Little Yokozuna (20 page)

He shrugged an American-style shrug. "I see," he said. He went on looking at the remarkable scene below them. There was a silence. Then he turned back to Brenda.

"You do see those children?" he asked, smiling again. "The ones in those most beautiful kimonos down in the garden?"

"Sure," said Brenda, with a nonchalant air. "Pretty, aren't they?"

"Yes," said the man. "I would not have thought that there were such kimonos anywhere on Earth."

"Oh," said Brenda, not being expert in such matters.

"Curiously enough," said the man, "Just a few moments ago I saw those same children run behind that stone lantern, dressed in the most ordinary American jeans and sneakers. Then they emerged seconds later in kimonos embroidered by goddesses. Did you see that?"

"Hmph," said Brenda, but there was a part of her that was relieved, in spite of herself. After all, how seldom do two perfect strangers lose their minds at the same moment for no obvious reason, only a few feet apart.

The two stood there for several minutes, watching the seven decorative children walk around a bit, as if bewildered, then suddenly start laughing and run for the garden gate. One boy hung back a little. He was about ten years old, wearing crooked glasses, a weatherworn Red Sox cap, and a sea-green dragon kimono that would have been worth a fortune to this very museum. He looked toward the stone lantern with sadness on his face, then turned and ran to catch up to his brothers and sisters.

The Japanese man said something, staring after the little boy.

"Huh?" said Brenda.

The man turned to her. "His name is Knuckleball," he said, speaking the word carefully, with only a hint of several extra syllables. "I knew him once, long ago. He was my best friend."

This puzzled Brenda. "You crazy?" she asked. Her comfort in their shared sanity wavered.

"But there is a sad thing I remember," the man said. "Once I told him that he did not have the spirit of a true rikishi."

"Really?" said Brenda. "Whoa. Hard to believe. What's a rickishy?"

"He does have it, you know," the man said. He still gazed away in the direction the children had gone. "They all do."

"Oh, well," said Brenda, still puzzled but feeling a small fondness toward this Japanese tourist who had shared her hallucinations. "I've got no explanation for any of this. And I don't admit to anything that I've got no explanation for." She chuckled.

The man looked up at her. She was startled to see that his eyes were brimmed with tears.

"Why, sir," she said, "I didn't know... I mean..."

He blinked quickly, but some tears spilled down his cheeks.

"Funny," she said, "but I always heard that Japanese folk don't cry. Funny the things people think. Course I always knew better. There's nobody don't cry."

Still talking, she smoothly handed him a clean tissue from a little plastic package she carried in her pocket. He dabbed at his cheeks with it, as if he had never used one before.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you very much." He returned to the window. The children were out of sight. With his hands clasped once more behind his back, the strange tourist gazed down into the garden, looking as if he would never move again.

"Well," said Brenda. "Guess it's time to go."

He looked at her and smiled. "Yes," he said. "It's time to go." Then he turned with a quick, decisive movement and walked away.

Brenda the museum guard raised one eyebrow at the empty garden and shook her head, smiling in a small way. "Nope," she said. "I don't admit to anything I can't explain." She stretched, yawning again a huge yawn, and went back to work.