This woman has too much time on her hands, Mas thought.

“And then he tells me that he’s met someone. And it’s serious. He was talking about marriage, Mr. Arai, after only two months. I had to put a stop to it.” Becca explained that she had hired a private investigator to look into the background of Anna Grady, formerly Anna Miller, both in the U.S. and in Estonia. “She had been married once before, but that wasn’t a big deal, with K- san married three times. But what the investigator found out overseas was highly damaging: Anna’s family had aided the Nazis during World War Two. What if that news got out? K- san ’s reputation would be at stake.”

Mas wasn’t that sure of that. “Ova fifty years ago. Nobody care.”

“That’s what Phillip said. But K- san would have cared. I know it. He prided himself on helping teach military intelligence officers to help end the war. What if people found out his new wife was a Nazi? What kind of PR mess would that be?”

Mas shook his head. Anna’s country had been pulled apart by different world powers. The only reason her family probably had turned to one was to get away from the other.

“I threatened to tell K- san if she kept up the relationship. She refused to break it off, almost spit in my face. Before I could do anything more, K- san ended it. I was so happy at first. But then his mood became so dark. He must have known that he was dying then. I’m sure that’s why he decided to call it quits with Anna. He didn’t want her to feel that she had to hang around while his body wasted away.” Becca hid her face in her hands. “He must have really loved her.” She lowered her hands, black makeup smudges like ash around her eyes. “Do you think K- san would have forgiven me?”

Mas didn’t answer. He didn’t know Kazzy Ouchi, or even much about forgiveness. He did understand emptiness and regret, however. Having those feelings in common, they stood silently at the open gap of the pond, imagining what it would be like for it to be finally filled with clear water and brightly colored fish.

After the police told them that they could go, Mas told Mari that he needed to make one more stop, one more task he needed to do, before returning to the underground apartment.

“I have yoji,” he said.

“Want me to come with you?”

Mas shook his head. “But there’s sumptin’ you and Lloyd needsu to do. Your own yoji. Tell Lloyd to give Ghigo okome can.”

“Our rice container?”

“Let Lloyd handle,” Mas said. His daughter had gone through enough for that day.

Mas returned to the same Parisian flower shop, and indeed the same girl was working behind the counter.

“Hel-lo,” the girl said very deliberately, and Mas figured out that she still thought he was an inspector from Japan.

“I needsu gardenia.”

“You want to send some gardenias?”

Mas nodded. “One dozen,” he said, taking out his credit card. “To Fort Lee.”

For the next couple of days, Mas really tried to take it easy. Both Lloyd and Takeo were discharged from the hospital, so the whole family was again in the underground apartment. Mas, however, couldn’t help but be gasa-gasa. He first began cleaning the moldy bathtub with an old toothbrush and then tried to do something with Lloyd and Mari’s pitiful garden. Finally, Mari moaned. “Dad, you’re so restless; you’re driving us crazy. Get out of the house, why don’t you? You’re going home in a couple of days. Go sightseeing with Tug.”

Mas was not wild about sightseeing, because what was the point? He usually wanted to get from point A to point B with the least wandering. Straight lines were the best, the shortest distance between two locations.

But Tug was a lot like Chizuko. They liked to see things beyond the most direct route. To heed his daughter’s plea, Mas agreed to wander this time. “You have to see the Statue of Liberty,” Tug said. “Up close.”

As they approached the landmark on the ferry, Mas first noticed that the statue seemed squatter in real life. He thought that the green lady’s figure would take his breath away, overwhelm him with her sheer size and grandeur. Instead, she seemed more comforting, like a distant female relative who regularly sent you treats in the mail. But the color-the greenish tinge much like the rusty copper end of an old hose-that was another story altogether. That was indeed incredible.

Upon reaching the small island, they debarked from the ferry and stood at the foot of Lady Liberty. Dodging the lenses of cameras aimed by Chinese and European tourists, Mas couldn’t really take in much of the statue, aside from the folds of her skirts. Tug explained that they could take an elevator to climb three hundred fifty-four stairs to the statue’s crown, but again, Mas thought, what was the point? Then Tug took him to the edge of the water so that they faced the skyline of Manhattan.

Tug told him about all sorts of Nisei who had made it-men and women who constructed skyscrapers, built sculptures, created paintings, and established trading empires.

The Nisei who flew away from the Pacific Coast were indeed a different species. They could stretch their wings without fear of being clipped or captured. Even Takeo Shiota, an Issei, had made a name for himself. But then Mas remembered how Lloyd had told him that Shiota had been left to die in an internment camp. Why? thought Mas. Why would a gardener who placed a giant orange gate in a pool of water be a threat to anyone?

Mas remained quiet on the ferry ride back to Manhattan. The wind whipped through his hair, causing the sides to stick straight up like the ears of an aging bat.

“There’s one other place I want to show you,” said Tug.

Mas’s legs were so darui, weak, that he thought that his feet and knees would detach from their joints. But again, no monku, no complaints.

They took the subway, and from there, more walking. The sun seemed to drop all of a sudden, painting a silvery glow in the gray skies. At least the sidewalks were pristine, not a crack or a bump from an overgrown tree root in sight. The drapes of the exclusive apartments were wide open, showing off the units’ contents-antique lamps and polished tables. Mas would be worried that revealing all that wealth would invite robbers, but this was an area so rich that any evildoers would instantly stand out. In fact, Mas was surprised that an undercover policeman didn’t pop out from a hiding place to question him. He was, however, with the best alibi he could ask for, the all-American Tug Yamada.

They finally stopped in front of one of the multilevel apartments. “This is New York ’s Buddhist church,” said Tug.

“Ha-” Mas kept his mouth open as he checked out each floor of the concrete building. Didn’t look like any temple he had come across before. Even the Seabrook Buddhist Temple seemed more sacred than this.

Tug explained that he’d visited this temple a couple times in 1946. Outside, it couldn’t compare with the grand temples in California, but inside was the familiar smell of incense and the golden altar, Tug remembered. Christianity had touched Tug by then, so he had hidden his dead friend’s worn Bible underneath his coat while he listened to the familiar chant of the priest.

“Look, Mas.” Tug pointed to a huge statue of a Japanese man standing behind an iron fence outside the neighboring apartment. The height of at least two men, he wore a curved, umbrella-shaped hat and cloak. He held a staff in front of him like a candle that would give off light. “This is new to me.”

“Izu see dat before,” Mas murmured. Some kind of erai leader, but he couldn’t place the name. Wasn’t that the same kind of statue standing on the grounds of the eastern-most temple in Los Angeles ’s Little Tokyo?