"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."