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.