Number 9 dream Page 0,115

Tsukiyamas.’

‘Precisely. Just for the record: is that your intention?’

‘No, Mr Raizo. All I want is to meet my father.’ How many times must I say this?

‘Your grandfather believes that secrecy is the wisest strategy to belay your stepmother’s misgivings, at this point. Young lady!’ Mr Raizo crooks his finger at a passing waitress. ‘One of my gigantic cognacs, if you please. Your poison, Miyake?’

‘Uh, green tea, please.’

The waitress gives me a well-trained smile. ‘We have eighteen varieties—’

‘Oh, just bring the boy a pot of tea, dammit!’

The waitress bows, her smile undented. ‘Yes, Admiral.’

Admiral? How many of those are there? ‘Admiral Raizo?’

‘That was all many years ago. “Mr” is fine.’

‘Mr Raizo. Do you actually know my father?’

‘Blunt questions earn blunt answers. I make no secret of the fact I despise the man. I have avoided his company for years. Since the day I learned he sold the Tsukiyama sword. It had been in his – your – family for five centuries, Miyake. Five Hundred Years! The snub that your father dealt five centuries of Tsukiyamas – not to mention the Tsukiyamas yet to be born – is immeasurable. Immeasurable! Your grandfather, Takara Tsukiyama, is a man who believes in blood-lines. Your father is a man who believes in joint stock ventures in Formosa. Do you know where the Tsukiyama sword presently resides?’ The admiral rasps. ‘It resides in the boardroom of a pesticide factory in Nebraska! What do you think of that, Miyake?’

‘It seems a shame, Mr Raizo, but—’

‘It is a crime, Miyake! Your father is a man devoid of honour! When he separated from your mother he would happily have cut her adrift without a thought for her future! It was your grandfather who ensured her financial survival.’ This is news to me. ‘There are codes of honour, even when dealing with concubines. Flesh and blood matter, Miyake! Blood-lines are the stuff of life. Of identity! Knowing who you are from is a requisite of self knowledge.’ The waitress arrives with a silver tray, and places our drinks on lace place mats.

‘I agree that blood-lines are important, Mr Raizo. This is why I am here.’

The admiral sniffs his brandy moodily. I sip my soapy tea. ‘Y’know, Miyake, my doctors told me to lay off this stuff. But I meet more geriatric sailors than I do geriatric doctors.’ He drinks half the glass in one gulp, tips his head back, and savours every molecule. ‘Your stepsisters are dead losses. A pair of screeching vulgarities, at some half-wit college. They rise at eleven o’clock in the morning. They wear white lipstick, astronaut boots, cowboy hats, Ukrainian peasant scarfs. They dye their hair the colour of effluence. It is your grandfather’s hope that his grandson – you – have principles loftier than those espoused in the latest pop hit.’

‘Mr Raizo, forgive me if . . . I mean, I hope my grandfather doesn’t see me as any kind of, uh, future heir. When I say I have no intention of muscling my way into the Tsukiyama family tree, I mean it.’

Mr Raizo makes rumbles impatiently. ‘Who – meant – what – where – when – why – whose . . . Look, your grandfather wants you to read this.’ He places a package on the table, wrapped in black cloth. ‘A loan, not a gift. This journal is his most treasured possession. Guard it with your life, and bring it when you rendezvous with your grandfather seven days from now. Here. Same time – ten hundred hours – same table. Questions?’

‘We never met – is it wise to trust me with something so—’

‘Brazen folly, I say. Make a copy, I told the stubborn fool. Don’t entrust some boy with the original. But he insisted. A copy would dilute its soul, its uniqueness. His words, not mine.’

‘I, uh . . .’ I look at the black package. ‘I am honoured.’

‘Indeed you are. Your father has never read these pages. He would probably auction them to highest bidder, on his “Inter Net”.’

‘Mr Raizo: could you tell me what my grandfather wants?’

‘Another blunt question.’ The admiral downs the rest of his cognac. The jewel in his tie-clasp glimmers ocean-trench blue. ‘I will tell you this. Growing old is an unwinnable campaign. During this war we witness ugly scenes. Truths mutate to whims. Faith becomes cynical transactions between liars. Sacrifices turn out to be needless excesses. Heroes become old farts, and young farts become heroes. Ethics become logos on sports clothing. You ask what your grandfather wants?