The Samurai Strategy Part 23

Somewhere inside she felt envy of them all, felt a yearning to share their absolute sense of' who they were.

While she reflected on that, surrounded by the white gravel and golden woods, she found herself looking anew at Ken. Being here with him at Ise made her question once again whether in his world, his austere yet deeply pa.s.sionate world, she could never be anything but a _gaijin_, an outsider.

CHAPTER TEN

It was almost dark when they reached the spa, one of those vast j.a.panese resort hotels catering to the middle cla.s.s. It had a fake- traditional exterior and hundreds of rooms inside, as though the Temple of the Golden Pavilion had somehow been hollowed out and enlarged to encompa.s.s a health club. Strangely, though, it had been completely cleared, guests sent on their way; it was totally, absolutely empty.

The parking lot was cordoned off, and gardeners were busily clipping and manicuring the grounds. Tam was impressed. Dai Nippon must have plenty of clout, she told herself, to be able to commandeer an entire hotel.

The manager came out to meet Noda, deferentially bowing and sucking in his breath, after which their few bags were summarily swept away. When Noda returned he said nothing, merely smiled and suggested they all retire to the big public baths on the lower level. Since the hotel was a vacation retreat, the bas.e.m.e.nt was almost entirely devoted to the one universal love of the j.a.panese public--scalding water.

Down they went through the concrete hallways, attendants and staff bobbing. The sauna-like baths, like the hotel, seemed to be theirs alone. While Noda and Ken retired to the men's section down the corridor, Tam and Mori entered the women's side, a cavernous tile- floored room with a steaming pool at one end. Local women in white head-kerchiefs immediately appeared and began to fuss over their guests, scrubbing and rinsing them while praising the famous Noda-sama.

Then, as Mori's towel dropped away, Tam looked her over.

Good figure. She had always believed that, judged by Western standards, j.a.panese women tended to be somewhat flat-chested and to have shortish calves, characteristics the high-waisted kimono was well designed to disguise--which also explained why a Western woman wearing one could easily look like a buxom stork. Mori, however, had a lithe, well- proportioned shape, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were positively generous.

The intimacy of the bath didn't noticeably humanize her however. While they soaked and steamed, she volunteered nothing beyond a few routine pleasantries. No more tirades about Yamatoism and American treachery, but no informal talk either. After a polite interval Tam excused herself to go upstairs to her room and freshen up for dinner. Mori's agenda clearly differed from Noda's; this woman, she concluded, had a game plan all her own. But what?

Not long afterward she heard Ken tapping lightly on the door. Just as she'd hoped. After the hot, steamy bath, he couldn't have been more welcome. In fact she took one look at him, pristine and elegant in his blue silk _yukata_, and briefly considered undressing him right there in the doorway--with her teeth.

He was a wonderful lover, by turns gentle and forceful, as though their being together was some exquisite ceremony. Their lovemaking always had a particularly j.a.panese quality, a heightened appreciation of the erotic, derived no doubt from a tradition that values subtlety and sensual satisfaction. Afterward they shared a brief soak in the little redwood tub there in her room, then he headed down the hall to change.

Well, she told herself, coming down to Ise has been well worth the trip. Matsuo Noda is definitely eccentric, but all the same he's a Renaissance man by any gauge. Still, why did he want to meet me? Just to tell me ancient fables? No, that's some kind of prelude. The real theme is yet to be announced.

As she started putting her hair up in some quick curlers to try and recover from the steam, she pushed aside her misgivings. Although she only had the suit she'd worn down, intended for business, she decided it didn't matter. Surely tonight would be informal.

She was just finis.h.i.+ng up with her hair when she heard a frantic pounding on the door. Very un-j.a.panese. Puzzling, she cracked it open.

Ken was standing there, no slippers, still in his _yukata_, which he hadn't bothered to tie, all the color gone from his face. Behind him were two uniformed hotel maids, bearing what was surely the most gorgeous kimono she had ever seen, heavy silk with a hand-painted landscape, edged in gold brocade.

"Tamara, I had no idea, honestly. Noda-sama only found out when we got here, and he couldn't say anything. It was all top secret, heavy security. They only just arrived a few minutes ago, and he's asked Noda to dine with him." He paused for breath. "We're invited too."

"Who's just arrived?"

Asano was so nonplussed he didn't hear her. "Apparently he wanted to review the site plans personally, tomorrow, to see where the museum will be. I hear the Imperial Household was set against it, but he insisted."

"Who, for G.o.d's sake?" The impossible answer was rapidly dawning.

Abruptly he paused, embarra.s.sed by his own mental disarray.

"His Majesty. Tam, we're about to meet the Emperor of j.a.pan."

In marched the bowing maids, lots of long-vowel honorifics--they apparently a.s.sumed the honorable Richardson-san must be America's First Lady--and took over.

Tam knew full well that donning a formal kimono was no small undertaking, but she'd forgotten what a major task it really could be.

First came the undergarments: cotton vest and silk under-kimono, secured twice, once with a cord and then with an under-sash. Next was the kimono itself, right side folded under the left and then bound at the waist with a cord, the excess length being pulled up and folded over so that the hem just cleared the toes. That fold was in turn secured by another waist cord, after which came yet another under-sash.

Now it was ready for the all-important outer sash, the _obi_, a heavy silk strip wound around the waist twice, cinched hard, and knotted at the back, long end up, short end down. Then the long end was folded into a sort of cloth _origami_, this one a b.u.t.terfly, after which it was rolled into a makes.h.i.+ft tube, into which the short end was stuffed.

Finally this _obi _sculpture was secured with yet another waist cord, knotted in front.

It was all done with minute precision, including the rakish display of a prescribed few millimeters of silk under kimono at the neck, an erotic touch for traditionalists. Finally she put on special _tabi_ stockings, bifurcated at the big toe to accommodate her thonged slippers.

Then they attacked her hair, brus.h.i.+ng, spraying, adding

ornaments. The makeover took a good three quarters of an hour and even so it was a rush job.

As the sashes and cords and cinches got ever tighter and more suffocating, she remembered what wearing a kimono can do to your psyche. The _obi _seemed designed to demolish b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the multiple waist sashes and cords to totally immobilize the torso from rib cage to thigh. When Ken finally escorted her onto the elevator she felt like a walking mummy . . . this, she remembered, is why a lifelong kimono wearer minces along in short, pigeon-toed steps that suggest she's been shackled at the knees.

Downstairs the kitchen had been placed on war footing, and what awaited when they entered the _tatami _banquet room was the tableau for a full- scale feast. The lacquer table was dotted with delicate rice-straw mats, on which was marshaled an array of ancient stoneware plates and cups--rugged black Raku, creamy white s.h.i.+no, green-tipped Oribe. The _kakemono _picture-scroll hanging in the _tokonoma_ was a severe monochrome landscape in the angular ink style of the great master Sesshu. Was it authentic? she wondered. Where'd they get it?

After a few minutes' wait the stately man she'd first seen on TV appeared in the doorway and began removing his shoes, surprisingly relaxed and informal despite the Household guards standing just outside for security. While everybody bowed to the floor, he greeted Noda-- apparently they'd met when Noda presented the sword--and exchanged a few pleasantries. His speech was now ordinary j.a.panese, not the archaic court dialect of the news conference. This was the real man. Noda bowed politely from time to time, then turned and introduced his party.

The Emperor of j.a.pan, Tam noticed, seemed to have an eye for the ladies. When her turn came, he was all easy smiles, saying something about how pleasant it was to meet such a charming American, since he rarely had the honor. He then complimented her kimono.

After that, His Majesty took the place of highest status, his back to the _tokonoma_ alcove (traditionally the safest spot to be, since it was the one location in a room sure to be backed by a solid wall), and motioned for Noda to sit next to him on the left, the second-highest place of honor.

Then he nodded toward Tam, calling her his honorable foreign guest, and asked if she would indulge him by sitting on

his right. She bowed back and took her place. Mori, whose own kimono was a pattern of delicately shaded autumn leaves, was seated alongside Noda, while Ken was placed next to Tam. As he was settling everybody, an important ritual of prestige, the Emperor kept repeating how delighted he was to meet a real American--his exposure to the outside world these days apparently consisted mainly of television.

He started things off by toasting Dai Nippon, International with a saucer of sake, after which he asked Noda to repeat for him again exactly how the sword had been recovered. Since his late father had been an ardent marine biologist, he loved the part about the computerized magnetometer and pressed for all the details.

Finally the banquet got underway, course after course of a little sliver of local seafood and an ornamental portion of seasonal vegetable, everything on some unexpected serving piece. It was a feast of sight as much as taste. A delicacy called _mukozuke _came in a black lacquer bowl, _ha.s.sun_ on a bamboo tray, _has.h.i.+arai _in a brown Raku cup, _konomono _in a weathered earthen dish, _yakimono_ on a gray Oribe platter tipped with green. The sake pot was cast-iron, sixteenth- century, with a pale turquoise porcelain top. They all drank from saucers of crusty white s.h.i.+no ware--the Emperor's tipped in gold.

By then Tam's legs had begun to ache. She knew that sitting in formal j.a.panese style, on the heels, can eventually induce what seems like semi-paralysis of the lower extremities. As she glanced around, she decided that only Ken, who'd told her he was accustomed to kneeling traditional style for hours practicing the tea ceremony, actually seemed comfortable.

Finally the table was cleared for the famous specialty of the spa, which His Majesty had specifically requested. It was an ornate _yosenabe_, a l.u.s.ty j.a.panese bouillabaisse of artfully sculptured components, each of which signified some episode in the fateful battle of Dan-no-ura--in fact, the very engagement in which the sword was lost.

That was eight hundred years ago, Tam reminded herself, yet you'd think it was only last week.

They were just concluding the meal with the traditional serving of _gohan_ or rice when the manager of the spa entered and announced that their special entertainer was now ready. He apologized that, although he could offer nothing truly worthy of His Majesty, his humble spa had brought from Kyoto a performer he hoped would not be judged too harshly. He then ordered more sake sent in.

Although drinking more sake after a banquet's closing round of _gohan_ is normally judged impolite, His Majesty just smiled and thanked their fl.u.s.tered host. Around went the small flagons once more, maids sc.r.a.ping the _tatami _with their foreheads as they refilled the Emperor's gold- trimmed saucer.

Then the _fusuma_ parted and the evening's surprise swept into the room, wearing an austere autumn kimono of finest silk and holding a _shamisen_, a three-stringed instrument with a cat-skin face and gold fittings. Her lips were vermilion, her lacquered wig coal-black, her face chalk. As she bowed low before His Majesty, only one visage in the room was paler than hers.

She was, Ken whispered to Tam with great delight, none other than Matsuo Noda's former "protegee," Koriko.

After she had bowed low before the Emperor, she greeted the president and CEO of Dai Nippon as though he were merely another guest. He nodded and mumbled back a reply both curt and incomprehensible. Next she tossed a mildly flirtatious acknowledgment to Ken, who returned her wink and toasted her with his sake saucer.

That ended the formalities, since she treated the women in the room as though they were composed of thin air. Their presence violated all tradition, an embarra.s.sment that could be papered over, j.a.panese style, simply by pretending they didn't exist. Tam could have cared less, while the pained face of Akira Mori indicated she was positively relieved.

Koriko took immediate command of the room with an easy poise that confirmed her professionalism. Tam guessed she was pus.h.i.+ng forty but knew that aficionados of geisha prefer talent over youth. Using a large ivory plectrum, Koriko strummed her _shamisen_ twice, its wound-silk strings piercing and whiny, then began a high-pitched song from her ancient repertoire. Tam couldn't follow the words and doubted if anybody else could either. However, she knew it was the convention that counted. Then at a dramatic moment two more geisha entered with a flourish and began a cla.s.sical dance, all fans and rustling silk. It was a stunning floor show for those who appreciate slow-motion poses and flirtatiously exposed napes of neck. Between dances Koriko urged more sake on the men, joked with His Majesty and with Ken, and induced them both to sing a racy song. Noda, who sat there glaring, was diplomatically ignored.

For her own part, Tam was finding this traditional "geisha party"

extremely juvenile and silly. Was this what supposedly intelligent j.a.panese businessmen consider the height of refined amus.e.m.e.nt, all this fake flattery and cajoling, mixed with not a few ribald double entendres? How depressing.

After a few more songs and dances Koriko and her ensemble began preparing to depart, whereupon His Majesty presented her with a small gift, or perhaps an honorarium, wrapped in gold paper and tied with an elaborate purple bow. In keeping with etiquette she didn't open it, merely thanked him graciously and tucked it into her obi. She then caressed the ivory pegs of her shamisen with reverence, saying she would treasure it forever as the unworthy instrument that had solaced the ears of His Imperial Majesty.