The Fat Innkeeper (32 page)

Having no inclination to play car-pachinko anymore, Am managed to say with a straight face, “Since you seem to be getting
the hang of this, why don’t you keep practicing while I run over to the library. I shouldn’t be more than five or ten minutes.”

“No problem,” said Hiroshi.

Am felt a slight twinge of guilt. “She’ll operate better,” he said, “if you head her west toward the ocean.”

“The ocean?”

“Never mind. I’ll be back soon.”

Am ran off. Hearing the grinding of gears made him run away that much faster. He was out of breath when he walked through
the library’s doors, had to stop and take in several deep breaths. His hyperventilating attracted the attention of a student,
who looked upon his deep breathing with undisguised disdain. Was I ever that young? thought Am. Was I ever that arrogant,
ever that smugly immortal? Breathless, he continued to chase death.

He approached the computer catalog with some trepidation. When Am had been a UCSD undergraduate, there had only been card
catalogs. He looked at the prompts, saw that he could conduct his search through author, title, words, or subject. Am typed
“blood” and the search was on. He looked at the bewildering array of articles and books cited, most with incomprehensible
titles. I need a bloodhound, he thought.

Am decided on an author search, and typed in the name of Thomas Kingsbury. Several of the doctor’s books were in the library,
and Am went looking for them. He quickly scanned the texts, marked some pages that were of interest to him, then went and
made some hurried copies. Despite his rushing, everything took longer than he expected. He literally ran out of the library,
started sprinting to the parking lot only to be stopped by a familiar honk. Annette glided to a standstill in front of him,
this time without any grinding of gears. Hiroshi looked as if he had won the Indianapolis 500.

Am checked the time. He was supposed to meet McHugh at four o’clock, and it was already a quarter to. “I better drive you
back to the Hotel,” he said.

Hiroshi reluctantly gave up the driver’s seat, moving his bulk over to the passenger seat. Am handed him his pile of copies
to hold, and quickly pulled Annette away from the curb. His hurried movements didn’t go unnoticed.

“I have no need to get back to the Hotel,” said Hiroshi, “if other matters demand your attention.”

“I am running a little late,” Am admitted. “I’m supposed to be meeting with Detective McHugh at four o’clock in downtown San
Diego.”

“You will be discussing the death of Dr. Kingsbury?”

Am nodded.

“Then we had better hurry.”

“It could be several hours before we get back,” warned Am.

“My afternoon is clear.”

“If you’re sure…”

For once, Hiroshi didn’t try and outpolite him, just nodded, got himself comfortable, and looked the picture of someone out
for a drive in the country. Am steered Annette along La Jolla Village Drive, then turned onto Interstate 5. She bucked a little,
and Hiroshi looked concerned.

“It’s okay,” said Am. “She just doesn’t like traveling away from the coast. Makes her cranky.” Then, louder, to Annette more
than Hiroshi, “But we’re going to be driving to a building that’s not very far from San Diego Bay, and we might even cruise
back along the harbor.”

Annette’s ride steadied. Her behavior seemed to intrigue Hiroshi all the more. “Have you,” he inquired gently, “considered
selling this vehicle?”

As far as the Japanese are concerned, everything in America is for sale. It’s an opinion that Americans themselves are responsible
for, having chosen to withhold virtually nothing from the auction block.

How many times had Am threatened to give Annette away? To have her towed to a junkyard? By no stretch of the imagination was
she reliable transportation. But for whatever misplaced reasons, he still hadn’t gotten rid of her. “She’s not for sale,”
Am said.

The Fat Innkeeper nodded, as if that was the answer he expected, as if that was the only appropriate response, and went back
to enjoying the drive. He swiveled his head frequently, taking in the sights along the freeway. Am didn’t think most of the
route was particularly scenic, but then he wasn’t Japanese. A friend of his had once driven cross-country with a student from
Japan and said that what had impressed the foreigner most were the open stretches of land.

“I hear Dr. Kingsbury was poisoned,” said Hiroshi.

Am nodded, then told him what he knew, which made the Fat Innkeeper look unhappy. “Being poisoned is not a good way to die,”
Hiroshi said with some vehemence. “I was poisoned once. It was not pleasant.”

The Fat Innkeeper smiled at Am’s startled look. “I dined on a fugu fish,” he explained. “Just as I was telling everyone how
delicious it was, the numbness set in.”

Am had heard about the tropical fish, and how it was considered a delicacy in Japan. There was a potentially very high price
to pay for eating such fare, though. Deaths had occurred when the poison sacs of the fish had not been properly removed. Chefs
had to be specially licensed by the government to prepare the fugu fish. Even so, sometimes poisoning resulted.

“Did you feel you were going to die?” asked Am.

The Fat Innkeeper nodded. “Yes,” he said, “but the paralysis passed after a few minutes, and then I only felt foolish.”

Hiroshi shook his head, as if that movement would rid him of the memory, then he stuck his head out the window, and for a
minute or two looked as happy as a dog catching a breeze. When he reentered inside the car, he smoothed his hair and said,
“Mr. Takei came and visited me today.”

Without overtly condemning or probing, with saying very little, he still managed to say a lot. Am responded in the same minimalist
format. “He won’t be troubled again,” he said confidently. “That’s a samurai promise.”

Hiroshi raised an eyebrow, then nodded, accepting the good news without question. “A samurai used to have the right of
kirisute,”
he said, “to use his sword on those who did not show him the proper respect. He could legally kill, with no questions asked.”

“In this instance, there wasn’t that need,” said Am, “but I would like to reserve that right for the future.”

The Fat Innkeeper gave him a questioning look, then realized Am was joking, and with a little smile of his own went back to
looking out the window. Mission Bay, and all of its colors, seemed to fascinate him. There were tanned bodies running around
in Day-Glo shorts, a skyful of rainbow kites, and a bay crowded with windsurfers racing along blue water.

“Do you surf?” asked Hiroshi.

Before I became a serf, thought Am. “Yes.”

“I would like to learn.”

Am wasn’t about to volunteer that “maybe later” he’d take him out. Helping an obese Japanese man navigate the rigors of a
surfboard wasn’t something he wanted to do. How could you translate “my wave” with the right emphasis into Japanese? Banzai?
Kamikaze pilots could learn a thing or two about single-mindedness from a surfer claiming a wave.

“Excuse my foolish talk,” said Hiroshi. “This land offers too many diversions. This is my time to prove myself as an
ii hito, a
good person. My family thinks I have been
wagamama
far too long.” He remembered Am wasn’t Japanese, offered the one word translation: “selfish.”

A deep breath, and then another explanation: “On several occasions I have not agreed to a
seiryaku kekkon, a
strategic marriage. As the
choonan, the
eldest son, this kind of obedience was expected of me. What made my selfishness worse is that I’m a
shachoo-no-musuko-san, the
son of a company president. My family expected me to be the
atotori, the
successor, but I never proved reliable. I have always been diverted by useless studies, and travels, and thoughts, and distractions.

“Like wanting to take up surfing,” he admitted. “I am considered the
fukoo mono
of the family, the unfilial child.”

The admission was personal, and unexpected. Am had been told that the Japanese rarely revealed themselves to their own countrymen,
let alone
gaijin.

“My sister Reiko had to bring in a
muko-yooshi,”
he said. “She took a husband so that the family could have an appropriate successor. He gave up his name and took ours. There
is an expression for what my sister had to do. It is called
kazoku no giseisha,
and it means Reiko sacrificed for the household. I should have been able to do that on many occasions, but never did.”

Sharon had told Am about how the Hotel California was a proving ground of sorts for Hiroshi. The Hotel had been likened as
the beachhead for Yamada Enterprises. The company was now in the process of building
maquiladoras,
industrial plants along the border of the United States and Mexico, and had purchased other commercial real estate for a
variety of enterprises. Hiroshi was supposed to be the company standard-bearer in this part of the new world.

“I came here to change,” said Hiroshi. “I keep reminding myself about the tale of Rosetsu, and that gives me inspiration.”

Am looked interested. There was a story here. Maybe even a folktale. “Who is Rosetsu?” he asked.

“A painter,” said the Fat Innkeeper. “He lived over two hundred years ago, was an apprentice under the great master Okyo—Maruyama
Okyo in Kyoto.

“It is said that Rosetsu was Okyo’s worst student. For three years he tried hard, but he did not get better. All the other
students quickly advanced, but not Rosetsu. Okyo could offer him little encouragement, and Rosetsu became more and more distraught.

“He left Okyo’s school one cold winter evening, walked away from being a painter. Rosetsu wasn’t sure whether his journey
was to kill himself, or to try and make it all the way home to his distant village. He only knew that he was giving up on
art, and life itself.

“He walked all night, and then all day, and then into the night again. He had no food, and no sleep. A few hours before dawn
he collapsed under some pines, fell down into a pile of snow. Rosetsu thought he was lying down to die, but his final rest
was denied him. He kept hearing this noise of splashing water, and he had to see what was making the sound.

“Rosetsu crawled forward and saw a large carp jumping out of the water. It was trying to reach some food lying on the ice.
For three hours Rosetsu watched the fish struggle. Time after time the fish jumped, bruising and bloodying itself on the ice.
It tried all ways to get the food. The fish pushed at the ice from underneath, and jumped on top of it. Finally, the carp’s
persistence paid off. Its valiant leaps broke down enough ice for it to reach the food. Bloodied, with broken scales, it gained
the hard-fought prize.

“This was Rosetsu’s inspiration. He resolved that he would be like the carp, and give his all. He would, if necessary, die
trying.

“Rosetsu returned to Kyoto. He told Okyo the story of the carp, and said that he would be as determined as the fish to succeed.
He was as good as his word. In time, Rosetsu became one of Japan’s greatest painters. On his paintings you can always see
the Rosetsu trademark, the crest of a leaping carp.”

Every nation has its stories of perseverance. Am was going to tell Hiroshi about Bruce of Scotland, who had drawn inspiration
from the persistence of a spider, and eventually won his throne, but Hiroshi was not yet through with his musing.

“I think Rosetsu’s symbol of the leaping carp was a wonderful reminder to him,” said Hiroshi. “In his every painting he reaffirmed
that turning point in his life.”

He looked at Am. “I understand I have you to thank for my new badge, my emblem.”

“What do you mean?” asked Am, confused.

“You have provided me with my leaping-carp crest, my bond with nature.”

Am still didn’t understand.

“I am considering having it placed on all my stationery. It would probably be too presumptuous, though, to have a signet made
of it.”

No, Am thought, not that. Not now, not ever.

Hiroshi pulled out a folded piece of paper from a coat pocket, spread the paper out for Am to see. It wasn’t exactly the fearsome
lion crest of Richard the Lion-Hearted. It wasn’t even a carp, for God’s sake. It was a sea worm,
Urechis caupo
to be exact.

The Fat Innkeeper.

“I have heard,” said Hiroshi, “that I bear an amazing resemblance to this.”

There was a long silence. and a long worm, between them. Am thought of a lot of explanations. He looked at the drawing, then
looked at Hiroshi. What would Ikkyu-san have done?

“It is a damn good-looking worm,” Am said.

The San Diego Police Department headquarters wasn’t exactly on the Bay, as Am had alluded to Annette, was in fact over a mile
inland from the water. Downtown redevelopment hadn’t spread as far as its 1401 Broadway location. The in-vogue restaurants,
luxury hotels, and upscale stores weren’t part of its neighborhood, but then neither were the tattoo parlors and adult movie
dens. It was situated in a neighborhood in transition, but one that looked undecided as to which way it was heading.

“To Protect and Serve,” read Hiroshi. The caption was printed on all SDPD black-and-whites. “Perhaps I need a slogan along
with my crest. What do you think?”

“Mozukashii ne,”
said Am. That had been one of the first phrases Sharon had taught him. She said that as a round-eye, he would be frequently
hearing those words. The translation was “a difficult question,” and usually resulted in the avoidance of an answer. Am and
Hiroshi seemed to be reversing roles.

Nothing else had been said about
Urechis caupo
for the rest of their ride, and Am had been content to let a sleeping worm lie. He couldn’t tell whether Hiroshi was teasing
him, truly angry, or for some reason actually taken with the idea of a worm logo. The Japanese had their own reasons, and
aesthetics, for everything. Where else but in Japan would a dove be considered a messenger of war?