"All right." She looked apprehensive for a second, only a second, and then her eyes hardened. "You know, Noda and Mori claim I'm Fujiwara ... on my mother's side naturally." She laughed. "And you know something else? I feel in my bones that it's true. I believe it. I'm Japanese, Matthew, and I'm proud of that."
I glanced over at a set of samurai armor stationed just outside the bathroom door, glistening enameled steel. '"Tell you the truth, I'm second to nobody when it comes to admiring Japan's ethic and their guts. But I tend to draw the line at 'master race' talk. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't object too strenuously if they did manage to beat us in a fair contest. Hell, we won round one and they were remarkably sporting about it. But what I want is to make sure round two is fought on level ground. No inventing new rules, no rabbit punches or below-the-belt stuff. That's all I ask."
"How about showing me some of those swords you claim you collect?" She came out with it, just like that.
"My pleasure. Like nothing better."
Besides, it seemed a good time for a change of pace. I straightened up and headed for the back parlor upstairs, then around the corner to the sword room, its door now fully repaired from the strange break-in. I fished out the key and snapped open the lock.
Funny thing, but walking around fully dressed / had started feeling out of place. Maybe it is merely a state of mind.
All right now, where to start? This was a crucial moment. My first impulse was to go all the way to gold, that marvelous katana dating from the early Kamakura, or even before, said to have come from the forge of the Shogun Yoritomo Minamoto's personal swordsmith. But wait a minute. After that, what? Maybe the absolute tops should be saved for a more auspicious moment. That sword was, to my mind, an almost sacred work. Maybe instead we ought to start with something a little offbeat, then gradually work up to the best and sharpest.
The obvious choice, in fact, was a piece I considered a real curiosity, racked there on the left, top slot. As I lifted it off and slipped it out of its scabbard, the metal glistened like a mirror, reminding me how long it's been since I'd oiled and pampered my playthings.
"I'm afraid nothing here was handed down by the Sun Goddess." I was coming back down the stairs a little unsteadily, like a half-drunk samurai. "But this one's kind of like the old style, at least the metallurgy is. Unusual. Heavy on copper and tin. In a way almost closer to bronze than steel."
Then I proceeded to point out a few interesting features—the nice curve of the face line, the burl grain, the Shinto deities on the elliptical tsuba hand guard, that kind of thing— taking care to keep it out of the damned bubbles. I was starting to get wound up, as all enthusiasts do with a captive audience, when she tactfully cut me off.