The Miko - 02 (36 page)

“Just like a
gaijin.
”

“On the contrary, Nangi-san. Just like a Japanese.”

Nangi shifted position to ease the stiffness coming into his muscles. “I don’t understand.”

“Unlike most of the
iteki
in SCAP, who had no concept of the lethal consequences of their planned public humiliation—for they saw it only as a revealing of the truth—Colonel Linnear knew what Shimada must do. Oh, yes, Nangi-san, he wanted Shimada dead almost as badly as I did.”

“What is another Japanese life to an
iteki
?”

Makita heard the bitterness in his friend’s voice and wondered at the innumerable kinds of rationalization the human mind could unearth in order to protect itself from psychic trauma. It was apparently easy for Nangi to believe someone like Colonel Linnear would engineer the death of a Japanese merely because he was a barbarian. Did it occur to Nangi that he himself was the minister of justice in this case, meting out Shimada’s death sentence in order to help speed Japan’s high growth through the direct control of MITI. Now who is rationalizing? Makita asked himself.

He had no doubt about Nangi’s brilliance, however. The man had been dead right with his prediction of the Korean War. America had put Japan on a war-materiel manufacturing blitz, and many of the nascent companies dragooned into gearing up were helplessly undercapitalized.

SCAP saw this immediately and allowed the Bank of Japan to step up its loan rate to the twelve city banks, who then passed the money on to the companies in need. For weeks Makita had been thinking of a way to capitalize on this development, for he saw that a lack of adequate financing would leave many companies open to foreign takeover. This he felt quite strongly must never be allowed to occur, and he was in the process of extending MITI’s power in this area so that all foreign investors would have to come to MITI to seek permission to approach a company.

“How is our friend Sato-san making out?” he asked.

“Quite well,” Nangi said, reaching for one of the
mochi
, concentrated rice cakes that Obā-chama had baked for them. They were three days into 1951 and these were traditional new year’s fare. “He has managed to rise to the vice presidency of his mining
konzern,
overseeing all coal operations.”

Makita grunted. “Take care you drink plenty of water with those,” he observed. “My brother was a doctor and he used to dread the first two weeks of every new year because he was constantly running from patient to patient, trying to unblock intestines clogged with indigestible
mochi.
”

“I wouldn’t let Obā-chama hear you say that,” Nangi said, taking another bite. “But just to be on the safe side, I think I’ll have some more tea.” He leaned forward.

“She misses him, you know,” Makita said after they had drained their cups. “Sato-san. He’s making a great deal of money and a solid name for himself. But he’s up north and he rarely gets a chance to see Obā-chama. Now if only his
konzern
had an office here in Tokyo. But they’re much too small on their own. It wouldn’t be profitable. Only the city bank that subsidizes them is located here.”

A warning bell went off in Nangi’s mind. On the surface there seemed no relation to what Makita had just said and the problem he had been working on. And yet he trusted his senses enough to know that if he took the time to probe beneath the surface, he would find the link.

The problem revolved around money and who had money other than banks. For a moment Nangi’s mind was blank, and then the meshing of ideas hit him with such dazzling force that he was rocked back on his buttocks. Yes, of course!

His eyes cleared. “Makita-san,” he said softly. “May I have your assistance?”

“You have it gladly. You have only to ask.”

“Here is what we must do, Makita-san. MITI must resurrect the
zaibatsu.
”

“But they were our enemy. At every turn they sought to draw power away from the ministries. And in any event the Occupation Forces have banned
zaibatsu
forever.”

“Yes,” Nangi said excitedly, “the
old zaibatsu.
But what I am speaking of now is something new,
kin-yū keiretsu
, financial linkages. As a base, we will take a bank because only a bank has enough capital to finance such a setup. Its capital will finance several industrial firms, oh, say, steel, electronics, and mining, and a general trading company. In times of expansion, as we have now, the bank will be able to underwrite its own companies and, conversely, during times of economic recession, which must surely hit us, Makita-san, the trading company will be able to import raw materials on credit and promote the
keiretsu
’s products overseas, thus avoiding any stockpiling in a contracting domestic market.”

Makita’s eyes were shining and he rubbed the palms of his hands together. “Call Sato-san immediately. We’ll start with the bank underwriting his company. We’ll elevate him and in the process bring him home.

“Oh, this is brilliant, Nangi-san. Brilliant! By next year SCAP will be gone and MITI can do whatever it feels is necessary to propel Japan to the forefront of international trade.”

“What about control?” Nangi asked. “We must ensure that what happened with the
zaibatsu
never happens with these new
keiretsu.
We must bind them to the ministries as part of their charter.”

Makita smiled. “And so we shall, Nangi-san. Because MITI directs policy, because we can issue write-offs in certain areas and not in others, because we can authorize sizable payouts as insurance against bad debt trade contracts, we can totally control the trading companies. And without the trading companies the
keiretsu
is useless. Any bank will see that reasoning.”

“Ah, even the Prime Minister will see the pureness of the
keiretsu,
since it is a perfect way to direct what capital is available into the right economic channels.” They were like two children wonderingly examining a marvelous new toy. “It’s the perfect long-range plan. Because the individual companies within each
keiretsu
are totally financed by the bank, they can concentrate on market penetration, developing the best possible product, and not on shareholders’ demands for short-term profitability.”

Makita sprang up. “This calls for a celebration, my young friend! Tomorrow is soon enough to speak to Sato-san. Tonight, we are off to a place I know in
karyukai.
A night in the willow world will do us both a great deal of good. Come, we are off to
Fuyajo
, the Castle That Knows No Night, where the sakē flows until dawn and we will lie on pillows that breathe with infinite softness and create patterns of eternal delight!”

An exaltation of larks clung to the flame-decorated branches of the stately maple that grew on one side of the garden that had originally attracted Nangi and Sato to this house near Ueno Park. Brisk October winds had scoured the sky, vaporizing the stringy clouds near the horizon and turning the air to crystal.

As Nangi watched, clad in a padded kimono, a black field with a pewter design, the larks burst from the maple in a fine spray as if he were on the bow of a ship churning through the Pacific. Then, like the Occupation Forces, they were gone, swallowed up in the enormous cerulean sky, the color as translucent as the finest Chinese porcelain.

Though this was the end of 1952 and Japan was once again a free country, purged of
iteki
, there was no joy in Nangi’s heart. He knelt by the open
fusuma
, his hands folded in his lap, gazing with blind eyes out at the near-perfect beauty of the garden. It would never be perfect, of course. As the nature of Zen dictated, one must spend one’s life searching for that perfection.

Behind him Nangi could hear the soft voices of Makita, Sato, and his new wife, Mariko, a gentle doll-like woman with a core of courage and an open soul Nangi could admire. She had been good for Sato, fulfilling a void in him that had been apparent to Nangi almost since the two had first met.

It was Nangi who mourned Obā-chama’s passing the longest. Makita, of course, knew her only peripherally. To Sato, she had been mother and father both, and he had been unwell for almost a week following her funeral.

But Obā-chama had died more than a month ago and Nangi still felt the absence of her spirit like a void in his own soul. She had been more than mother to him, she had been his confidant, his
sensei
even when he needed it. They had shared the joys of his successes, the bitter sorrows of disappointments. She had counseled him wisely in perilous times and had had enough strength to kick him when he thought he had no more stamina to press onward.

She had been old, ancient even. And Nangi knew all things must eventually turn to dust from whence they first came. But his spirit was bitter and sere without Obā-chama’s bright eyes and chirrupy voice.

Though he could not understand it fully then, Obā-chama’s death sealed his fate, or a good part of it at least. After Gōtarō’s death Nangi had made an unconscious pact with himself never to allow that degree of openness—and therefore vulnerability—to spring up between him and anyone else. But somehow Obā-chama had charmed him out of that pact, with this inevitable result.

Though Nangi was to sleep with many women in his time, he would feel nothing for them in his heart. The double deaths from his past were like eternal
kami
hovering in his mind, reminding him of how evil and unfair life could be. These, of course, were very Western concepts, but Nangi could never admit such anathema to himself. Thus his
karma
was complete. This struggle between his Japanese nationalism and what a tiny part of him might suspect was his ultimate reason for turning to Christianity would plague him to the end of his days, an eternal punishment perhaps for submitting to Gōtarō’s sacrifice, for lacking the courage to overcome his terror and do for his friend what Gōtarō had finally done for him.

The birds were gone now, but the splendor of the autumnal foliage crowned the maple with a mantle of searing colors. Voices drifted over Nangi like
kami.
Mariko was busy preparing the traditional gifts of foodstuff for tonight’s
tsukimi
—the moon-viewing ritual of contemplation and peace.

Nangi’s gaze moved over the top of the swaying maple to the brilliant sky swept new by the gathering winds swirling aloft. Soon the moon would rise, showering this small space with silver and blue light. And through the open
fusuma
the chill of night would slowly creep in.

*Sokaijin
means, literally, “escape to the country.” The term was used for the thousands of refugees streaming out of the smoking cities into the rural and therefore safer villages of Japan.

**The bond between school and university classmates.

***The military, then secret police.

[1. A gap; an opportunity presents itself, enter swiftly 2. Spies]

H
IS HEART LEAPT WHEN
he saw her. She broke through the cordon of milling people, her long legs pumping, and raced into his arms.

“Oh, Nick,” she cried into his chest, “I thought you were never coming home.”

He lifted her head up so he could drink in the colors of her large eyes, the swirled sienna and bottle green that could have been hazel but was not. The bright crimson motes danced in her left iris. He saw that she had been crying.

“Justine.”

His sigh set her off again, and he felt the slow crawl of her hot tears as their lips crushed together and her mouth opened under his, her sweet warm breath mingling with his, and he thought, It’s good to be home.

“I’m sorry about how that call ended,” she said. People were shouldering roughly past them and he became aware that they were blocking the egress from the incoming flight. He moved them quickly off to the side.

“So am I,” he said. “I was distracted—there was so much to do over there and not enough time to do it in.”

She had done something to her hair, he saw. It was as tangly and wild as a lion’s mane. Too, there were garnet highlights here and there as the overhead lights spun off it.

“I like it,” he said, his arm still around her.

She looked at him. “What?”

“Your hair.”

She smiled as they began to walk toward the glass doors. “All that matters is that you’re home safe and sound.” She put her head against his shoulder, forcing him to shift his bags to a more comfortable position.

He found it odd and somehow unsettling that she had said nothing at all about her father. But, considering what was ahead, he did not think this the best time to question her. Instead, he said, “Tell me about your new job. Are you happy there?”

“Oh, yes,” she said and immediately launched into a description of the three major projects Rick Millar had her working on. In so doing she was transformed again into the exuberant little girl she often could be. It was interesting how all shyness evaporated from her at these times. She seemed supremely self-confident and mature. Nicholas found himself wondering how a job could have changed her in so short a time.