurse who gave her life for the emperor that April day eight hundred years ago."

Tam felt a numbness sweep over her. She'd never thought much about her real mother, or father. Naturally there would have been no way of tracing him, at least none she knew. But of course there'd be full records of the woman who bore her, then put her up for adoption. For some reason Mori—or was it Noda himself?—had had them looked up. They'd uncovered something about her that she herself had never wanted, for well-examined reasons, to explore. Her adoptive parents had been all anybody could desire. Why stir up unknowns? Besides, she believed in nurture, not nature.

"You both seem to know a great many things about me."

Her glance shifted back and forth between them. She was surprised, yes, but if they'd assumed she'd be stunned, they were wrong. She'd decided long ago not to let herself care.

"Although your true mother no longer lives, you are most certainly Fujiwara," Mori went on. "You have blood ties with the family that once stood ready to give its life for the emperor. Therefore you may even have a connection with the sword itself."

Noda moved in. "We also believe, Dr. Richardson, that you, because of your work, could have a vital role in the endeavor Dai Nippon will soon undertake. That is the reason we want to speak with you tonight."

At last, Tam thought. I'm finally going to find out why Matsuo Noda "accidentally" happened to ask me along.

"I've been waiting to hear this."

Since the fusuma sliding doors were drawn closed, shutting out the serving women, Noda breached conventional etiquette and reached across the table to pour more sake into Tam's tiny Shino dish himself. Ken merely looked on silently as Mori took up Noda's theme.

"We would like you to be part of something that would do honor to your Fujiwara heritage, Dr. Richardson, the noble family that so long served the emperor."

"I may or may not be Fujiwara, Mori-san, but I already have my work."

"Dr. Richardson, do hear us out," Noda interjected, pressing. "We wish to advise you that important, even potentially disruptive events, lie ahead for America. Very soon. And we would like very much for someone such as yourself, a pragmatist, to be involved. Especially since, in addition to your professional skills, you are in a position to understand the cultures, the attitudes, of both Americans and Japanese. Your assistance could be invaluable."

"Invaluable for what purpose?"

"A worthy undertaking, we assure you. Think of it if you will as an attempt to prevent Japan and the West from going to war with each other again."

She looked back and forth between the two of them, trying to fathom what they were driving at. Then Noda continued, revealing again that nothing had happened by chance.

"We brought you here today to Ise to remind you of the importance of your Japanese heritage. A heritage whose sole

purpose is, like Shinto itself, the peace and ordering of the world."

"What's this all about?" She looked at Ken, in a black silk kimono, serenely sipping his sake and looking the essence of cultivated, tantalizing otherness. "Did you have anything to do with this?"

He carefully set down his Shino dish and smoothed his long sleeve. "I did have occasion to remind Noda-sama that you have a unique combination of background and expertise, Tamara, that could be very instrumental in the realization of his objectives."

"And what are his objectives?" She looked back at Noda. "Your objectives?"

"You, Dr. Richardson, should appreciate this better than anyone." He studied his sake saucer. "There are things the West excels at doing, and there are areas, I trust it is not improper to say, in which we Japanese have demonstrated aptitude. Why should we compete in each other's spheres? It leads only to divisiveness. We open ourselves to predators— from the steppes of the Caucasus to the oil-rich deserts of Araby. But if we join together, the peoples of Japan and America can achieve insurmountable strength."

"You're talking about something that would more properly be in the realm of diplomacy, Noda-san."

He laughed. "Pardon me, Dr. Richardson, but diplomacy is merely the window dressing for reality. The world cares not a penny for diplomacy, only for power. No one troubled about the Persian Gulf states until they had OPEC and the rest of us had no petroleum. Then suddenly they were toasted worldwide as men of great moment. That is the meaning of 'diplomacy.'

"The reason I knew you would understand the importance of Ise," he went on, "is that, in your genes, you are part of us. You appreciate the value of harmony, one of the first teachings of our philosophy. There must be harmony between man and his world."

"What does that—?"

"Please, just allow me to finish. In like manner, there must also be harmony between nations. Yet all we hear about today is friction. Usually trade friction. Between our nations. But what can be done? The solutions we hear talked of seem, for reasons political and otherwise, impossible to implement. So what course does that leave? You speak of diplomacy, but already diplomacy has been shown inadequate. Why, we might ask, is that so? Because, as your Thomas Jefferson observed many years ago, money is the principal exchange of civilized nations. Diplomacy comes out of economic power. It was trade that estranged our two nations once before in this century, leading to a conflict neither of us desired, and it is money that creates these 'frictions' we hear about so much today. Since diplomacy has failed, we must now find other means to bring stability and thus harmony to both our nations."

She was tempted to ask him how all the right-wing, nationalistic fervor he was churning up with the sword would contribute to this so-called harmony, but instead she inquired what, specifically, he was proposing.

"The most pressing problem America has today, Dr. Richardson, is the growing inability of your industries to compete. If I may be allowed to generalize: America's strength has long been in innovation, but I think it is reasonable to suggest that Japanese management has had a commensurate share of success. So much so that we have been the subject of a flurry of books in your country." He smiled. "Even, I should add, several very insightful volumes written by you yourself. Also, Japanese industry has already been part of a number of joint ventures, instituting our management techniques in the service of America's business."

"Well, unquestionably we do have problems in our industrial sector just now," Tam interjected. "But Japan has plenty of difficulties of its own."

"Most assuredly." He nodded. "However, as some might put it, 'the proof is in the pudding.' I merely ask you to compare your, and our, balance of trade, or productivity. Surely these both suggest there is truth in what I say."

At that point Akira Mori abruptly seized the floor. "You know, Dr. Richardson, there are those in your country who are now saying your trade problems are caused by Japan. That we should work less, save less, squander more, just as you do. Perhaps so we will self-destruct economically as America is now doing and no longer be an embarrassment to you."

"That is hardly—" Noda tried to break in, but she waved him aside.

"No, this needs to be said. I am tired of hearing Americans tell us to follow their example." She turned back. "Your media

chastise us for our thrift and hard work, while your businessmen, who are happy enough to grow rich retailing the superior goods we make, refuse to invest their profits in modernizing their own factories. Instead they give themselves bonuses and Japan lectures."

At that she wound down, to the obvious relief of Noda and Ken. The outburst seemed to pass as quickly as it had come, but it succeeded in reinforcing Tarn's reservations about Akira Mori.

"So what exactly do you have in mind?" She looked back at Noda.

"Dr. Richardson, no one in Japan desires to see America's industrial base disintegrate. That is dangerous for the future, both yours and ours. Yet joint ventures and management seminars are too little, too late. We, and by 'we' I mean Dai Nippon, are determined to make a more structured contribution."

As he laid out his plan, she realized that Matsuo Noda had decided to play God. Still, in this world such things were possible; all it took was enough financial clout. If anybody doubted that, just remember OPEC.

But that was the last time around. Now Japan had the money. Maybe the oil billionaires of years past had no good idea what to do with their winnings, but Matsuo Noda had a very precise idea indeed.

The one remaining problem: he needed Tamara Richardson.

[CHAPTER ELEVEN]

In the aftermath of that evening down in Ise, Tam was convinced of only one fact. Nobody was giving her the straight story. Not Noda, not Mori, not Ken. And when she tried to talk supercomputers with MITI officials at the Kyoto conference.

she again sensed she was hearing a runaround. Suddenly all she could get was Japan's public face, that version of reality Japanese executives call tatemae, superficial and soothing assurances, intended to promote the wa, harmony, so desirable in human affairs. When Japan doesn't care to give answers, hai no longer translates as "yes." It just means "I heard you."

Even more troublesome was the question of Ken. As best she could tell, he was merely a reluctant accomplice in Noda's grand design. But why was he going along with Dai Nippon if he was as apprehensive as he seemed? Ken, she concluded, knew a lot more about Matsuo Noda than he was saying.

So instead of giving them all an answer outright, she decided to spend a few days analyzing what she'd managed to piece together so far. As Noda had couched his proposition, it was simple: he was offering her a chance to do more than merely write prescriptions for America's economic recovery. She would guide it.

One thing, Matsuo Noda was no proponent of half measures. The way he laid out his scenario, it was visionary . . . no, revolutionary. After thinking over his proposal for a week, she still wasn't sure whether he was brilliant or a megalomaniac. Dai Nippon's program could conceivably change the course of world history, and the prospect of being at the helm of its juggernaut was seductive. All the same, what if Ken's hints were right? What if Noda did have something much grander in mind, something impossible even to imagine. When you ride the whirlwind, who's really in charge?

In between her visits to the conference she spent some time at DNI's Kyoto offices getting acquainted with Noda's operation—the computers, fiber-optic links, analysts. Very impressive. Although Dai Nippon was technically only a shell corporation, all Matsuo Noda had to do was pick up a phone to have at his disposal the expertise of any one of a hundred Japanese corporate brain trusts. Half of Japan's new high-tech movers, it seemed, owed him some kind of "obligation." Given that, and all the money, he could well be unstoppable.

Also, the austerity of Dai Nippon's offices reminded her once again that none of Japan's new power was accidental. The discipline of the samurai. It was almost as though this country had been in training for centuries, toughening itself through self-denial and work-as-duty to be ready for an all-out economic blitz. Now, finally, Japan had an edge on the entire world. More technology and more money.

Was Noda about to just give away that edge? The implausibility made her certain something was missing.

Late that Friday, the conference over, she and Ken packed their bags and checked out of the International. But after they'd shoved their way through the usual pandemonium in the lobby and hailed a cab, he gave the driver the name of a place on Shinmonzen Street, the antique district. Not the train station. When she tried to correct him, he waved his hand and said he'd arranged for a surprise.

"Tam, the International always leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It has nothing to do with Japan. It could be anywhere, just like some Hilton next to a freeway." He smiled and lightly patted her hand. "Let's not go back to Tokyo just yet. Please. This weekend let's stay at a place where nothing will exist but you and me, not even time."

"Just turn off the clocks?" Sounded like a great idea.

"Well, now and then it's nice to turn them down a bit, don't you think?" He laughed self-consciously. "That's a contradiction about me you'll someday have to get used to. I like a high-tech office, but when I'm away I prefer to be surrounded by things that are very, very old." He leaned back. "Indulge me. Let me show you my favorite spot in all of Kyoto. A place time forgot."

This is going to be quite a trick, she told herself. Very little was left from years past. Maybe the city hadn't been bombed out during the war, but the blitz of urban renewal was rapidly accomplishing much the same result. Through the light of dusk, construction cranes loomed above the few remaining thatched roofs of neighborhoods about to be overwhelmed by steel, glass, cinderblock.

Kenji Asano, it turned out, deplored this immensely. As they rode along, he pointed out the latest construction sites with the sorrow of a man documenting the end of civilization.

"This, we hear, is the price of progress. I'm always tempted to ask, progress toward what?" He leaned back with a sigh and lit a Peace cigarette, nonfilter. "Someday I think we may have to ask ourselves if this modern world we've created for ourselves was actually worth the toll it's taken on our sensibilities."

Eventually their taxi pulled into a narrow side street, edging past a few women carrying small bundles of groceries bound in scarves, then easing to a stop before the ramshackle bamboo gates of a place that seemed abandoned to foliage and vines.

The driver helped carry their bags in through the gates and up the rocky, hedge-lined pathway leading to a wooden veranda. Ahead was a thatch-roofed, weathered house shrouded by towering elms. As they approached, an elderly woman in a dark kimono emerged from the recesses of the interior. She sang out a welcome, bowed deeply, and produced two pairs of leather slippers with an air of ritual solemnity. They were expected.

Off went the street shoes, on went the slippers as they melted into a world that would have been perfectly natural four centuries ago. When they passed the "lobby"—off to the side, tatami-floored, with a few ancient screens scattered about—Tam noticed that there appeared to be no "desk." But there was also no "check in"; the proprietress clearly knew the honorable Asano-san. She also must have known he was with MITI, since her honorifics soared into the upper reaches of politeness as she guided them along the interior hallway.

Tam realized they were in a traditional Japanese inn, a ryokan, surely the last vestige of classical Japan. As they moved out onto another veranda, this one circling a central garden and pond, the place appeared to be totally empty. The woodland vista in the center hinted of infinity, with stone paths and a wide pool dotted with shapely rocks. Although there were a dozen or so closed doors along the wooden platform, the inn seemed to be there solely for them. In the cool dusk clumps of willows across the pond masked the view of the other side, furthering the illusion that they had the place all to themselves. It couldn't be true, though, since chambermaids in kimono darted here and there balancing lacquered dinner trays.

When they reached the end of the veranda, their hostess paused before a set of shoji screens, knelt, and pushed aside the rice-paper covered frames to reveal a room entirely bare except for a low lacquer table. Well, not quite: on the back wall was the traditional picture alcove, tokonoma, in which a seventeenth-century ink-wash scroll hung above a weathered vase holding three spare blossoms. Their room had no keys, no clocks, no television. It was a cocoon for the spirit, a place of textured woods, crisp tatami, lacquer, and rice-paper.

The woman deposited their bags on the black-bordered tatami, consulted briefly with Ken concerning dinner, then backed, bowing, out of the room, leaving them alone together in another time.

"Ken, this is perfect. I needed someplace like this."

"We both did." He embraced her. "They're running our tub now. Afterward I have another surprise for you."

"What?"

"Allow me some mystery."

Whatever he had planned, she couldn't wait to throw off her clothes, don a loose cotton yukata robe, and pad with him down to the little wood-lined room where their steaming bath awaited. The floor was red tile, the walls scented Chinese black pine, the massive tub cedar with rivulets of steam escaping through cracks in its cypress cover.

While they perched on little stools beside the tub, he soaped her back, occasionally dousing her with the bucket of lukewarm water. Then she did the same for him, watching half mesmerized as the soapy bubbles flowed off his shoulders, broad and strong. Almost like an athlete's. Finally they climbed in, and amidst the cloud of vapor her last remaining tensions melted away.

"You know, I think of you every time I come to Kyoto, wanting to lure you back." He reached for the brush and began to gently massage her neck. "I honestly never dreamed Matsuo Noda would come along and try to hire you." He paused. "I wish I could help you make your decision. But the most I can do is warn you to be careful."

What are you telling me? she wondered.

"Ken, you seem troubled about something. What is it?"

"Tamara, powerful forces are at play here, beyond the control of either of us. Things may not always be what they seem. Just be aware of that. But please don't ask me any more. Just look out for yourself."

"I've had a lifetime of looking out for myself. I can handle Matsuo Noda."

"Just don't ever underestimate him. He's not like anyone you've ever known before. The man is pure genius, probably the most visionary, powerful mind in the history of this country. You've met your match."

"That remains to be seen." She leaned back. Ken was challenging her now. On purpose? Maybe he figured that was

the only bait she would rise to. He wanted her to play along with Noda, but he wouldn't tell her why.

After they'd simmered to medium rare, heading for well done, they climbed out, toweled each other off, slipped back into their yukatas once again, and glided back to the room. She noticed that an interior screen had been pushed aside, opening onto another tatami room where a thin futon mattress had already been unrolled and prepared with white sheets and a thick brocade coverlet. Hot tea waited on their little lacquer table, but their bags had disappeared. She checked behind a pair of sliding doors and saw that all her things had been neatly shelved by some invisible caretaker. Even the clothes she'd been wearing were already hung in the closet.

"Now for my surprise." He was slipping on a black silk kimono. "They have a special little garden here that only a few people know about. I've arranged everything."

"Shouldn't I change too for whatever it is we're doing?"

"Theoretically, yes. But formality doesn't suit you." He cinched his obi. "Come on. You can be formally informal."

He led the way to the end of the veranda where they each put on the wooden clogs that were waiting. Then they passed through a bamboo gate into yet another landscape, this one lit by candles set in stone lanterns. At the back stood a small one-room structure of thatch, reed, and unfinished wood. A teahouse.

"Tam, can you sit here for a second, in the waiting shelter?" He indicated a bench just inside the gate under a thatch overhang. "I'll only need a few minutes to prepare."

Off he went, clogs clicking along a string of stones nestled in among the mossy floor of the garden. He was following the roji, the "dewy path" that led to the teahouse half hidden among the trees at the back.

Unlike the ryokan^’ s larger garden, this one had no water; it was meant to recall a mountain walk. The space was small, with natural trees, offering no illusion of being more than it was. But it was a classic setting for tea, a kind of deliberate "poverty." While she watched the flickering stone lanterns and listened to the night crickets, the cacophony of Kyoto could have been eons away.

Finally Ken appeared beside the doorway of the teahouse and signaled her forward. As she moved along the stepping stones, she noticed that the pathway had been swept clean of

falling leaves, after which the gardener had strewn a few back to give it wabi, an unaffected natural look. The art of artlessness, she thought, as she paused at a stone water basin to rinse her mouth from its bamboo dipper, part of the preparatory ritual.

The cha-no-yu or "tea ceremony," she knew, required almost a lifetime to master completely. It was a seated ballet of nuance and perfect clarity of motion. One awkward gesture and its carefully orchestrated perfection could be spoiled. She hoped she could remember the rules well enough to get it right.

Ken was already seated across from her, tending a small charcoal brazier sunk into the tatami-matted floor. From its light she could just make out the room's rough-hewn timbers, the straw and mud walls, bark and bamboo ceiling. A small calligraphy scroll hung in the tokonoma alcove. As he beckoned her formally to sit, the room was caught in an unearthly silence, the only sound the sonorous boiling of the kettle.

Ken was profoundly transformed, almost like another being. Warm and attentive only minutes before, now he was part of a different world, solemn and remote. The black silk of his kimono seemed to enforce the seriousness in his dark eyes.

She watched as he ritually wiped a thin, delicately curved bamboo scoop with a folded cloth, first touching the handle, then the uptilted end, after which he balanced it atop the lacquer tea caddy. Next he lifted the tea bowl, an earth-tone glaze that shifted from mauve to brown as he rotated it in his hand and wiped the rim. Finally he swabbed the bottom and positioned the bowl on the tatami in front of him. Now the utensils had been formally cleansed. He was ready. From the tea caddy he spooned a mound of jade-green powdered tea and tapped it into the bowl. Then another, this last with a carefully prescribed twist of the scoop.

Next he extracted a dipperful of boiling water from the iron kettle and measured a portion into the bowl, lifted the bamboo whisk sitting inverted beside the bowl, and commenced a vigorous blending. The tea immediately began to resemble a pale green lather. Still no words, no sound save the whir of his whisk intruded upon the quiet of the room. It was a moment hundreds of years old, framed in silence.

The economy of ideal form. That, she found herself thinking, was what this was all about: how flawlessly could you perform what seemed the most simple, humble act. And he was good. Whereas the mastery in his hands revealed itself by the control with which he whipped the tea, the rest of his body remained taut as a spring. Total discipline. Each tiny motion was distilled to its crystalline essence.

At last, when the green froth was ready, he gave the whisk a final half-turn, then set it aside. Next he lifted the bowl, rotated it in his hand, and placed it on the mat beside the open charcoal fire.

His part was over. It was as though the authority had been passed. Ken had prepared the work; now it was her turn to take up and finish it. Her role was different yet required its own kind of skill.

She bent forward and ceremonially shifted the bowl a short distance toward her. Then she scooted backward on the tatami and again moved the bowl closer. Was she doing it right? The flicker in Ken's eyes said yes.

Finally, with a bow of acknowledgment, she raised the bowl in both hands and brought it to her lips. After her first sip she bowed again, then drank it down as he watched in silent approval. The powdered green tea was harsh and bitter, just as she remembered from times past. Even for a Japanese it was difficult to feign appreciation of the musky beverage produced in the cha-no-yu.

She recalled what was next. With deliberate dignity she extracted a small napkin from the obi of her loose yukata, wiped the rim of the bowl, and placed it carefully onto the tatami in front of her. The motion had to be quick, spare. Ken didn't try to disguise his pleasure; she had passed some sort of crucial test.

And she told herself, he had too.

Together they had joined in one of the most demanding yet exquisite bonds two people can share. At that moment she felt—was it imagination?—like an ancient Fujiwara, celebrating some age-old tradition. . . .

The ceremony was over now. She bowed again, then lifted the bowl to admire the light crackle in the glaze, the slightly inturned lip.

"It's Raku. I think it's the finest I've ever seen."

"From my collection. It's by the hand of Chojiro, the seventeenth-century Korean who was in the employ of the Shogun Hideyoshi." He smiled. "I had it brought down to Kyoto especially for tonight. For you."

"I'm honored." She was.

After she had admired the rest of the utensils—the remaining formality of cha-no-yu—they both relaxed, their minds purged, their spirits attuned. Like the ceremony itself, the moment was esthetic and sensual.

"Tam, this has been a wonderful rebirth for me, being with you again. You've helped revive in me so many feelings I'd almost forgotten. The joy of it all. Who could have known?" He leaned back and reached for a flask of plum wine. Formalities were definitely over. "As someone once wrote, 'Love. Its roots are deep. Its source unknowable.'" He was pouring two small glasses.

"That's from the Tsurezuregusa, fourteenth century. Right?"

"Again you amaze me. You really are Japanese."

"I like the poetry."

"Then you know, Tam, our poets excel in feeling. We've always celebrated emotion over logic." He smiled. "Which one said, 'Love is the passion in the heart of man—those who will not listen to reason'?"

"What does reason have to do with love?" She took a glass. "Didn't Shakespeare say 'love and reason keep little company together'?"

"My turn. That's from Midsummer Night's Dream, which was . . . sixteenth century. You're pulling out the moderns on me." He laughed with delight. "You know, in Heian times, eight hundred years ago here in Kyoto, I'd be expected to make a linked verse about the night now." He looked out the doorway, then back. "How about . . .

The moon in veil,

Perfumed with night,

Who can deny love

At a time like this?"

Then his visage quickened, another mood switch. His eyes mellowed as he turned and carefully lifted the bud from the vase behind him. It was a camellia, purest white. He held it before him as he turned back, its long stem still dripping.

"You know, there's a haiku by Basho I love very much. Let me give it in Japanese . . . a haiku only sounds right in the original.

time ga ka ni

notto hi no deru

yama ji kana."

She paused to let the meaning sink in, to feel that open- ended sensation a good haiku always sends your imagination spinning off into. "How's this for the English?

With the scent of plums

on the mountain road—suddenly,

sunrise comes."

"Not bad." He glanced at the blossom in his hand. "I don't know why, but the camellia makes me think of you." He rotated it carefully, then looked back. "Let's dedicate tonight to our own sunrise."

He inspected the flower again, then impulsively leaned forward and placed it onto the tatami in front of her. Next, with the same control in his powerful hands that had touched the glaze of the tea bowl, he gently gripped the shoulders of her loose yukata. She felt her body flush with warmth as slowly, gently, his strength once more held in check, he carefully slid back the cloth off her shoulders until her breasts were free. Then plucking a petal from the bud, he reverently brushed one nipple, then the other.

It was an erotic game she knew he loved, one of many. Games. Sometimes she had imagined them inhabiting an eighteenth-century shunga, those woodblock prints picturing lovers in what she had once thought impossible embraces.

He'd once declared that the kimono was actually the most sensual garment in the world. Take a look at some of the shunga, he said, and the possibilities become obvious. Though it seems cumbersome, entangling, yet it lifts away like a stage curtain to invite all sorts of dramatic possibilities. The human nude is only interesting when half concealed.

Games. She reached and took the petal from him, then ran it along the silk of his own kimono, over his muscular thighs as he sat, Japanese-style, feet back. Next she lifted away the silk from the flawless ivory skin she knew so well. She drew it along his thighs to tease him.

"Tam . . ." He reached to slip away her yukata, but she

caught his hand. Then she touched his lips with her fingers, silencing his protest. She pushed away his kimono and trailed the petal upward, lightly brushing his own nipples. Finally she pushed him gently backward and smoothed her cheek against his thigh, drawing back his kimono even more.

The glow of the coals was dying now. As the last shadows played against his face, she laid the petal on the tatami and moved across him. . . .

They lingered till the moon was up, then strolled back through the garden wearing their antique wooden clogs. The air was scented, musical with the sounds of night. Later that evening they downed an eight-course meal off antique stoneware plates, drank steaming sake on the veranda, then made love for hours on the futon.

Around midnight he ordered one more small bottle of sake, a go, and suggested they move out onto the veranda again, this time to watch the moon break over the trees. She slipped on her yukata and padded out. She'd just decided.

"Tamara, I want to tell you something." He poured her small porcelain cup to the brim. "You are everything Matsuo Noda is seeking. The way you held the tea bowl tonight, tasted the tea. The cha-no-yu doesn't lie. You have discipline, our discipline. That's very, very rare."

"You mean, 'for a gaijin'?"

"For anyone. Besides, I don't think of you that way. You are one of us now."

She looked into his eyes, dark in the moonlight. Then she remembered the tokonoma alcove in the teahouse where a rugged vase had held the single white bud, its few petals moist as though from dew. Not a bouquet, a single bud—all the flowers in the world distilled into that one now poised to burst open.

Kenji Asano lived that special intensity, that passion, which set Japan apart from the rest of the world.

"Ken." Her voice was quiet. "I'll do it."

"You mean Noda?"

"Noda."

He said nothing for a moment, then finally he spoke.

"The game begins."