Ransom (24 page)

Yamada pulled a roundhouse kick out of some astonishing reserve of energy, and Ransom ducked as the foot grazed his temple. He kicked Yamada dead center, between the legs, and he went down, gasping.

Ransom walked out of the circle to a corner of the lot. He closed his eyes and saw the flash of agony on Yamada's face. As he stood facing the blank wall of the gym, his breath became so rapid that he felt he would faint. When he returned to the group Yamada was on his feet, hunched and pale, walking gingerly in tight circles.

The sensei clapped his hands sharply.
Ito
—he paused—
and Yamada. Four points. No restrictions
.

Ransom couldn't believe it. A dreadful silence prevailed as they bowed and faced off. Ransom glanced over at the sensei, hoping to register his indignation, but he was looking at the two fighters. It seemed to Ransom that the rest of them drew closer, implicated together in this uneven match, each sympathetic and yet profoundly glad that it was Yamada, not himself; and at the same time embarrassed by what they were about to witness.

The only sound was Yamada's labored breathing. He kicked once, but weakly; Ransom had hurt him. When he kicked again, the Monk grabbed the foot in both hands, twisted it and threw him on his back. Yamada jumped to his feet and got kicked in the gut. Ransom looked down at the ground.

Yamada lasted out the match. With the final point scored, he lay gasping on his back. All that remained was for him to bow to his opponent. The Monk waited. No one said anything. The back door of the gym opened. One of the weightlifters stuck his head out and called
Finished?
, then he saw Yamada. His smile faded and he closed the door.

Yamada raised himself to a sitting position, to his knees, and finally he was on his feet, blood dripping from his nose. He pulled himself erect and bowed, then staggered over to the group.

The Monk stood where he was, awaiting instructions.
Ransom
, the sensei said. Ransom didn't move. The sensei turned and looked at him. Ransom stared back. Even greater than his fear of the Monk was his revulsion of condoning the beating that Yamada had sustained.

Ransom walked out and stood across from the Monk; habit and training carrying him through the bow, shaping his limbs, responding to the first attack, his forearms blocking the kicks as his legs carried him backward away from the impact, detecting the rhythm of the attack and locating the point at which it ebbed, reversing the direction of the fight, Ransom himself on the attack, four kicks, four punches; then a fist coming in low, and blackness.

He wanted to stay where he was, floating in restful waters, but they were pulling him back to the place where he had been, shaking him. Even before he opened his eyes he knew he would see the sensei's face.

Get it over with.

He got to his feet by himself and walked it off. The air was almost too thick to swallow. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Then he was facing the Monk again. He tried to buy time. When he got hit in the chest he thought, This isn't so bad.

In the center of the Monk's eyes were pinpoints of light like distant stars. You couldn't get to them, Ransom told himself, but you had to try.

He was in the air, one kick, mid-level, blocked; but he still had momentum, his body carrying high, and as he peaked he kicked again, the ball of his foot rebounding from the Monk's forehead. The Monk fell back and wobbled on his feet as Ransom touched down. He didn't fall, but the sensei called the point and allowed him time to regain his bearings.

When they faced off again, his first kick knocked Ransom flat. Being down for good was restful, and he
would have stayed longer, but it remained for him to bow.

A long time passed, Ransom thought, before the sensei knelt. He looked at Yamada, who had difficulty walking the short distance to take his place beside the Monk, grimacing as he lowered himself down to his knees, as if entering a scalding bath. Ransom walked over to the steps to gather his clothes. The sensei was watching him, and the others were waiting. He wanted to say something but he did not think he could possibly express his feelings in any language. He was no longer angry. He was glad of that, because he did not want to leave on an impulse. The sensei's gaze was fierce and corrosive; Ransom tried to meet it with composure and sincerity. The sensei had always said that you could see a man's heart through his eyes.

Clothes under his arms, Ransom turned and walked away.

Ransom was awakened from a sleep in which he was sparring endlessly with the Monk, one hundred and eleven points, no restrictions. The clock read three-thirty. He heard the rasp of the door buzzer, a sound to which he was not accustomed. Putting on a robe as the buzzer sounded again, he descended the dark stairs, unlatched the door and slid it back.

“Marilyn?”

She was wrapped in a man's raincoat; he let her in and closed the door behind her.

“Are you all right?” he said, taking her coat at the top of the stairs.

She nodded. He could smell booze on her breath. He pulled the cord on the kitchen light and led her into the main room.

“So this is the samurai's home,” she said. “It doesn't look like anyone lives here.”

Ransom shrugged. “Have a seat.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere, I guess. You can sit on the futon.”

She stretched out on the futon, took off her scarf and shook her hair. She lay back and assumed a vampish pose.

“Some men would be very excited to find me in their beds.”

“I'm sure they would.”

She sat up again. “I don't understand you at all, Ransom. You made it very difficult for me.”

“Made what very difficult?”

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Actually, I do.”

“But out of politeness you'll let me.”

He went into the kitchen and found a saucer, which he placed in front of her. “Don't you think it's dangerous to come here?” he said. “Not to mention that it's late.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I had to tell you tonight. I had a few drinks and I had to tell you before I changed my mind.”

“Tell me what?”

“You've never suspected?”

“Suspected what?”

She smiled ruefully. “If you talk to your father, tell him you never suspected. Tell him I did a good job.”

“What are you talking about?”

She took a deep breath, looked him in the eye, then looked away. “Ransom, this whole thing was . . . a setup. Your father hired me.”

“What whole thing? My father hired you for what?”

“He hired me to get to you. I'm an actress.”

“What are you talking about?” he said, his voice sounding strange, as if he were hearing it played back on tape.

“You believed me, didn't you?” she said. It seemed like a plea. She reached over and took his hand. “I'm
sorry. I'm sorry it was you, but I need to know you believed me.”

“I don't understand. My father sent you here?”

“I'm an actress.”

“You're American?”

She nodded.

“You're not Vietnamese?”

“My mother was Korean. She met my father during the war. I was born and raised in Oregon.”

“What about the oyabun?”

“There is no oyabun.”

“You made it up?”

“Your father made it up. He got the idea from a movie.”

Ransom felt like he'd been gut-punched.

She reached for him again and he nearly slapped her. Seeing the look on his face she withdrew her hand.

“I'm not proud of myself. That's why I'm telling you this. I couldn't go on with it. I just felt so guilty after a while, after I got to know you. It didn't seem like such a bad thing to do at first. I met your father doing a pilot, and it just happened.”

“This is fucking rich. The actress and the producer.” Ransom stood up and looked around the small room for some place to go, or for something to break. He paced the perimeter of the room, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I don't believe this shit.”

Marilyn sat upright, nervously observing Ransom's orbit. When he came to a halt she said, “He sounded so sad when he talked about you. He said he had begged you to come home, but you were obsessed by this samurai trip. He was afraid you'd got involved with drugs or
something in India and since you wouldn't even visit he thought you were in trouble. He wanted to get you home for treatment.”

“Treatment? I love that.” Ransom stalked over to the window and stared at the dark panes. A rooster called out close by. “I suppose he promised you a role in a series.”

“You'd be surprised what people will do for work.”

“I don't doubt it a bit.”

“Listen, I don't expect you to be grateful but don't insult me. What do you know about work, anyway? I didn't have to tell you this and you might consider what I stand to lose.”

Ransom glanced back at her and then he looked down into the dark garden below the terrace. “He's really lost his fucking mind over there.”

“That's almost exactly what he said about you.”

Feeling woozy and still enraged, he told himself to get the details straight, to learn the sequence of events. He wasn't ready to accept this version without a struggle. He turned and walked over to the futon. “Why did you come on to Miles?”

“You have a bad memory. I came on to you first but you wouldn't have me. I was quite offended, but I improvised around it. Your father told me a lot about you—your sense of duty and honor.”

“I didn't know my father knew a lot about me.”

“He's not so bad.”

“What about the singing job?”

“That was legitimate. He arranged it through his agency. It was kind of a bonus—the pay was good and he thought it would be a good cover in case you checked up on me.”

“How nice for you.”

“Please, Ransom.”

“Did he think I'd marry you? That's crazy.”

“I'm not sure. I think that was going to be a last resort. He said if you were convinced I was in danger, you'd go back with me to the States. I was going to throw a nervous breakdown.”

Ransom stood with his shoulder against the closet. He stepped back and punched the sliding paper door. The laminated layers of paper almost yielded to the impact and the wooden frame bowed and popped out of the tracks; instead of a nice clean hole he produced a crumpled mess.

“Why are you telling me now?”

“Because I like you.”

“This part is real?”

“I don't blame you for being suspicious.”

“What about the black eye?” he demanded.

“Makeup.”

He nodded.

“This may sound awful, but it's important to me that you trusted me. Maybe that's what made it so difficult to keep it up.”

“Marilyn? Is that your real name?”

“Yeah. I was born in 'fifty-six. During the reign of Monroe.” She fished another cigarette from her purse. “Christopher is a good name,” she said. “You should use it.”

“I don't like it,” he said.

“How sad—not to like your own name.”

Ransom said, “What are you going to do now?”

She shrugged and looked at the window, which was just beginning to turn gray. Birds were singing in the garden.

Ransom laughed. “You feel like the whole world is turned upside down and then the birds start talking to each other as if nothing had happened.”

“There's something else,” Marilyn said, “the reason I told you now instead of waiting. Your father's flying into Tokyo this morning.”

“What? You're kidding.”

“He had some business anyway, and he wanted to be on hand to work out our next move.”

“It's not every producer,” Ransom said, “who would take such a direct interest in a script. He's a hell of a guy.” He tried to decide what he was going to do. “You know where he's staying?”

“You're not going to do anything violent, are you?”

“Don't worry. I'm not real to him, so I couldn't hurt him if I wanted to. Do you have a plane ticket home?”

She nodded. “I'm going to stay for another week or two. I want to finish out this singing job. Maybe you can tell me what happens.”

Ransom made a pot of tea, watching his hands perform the necessary steps, wondering what was left to him beyond these basic motor skills and noticing, when he picked up the two cups, that even these were suspect: his hands were trembling. He carried the cups on a tray into the other room.

“Thanks for telling me,” he said.

“I'm sorry, you know. I really am.”

They sat across from each other, holding their tea cups, as the window began to glow with the first light.

“What was this stuff about a French passport?” Marilyn said suddenly, as if she had just remembered something terribly important.

For a moment Ransom didn't know what she was talking about, and then he wished he didn't. “It's a long story,” he said, and then to change the subject: “Who were you drinking with?”

“Just some people from work.”

“Are you worried about what my father's going to do?” Ransom said.

“I don't think he's going to do much. But I doubt I'm going to get a bonus out of this. And I really don't want to see him, or even talk to him, not right now. I'm moving to a new hotel this morning, in case he tries to find me. I'm not ashamed, but I'm tired of the whole deal.”

“Let me know where you're staying,” Ransom said. He felt solicitous for Marilyn, almost as if he were the guilty party.

After Marilyn left, he shaved, changed into sweats and performed his regular workout. As he jogged he realized that for the past month his physical training had been informed by a sense of imminent crisis, that he had taken his rescue mission seriously, that it was something he had been waiting for, the chance for a partial redemption after what had happened to Ian and Annette; that he had been groping toward it even when leaving the States with a sense of purpose alloyed of escape and quest. He wondered if his father had deliberately tried to prove there is no escape, that there are no real quests.