“What do you mean?”

Kato went back to watching the show. “I don’t think I’ll be using you anymore, Harry, that was a mistake. You should spend more time with your family. Won’t you be going back to America soon?”

“I’ve never been there.”

“Well, you should get ready.”

Apart from movies and music, America didn’t interest Harry. In Tokyo he ran his own life, and he suspected that once in the States, he would be supervised to the point of suffocation by his parents, church people, aunts and uncles and ignorant cousins. Tokyo was the world’s center of color, beauty, life. What was Kentucky? He had seen films with hillbillies sitting around cracker barrels, boots up, aiming tobacco juice at spittoons. Was that him? How many times had he looked into a mirror and hoped to find himself magically given a new body of smooth skin, straight black hair and properly narrowed eyes? It almost had to happen.

“I’ll make up for it,” Harry said. “I’ll deliver everything myself.”

“Not anymore, Harry. Don’t come around.”

Harry tried to catch a tease in Kato’s eye. “You’re kidding.”

Kato ignored him.

Harry tried a different tone of voice. “I’m sorry about Gen. I shouldn’t have let him take it.”

“Too late.”

“I could lay off for a while.”

“Stay away for good. I’m bored with you, Harry. You are no longer amusing.”

Harry lost his breath from the swiftness of his demotion from Kato’s favorite pet and confidant to…nothing, as if on a whim the artist had erased him from a picture.

Kato added, “No backstage visits, either. Stay away from Oharu.”

“Oharu and I-”

“Oharu is no longer a friend of yours. Stay away from her.”

The manager leaned across Kato to twist the knife himself. “No backstage, no girls. In fact, forget the whole theater. I’ll have you tossed out the next time I see you in here.”

“You can’t stop me,” Harry said.

“See,” the manager said. “A Japanese boy would have been genuinely contrite.”

“East is East and West is West, Harry,” Kato said. “You were a guest, and now it’s time for you to go.”

The manager tugged on Kato’s sleeve. “Oh, this is the finale I wanted you to see.”

Kato smiled as Oharu returned with a large bee she attached to the tip of the comedian’s bow. The bee buzzed menacingly. The comedian tried to shake off the bee one moment and fence with it the next while, all the time, incredibly, he went on playing, coattails wrapped around him in his passion, faster and faster and faster until he dropped to the stage like a dead man and the bow dropped from fatigue.

“Wait,” the manager said.

Oharu returned with a sun flag she placed in the comedian’s hand, and at once he was revived and on his feet. The curtains opened, and the entire cast of the revue-actors, chorus girls, acrobats, ventriloquists and magicians-stepped forward for a final bow, each one waving a flag. Behind them rose a battleship, an elaborate prop with triple-barreled guns and a flying bridge with more chorus girls and lines trimmed in pennants. Gun barrels boomed. Smoke rings shot from the muzzles and floated toward the balcony.

Kato turned on the manager. “When did you put this in the show? What does this militaristic garbage have to do with the music hall?”

“It’s not military, it’s patriotic.”

“It’s supreme stupidity. You’re playing to the worst instincts in people.”

The manager shrugged. “People love it.”

Harry hadn’t cried for years-with dry eyes he had survived bruises, the absence of parents, the death of pets-but now his eyes stung. Through a blur, he watched a smoke ring float by out of reach.

14

HARRY TOOK A river bus, intending to drop the gun in the water somewhere between downtown and Asakusa. The boat was narrow and the cabin crowded with shaggy students, a straw-hat brigade of young salarymen, a go hustler with his board, housewives with mesh bags of winter melon, children carrying smaller children. Harry braved the evening chill and rode in the forward open area, alone except for a businessman reading a newspaper by the lamp on the bow and a boy rolling a toy tank that sprayed sparks on the deck.

The night sky was a deep blue edged by the softest light of any major city in the world, light that escaped from paper windows and sliding doors or was the tear-shaped light of streetlamps along the banks of the Sumida. At this distance from the Ginza, there were no office buildings to blot out the view, only occasional spikes of neon like the Ebisu Beer tower or the giant illuminated clock of Ueno Station, otherwise only a steady churn behind the backs of obscure one- and two-story houses. Half-seen figures wrung clothes on balconies that overhung the water. A muted glow of patched windows gave way to a bright corner with a streetlamp, neighborhood pump, the calls of children around a street musician, which in turn gave way to the next stretch of blind windows, music swallowed as quickly as it had emerged. The only river traffic was other river buses or barges that eased in and out of canals. Harry intended to tell Michiko tonight. He’d garb his betrayal with small decencies, like leaving her the apartment and the income from the Happy Paris. That was what she was cut out for, anyway, a tough little mama-san. It was a better deal for her, she’d have to see that. He slipped his hand through the rail and let his fingers trail in icy water. He was reaching for the gun when a passenger came out of the cabin, apologized to the boy for trespassing on the battleground of the toy tank and sat next to Harry. It was Sergeant Shozo of the Special Higher Police with a briefcase, the picture of a man headed home from a hard day’s work.

“I thought it was you,” he told Harry. “I was just saying to myself that looked like Harry Niles, and it’s you. But you have a car, why are you going by boat?”

“It’s a change.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. I always enjoy the river.” He settled into a contemplative pose while Harry tucked the gun more out of sight. “But how are you getting back to your car?”

“Boat, I suppose. Maybe swim.”

“If you flew, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Shozo produced a broad smile. He leaned against the rail to take in the opposite embankment, a dark ridge edged in branches. “Cherry trees. I brought my son here last year when they were in bloom. We had just seen Tarzan. All he wanted to do was climb the trees. Eight years old.” Shozo shook his head.

“Did you like the movie?” Harry asked.

“Very much. A little racist but highly entertaining. Do you agree?”

“Terrific movie. Big boy in leather skivvies. Upper-class girl. They meet cute in the jungle, build a house in the trees and adopt a chimp. It’s got everything.”

“When you put it that way, yes. What I found interesting about Tarzan was his desire first to be an ape and then the recognition that he is different, setting off great psychological tension, it seems to me. What are your thoughts?”

“I’m sure Tarzan was torn.”

“How was it for you when you returned to your home in the United States?”

“Well, it wasn’t my home. My home was here.”

“Yes. That must have been difficult.”

“People adjust.”

Shozo nodded sympathetically. “I’m curious. When you went back, what struck you most?”

Harry thought about it. “Dirty floors.”

“Fascinating.”

“Sour tea.”

“Yes?”

“Dullness.” No banners, no color, no design.

“I want to get this down.” The sergeant opened his briefcase to take out a notebook. He unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen. “I was wondering, what did you do on your return?”

“Is this an official interrogation?”

“No, I don’t think so. Do you?”

Harry did not like the trend of the conversation. Shozo was proving to have an easygoing slyness that would have served well in a card game.