Collector of Secrets (4 page)

DASHING FROM the train station exit, Max scanned the bustling crowd in the concrete plaza below. Finally spotting her, he made his way down to street level. Tomoko had happened onto his school just five months earlier, and when Max had first made eye contact, it was all he could do to speak his native tongue. Her slender five-foot-nine-inch frame was taller than the average Japanese woman, and her long, straight black hair fell halfway down her back. She didn’t carry herself in the typically demure Japanese manner, but with an uncommon grace and self-assurance. Most of all, what had attracted him was her striking smile and her nontraditional manner of refusing to cover her mouth when she laughed. She was seeking the nuance of the English language. Tomoko’s marketing position with Ralph Lauren’s Polo brand demanded it.

She was leaning against a wall, waiting, giving him a familiar look that told him he was pushing his luck being late. As he neared, she called out, “Did you go drinking last night? Or is there another woman I should know about?”

Max stopped just short of her and waggled his eyebrows in jest. “Hey, a guy’s gotta keep his options open.”

“You better not!” She swung her purse playfully at his shoulder and he ducked sideways, laughing, before grabbing her in his arms to kiss her.

“You look amazing.” He caught the scent of honey in her hair.

“Yes, I do.” She grinned. “But don’t try to . . . 
nande-ke?
What’s the phrase? Butter me up.”

He couldn’t hold back a playful grin. “I’m shocked you think I would try.”

Tomoko laughed. “I think you’re playing me?”

He rested his forehead briefly against hers. “Mr. M is gonna love meeting you. Come on—we need to get moving.” He draped an arm across her shoulders, directing them toward the street’s endless grinding traffic.

“Max, wait.” Her face grew serious as her steps slowed them. “There’s something important I have to tell you.”

Tomoko was remarkable; more so then any of the handful of girls he’d dated. Maybe he had pushed his luck too far, after all. Maybe she’d finally caught on that he wasn’t in her league. He tried to appear calm. “Okay. What is it?”

She leaned in close to his ear. “The front of your jeans is open.”

Tomoko giggled as his briefcase hit the ground. He glanced around self-consciously, thankful that nobody seemed to be watching. “Damn. I got dressed so quickly.” His face felt flush. “I thought everyone was staring at me because I’m
Gaijin
.” He closed the offending fastener and bent down to recover his fallen briefcase.

“Give yourself a break. You don’t need to always try to be perfect.” As he rose back up, Tomoko stepped in close, pressing herself into him. “I like you just the way you are.”

“Really?” He was unsure if she was simply teasing him. “You sure?”

“Yes.” She swept away the loose blond hair covering his eyes. “Perfection is boring.”

“Well, if that’s the case. Hmmm . . .” He playfully tapped an index finger across both lips as if contemplating a deep thought. “I could just ‘fly low’ all the time.”

“No.” She laughed gently and pulled at his arm. “Come on. You’re right—there’s not much time. We need to hurry.”

M
ax knocked loudly before opening the office door precisely at noon. Sidestepping through the entrance, he moved to the exposed back of the sofa. “Good to see you, Mr. Murayama,” he said with a respectful bow of his head.

“Sit down, my boy.” The older man waved for him to take his regular seat, facing the street-side windows.

“Well . . .” Max lowered his blue eyes, then shot a self-conscious look back over his shoulder toward the partially open door. He could clearly see Tomoko’s outline through the frosted safety glass. The English class rules were few, but privacy topped the list.

Mr. Murayama squinted in the direction of Max’s gaze and his voice sparked. “Who is that?”

Seeing the flash of anger, Max spoke quickly. “I know you like the afternoon to just be us, but my girlfriend really wanted to meet you. It won’t take long, I promise.”

Pausing as if to allow the flattery to sink in, Takahito Murayama adjusted his cardigan before nodding. “If only for a minute, then please invite her in.”

Max opened the door to the narrow hallway, and Tomoko stepped inside. She was dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved top, and her shimmering hair cascaded forward from her shoulders as she bowed low from the waist. “Murayama-
sensei
, it’s an honor to finally meet you.”

“She can only stay for a minute,” Max interjected. “She’s off to Hokkaido this afternoon.”

From his seated position, the old man watched with interest; Max could see he was captivated by her beauty. “I love the North Island. Wonderful place.”

“I’ve heard the same,” she replied, “but it’s all work.”

Max took Tomoko’s hand, guiding her forward to the long wall of photos. He spoke over his right shoulder. “I mentioned all your amazing pictures.”

Tomoko moved from photo to photo, floating her slender fingers over them without touching. “Amazing,” she exclaimed. “There are so many famous people. This is the White House . . . and . . . that’s you with Ronald Reagan!”

Mr. Murayama beamed. “Yes. That was during my second posting to the Washington Embassy.”

“How did you get so many?”

“During a thirty-year career, there are plenty of meetings and dinners.” His old eyes watched her examine the photos with keen interest before he spoke again. “Which do you think is my favorite?”

Tomoko looked taken aback. “I don’t know how I could guess that.”

Mr. Murayama’s face took on a mischievous grin. “I think you can. Take some time.” He pointed a bony finger at Max. “And you—no helping her.”

Tomoko looked at Max, who shrugged, then perched himself against the edge of the desk in the center of the room. She turned and slowly walked back and forth along the length of the wall. Several minutes of focused attention passed before she finally stopped at the room’s far end, with the drafting cabinet at her back. “It’s this one,” she said confidently, pointing to a simple matted photo in a slim copper frame.

Mr. Murayama leaned forward, serious. “Why do you think?”

Max perked up. “Yeah, why?”

“This copper frame has changed color only on the side edges—the two spots are the size of thumb prints. I think this picture has been held many times.” She paused, seeking confirmation. “Am I right?”

Mr. Murayama clapped his appreciation. “Very well done.” He let out an audible sigh. “Yes, that photo of John F. Kennedy—” He stopped speaking, appearing to catch himself in what he was about to say. “—JFK was a good man.”

Tomoko beamed and laughed before glancing at her watch. She returned to Max’s side. “I’m sorry, but I have much to do before my flight.
Domo arigato
, Mr. Murayama, for your time.”

“You’re welcome. Next time please give a warning, so I can prepare three cups of tea.” He shot Max a look.

She ran a hand along Max’s face while whispering, “I see why you like him so much.” Seeming uncertain how to act, given the setting, her thumb stopped to rest in the dimple on his chin as she placed a light kiss on his cheek. “See you soon.”

“Trunk-u hitotsu dake de,”
Max whispered back, cupping her elbow tenderly in his hand. Even though only the two of them knew the meaning, Tomoko blushed slightly. The phrase “with a single trunk” was from the song “Romantic Airplane.” Soon after they’d met, he had spent a maddening week memorizing the Japanese words. One night at a karaoke
club he had calmed himself, swallowed his pride, and taken the microphone for the very first time. Much to Tomoko’s delight, he dedicated the performance to her. A foreigner covering a local song was unheard of, and although he missed most of the notes and a few of the words, the bar went crazy with applause. Ever since, it had been their song.

Neither man spoke until they heard Tomoko’s footsteps begin the descent down the stairwell.

“You never told me,” Mr. Murayama stated while he poured tea into the two cups.

Max dropped onto the center of the sofa. “Never told you what?”

“How beautiful she is.”

“Really? I’m sure I mentioned it. I didn’t mean to upset you by bringing her.”

“No need to worry. Let’s move on. I have something very personal to show you today.” Mr. Murayama reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a series of interlaced rings laden with dozens of keys. His shaking fingers leafed through them. “And since I have seen you carry one, I am sure you’ll find the items interesting.” At last he selected a key. Handing over the ring, he gave Max instructions to go to the wall at the far end of the room, to the second of the five tall cabinets. “In the bottom drawer, you’ll find a wooden box. Bring it here.”

“No more rifles please.” Max recalled their previous class with an uneasy chuckle. An accidental discharge of gunpowder had made his ears ring and sent him ducking for cover.

“No, no. They were returned to the bank’s vault.”

Max quickly located the cabinet, thinking how incredibly satisfying it must feel to have gathered so many artifacts over the years. Murayama had a life well lived. Already Max had seen dozens of samurai swords, stacks of ancient scrolls, and crates of marvelous wood-block prints. And yet they had barely scratched the museum-like storage room in the building’s back room.

The requested drawer slid open easily, revealing the dark polished box. “I can see it.”

“Me, too.” Mr. Murayama sighed. “Finally, I can see why you were brought to me.”

“Huh?” Max was down on one knee, trying to figure the best way to retrieve the tight-fitting box without damaging it. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Mr. Murayama replied. “Just keep the box flat.”

Max thought the comment odd but let it pass, choosing instead to listen to the old man’s raspy cough, which seemed to be growing more persistent lately. “Why? What’s in here?”

“Something I’ve wanted to show you for a while . . . and . . . I have a favor to ask.”

Max played along, amused by the old man’s desire to begin each session with a sense of mystery, noting that it was a small price to pay for something that clearly provided a great deal of joy. He returned to the front of the room. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Mr. Murayama nodded silently as the box came to rest on the coffee table. The wooden case was a perfect cube, one foot square. An inch-wide light wood inlay decorated the perimeter of the top, while the center was the same dark wood as the rest of the box. He slid his handkerchief into a pocket as he shifted forward, studying the box before moving it one-quarter turn. Then he pressed the inlay four times in a clockwise motion, starting with the right side. On the fourth push, the dark center of the top made a light popping noise and rose slightly. Grunting with satisfaction, he removed the lid.

“How did you know which side to press first?” Max examined the box closely, but each side of the inlay appeared identical.

“If I told you, then I wouldn’t have any more secrets, would I?”

Max sat back with arms folded. He had learned that the silent treatment was the best and only way to pressure an aging diplomat.

Mr. Murayama relented as expected. “All right. All right. In the game of Mahjong,
there are tiles representing the four winds. The East wind always goes first. To open this box, the single thing that matters is for East to go first, then South, then West, and last, North.”

“Then why’d you turn the box once before pressing down the first time?”

“To appear more complicated.”

Max laughed.

Mr. Murayama’s self-satisfied grin washed away as he lifted a crimson velvet cover, revealing a tray of antique pocket watches. He selected a shiny silver timepiece and lifted it tenderly from its resting place before handing it over.

“Like my grandpa’s . . . ” Max examined it carefully. The script on the back was similar to the calligraphy used throughout Japan. The difference was the extensive use of circles in many of the symbols. “I don’t recognize the writing. What language is it?”

“Set that one down on the cloth. Here is a beautiful one.”

Together they reviewed the contents of each tray in the box, and soon more than twenty timepieces covered the table. Finally, Mr. Murayama lifted out the last tray, revealing the lowest level in the box. “Here is the most special one. Notice the pearl dragon behind the hands.”