The Japanese Corpse (21 page)

The bundle was placed near the sliding doors and the man knelt down in his original position.

"You lose much money now, but that is not enough," the deep voice said. "Also painful lesson to be learned."

He shifted the shotgun to his left hand and reached out with his right. The man on the left took out a long knife and placed it in the chief's hand. The shotgun was placed on the floormat and the chief came forward. He swept the sake jug and the three cups off the low table and, with a quick movement, made the knife's blade penetrate the wood so that it stood trembling.

"You," he said, looking at the commissaris. "Take knife and stick through left hand."

The commissaris was still smiling. "Knife?" he asked politely.

"Take a knife," the chief said.

The two yakusa in the corners brought up their pistols so that they were both aimed at the commissaris' chest. De Gier had moved back a little; he was on his knees, having changed his position as the chief spoke. Dorin had also moved. The pistols pointed at them for a brief moment, then moved back to the commissaris.

The commissaris took the knife by the handle and pulled it out of the table.

"This knife?"

"Yes. Now stick it through your left hand."

The commissaris was waving the knife about awkwardly. "Sorry," he said gently. "Not understand. Like this?" He pretended to stick the knife into his left hand, which he held up in the air.

The chief clicked his tongue in irritation and shuffled forward on his knees. "Like this," he said, and put his left hand on the table, stabbing at it with an imaginary knife.

"Ah," the commissaris said gaily, and brought the knife down with all the force he could muster. A spurt of blood welled from the chief's hand, which had been nailed securely to the tabletop. The commissaris' body was still moving; he had jumped over the table and grabbed the shotgun, aiming at the yakusa closest to Dorin. The yakusa had been watching his chief and the new development caught him unaware. Dorin had vaulted forward as the commissaris made his move and the side of his hand hit the yakusa opposite him full on the wrist. The man dropped his pistol and Dorin held the powerless wrist and twisted it so that the yakusa was forced on his side, grinning with pain. De Gier's opponent was also stretched out. The sergeant had grabbed his wrist with his left hand and hit him simultaneously in the neck with his right. As the sergeant's yakusa fell, his foot upset the charcoal brazier underneath the spitted turning fish, and the coals began to ignite the tatamis.

The chief was stumbling through the room, pulling at the knife. He got it out, tearing the flesh off his hand and stood staring at the weapon before he dropped it. He groaned and closed his eyes and sank slowly to his knees.

Dorin let go of his captive, who was covered by the commissaris' shotgun, kicked the pistol toward de Gier, who picked it up and ran out of the room. He was back almost immediately, pushing a waiter in a white jacket. The waiter carried a large fire extinguisher. Dorin shouted at the waiter, and a spurt of white bubbly foam began to cover the room's surfaces. One row of flames had almost reached the paper-covered doors leading to a large wooden deck outside, and Dorin shouted again. The foam hit the flames. The waiter—unnerved by the commissaris' shotgun, the two half-conscious yakusa on the floor and the chief who was bowing continuously, his head almost touching the tatami as he held his bleeding hand, and de Gier sitting quietly in his corner, resting the large automatic on his knees—kept on pressing the extinguisher's lever and Dorin had to shout again to make him stop.

"Ask him to get the girl who massaged me just now," the commissaris said. "She must have bandages and something to disinfect our friend's hand. That's a nasty wound."

Dorin barked at the waiter. The maid came within a minute, ignoring the shotgun and the pistol. The commissaris pointed at the chief. "Kudasai," he said. "Please."

The chief opened his eyes. "Your wound," the commissaris said. "She will dress it." He gave the shotgun to Dorin and went over to the chief, holding his arm while the maid dabbed the wound with cotton wool soaked in iodine and applied a gauze bandage, clipping it together with a metal catch. She made a sling out of a strip of white cotton and strapped it around the chief's shoulder.

The chief said something to her and the commissaris looked at Dorin. "He is thanking her," Dorin said.

The chief turned round slowly and bowed to the commissaris. "You get police?"

"No," the commissaris said. "Police make difficulty. We have had enough difficulty tonight, don't you think?"

The chief nodded gravely.

"You have a car?" the commissaris asked.

"Yes."

The chief spoke to the man who had been disarmed by Dorin. The man answered, and the chief turned back to the commissaris. "He says he can drive. With your permission we go now."

"Go to a doctor," the commissaris said. "You'll need stitches." The chief didn't understand and Dorin translated. "Ah," the chief said, and began to walk to the door.

"One moment, gentlemen, your weapons."

The commissaris broke the shotgun, took its two cartridges out, and closed the gun again. De Gier and Dorin were emptying the clips of the two automatics. One of the younger men accepted the arms, and bowed.

The waiter opened the sliding doors for them. "Yakusa?" he asked Dorin.

"Yakusa," Dorin said.

The waiter left and returned with the restaurant manager. They were invited to go to the restaurant's best room, and another, more copious, meal was prepared. The manager came back to serve the main dish. A gigantic sake bottle was brought in and ceremoniously shown around before the little jugs were filled and heated. The three men toasted the manager while the maids fussed around, bringing in small dishes with assorted delicacies, each in its own sauce.

"Very nice," Dorin said, filling the commissaris' cup. "We can drink now; they won't come back tonight. Congratulations, but you were close to losing your life just now. That shotgun was cocked and both pistols were loaded and had their safety catches off."

The commissaris was trying to fish a bit of raw squid from a small dish; it kept on slipping out of his chopsticks. "No," he said. "Not really. I don't think our friends had orders to kill us. I rather think they were told
not
to kill us. But I should have had a hole in my hand now. I really must apologize to you both. I risked your lives just because I didn't feel like hurting myself. They might have shot you out of nervousness when I performed my act. I am sorry. There." He finally managed to get the squid into his mouth and was chewing furiously. "Well? Aren't you going to accept my apologies?"

De Gier spoke first. "You wouldn't have stuck that knife into your hand," he said, and sneezed.

"It's the green mustard," Dorin said. "You must be careful." De Gier went on sneezing. "It's very hot, even to us."

Dorin turned back to the commissaris. "He is right, you know. You wouldn't have stuck the knife through your hand. We were both ready to jump them, and we would have if you hadn't been so quick. This way it was better. The two men were looking at the chief's hand when we jumped. Let's finish this jug." He waited for the commissaris to hold up his cup.

"No thank you," the commissaris said, "I think we have had enough. I have anyway. It's been a long day. Too much excitement."

De Gier was looking at the huge sake bottle. "There's about half a gallon left."

"Take it with you." Dorin was getting up. "He gave it to us. And I won't pay the bill. Yakusa never pay for their meals, and I am sure he thinks we are yakusa."

"Yakusa don't fight each other," de Gier said. "Or so I was told."

Dorin nodded. "They don't fight, but they have a little tiff every now and then, within the family. Let's go, you can have an early night."

But the sergeant didn't go to bed when they arrived at the inn. He took out his map and looked up the address of the Golden Dragon bar. The commissaris was in the bath and he stuck his head into the steaming little room.

"I am going to do a little drinking on my own, sir, in that bar Dorin told us about."

The commissaris was humming to himself. Only his head was visible above the wooden pine boards of the square bath.

"Are you all right, sir?" de Gier asked anxiously, peering through the steam. "You have a very red head."

"It's very hot in here, sergeant. You are going to the Golden Dragon?"

"Yes, sir."

"The very place, and the right moment. Don't forget to tell me about your adventure when you come back."

The sergeant looked dubious.

"Oh, you'll come back," the commissaris said, "and you'll have a very nice time. You know, sergeant, I am beginning to understand the Eastern mind. You know that song about East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet?"

"Yes. It's true, I think."

"It's rubbish," the commissaris said cheerfully. "Absolute rubbish. I don't think the twain have ever been apart."

It was close to midnight when de Gier left the inn. The innkeeper offered to call a taxi but the sergeant refused and walked down the empty street, noting with amazement that it was lined with plane trees, like the boulevard in Amsterdam where he had his apartment. He stopped to look at the peeling bark, leaving large exposed areas of a greenish yellow, and shook his head. He had expected something else, something more exotic. Orchid trees, slender palms, giant ferns perhaps. But they were plane trees. And yet the country still seemed very strange to him. He thought of the three gangsters moving into their room at the restaurant as if they were a wave of the surf, ready to break over their heads. He remembered the solemn way in which their chief had phrased his threat. The ambassador had told the commissaris, and the commissaris had passed the message to the sergeant, that, although many facets of Japan are pure Western its heart is all mystery, the mystery of the East.

He wondered whether the remark had any truth in it. Were these people, Dorin the secret agent, Dorin's uncle the polite innkeeper in Tokyo, the yakusa petty officer and his two henchmen, the maids, the waiters, the students who were always trying to talk to him in the street, the Zen priest who had lent them the treasures of his temple, the hoodlum he had almost killed in Tokyo, basically different in makeup from the people he knew in the West? Or were they as different as science fiction creatures on Planet CBX 700, followings its oval course around a silver sun in a corner of the universe a zillion light-years away? And would there be plane trees on Planet CBX 700 too?

He stopped at the corner of the street and raised his hand. A taxi made a U-turn and stopped. De Gier gave the address and the tiny car crashed into gear and shot off, squealing its tires cruelly at the next corner. The driver was a very young man, dressed in the student's uniform, and the face reflected in the rear mirror was haggard and tired. Working through the night to pay for his studies, de Gier thought, and his country is already overloaded with intellect.

His mind wandered off as the car raced on, beating traffic lights and forcing pedestrians to jump for their lives. He wondered what he would do for a living if he should find himself to be Japanese. He tried to envisage the life of a water policeman on the Japanese Inland Sea. He had seen something of the sea from the plane when he came into the country. Vast stretches of calm water with many tiny islands with strangely curved shores. He would float on and in beauty, and he would have little to do, for the Japanese are lawabiding citizens and even the yakusa, he felt sure now, lived along rigid rules, rules which could be learned.

The car jolted to a stop and he paid the low fare, tipping the driver who smiled wanly before making the taxi jump off again. The nightclub doorman saluted smartly when de Gier walked through the entrance, which was shaped like a rustic porch, in contrast with the building itself which looked as if it had been built the month before, poured out of concrete. An artificial waterfall tinkled on steps made out of smooth rocks, and a stone bear standing on its hind legs, caught some of the water in a basin. A young woman, dressed in a short skirt showing surprisingly straight legs, and carrying very full breasts under a transparent blouse, came out from behind the counter, greeted him in English, and took him to the rest room, where she gave him a new bar of soap and a small towel. He washed his hands and looked at the girl in the mirror. Most Japanese women seemed to have slightly bent legs and small breasts. He wondered if Dorin was right when he told them that many women have their breasts inflated with compressed air, injected mechanically. The treatment has to be renewed every few weeks, is expensive and destroys the elasticity of the flesh which, after some years, will lose all strength and become flabby and soggy. The girl smiled, showing a brilliant white set of capped teeth. An artificial woman, de Gier thought, completely remodeled. But he had to agree that the result was attractive. He turned around and kissed her cheek while he dried his hands, and she offered her lips. He kissed her on the mouth and felt her tongue darting in and out of his lips. Her arms clutched his neck and her hips and stomach rubbed rhythmically against his body. He gently broke the hold of her arms and stepped back, knocking into the washbasin. She laughed and playfully rubbed his back.

"Uai?" she asked. "Pain?"

"No pain." He walked into the bar and she came with him, holding his hand, but let it go when they were inside and wandered over to some Mends at the bar. He stopped and looked around in amazement. For a moment he thought that he was in an aquarium and that gleaming fish were swimming around him. A clever artist had been able to create a most mysterious light which flowed from the ceiling through small holes, and the girls, all dressed in very low blouses and short skirts, reflected a silver shine on their breasts. They were walking about slowly, a trick perhaps to lure the new arrival, and a fairylike glow moved with them. The light also reflected on the shaved skulls of the three barmen, shaved apart from one spot where their hair had been allowed to grow until it formed tails, the old-fashioned queues of the Chinese, and the tightly twisted hair ropes had been dipped in silver paint so that they glittered with every movement of their owners. The barmen
were
Chinese, and were talking to each other in the soft Canton dialect which he had heard so often in the old city of Amsterdam. They also spoke English, an exaggerated English with Oxford overtones.