The Oni, page 20
Nakato accepted the liberty with guarded approval. Cooper was one of a handful of people outside of his immediate family with whom he could unselfconsciously expose the shriveled sockets. When he was eight years old, his eyes had been burned out by the same blast that flattened his home city of Nagasaki.
“Please excuse me for greeting you with such Stygian illumination.” Nakato spoke without an accent. He had a keen ear for language.
“Not so Stygian,” Cooper replied. “Back in 1972, you insisted on writing up your part of the catalog in a hotel room that was darker than the inside of a black cat.”
Nakato chuckled. That had been a pet phrase of his. “Such a show-off, wasn’t I? Lately, though, I find I like a bit of light in a room, for its warmth. It takes little to satisfy that whim. Ten years makes a difference. Nearly eleven years, now.” Unerringly, Nakato dragged one of the straight-backed chairs nearer his desk, and reclaimed his own seat.
“Eleven years since we last met,” Cooper mused, taking her seat. She placed her purse and manila envelope on the floor. “You haven’t aged a day, Jiro.”
Nakato ran a thin, paste-white hand through his wiry crewcut. He acknowledged the compliment with a slight head-bow. “A felicitous heritage. Our reunion might have been delayed several more years, had you come three hours later. I leave this evening for my homeland on a year’s sabbatical. I have some long-overdue research to do with original sources. Fate has smiled upon us.”
“A happy coincidence, at least.”
Nakato pursed his lips. “There are no coincidences, Francine, merely connections that we do not perceive. An example. I did not know you would come here today, but I tried to telephone you in Boston yesterday.”
“Oh?”
Nakato clasped his hands before him on the desk. “Francine, you did not have to force a smile for my sake.”
Cooper shifted uneasily, and stopped on realizing that each creak of her chair’s joints was further confirmation to the man’s ears. “Am I so obvious?”
“Your facial muscles were tense. Your voice is strained. I should have known something was wrong even had I not heard of your daughter’s passing. I had called to extend my sympathies. Lynda was a delightful and exasperating little girl. Do you remember the weekend I visited your home, and you were called away for an hour?”
“Vaguely.”
“She immediately invited two friends over and insisted we play Blind man’s buff until you returned.”
“She didn’t!” Cooper reddened. “I’m terribly sorry, Jiro. If I’d known …”
“Precisely why I did not tell you. Now I have another reason to be glad I held my tongue. In your time of bereavement, I am able to offer you this small part of Lynda that you did not know.”
Cooper reached under her chair and drew a package of tissues from her purse. She had thought herself cried out the day before but the thin paper soon grew soggy. Nakato waited, his scarred face impassive. Cooper took several deep breaths to recover her voice.
“Thank you, Nakato-san. I cannot repay this debt.”
The eyeless man again bowed his head. “Between friends, it is not necessary. Now,” he continued firmly, “forgive my brusqueness, but I have spent too much time in this city for its attitudes not to have worn off onto me. What information do you require?”
Cooper sat erect, startled. “What?”
Nakato ticked off his points on his bloodless fingers. “This is no social visit, or you would have telephoned first to be certain I was available. It is not in response to my call, for I left no message on your recorder; what I had to say was better said directly or not at all. So you have come to the Japan Society for information.”
Her grief temporarily purged again, Cooper felt a more natural smile cross her lips. “If you had eyes, no secrets would be safe. You’re right, of course, Jiro. Last year, the Society exhibited the work of several prominent Japanese-American photographers.”
Nakato leaned back. His fingers forms a steeple over his top vest button. The curtain rustled behind him.
“I recall the event, Francine. I was not personally involved. Photography is an artform that eludes my appreciation. I can enjoy a painting when I’m permitted to touch the canvas, feel the texture of the oils, the varying warmths of the colors … yes, I like that very much. The Society has assembled an exhibition of old shop-signs to run through this coming Spring, which I regret I’ll miss. Unfortunately, one sheet of chemically-treated paper feels like another. We have catalogs left, if you wish one.”
“I’m interested in one photographer. Andrew Kura.”
“Kura? Kura.” Nakato tugged his lower lip. “Ah. Not exactly the star attraction, as I recall the reviews.”
“I need his address.”
“Done.” Nakato reached for his telephone. His longer fingers jabbed three buttons before Cooper could blink. In a moment, he followed this with a burst of rapid-fire Japanese.
Cooper allowed her gaze to wander over Nakato’s library. Dozens of hand-bound Braille translations of rare and valuable research material occupied the middle, most-used, shelves. Many of these books were one-of-a-kind, painstakingly copied by Nakato himself from an assistant’s dictation.
The receiver returned to its cradle with a sure click. “I did not mean to exclude you, Francine. The clerk I spoke to is not a Japanese native. I like to keep their language skills honed. Had I gotten a native speaker, I’d have used English.”
“No explanations are necessary, Nakato-san.”
“Keep it Jiro. I also took the liberty of ordering a pot of green tea and some pastries. You will join me in a light lunch?”
“Have I a choice?”
“None whatsoever. Is it permitted to ask why you require this man’s address?”
Cooper bit her lower lip. “It’s a sort of favor for someone at the American Museum of Natural History.”
Nakato raised a patchy eyebrow. “I did not know it was that institution’s policy to recruit errand-runners from the ranks of out-of-town bereaved parents.”
Cooper lowered her head, ashamed that she should hold back anything from this man, after the great gift he had just given her. As if Nakato would somehow betray her! As if he could when, in a few hours, he would be on an airplane headed halfway around the world! She’d only had to say “No” and Nakato would respect her privacy, but he deserved better than half-truths and evasions..
“It’s a favor for myself as well, Nakato-san. Jiro. I am probably on a wild goose chase. The fewer people who know about it, the less embarrassed I’ll feel when it comes to nothing.”
“Then we shall speak of other matters.”
“I appreciate your understanding.”
The silence that followed was long and awkward. Jiro Nakato was patient. Cooper suddenly leaned forward, resting both palms flat on the desk. “Here’s the meat of it: I cannot reconcile the circumstances of Lynda’s death with what I know of her habits.”
Nakato permitted a tiny twitch to the corner of his mouth. “People change. Also, there may be motives that are unknown … and unknowable.”
Cooper sighed. She sat back in her chair. “That has not escaped me.”
“The trail, then, leads to Andrew Kura?”
Cooper shrugged; even with the scar tissue over the eyesockets in full view, it was easy to forget Nakato could not see the gesture. “A side-trail, anyway. I don’t know. I’m floundering, reaching out for any connection that the police seem uninterested in. There’s no point in my duplicating their efforts, since they’re better equipped to investigate murders than I am. I’m just hoping I’ll get lucky.”
Nakato smiled thin-lipped. “A moment ago you belittled fate.”
Cooper offered no reply.
“Is there any other way I can help you?” asked Nakato. “However, as you say, tenuously?”
Cooper shook her head. “I’m afraid not, Jiro. Believe me, I would not hesitate if … wait. Perhaps there is.” She scooped the manila envelope from the floor and undid the clasp.
“What is it?” Nakato said suddenly, pitching his voice louder and swiveling his head back and forth. “Who is there?”
Cooper paused, contents of the envelope half removed. “Jiro? Is something wrong?”
Nakato raised his index finger for silence. “Do you feel a draught?” he whispered. “Hear voices?”
Cooper felt her spine tense and the skin on her arms tighten. There was a rush of air, not unlike the one she’d sensed in Allison Zebar’s office. It did not quite touch her flesh.
She laughed abruptly. “The window is open. There’s your draught!”
Nakato shook his head slowly.
“I don’t hear any voices, though,” she continued. “What are they saying?”
“I don’t know. It is only a faint susurration. Something about the tone hints of power. And giri.”
“Giri?”
“One’s duty.” Nakato clicked his tongue. “Tcha! It’s gone now.”
“It was probably someone in another office standing too near an airshaft window. You’re closer than I am, and your ears are certainly keener.”
Nakato brushed the top of his head with a damp palm. “Yes, perhaps. Where were we?”
Cooper singled out a photograph and carried it to Nakato’s side of the desk. Her skirt brushed a shelf; she was not clumsy, but could not match his grace. She placed the picture flat on the desk before him.
“I should have thought of this downstairs, when they told me you were in. You’re an expert on ancient Japanese lore. If anyone can translate this inscription, it’s you.”
Nakato spread his hands humbly. “I can at least try.”
“This is a photograph of a mangled sword hilt. The damage distorts the characters somewhat. So does the angle at which the picture was taken. The text is almost certain irrelevant to what I want to know. Still …”
“We may get lucky?” finished Nakato.
“Fate may smile on us again,” Cooper admitted, smiling herself.
“It is the hilt alone? No blade?” Nakato inquired, as Cooper took his pale right hand in hers.
“Yes. I see what you’re getting at. No, no inscriptions on the blade, not even a swordmaker’s mark. Just an ordinary straight sword.”
“Ah. If it is not curved, it must be quite old, indeed. Proceed.”
Slowly, gently. Cooper guided Nakato’s long, thin index finger along the strokes that made up the characters. “This is a fairly thick line,” she commented, “tapering off right there. Yes. This hairline crosses it midway … so …”
“There should be another line to its left.”
Cooper squinted at the picture, all but touching it with her nose as she leaned forward. The bright desk lamp reflected off the glossy coating.
“Hard to tell, Jiro. If so, it’s very faint, likely well-worn. Whoever took this picture was not going for legibility of graven characters.”
Again the fingers traced the image, as Cooper described the relative thickness of each stroke. Nakato merely nodded, memorizing the shapes. Whenever she paused, he bid her to continue.
In the middle of the final character Nakato jerked his hand away as if burnt. Cooper withdrew her own hand in reaction. The photograph skittered across the desk and fluttered to the polished wood floor.
“What’s the matter, Jiro?” Cooper asked as she retrieved the picture. “What does it say?”
Nakato moistened his lips. The scar tissue covering his eye-sockets began to pulse, an indicator of stress. The cause of the stress was not tangible, not even definable. He turned in his chair, stretched his right arm to its fullest, and shut the airshaft window.
The office seemed no less chilly.
A small warm circle on the back of his left hand. Francine Cooper’s touch.
“Are you all right, Jiro?”
Nakato squeezed Cooper’s palm. The woman wanted distraction, needed it, but the vague disquiet that tightened his bowels was, he felt, not what she was looking for.
“Anticipation of my flight.” He shrugged. “At my age, excitement must be taken in small doses.”
Cooper returned to her own chair and slid the photograph back into its envelope. “Can you say anything about the inscription?”
Nakato nodded, steepling his index fingers under his chin. “Very old and, as you observed, badly worn. I cannot give you a literal translation. The overall impression is cautionary, but this is so ambiguous that the object itself could be the subject of the warning. One of the characters is a protective rune, combined with a plea to the kami—the ancestral spirits. Perfectly normal for a talisman, which this seems to be. That object may have been created as a sword hilt, but I doubt it ever served that function.”
Cooper toyed with the reclosed envelope, running a finger along its edges. “The blade it supposedly belongs to was fitted with another, less elaborate, hilt.”
Nakato clapped his hands. “There. It was not then fashionable to change tsuga, hilts, as one would change one’s sash.” His voice became somber. “The symbols also convey a strong suggestion of … forgive the dramatic turn of phrase … unutterable evil.”
Cooper tugged at the collar of her blouse. The cotton fabric clung to her back.
“The police found this … talisman … near Lynda’s body. Could that be the source of your impression?”
Nakato laughed. “Such an idea from the rational Mrs. Cooper!”
“I don’t disdain irrationality, when it fits the facts. I prefer to have it explained, of course.”
The man sighed. “I may seem something of a mystic at times, Francine, but I will not insult your intelligence by claiming psychic powers. It is the shape of the characters, the nature of the strokes, that suggests this evil. Whoever etched these figures was in a state of terror.”
“You stopped before we’d finished the last one.”
“Yes. I apologize. That was clear enough, anyway. The thing is a charm against oni; possibly a specific oni. Again, I can’t be certain.”
Cooper’s brow furrowed. “Oni? Isn’t that the Buddhist term for demons?”
Nakato nodded to the right. “In the showcase behind you, on your left, there’s an excellent netsuke image of an oni about to attack. Second shelf. Between the badger-priest and the monkey scholar.”
Cooper’s chair scraped the hardwood floor as she rose. Standing in front of the case, she bent her knees for an eye-level view and tapped the glass with a fingernail.
“May I hold it?”
“That was my intention. You sighted people usually miss the best qualities of a piece of art. I examine the netsuke frequently. Meditating on the craftsman’s skill is one of my fondest pleasures, perhaps a vice. At times I fear I am destroying the very thing I admire, as my fingers slowly wear away the intricate carved details. Then I will not touch them for weeks, until I remember that the plucked flower soon shrivels. Nothing lasts forever.”
Gingerly, Cooper drew forth the squat, stocky figure, as tall as her thumb. The subtlety of its lines, even with so vulgar a subject, was truly marvelous. Fingers and toes, three digits to each appendage, even bore tiny cuticles. Bulges at the joints, more felt than seen, showed where skin folded and doubled on itself. The head was too large for the body, in keeping with legendary appearance, and the horns on the skull tapered to needle sharpness. Teeth were individually limned within their rows; their points indicated the creature could use caps.
Even the gnarled club held aloft by the right arm had whorls to represent wood grain.
The grotesque face was nearly split in two by a grin of awesome malice.
“Lovely work,” Cooper said. “Ugly brute. Seems to enjoy his work, though.” She returned the carving to its former position, defined by a ring of dust.
“That they do,” Nakato replied absently. He leaned back, hands clasped behind his head. “Actually, except for murdering the occasional traveler, oni led fairly dull lives. They stayed in their caves most of the time, and liked it. Not unlike some of your countrymen. There’s something to be said for the sluggish minds demons possessed.”
“I thought devils like this were supposed to be clever, tricking people out of their souls and so forth.” Sitting, Cooper began to play with the manila envelope again.
“You’re thinking of occidental demons. Not to mention an occidental concept of the soul, though that metaphysical can of worms is better left until we both have more time. A better European analogy to the oni is the ogre.” He pursed his lips. “Now that I’ve had a moment to reflect, Francine, I believe the calligraphic style on that tsuga must be seventh or eighth century, certainly no later than tenth century. Not many demon legends date back that far. Chinese Buddhists had to convert a score or so of emperors before their religion really took hold. The most ancient story I know of, in which an oni plays a major part, is the tale of Akuragawa.”
The manila envelope slipped from Cooper’s fingers and slapped against the desk with no more sound than that of a cat’s tread.
“Akuragawa,” she said, eyes widening, “is Andrew Kura’s family’s original name.”
A smile flickered on Nakato’s lips. In his best Warner Oland impersonation, he said, “The similarity of nomenclature had not eluded me.” He reached one-handed for the aviator glasses in his jacket pocket, unfolded the earpieces, and slipped them on. “Excuse this, please, Francine. Some of the staff find my unconcealed appearance disturbing. That clatter in the corridor is no doubt the tea I had ordered so long ago. With luck it may still be tepid.”
Now that her attention was drawn to it, Cooper became aware of clinking, clacking, rattling sounds beyond the door that she’d closed behind her on entering. A drunken samurai in full armor could not be more conspicuous.
“The Akuragawa story,” Nakato continued, “possesses a number of interesting aspects. It even has a certain Arabian Nights flavor which may cause you to doubt its authenticity. You realize, of course, that there is no point in my being one of the few people to know of the legend if I cannot show off my knowledge.”
The door opened slowly inward at that point. Nakato fell silent as a young man with rolled-up shirt sleeves entered. The newcomer was clearly unused to balancing such a laden tray, and Cooper could not let him suffer. As she moved to lend a hand, she looked back at Nakato and said, “Jiro, you don’t dare not tell the story now.”
