I was still knocked over. Could that be why he'd retained me as his U.S. legal counsel? Because of some damned antique sword? Okay, I was already getting the idea Matsuo Noda might be a trifle eccentric, but all the same . . .
"Interesting." He was pointing at a long picture, part of a series locked in a wide glass case. "Honto ni omoshiroi, desu ne?'
Miss Mori was already there. In a voice scarcely above a whisper she proceeded to give him a rundown of pros and cons. It was the first time I'd noticed any enthusiasm out of the woman all night.
I checked my catalogue. The piece was a Heian hand scroll, said to be "exceedingly rare." After a few moments Noda motioned me over. "Perhaps you could give us your opinion. What do you think?" He pointed down. "The subject is intriguing. These are ladies-in-waiting for the emperor, Fujiwara. Notice the delicate refinement of the coloring, the matched fabrics, each enhancing the other like flowers in a bouquet. That was eight centuries ago, just before the rise of the first shogun, the first 'generalissimo' who would rule in the emperor's name."
When he said "shogun," niece Mori shot him a quick admonitory glance. There was some kind of unmistakable electricity passing. Something left unspoken.
"The Heian era ended with the great conflict between the Heike and Genji clans that led to the death of the ruling emperor in 1185 and the loss of the imperial sword at sea." Next he said something in guttural Japanese to Mori, obviously very intent, and indicated one corner of the painting, where the emperor sat. Her reply was quick and curt. Now, I only know a little of the language, maybe a couple of cuts above Berlitz level, but I did manage to pick up she wasn't talking about the painting. Something to do with the emperor himself, though I missed the rapid-fire delivery.
In response to Noda's question I tried to sound intelligent, saying the ink coloring looked well preserved, or some such auction house mumbo jumbo. It wasn't my thing really, which the man surely knew. He seemed to know everything else about me. After he listened politely, they switched back to Japanese and finally settled on a bid. I watched as she marked it in the catalogue—low six figures.
Walton, I thought, you're dealing with a pair of heavyweights.
By then I'd decided not to bother bidding on anything. There were too many curious twists, not to mention the building deal. Surely the ritual had gone far enough, the samurai negotiating ploy of making your adversary be first to reveal his game plan.
Why not bring up why we were there, just for the hell of it?