“They decided to lend the money back to us. Our government was running a budget deficit, year after year. We weren’t paying for our own programs. So the Japanese financed our budget deficit. They invested in us. And they lent their money, based on certain assurances from our government. Washington assured the Japanese that we would set our house in order. We would cut our deficit. We would improve education, rebuild our infrastructure, even raise taxes if necessary. In short, we would clean up our act. Because only then does an investment in America make sense.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“But we did none of those things. We let the deficit get worse, and we devalued the dollar. We cut its value in half in 1985. You know what that did to Japanese investments in America? It fucked them. Whatever they invested in 1984 now paid half its previous return.”

I vaguely remembered something about this. I said, “I thought we did that to help our trade deficit, to boost exports.”

“We did, but it didn’t work. Our trade balance with Japan got worse. Normally, if you devalue your currency by half, the cost of everything imported doubles. But the Japanese slashed prices on their VCRs and copiers, and held their market share. Remember, business is war.

“All we really accomplished was to make American land and American companies cheap for the Japanese to buy, because the yen was now twice as strong as it had been. We made the biggest banks in the world all Japanese. And we made America a poor country.”

“What does this have to do with the Saturday meetings?”

“Well,” Connor said, “suppose you have an uncle who is a drunk. He says if you lend him money he’ll stop drinking. But he doesn’t stop drinking. And you’d like to get your money. You want to salvage what you can from your bad investment. Also, you know that your uncle, being a drunk, is likely to get loaded and hurt somebody. Your uncle is out of control. So something has to be done. And the family sits down together to decide what to do about their problem uncle. That’s what the Japanese decided to do.”

“Uh-huh.” Connor must have heard the skepticism in my voice.

“Look,” he said, “Get this conspiracy stuff out of your head. Do you want to take over Japan? Do you want to run their country? Of course not. No sensible country wants to take over another country. Do business, yes. Have a relationship, yes. But not take over. Nobody wants the responsibility. Nobody wants to be bothered. Just like with the drunken uncle—you only have those meetings when you’re forced to. It’s a last resort.”

“So that’s how the Japanese see it?”

“They see billions and billions of their dollars, kōhai. Invested in a country that’s in deep trouble. That’s filled with strange individualistic people who talk constantly. Who confront each other constantly. Who argue all the time. People who aren’t well educated, who don’t know much about the world, who get their information from television. People who don’t work very hard, who tolerate violence and drug use, and who don’t seem to object to it. The Japanese have billions of dollars in this peculiar land and they would like a decent return on their investment. And even though the American economy is collapsing—it will soon be third in the world after Japan and Europe—it’s still important to try and hold it together. Which is all they’re trying to do.”

“That’s it?” I said. “They’re just doing the good work of saving America?”

“Somebody needs to do it,” Connor said. “We can’t go on this way.”

“We’ll manage.”

“That’s what the English always said.” He shook his head. “But now England is poor. And America is becoming poor, too.”

“Why is it becoming poor?” I said, speaking louder than I intended.

“The Japanese say it’s because America has become a land without substance. We let our manufacturing go. We don’t make things anymore. When you manufacture products, you add value to raw materials, and you literally create wealth. But America has stopped doing that. Americans make money now by paper manipulation, which the Japanese say is bound to catch up to us because paper profits don’t reflect real wealth. They think our fascination with Wall Street and junk bonds is crazy.”

“And therefore the Japanese ought to manage us?”

“They think someone ought to manage us. They’d prefer we do it ourselves.”

“Jesus.”

Connor shifted in his seat. “Save your outrage, kōhai. Because according to Hanada-san, the Saturday meetings stopped in 1991.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. That was when the Japanese decided not to worry about whether America would clean up its act. They saw advantages in the present situation: America is asleep, and inexpensive to buy.”

“So there aren’t Saturday meetings any more?”

“There are occasional ones. Because of nichibei kankei: the ongoing Japanese-American relationship. The economies of the two countries are interlocked by now. Neither country can pull out, even if they wanted to. But the meetings are no longer important. They are basically social functions. So what Sakamura said to Cheryl Austin is wrong. And her death had nothing to do with the Saturday meetings.”

“What does it have to do with?”

“My friends seemed to think it was personal. A chijou no motsure, a crime of passion. Involving a beautiful, irokichigai woman and a jealous man.”

“And you believe them?”

“Well, the thing is, they were unanimous. All three of these businessmen. Of course Japanese are reluctant to express disagreement among themselves, even on the golf course of an underdeveloped peasant country. But I have learned that unanimity toward a gaijin may cover a multitude of sins.”

“You think they were lying?”

“Not exactly.” Connor shook his head. “But I had the impression they were telling me something by not telling me. This morning was a game of hara no saguriai. My friends were not forthcoming.”

Connor described his golf game. There had been long silences all morning. Everyone in the foursome was polite and considerate, but spoken comments were rare and reserved. Most of the time, the men walked over the course in complete silence.

“And you had gone there for information?” I said. “How could you stand it?”

“Oh, I was getting information.” But as he explained it, it was all unspoken. Basically, the Japanese have an understanding based on centuries of shared culture, and they are able to communicate feelings without words. It’s the closeness that exists in America between a parent and child—a child often understands everything, just from a parent’s glance. But Americans don’t rely on unspoken communication as a general rule, and the Japanese do. It is as if all Japanese are members of the same family, and they can communicate without words. To a Japanese, silences have meaning.

“It’s nothing mystical or wonderful,” Connor said. “For the most part it is because the Japanese are so hemmed in by rules and conventions, they end up unable to say anything at all. For politeness, to save face, the other person is obliged to read the situation, the context, and the subtle signs of body posture and unstated feeling. Because the first person feels he can’t actually put anything into words. Any speaking at all would be indelicate. So the point must be gotten across in other ways.”

I said, “And that’s how your morning was spent? Not talking?”

Connor shook his head. He felt he had quite clear communication with the Japanese golfers, and wasn’t troubled by the silences at all.

“Because I was asking them to talk about other Japanese—members of their family—I had to frame my questions with great delicacy. Just as I would if I were asking whether your sister was in jail or any subject that was painful or awkward for you. I would be attentive to how long it took you to answer, and the pauses between your statements, the tone of your voice—all sorts of things. Beyond the literal communication. Okay?”