What? What else did he know about me?
Easy, Walton. Play the game. I knew what a Japanese would expect in reply.
"Matter of fact, I've lucked onto a couple of items over the years." Then the standard disclaimers. My own painstaking collection was merely a grab bag of knickknacks, the fumbling mistakes of a dabbler, etc., etc.
Noda monitored this culturally correct blarney with satisfaction. "As it happens, Mr. Walton, I was in Nagoya last year when several of your pieces were on loan for the show at the Tokugawa Museum. I still recall certain ones, particularly that fine fifteenth-century katana, attributed to the Mizuno clan. Unusual steel. No date or mark of the swordsmith, but a remarkable piece all the same." A split-second pause. "Your reluctance to part with it was most understandable."
This man had done his homework! Or maybe he'd been the one who had tried to buy it. The steel was unusual, too heavy on copper. I'd even had a little metallurgical testing done on it down at Princeton, just to prove that hunch. But it was no big
deal, merely an oddity that had fallen my way via an estate sale. There was an anonymous inquiry shortly after the exhibition opened, with an insistent offer, but I'd turned it down.
Poker time. "I was honored. Your figure was more than generous."
He laughed—bull's-eye. I watched as he glanced back at Miss Mori, maybe a bit nervously. Then he returned his attention. "Merely a small gesture for the museum. I felt it should be back in Japanese hands." He continued, his voice now sober. "You do understand?"
"Certainly." I just stared.
"Good. I see I was right." He had paused to examine a large monochrome screen. It was eighteenth century and he inspected it with only mild interest, then moved on.