Ransom (23 page)

Halfway between the two bridges he dropped and did fifty push-ups on his fists. In the middle of the sit-ups he began to lose his bearings. Eyes closed, he had the sensation that he was suspended upside down and then began to feel that he was sideways. Seventy. The ground was coming up from all directions to slap at his back. Eighty-five. He was spinning, not unpleasantly. He thought he could probably make it to a hundred, but at ninety-eight he could not possibly do one more. He dropped flat on his back and lay there, catching his breath, feeling the sunlight on his face. Pulled at the back of his head with his linked hands, raised himself, touched. Ninety-nine. At one hundred he opened his eyes, then
closed them again, stunned by the light. What if he were to stay there, never get up? Lie there and wait for the night, and then for the winter to come and cover him with snow. Layers and layers of cool snow.

Slowly, he got to his feet and started running. After a few hundred yards he resigned himself, catching a rhythm; the tiredness receded, and with it the sense of the unreality of the landscape. Mt. Hiei showed a rectangular bald spot, newly logged, in its lower flank. As far as you could see all of the trees had been planted and marked, every branch accounted for, all of the land parceled and dedicated to some kind of production, no space except that of the temples and shrines wasted or fallow. Gaijin could not fail to understand that everything and everyone Japanese had its correct place, because the gaijin's was outside the concentric rings of race, country, family. Just as the houses had walls around them, so was everything enclosed. When Ransom arrived he had wanted to penetrate the walls, to become intimate with whatever it was he imagined was within, behind the walls and the polite faces, something outside the conceptual frames he had inherited; he wanted to breach the appearances of the world and look into the heart of things. A discipline rigorous enough would purge and change him, he was certain.

But Ransom was no longer sure he believed in satori, the final lightning stroke in which all is revealed. The monks stayed in the mountains, cross-legged, unmoving; and the samurai who studied Zen and landscape painting had also chopped heads at the whims of their overlords. Ransom was no samurai; at best he was a ronin, a masterless samurai, and this was a contradiction in terms. A ronin,
a “man on the wave,” unmoored and tossed on the waters, was an instrument without a purpose.

His legs were moving automatically, controlling their own pace and direction. As he came up on the Kitaoji Bridge he let his momentum carry him over the side of the levee, dodged a tree and came out on the edge of the river road. On Kitaoji Street a billboard showed a can of tomato juice, Japanese characters which he couldn't read and a slogan in English running horizontally across the top:
RED MIX FOR CITY ACTIVES
.

Otani refilled Ransom's water glass and told him that only a fool would run around in this weather. As hot as he was, the steaming towel on his face was refreshing.
Any messages?
Ransom asked.

Yesterday, Otani said, a man, gaijin, had called three times to ask for Ransom, but wouldn't leave his name.

You're sure it was a gaijin?
Ransom asked.

It's not hard to tell
, Otani said.
Ice coffee today?

The phone range as Ransom was finishing his coffee.

It's him
. Otani put down the receiver.

Ransom picked it up and said, “Moshi moshi.”

“Hello, chickenshit.”

“Who is this?” Ransom asked, unnecessarily.

“You know who it is.”

“DeVito.”

“Are you going to give me satisfaction?”

“I don't recall ever giving offense.”

“Your face is an offense.”

“Complain to the authorities.”

“I like to take care of these things personally.”

Ransom didn't say anything.

“You can run and you can swim, but you can't hide,” DeVito said. “I guess you heard about your pal Ryder.”

“What about him?”

“So you didn't hear.” He paused. “He came after me yesterday, got his tit caught in the wringer. He's not very smart but he's got balls, which is more than I'd say for you. Well, what do you say?”

“Not a thing,” Ransom said, and hung up. He stood beside the phone, fingering the dial. For Marilyn's sake, he was glad her boyfriend hadn't done it. And if he had hoped Miles wasn't foolish enough to fight DeVito, he wasn't surprised that he had.

He picked up the phone and called A-OK to say he was sick and wouldn't be in.

“Are you out of your head?” Ransom said. Miles was sitting upright on the edge of the hospital bed, scrutinizing a go-maku board on the night table between him and the old man.

“Well, look who's here,” Miles said. “The egg-sucking samurai. The strong right arm of the fucking Pope.”

“Her-ro,” the old man said. “How are you?”

Ransom lowered himself onto the back of a chair beside the bed and looked quizzically at Miles.

“The mule who's been kicking in my stall.”

“Miles, what the hell are you talking about?”

“DeVito told me.”

“Told you what? Last I heard, he beat you senseless.”

“You and Marilyn.”

“He told you this while he was beating you up?”

“At least you know what I'm talking about. I don't hear you denying it.”

“Denying
what?
I deny sleeping with her. Who do you want to believe, me or DeVito?”

“I take my information where I can get it.”

“Come on, Ryder. You're not this stupid. Why do you suppose DeVito would tell you something like that? Think he might have some motives?”

“You deny you're seeing Marilyn?”

“No.”

“You deny fucking her?”

“Yes.”

“I know you're pretty much of a capon, but forgive me if I don't buy it.”

“You have a wife, for Christsake. Who are you to be acting injured? You've had about sixty flings since I've known you, and Marilyn was just one more.”

“That doesn't mean I want my best friend screwing her.”

“Marilyn came to me for advice. And for some help.”

Miles rolled his eyes, one of which was blackened.

“She's under the thumb of a yakuza oyabun who wants to marry her and rent her out. She came to me because she knew you'd do something crazy. Like this DeVito thing.”

“That's good, Ransom. Princeton guys like you ought to be able to come up with something a little less like a shitty movie.” He turned back to the go-maku board and moved a piece. The old man nodded seriously.

Miles was right—it sounded like a shopworn melodrama. Ransom wouldn't believe the story either, but somehow he was in it.

“DeVito said I was sleeping with her? How would he know?”

“I don't know.”

Suddenly Ransom thought of DeVito's call and wondered if Marilyn might be next on his list. “I think I better find her.”

“She could use a little advice, is that it?”

“Miles, where does she live?”

“I thought you'd know that yourself by now. I never got that information, my own self.”

Ransom was halfway down the dingy hall when Ryder shouted, “Just a few inches of advice, now, you hear?”

No one responded to his pounding on the door. The nightclub generally didn't open until seven, and it was barely past noon. He had passed a public bath down the street; he left the borrowed Scrambler at the club, and walked back. The heat and humidity were tropical. He spent an hour in the baths, finishing with a long soak in the coldest, but within a block of leaving he could feel the tingle of sweat forming under his arms and along his spine.

This time the door was opened by a heavy-set thug in a zoot suit; his expression made clear that the last thing he had expected to see was a gaijin. He waved Ransom away with his hands, pointing to his watch. “No, no,” he said. He was surprised all over again when Ransom began to speak, using a much politer level of address than was required or merited.

Excuse me, but I'm looking for a friend of mine. She works here
.

The man assumed a knowing frown.

A singer. It's very important that I see her. Her name is Marilyn
. He couldn't imagine what the Japanese word for Vietnamese would be.
Marilyn
.

The man started to close the wide, heavy door but Ransom blocked it with a forearm.
She's not here. You can see her tonight with the other customers
.

I'm not a customer. I'm a friend
.

The man pushed the door wide open and stepped out menacingly, flexing beneath his suit.

It's important
.

Implacable, the man stared back at him with dark, narrowing eyes until Ransom turned away and mounted his bike.

When Ransom arrived for practice that night, the sensei was pacing the lot in his gi. Suzuki was sweeping. A blue Toyota sat in the center of the south edge of the lot, the area reserved for practice. The sensei sent Udo into the gym to find its owner, but no one claimed it. Ransom changed, folding his clothes and piling them on the steps beside the shower. The Monk had appeared, as he often did, already dressed in his gi. Yamada drove in and parked his car on the far side of the lot. The sensei walked over and tried the doors of the Toyota, which were locked. He called for the group to follow.

Let's move this thing
, he said, directing them to the back bumper. Ransom huddled with the crew, next to Udo. Six of them on the bumper raised the car and walked it around a quarter turn. They moved around to the front and brought the wheels over into the sand. Once more from the back and the car was flush against the wall. Suzuki let out a whoop and said they could easily flip the car over on its side.

Good enough
, the sensei said, seeming more than usually preoccupied and distant. Maybe it's the weather, Ransom thought. Although cooler, the air was still heavy
and damp. The sensei knelt on the asphalt, the Monk knelt beside him and the rest took their places. The sensei's participation during the practice was desultory, the occasional reprimand and demonstration of a move. After an hour, he called them in to begin the sparring. Ransom sensed an edge in his manner, a sudden air of purpose, as if practice had been merely a prelude. A small void opened within his belly: fear. He was certain, somehow, that his streak of good bouts had run out, and that he was due to get hurt. As if to confirm his anxieties the sensei called his name.

The sensei examined the scar on the back of his hand. When Ransom stepped forward, the sensei looked up at Ransom as if surprised and shook his head. He called for Yamada instead.

Wa-chan, the newest and youngest member of the dojo, well under five feet tall, bowed gravely to the massive Yamada, then assumed an elegant cat-leg stance. Yamada's bearing was benign and serious. This seemed to Ransom a moment of beauty and dignity. The boy attacked with two front kicks, and Yamada scored with a front punch which he pulled just short of Wa-chan's nose. Wa-chan remained determined as they faced off again, and was clearly disappointed when he lost the match.

Yamada worked up through the ranks. After the fifth bout, Ransom expected the sensei to call in the Monk. But the sensei called Udo, the next in the lineup, and Yamada continued.

Suzuki, his ninth opponent, gave him a very hard time, dancing nimbly in and out of range. Yamada's stance was getting sloppy; his arms were low and his crouch was high.
The sensei yelled instructions and, in a lower voice, speculated that Yamada would get his balls kicked up to his chin. Yamada hit Suzuki once, then Suzuki slipped a gut-kick through his arms; although Yamada stepped out of it, the sensei called a point for Suzuki.

Yamada, frustrated, drew a series of deep breaths before facing off again. Ransom felt a trickle of sweat down the side of his own face, and he hadn't moved in ten minutes. Yamada was red-faced, the upper half of his gi splotched with sweat.

He launched himself at Suzuki, knocking him over with a wide roundhouse kick. Ransom thought Suzuki had hit his head on the asphalt, but he leaped up and bounced on his toes to show he was fine.

Three points
, the sensei said, when it was Ransom's turn. Yamada had hurt him before, but now Ransom wondered how much more Yamada could take. He had not doubted that the sensei's punishment of Yamada was not over at the end of the last practice; but he didn't relish taking part in it, and he was also suspicious of the sensei's plans for himself.

They bowed. Yamada's exhaustion showed in his eyes, in the tight set of his mouth. Ransom crouched low, shifting his weight to the back foot and cocking the left leg in front of him, knee directly in front of the crotch, toes aimed at Yamada, his forearms shaping an L across the upper body. He knew he should attack; it was the only strategy. Because it seemed too easy, not fair, he hesitated as they stood motionless, staring into each other's eyes. Then he went in, breaking Yamada's defense on the third kick, hitting the sternum solidly.
Point
.

They faced off. Ransom knew he could hit Yamada low; his knees were wide, crotch open.

Yamada attacked with his hands and slipped a kick into Ransom's gut. Facing off again, Ransom glanced over at the expressionless sensei. Standing apart from the group, the Monk held his head tipped to one side, as if he were listening to something far in the distance and hearing none of the sounds of the match.

Within minutes, both had two points and Ransom had a split lip. He could taste the blood, and his ears were still ringing from the punch. He tried not to think about how tired Yamada was; he had to fight as if Yamada were fresh, and better than the Monk. He went for the upper body, but Yamada was closing in around his chest and gut, focusing all of his energy on the area Ransom kept attacking, leaving himself vulnerable below. The sensei shouted something, uncharacteristically shrill, and Ransom knew that it was about the opening. All of Ransom's instincts rebelled against this code of the discipline, which required that he attack his opponent any way he was able.