The Miko - 02 (12 page)

Toshiro was a farmer and, as such, he was far wealthier than Kagami himself was. Of course he did not have the plethora of benefits that Sato Petrochemicals provided its family of employees. But still. At year’s end Toshiro’s bank account swelled to unnatural proportions. And it irked Kagami no end that, at least in part, he was subsidizing his brother-in-law.

Kagami thought of the idiocy of it. Japan was no more than 30 percent rural and dropping fast. Yet the farmers still held as much political power as they did just after World War II when the country was 70 percent rural. That was because there had been no electoral redistribution and the Liberal Democratic Party, which had held power almost constantly since then, did all they could to keep the farm vote loyal. That meant subsidizing the inefficient farmers.

Kagami had read in
Time
magazine that the average American farm was 450 acres. By comparison, the average Japanese farm was 2.9 acres. How was that for efficiency? Kagami had to snort in derision.

And as if that weren’t enough, there was the rice problem. Japanese farmers produced much more per year than the country could possibly consume. Since this short-grained variety was not favored worldwide and because to export it would require a second subsidy to bring down the price that the first government subsidy raised, the excess went totally to waste.

Kagami knew that the government spent over twenty billion dollars per year on such subsidies. Much of that money came from selling imported wheat to Japanese millers at exorbitant prices. But even that wasn’t enough. Tax money as well was used, shortchanging housing and much-needed roadwork throughout the country.

And now, the greatest insult of all was that Toshiro had come, hat in hand, for a loan of money. Kagami knew that Toshiro was a profligate. He spent whatever he made and more. It was often said that the Japanese were good savers. One could certainly not judge that by Toshiro’s behavior. Women—he was a widower—and gambling had become his passions. He had hired others to run his farms and they had been derelict in their duty.

At least that was how Toshiro had put it. Kagami snorted again. More likely, Toshiro had been remiss in his hiring. It served him right, and Kagami would have derived much clandestine pleasure from his brother-in-law’s plight had it not been for the request for the loan.

Of course, there was no question about giving it to him. Kagami’s wife had been quite clear about that. “You have no choice,” she had stated flatly after Toshiro had left last night. “He is your brother. There are family ties to think of. Duty.” Her eyes flashed. “I shouldn’t have to remind you of such basic matters.”

It was no good telling her that had the situation been reversed they would not have seen one sen from Toshiro, who cared for no one but himself. After all, had he ever sent a gift for Ken’s graduation or Tamiko’s thirteenth birthday? Oh, the children never knew. Presents arrived for them on the appropriate days, ostensibly from Toshiro. But Kagami knew that his wife secretly traveled to Daimaru to purchase them herself—with his money.

Kagami closed his eyes, felt the heavy pulse of his blood through his veins. It was really too much. It strained the boundaries of duty.

Sighing, he rose and walked, dripping, across the room, down the short hall and into the steam room. He wanted to be quite relaxed before his massage.

As Kagami sat down on the tiled bench and put his head back against the moisture-streaked wall, he thought about a massage he had once gotten in Korea. Business had dictated he travel there in his younger years, but nothing could get him back now. He shuddered inwardly at the recollection of their form of massage. Torture, more like it. He should have known better. The Koreans were barbarians in everything they tried to do. The Tokugawa Shōgun had called them “garlic-eaters.” That was in 1605, and they had progressed not at all since then. Except that they had learned how to take graft from the Americans. Dirty people without a sense of honor.

Kagami shook his head, wanting to clear his mind of Koreans and Toshiro and all other negative influences. This had begun as an evil day, but he was determined that it should end otherwise.

The steam pipe to his left hissed and coughed; new mist began to form in the room. The heat rose and Kagami began to sweat. He had forgotten to cool off in the shower before coming in here. He had Toshiro to thank for that as well.

It was just as well. He put his hands on his belly. Too much fat there these days. Maybe his extra sweating would do him some good. His eyes closed. He was completely relaxed.

The door opened. Kagami did not open his eyes but he was aware of a brief lessening of the intense heat, a momentary thinning of the humid atmosphere. Then the swirling clouds of steam enveloped him once more.

He did not wonder who had come in. Members of the upper-echelon management team were in and out of this section of the floor all through the day and even on into the night after the rest of the building was closed and dark. The men rarely spoke to one another here, understanding implicitly the nature of the renewing process that ultimately led to a more productive workday for all of them.

Kagami felt a presence, no more than a shadow perhaps. As it passed, something caused him to open his eyes. He could not immediately say what it was, a premonition perhaps or a subtle change in the environment.

He saw a figure across the room, made indistinct by the steam. Mist seemed to flow around the form, changing its shape even as Kagami looked.

The figure was standing and now it came forward in an odd, gliding gait that seemed all liquid, as if the being before him had no bones or hard muscle. Kagami wiped the sweat from his eyes. He felt the absurd urge to pinch himself to make certain he had not somehow fallen asleep, lulled by the heat and the peacefulness.

For now he could discern much of the figure, and it appeared to him as if it might be female. But surely not! he admonished himself. Even the blind Taiwanese girls were forbidden in the steam room.

Kagami’s mouth dropped open and he gasped. Appearing out of the layers of mist was the unmistakable patch of female pubic hair, dark as night, beads of water clinging in its curls like pearls on the bed of the sea. This is monstrous, he thought indignantly. What gross breach of protocol. I must lodge a protest with Sato-san.

The naked hips swung back and forth minutely as the woman came toward him and Kagami felt the first faint stirrings in his lower belly. There was something so intensely sexual, made all the more powerful because there was an absence of flaunting. The sexuality seemed to have an existence all its own, lacing the steamy atmosphere so that, despite himself, Kagami felt the blood pooling in his loins, the telltale thickening of his penis.

And all the while his mind was outraged, for with the excitement came the unmistakable—yet totally unfamiliar—sensation of being goaded into desire against his will.

Now he could see more of the torso, the high cone-shaped breasts, the dark nipples hard and distended, the flat, slightly curved stomach.

He could no longer hide his erection and he put his hands down between his thighs, trying to cover his embarrassment. That was when he first sensed the danger. She stopped in front of him and, standing straight-backed, thrust her legs out. Jeweled water dripped from the fringe of tight curls onto her firm columns of flesh. Kagami found himself straining forward to see the central vertical ribbon, nature’s most beautiful route.

He gasped and began to choke on his own saliva. Bile came rushing up from his grinding stomach and his mind, stunned, blanked out. All he could do was stare at the inner flesh of her thighs, slack-jawed, while his erection withered on the vine.

Then, stupefaction still dominant on his face, he raised his gaze upward to the woman’s head, saw only a pair of dark enigmatic eyes behind a spread fan of gilt, red and jet.

“Who—” he began, abruptly finding his voice.

But now the fan was moving, coming away, revealing the soft smile on her face. A beautiful face. It made Kagami sigh with its exquisite line and youth. Then, lagging far behind, recognition came, flooding him like a spotlight. And in his mind’s eye the oval, high-cheeked face turned into a painted demon’s mask.

“You—!” The scream bubbled out of his open mouth like a geyser.

The fan struck him edge on, twisting at the very last instant, wielded by a master. It sliced through sweating skin and warm flesh, scraping most painfully along the cheekbone.

Kagami was slow to recoil. The strike was so unexpected, so skillfully administered and with such a razor sharp edge, that he was barely aware of what had taken place.

Kagami’s first thought was to protect his genitals and thus he offered no real resistance. The great gilt fan flicked out again, again, again. He cried out each time he was cut but he steadfastly refused to bring his hands away from between his thighs.

The torso of the woman flowed toward him like smoke borne on the gentle wind of a cloudless summer’s day. Her presence seemed to fill the room, blotting out all light, all air. It was as if she were sucking all life into herself, creating only the ultimate blackness of a vacuum before her.

Kagami shrank before her, cowering and trembling, filaments of pain streaking through him like tracers. He was appalled at how much blood was around him, how hard his heart beat in his ears, how small his penis had become cupped in his protective palms.

Then the fan flickered with a brief whistle. Kagami’s eyes bulged and his mouth opened wide. He felt the fierce bite of steel across his windpipe, the atlas vertebrae of his neck.

His mind screamed hysterically and at last he understood the ultimate goal of this attack. His hands came up, his fingertips trying desperately to fend off the attack. A fan? his mind gibbered. A fan? His head whipped back and forth and he began to climb up the slick tiles of the wall. Anything to get away, to regain life.

His problems with his wife, with Toshiro now seemed laughable to him. How trivial they were compared to the primeval struggle for life. For life! I will not die! his mind screamed at him. Save me!

Wildly he flung out his fists, trying to strike back at his assailant. But he had no training and the lurid image of what he had seen on the insides of her thighs rose within him and he despaired. He knew what she was, though all logic, all tradition cried out to him that it could not be so.

Kagami knew what it was that had a grip on him. He felt in the midst of a nightmare from which he would never awake. Yet still he fought on because hope was all he had now, and for a time it sustained him. He clung to life, he held it to him, he exulted in the knowledge of his existence.

Then the forged steel blades struck once more and what little oxygen was seeping through to him, through his strangling windpipe, ceased. Blood rushed to nowhere, lungs heaved fearfully, then fitfully as carbon dioxide filled them and, through their porous fibers, the whole body.

Kagami’s eyelids fluttered, his eyes began to cross. He saw her fearful visage before him; his ineffectual fingers slid against her sweat-streaked flesh like a child digging into sand. His mind, the last to go, tried to fight on, not comprehending that the body to which it was still attached was already falling into a dreamless, depthless slumber.

With his last ounce of strength, Kagami stared at that face, projecting his bitter hatred as if that were a physical weapon. And in truth it was a rage of such depth that it convulsed already dying muscles. His fingers clenched, grabbing.

But it was a futile gesture for his lower belly was rippling, his eyes rolling up into his head, blinding him, leaving only the unseeing whites to stare blankly up at the steaming tiles, the drifting mist, the rivulets of blood circling one another, mazelike, as they slowly slid down the drain in the center of the otherwise empty room.

Nangi stood up, walking on his stiff, ungainly legs away from the conference table. It was the signal for a break in the proceedings.

While Tomkin rose heavily and left the room, Nicholas strolled to one of the high windows overlooking Shinjuku. Beads of rain swirled downward upon the sea of umbrellas, taking what was left of the delicate cherry blossoms, strewing them along the gutters or park walkways where they were soon ground to fine dust underfoot.

Nicholas stared blankly at the mist-enshrouded city. For the past three and a half hours they had been locked like deadly combatants on the field of battle: Sato, Nangi, Suzuran, their attorney, Masuto Ishii, vice president of operations and Sato’s right-hand man, bolstered by three of Sato’s division heads, Tomkin, Greydon, the Tomkin Industries’ counsel, and himself. Now it was rush hour with hordes of people racing homeward or to dinner rendezvous along the bright-lit Tokyo side streets.

But up here in Sato’s spacious offices there was no movement at all. Inwardly, Nicholas sighed. Sometimes even he found dealing with the Japanese a trying experience Their seeming reluctance to come to any decision, though an obvious negotiating tactic, was often taken to an extreme. Patience was one thing, but Nicholas was often convinced that weeks, even months from now, Sato and Nangi would still be reworking the same points they had all brought up within the first hour and a quarter of this initial agenda.

There had seemed some hope of a break an hour ago when the division heads, Oito, vice president of acquisitions, Kagami, v.p. of finance, and Sosuro, v.p. of research and development, had made their profuse excuses and, with a double round of formal bowing, had taken their leave.

Nicholas had seen the subtle hand sign Sato had given them and had taken heart. His belief then had been that the negotiations were about to reach a level that the Japanese, who were usually more comfortable bolstered by a contingent of executives, thought should be limited strictly to the principals.

But what had followed had been disappointing: yet another one of the seemingly endless discussions batting around the same major areas of difference. One was the monetary split between Sphynx and Nippon Memory. The other was somewhat more bewildering to Nicholas since it was a topic about which he had not been briefed prior to the negotiating session.