is not – there, the door swings open, feet in the entrance hall. The books are straining to hear, too. ‘Miyake! Relax! This is Yuzu Daimon! Come out, come out, wherever you are! Your landlord gave me the key.’ We meet on the stairs. ‘You look better than when I last saw you,’ I say. ‘Most road-kills look better than me last Friday,’ he replies. ‘But you look worse. Sheesh! They did that to your eye?’ His T-shirt reads Whoever dies with the most stuff wins. ‘I came to bring you my apology. I thought I could chop off my little finger.’
‘What would I do with your little finger?’
‘Whatever. Pickle it, keep it in an enamelled casket: ideal for picking your nose in polite society. What a conversation piece: “It formerly belonged to the notorious Yuzu Daimon, you know.”’
‘I’d rather use my own finger, thanks. And’ – I wave my hand, vaguely – ‘going back was my decision, not yours.’
‘Oh well, I bought you ten boxes of cigarettes to tide you over,’ he says. I see he is still unsure whether or not I want to murder him. ‘If I had to cut off a finger every time I needed to apologize, I’d be up to my shoulder blade by now. Marlboro. I remembered you smoked Marlboro in the pool hall on the fateful night. And your landlord thought you might like your guitar to keep you company, so I brought it over. I left it down in the entrance hall. How do you feel?’ How do I feel? Weird, but not angry. ‘Thanks,’ I say. He shrugs. ‘Well, considering . . .’ I shrug. ‘The garden is good for smoking.’
Once I begin – from the point where I loaded him into the taxi – I cannot stop until the end – the point where Buntaro loaded me into his car. I can’t remember talking so long, ever. Daimon never interrupts, except to light our cigarettes and to get a beer from the fridge. I even tell him about my father and why I came to Tokyo in the first place. When I finally finish the sun has gone. ‘What amazes me,’ I say, ‘is that none of what happened has been reported. How can forty people get killed – not quietly, either, but action-movie deaths – and it not be reported?’
Bees peruse swaying lavender. ‘Yakuza wars make the police look crap and the politicos look bent. Which, as everybody knows, is true. But by admitting it, the voters of Tokyo may be prompted to wonder why they bother paying taxes. So it gets kept off TV.’
‘But the newspapers?’
‘Journalists are fed reports of battles already won and lost higher up the mountainside. Original, story-sniffing journalists get blacklisted from news conferences, so newspapers can’t keep them on. Subtle, isn’t it?
‘Then why bother with the news at all?’
‘People want their comic books and bedtime stories. Look! A dragonfly! The old poet-monks used to know what week of what month it was, just by the colour and the sheen of dragonflies’ – whatd’yacall’em? – fuselages.’ He plays with his lighter. ‘Did you tell your landlord the uncensored version of what happened to you?’
‘I toned down the violence. I also left out the death threats to his wife, since the man who made them is . . . dead. I still don’t know what is right, and what will give him nightmares and paranoia.’
Daimon nods. ‘Sometimes there isn’t a right thing to do, and the best you can hope for is the least worst. Do you dream about it?’
‘I don’t sleep much.’ I open a can of beer. ‘What are your plans?’
‘My dad thinks I should disappear for a while, and for once we agree. I’m going back to the States in the morning. With my wife.’
I splurt out beer. ‘You’re married? Since when?’
Daimon looks at his watch. ‘Five hours ago.’
This is Daimon’s sincere smile. I only see it once, and only for a moment.
‘Miriam? Kang Hyo Yeoun?’
The smile is put away. ‘Her real name is Min. Not many people know her real name, but we owe you. I gather she administered you her famous kick.’
‘I sewed them back on. Min? Her name never stays the same.’
‘It will from now on.’
We clink cans. ‘Congratulations. Quick, uh, wedding.’
‘That is the point of clandestine marriage and elopement.’
‘I got the impression you hated each other.’
‘Hate.’ Diamon examines his hands. ‘Love.’
‘Do your parents know?’
‘They’ve lived separately for ten years – always very respectably, of course. But they kind