“If you collapsed so publicly, why is it that nobody knows you went to the hospital? The press aren’t here and there’s nothing about it in the papers or on TV.”
“Everyone scattered before the police pulled up. Nobody wanted to be a witness.”
“I’d tell about what happened between Keiko and me.” I put my hand over his. “You know I’ll defend you.”
“We won’t talk about it.” Hugh squeezed my hand. “Anyway, I was glad I had the sense to say I hadn’t seen the guys’ faces. Your cousin—rather a helpful guy, that Tom—confirmed that. He’s also told me all kinds of startling things about you, things I’d never have guessed.”
“Like what?” I felt my stomach lurch, and I started worrying whether Tom had described just how ungainly I was at fifteen.
“That your poverty is self-chosen. Your father’s a psychiatry chief or some such thing in the States—”
“Does that make me more appealing to you?” I froze.
“It makes me think that there’s absolutely no reason for you to be camping out in that wretched neighborhood.”
“At the moment, I’m staying with Tom and my Aunt Norie.”
“Why don’t you sleep in my flat? The building has doormen and a concierge and loads of police, now that I’m so notorious. In a hurricane, the safest place is in the eye of the storm.”
“You haven’t met my aunt Norie, a most formidable guardian.” I smiled, remembering how she hadn’t allowed me to leave without a freshly ironed handkerchief and nutritious box lunch.
“I worry she might guard you from me.” Hugh pulled me close and began toying with the buttons on my blouse. I pried his hands off as the curtain slid open and a young nurse holding a bedpan gasped.
“Let me give you some time to yourself.” I jumped up to leave.
“I’ve nothing to give you.” Hugh shook his head at the nurse.
“Shampoo and shave, sir?” She sounded anxious to serve him in any possible way.
“Mm, maybe.” He rubbed a hand across his stubbly jaw.
It was a good time to go. I placed two video-cassettes I’d picked up on the way to the hospital between the flower arrangements.
“What are you leaving me, one of Richard’s sexy videos?”
“Sorry. I brought Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai and Yojimbo.” I explained about Japan’s founding father of film, adding, “These are a couple of black-and-white classics about the samurai era, and they’ve even got subtitles! So you can work on your Japanese.”
“I’d rather work on you.” His voice sent a suggestion through my body that I didn’t need to hear, not with nurses bouncing into the room like balls in a pachinko machine.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Can I bring you anything?”
“How about my mail, my laptop, and all the Nakamura discs? The concierge will let you in.” His face brightened. “Wait. Get Yamamoto’s copy of the key.”
“My life’s complicated enough,” I protested.
“We haven’t seen sight nor sound of him since he went home. Why don’t you corner him and ask some of your infamous questions? If your work with Keiko was any indicator, you’ll probably get something worthwhile out of him.”
Perhaps I’d get someone else’s legs broken. I took the telephone number and waved good-bye from the door, afraid to get near again.
28
Kenji Yamamoto lived with his parents in Sunshine Mansions, a white-tiled apartment tower surrounded by a sea of shining parked cars in the upper-middle-class suburb of Setagaya. I had telephoned ahead of time and convinced his mother to let me speak to him. When I arrived, he popped his head out the door before I even had time to ring the bell. He had Hugh’s key in hand and was stretching it out to me. Things were going too fast.
“Here you go—see you later, Miss Shimura—”
“It’s so good to come in from the cold!” I exclaimed, starting to take off my coat and smoothing down my silky wig. Yamamoto’s mother, who had been standing behind her son, moved as if programmed to take my coat and hang it in a faux French armoire.
“Please come in, Shimura-san. My son tells me you met on holiday, before his terrible accident,” Mrs. Yamamoto gushed.
“So desu neh,” I agreed. “Isn’t this a nice apartment!”
“Oh, it’s terribly small,” She waved a dismissive hand around the living room, its fussy set of matched green velvet furniture and walls were covered with framed vistas of European landscapes.
“Are these all originals? They’re enchanting.” I stepped close enough to discern two were paint-by-the-numbers.