“We bought them on last year’s holiday to Europe,” Mrs. Yamamoto said. “My husband’s and my lifelong dream was to see Venice. So many talented artists on the street, selling their work for very little! I said to my husband, you never know who will be the next Da Vinci!”
“Very true. How I love the Italian painters!” I settled myself on the end of a small sofa and coughed into my hand. “Oh, excuse me. My throat is a little dry from the cold winds outside.”
“I will make tea!” Mrs. Yamamoto announced.
“Please don’t go to the trouble,” I demurred, playing my part to perfection.
“Kenji-kun, it was terrible of you not to tell me your nice friend was coming. Now, I will just be a few moments—enjoy visiting together—” As Mrs. Yamamoto floated off to the kitchen, I realized she might be harboring hopes for her bachelor son.
I smiled cozily at Yamamoto and patted the seat next to me.
“May I call you Kenji-kun?” It literally meant “Kenji-boy.”
“Okay.” He didn’t look happy as he sat down with me.
“What have you told your mother?” I asked in English.
“She thinks I had a ski accident and some kind of nervous problem where I cannot work. Hugh-san helped me figure it out,” he whispered back.
“What’s the latest from the police?”
“The National Police Agency is conducting a covert investigation. I’m sure nothing will come of it.” He leaned forward to pick up the television’s remote control from the rosewood coffee table.
I grabbed the remote away. “How do you now that?”
“Ichiro Fukujima has many friends in high places.”
“Are you sure you aren’t jumping to conclusions about this blackmail thing?” I asked. “Could Mr. Nakamura have needed the design for another purpose?”
“No! Nakamura is a horrible person, and only I see it!”
“That’s not true,” I would have gone on, but Mrs. Yamamoto came in heating green tea. I accepted an earthenware cup, not taking a sip until her son had.
“You must speak as much as possible to my son, to help retrieve his memory, The doctors believe it will come back, given time,” she said. From the way she was smiling at me, it was obvious she hadn’t connected me to the girl in the newspapers.
“What doctors? I asked Yamamoto when his mother had departed.
“The police arranged something.” He shrugged.
“Everyone arranges things for you, don’t they?” I decided he was the most passive young man I’d met.
“How did your problem with Nakamura start, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Maybe when our section had after-work drinking.”
“How often did you have to go?” At Nichiyu, it was the custom for workers to spend time drinking with colleagues at least twice weekly. Things that couldn’t be said within the confines of the office were expressed here, often with a great deal of vulgarity. Drinking myself under the table with people who already bore some hostility toward me wasn’t my idea of fun, so I declined all but the holiday affairs.
“In Mr. Nakamura’s section, we went about three times a week.” Yamamoto paused. “The problem is that alcohol makes me sick. I get dizzy and can’t control my breathing. So I always pretended to be drunk, hoping people wouldn’t give me more.”
“And Mr. Nakamura noticed?” Now I remembered Yamamoto’s untouched whiskey at Hugh’s and how he’d hardly drunk any beer on New Year’s Eve.
“Unfortunately. One time he saw me pouring Scotch into a potted plant behind the table and told me I was a baby.” Yamamoto stared at me morosely.
“You should have ignored him.”
“You don’t understand.” Yamamoto’s voice rose. “He thought I wasn’t part of the team and was starting to tell people. He would insult me in front of Mr. Sendai, saying I was more interested in myself than the company. So when I went to Nakamura’s desk, I was searching for my employment file. I was very worried.”
“And you found it?”
“Yes. It said that I was lazy, morally lax, at the bottom of my class…”
“He is horrible,” I agreed. “But what happens to you now? Surely it’s stupid to throw away a job thousands of young people would die for.” I stopped, aware of my bad choice of words.
“I can’t go back to Sendai unless Mr. Nakamura leaves. I don’t like the atmosphere he creates. Drinking at lunchtime, or going out at five for a few hours’ pleasure in Kabuki-cho…”
I recalled the black teddy in his bedroom closet and decided to ask Yamamoto if he thought Nakamura had been seeing a prostitute.