CHAPTER 63 — Saturday, 14 July

In 1997, “Beat” Takeshi directed a film about an ex-cop. He wrote the script, took the leading role, produced the film, and included his own paintings as props to make visual points about life’s strangeness.

A drop-out from university, whose nickname came from his days as a comedian in a Tokyo strip joint, Takeshi called his film Hana-Bi, which means fireworks, but uses a word that breaks into fire and flower.

And yet, what a thirteen-year-old Kit took from the film was not the lyricism of its camera work, nor an awareness that its script was so spare Hana-Bi could almost qualify as a silent movie. He took the image of Beat Takeshi as ex-cop Nishi, his face impassive and his eyes hidden by dark glasses.

Kit was reminded of this as he entered the ryokan, a lovingly restored country inn. And he was reminded of how hard it could be to tell senior police officers, politicians, and Yakuza grandees apart. So many dark suits, so many pairs of dark glasses, all those impassive faces.

He smiled.

Mr. Oniji, Mr. Nureki, and Mr. Tamagusuku sat at a side table. Tsusama and his brother stood behind them, both stony faced and obviously on their best behaviour. A couple of older men, who looked like senators or titans of industry, sat at another table. And on a chair between the two tables sat an old man with thinning hair. All of the men except the last wore dark suits; he had a simple yukata and rope sandals.

Kit bowed.

“You smile?” The old man lifted his head. Obviously wondering what this stranger found so amusing.

“What else is there to do?” asked Kit.

The man nodded. “You may sit,” he said. When Kit remained where he was, the old man sighed.

“I am Osamu Nakamura…”

The kumicho. The man Mr. Oniji advised and Mr. Tamagusuku obeyed. A man linked to the collapse of a major bank and the building of a bridge between Tohoku and Hokkaido, a project so grandiose no one had dared complain for fear of being regarded as unpatriotic.

An earthquake had seen to the bridge, along with the cranes, the bulldozers, and most of those recruited for the project. The last thing anyone heard, the kumicho had been too ill to appear at a court hearing. So his lawyers had demanded the trial relocate to Sapporo, where he lived. Somewhere in the middle of this muddle, the case collapsed.

“I’m glad to see you’ve recovered,” Kit said.

The old man laughed.

“You know why you’re here?”

No, he could honestly say he didn’t. Kit could take guesses, but few of them seemed likely and most were frankly improbable. Yuko had sold him out, this much seemed obvious. Apart from that…

“Your friends have been causing us trouble.”

“My…?”

“The 47 Ronin,” he said sourly. Someone snorted at the name, only to apologise before the old man could turn to see who it might be.

“You know about this, of course.”

Did he? Kit nodded. “Someone destroyed their bar,” he said. “My bar. Then Tamagusuku-san tried to steal my land. The bozozoku occupied the site to stop the developers moving in.”

“It’s not…”

Osamu Nakamura held up one hand to still Mr. Tamagusuku’s protest. “So,” said the old man, “you organised this protest.”

Kit shook his head. “I didn’t even know it was happening.”

Mr. Tamagusuku snorted.

“That’s what this is about?” said Kit. “A bunch of bikers who want their bar back? That’s why you’ve brought me here?”

“No one brought you here,” said Mr. Nureki, glancing at Nakamura-san to check he was authorised to speak. “As I understand it, you wanted to visit my niece Yuko. When she refused, you said the meeting could be anywhere she chose, that she could bring anyone she trusted. Well, she trusts me. And I trust this council.”

“You present a problem,” said the old man. “This does not make us happy.”

No shit, Kit wanted to say.

“The choice is yours. You can be the solution or remain the problem. Either way, this matter will be solved.”

“Let me guess,” said Kit. “You want me to stand down the 47 Ronin, tell them all to go home?”

The man nodded.

“And why would I do that?” asked Kit. “Even if I could stand them down, which is doubtful. These people are a law unto themselves.”

Like you, he thought.

“Because this situation is not good for any of us,” Mr. Oniji said. His glance at the kumicho was part apology, part unspoken plea—Let me handle this. “You know how these things work,” said Mr. Oniji. “Tokyo is bidding for the Olympics. This kind of conflict is bad for everybody.”

“It’s the camera crews,” said Kit, realising the obvious. “So long as they remain you can’t move the Ronin.”

“The press won’t remain forever,” said Yuko’s husband, his voice hard.

“But until they leave,” Kit said, “you’re fucked.” Looking round the low ryokan he saw impassive faces stare back. “Where’s Yuko?” he demanded.

“Why?”

“Because I came here to talk to her.”

“You can talk to me,” said Mr. Tamagusuku. “If you say anything of interest I’ll be sure to tell my wife.”

There was one door into the inn and an internal door to the kitchens. That made two ways out at the most, in a room full of hardcore Yakuza, all of whom he could assume were armed.

“You’re smiling again,” said the kumicho.

“Just thinking,” Kit said.

“About what?” Nakamura-san seemed genuinely interested.

“Among one’s affairs should be no more than two or three matters of what one calls great concern…”

The old man smiled.

“Hagakure,” said Mr. Oniji; he sounded surprised.

“This,” Kit said, “is one of those matters. There are things my wife would want her sister to know.”

“She’s not your wife,” said Mr. Tamagusuku. “Under Japanese law unregistered marriages are invalid.”

“You were married?” asked Mr. Nakamura.

“In San Francisco,” Kit said. “Fifty-five dollars, cash in advance. It worked for us.”

“But Yoshi Tanaka never registered it here?”

“So I gather.”

“And this is what you wanted to tell Yuko?” The kumicho sounded puzzled. “That you were married to her sister?”

“No,” said Kit. “Yuko knows that already. I mean to tell her who really murdered my wife.”

A dozen people started talking at once and fell silent the moment Osamu Nakamura slammed his hands together, the clap beginning in noise and ending in total silence. “There was no murder,” he said. “A gas canister exploded.”

“It was a bomb,” said Kit.

The old man shook his head, though when he spoke his voice was softer, almost regretful. “No one doubts that you loved Yoshi.” Glancing at Mr. Tamagusuku, he dared the younger man to disagree. “But there was no bomb.”

“Mr. Oniji knows it was a bomb.”

“No bomb,” said Mr. Oniji.

“You told me it was.”

Mr. Oniji shook his head. “I made an error,” he said. “An antiquated heating system exploded. It was an accident. I’ve seen the final report.”

“May I sit?” Kit asked.

Win first, fight later.

He took the stool indicated and buried his head in his hands, trying to arrange his thoughts. When he looked up, the whole room was watching him. Without knowing it, certainly without intending to, he’d got their total attention. He also had his final answer.

“Mr. Tamagusuku tried to have me killed,” said Kit, his voice calm. “When that failed, he planted a bomb.”

“Enough,” said Yuko’s husband, pushing back his own chair.

“Sit down.” The old man’s voice filled the room. Tamagusuku-san ignored him, and Kit caught the exact moment Mr. Oniji and Mr. Nureki exchanged glances. Not clever, thought Kit, watching Mr. Tamagusuku stand alone, his hands bunched into fists.