She looked just as I remembered her from the tube. A knockout. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon, framing that classic oval face, and her age was anybody's guess, given the ivory skin and granite chin. She was wearing a bulky something in black and deep ocher by one of the new Tokyo designers. For some reason I was drawn to her fingernails, long and bronze. The parts, a mixture of classic and avant-garde, did not seem of a piece, the kind of detail you didn't notice on the TV. But there was something more important than her looks.
I'd been to Tokyo from time to time for various reasons, and I'd heard a lot of stories about this lady. Fact is, you didn't have to be Japanese to know that Akira Mori was easily Japan's most listened-to money analyst. You've probably seen her yourself in snippets of that weekly chat show she had on NHK, which used to get picked up by the networks here when they needed a quick thirty seconds on "Japan This Week" or such. Her ratings had little to do with the fact she's a looker. She was, talk had it, an unofficial source for official government monetary policy. Akira Mori always had a lead on exactly what was afoot, from the Bank of Japan to the Ministry of Finance, even before the prime minister broke the news.
Miss "Mori," whoever the hell she was, had some very well placed friends. Tell you something else, she didn't go out of her way to find flattering things to say about how Uncle Sam handled his bankbook these days. Her appearance here made Noda's unorthodox office plans even more perplexing.
"We both appreciate your taking time from your schedule to meet with us." He bowed again. "We've been looking forward to having you join us at the sale."
While Akira Mori appeared to busy herself with a catalog, Noda and I got things going with that standard formality preceding any serious Japanese professional contact: meaningless chat. It's how they set up their ningen kankei, their relationship with the other guy, and it's also the way they fine-tune their honne, their gut feeling about a situation. Any greenhorn foreigner who skimps on these vital niceties runs the risk of torpedoing his whole deal.
In response to my pro forma inquiries, Matsuo Noda declared he liked New York, had even lived here for a while once, honestly found it less hectic than Tokyo, usually stayed these days at the Japanese hotel down on Park but sometimes picked the Plaza when he needed to be closer to midtown. He adored La Grenouille and thought La Tulipe overpraised. When I pressed him, he declared his favorite Japanese place to dine was Nippon, over in the East Fifties (maybe he merely liked the name, but it was my pick as well).
After he had in turn solicited my own views on Sotheby's, a couple of the galleries down Madison, and various North Italian eateries, he suggested we go on upstairs and preview the lots.
All the while Miss Mori appeared to ignore us, standing there like a statue of some Shinto goddess, except for the occasional tug at her dark hair. Maybe she didn't give a damn about this obligatory small talk, thought it was old-fashioned. Or possibly she liked the idea of being the only one not to show a hand. And as Noda led the way up toward the exhibition rooms, she trailed behind like a dutiful Japanese woman—while we, naturally, continued to talk of everything except, God forbid, why we were there.
In the first room we were suddenly in my arena—samurai swords and battle gear.
"This is your special interest, is it not, Mr. Walton?" Noda smiled, then turned to admire the row of shining steel tachi, three-foot-long razors, now being watched over by a trio of nervous guards. Sotheby's didn't need some amateur Toshiro Mifune accidentally carving up the clientele. "I understand you have a notable collection yourself."