"Tell you the truth, Eddie, my fingers are too damned numb to bother signing the visitor's book."
He saluted and returned his concentration to the Knicks' perennial slump.
We took the night elevator up, and somewhere around the time we passed the ninth floor, we managed to settle on a story. Noda, we would say, had called Tam and asked her to hurry up a special report on one of the firms for Monday. We'd just left a dinner party on the East Side, thought we'd drop by and pick up some printouts since she wanted to work at home tomorrow. Shouldn't be more than a minute.
As the number above the door hit twelve, I tried to remember how to pray.
In the hallway we waved at the TV eye and the steel door opened. Standing there was Shiro Yamada: cropped hair, trifle burly, gray uniform. One of the regulars. He shifted his Uzi as we came through. Then he recognized Tam and bowed low.
By the wildest of good fortune Yamada only spoke Japanese, a linguistic limitation that turned out to be crucial. Tam began by observing the niceties: she commiserated with him about the weather, the late hour, would the next shift be able to get through and relieve him. He was all bows and deference and hai, hai.
Finally she worked around to why we were there, almost as though that were a nuisance and the real reason had been to drop by for a chat. By the way, she added, there were a couple of things she needed from her office. She gave him the story.
Yamada listened, bowing, hai, hai, then sucked in his breath to demonstrate we'd presented him with a serious conflict of obligations—which for a Japanese is the most disturbing prospect imaginable. This situation entails great difficulty, he said, drawing in more air through his front teeth. Honto ni muzukashii desu.
Muzukashii deshoo ka? Enquired Tam. Difficulty?
Hai, so desu. Yes, and he was deeply apologetic. Lots of sumimasen, very sorry.