The Fat Innkeeper (15 page)

“Hello,” said Am.

“Hello,” replied Hiroshi.

Should he lie? Am wondered. Should he say there had been a report of some Peeping Tom in the bushes? In some ways he felt
like a student on unofficial holiday encountering the truant officer. This was the son of the owner, after all. He probably
expected him to be toiling in some office. Not that he wasn’t working, Am thought defensively. He was. But how could he explain
that?

Similar debates were going on in Hiroshi’s own mind. He was supposed to lead by example. It didn’t look right to be found
out sneaking into some bushes. Should he explain? And if he did, would the
gaijin
even be able to understand what he was talking about?

Sometimes people never meet, even those that encounter each other on a
frequent
basis. It is often easier to use objects as barriers: a job, a goal, a subject, an agenda; those are the start and finish
of many relationships. On the two occasions Am and Hiroshi had met before, there had been the sizable matters of a beached
whale and the murder to discuss. Maybe they needed those kinds of things to carry on a conversation. It is easier to talk
about something than it is to talk to someone. Am felt acutely embarrassed. What was there to say to this foreigner anyway?
But he thought he owed him some kind of explanation. Sharon said that the Japanese believed laziness was an inherent American
trait. He didn’t want the Fat Innkeeper to think he was shirking his duties.

“I came here to do some work on Dr. Kingsbury’s death,” said Am. He waved the paperwork, as if to further exonerate him from
the unspoken charges.

Hiroshi nodded, and then took a few steps closer. “I came here,” he said, “because it’s…”

From what he knew of Americans, they always wanted an explanation, but was this one of those inexplicable things to them?
Japanese distrusted speech, though by his countrymen’s standards Hiroshi knew he was considered positively gabby.

“…
shibui.”

In Japan he wouldn’t have to explain. His people had been homogeneous for so long. For over a thousand years there’d been
virtually no new infusion in the Japanese gene pool. There was a collective sensibility to their nation. He might be able
to translate a word to this American, but not a cultural mind-set.

“It makes your mouth pucker,” Hiroshi said, “but in a pleasing, pos-i-tive way.”

Of the five senses, Am was sure that taste would be the least used by westerners to describe a setting. “Positive,” he repeated,
then added the alliterative, “pleasing pucker.”

This one knows nothing of my country’s aesthetics, thought Hiroshi, is ignorant of how we appreciate the quiet and the understated.

Am moved off his rock. He walked over to the lemonade-berry plant, plucked a handful of seeds from it, and put a few in his
mouth.
“Shibui,”
he said, then offered a few of the seeds to the Fat Innkeeper.

Hiroshi hesitated, then accepted the seeds but didn’t immediately follow Am’s example of putting them in his mouth.

“The locals call these plants lemonade berry,” said Am. “The native peoples supposedly used to swirl them around in water
for their tart taste. Don’t chew the seeds, though. They might make you sick. You just suck on them a little.”

And then you spit them out. With Hiroshi carefully watching him, Am felt self-conscious. Was expectorating some terrible Japanese
taboo? Unsure, Am eased most of the seeds out of his mouth into his hand, then as unobtrusively as possible started flicking
them into the brush.

“ ‘ ’Twas a brave man that ate the first oyster,’ “ said Am.

Whether it was curiosity, or Swift’s quote that prevailed, the Fat Innkeeper finally decided to experiment on a solitary seed.
He sucked on it for a few moments, decided more of a trial was in order, and put the rest of the seeds in his mouth. The taste
pleased him. Lemon-like, but quieter. Puckering, but gently so. It was
shibui, shibui
exactly. Maybe this
gaijin
had understood. With some pleasure, with the same spirit in which watermelon seeds are set aflight outdoors, Hiroshi spat
out his seeds one by one. Am wasn’t about to be denied his own projectiling. He had two seeds left, and he let them fly.

Their ammunition spent, the two men offered grins and nods for one another. Seed-spitting contests, thought Am, the new diplomatic
frontier. He motioned for Hiroshi to sit atop the boulder, but to no avail. It is virtually impossible to out-polite the Japanese.

“That place is taken,” said the Fat Innkeeper.

“I was about to leave,” said Am.

“Your work went well?”

Am wasn’t sure if there was any facetiousness in the inquiry. Most American bosses wouldn’t take kindly to an underling’s
retreat into the brush, but Hiroshi seemed genuinely interested.

“I was trying to get an idea of how Dr. Kingsbury spent his time at the Hotel,” said Am. “It is good to get…”

Should he say, “far from the madding crowd”? Would Hiroshi understand? Sharon had emphasized how very different Japanese and
American upbringing was. In America youthful individualism is extolled, whereas in Japan children are taught that success
is a group endeavor.

“… away to think,” said Am, compromising his response.

“Yes,” said Hiroshi. “This is a good thinking rock, isn’t it?”

They both nodded—or was it bowed?—again.

“Did Dr. Kingsbury have a family?” asked Hiroshi.

“No,” said Am.

The news apparently bothered Hiroshi. “No one?”

Am shook his head. “His parents are deceased, and he had no siblings. He was married once, but that was a long time ago and
there were no children.”

“That is not good.” The Fat Innkeeper was insistent. “Bad
shiryoo.”

“What?”

“Shiryoo
means the spirit of someone who has just died. The family takes care of the
shiryoo.
They…”

He stretched for the word. “… appease it.”

“What happens,” asked Am, “if the
shiryoo
isn’t appeased?”

“We have a word called
gaki.
It is a wandering spirit stuck between the worlds of the living and the dead. It is hungry.”

“Hungry?”

“Hungry for someone to care, for someone to set it free.”

It was refreshing to hear someone who was Japanese talking about ghosts. The Japanese are usually referenced to automobiles,
or electronics, or trade. But some of them, at least, trafficked in spirits.

“There are companies in Japan,” said Hiroshi, “which have mass tombs for their workers and families. They don’t want them
to feel lonely after they die.”

That, thought Am, sounded more Japanese. Most Americans would sooner share a social disease than they would a tomb, especially
one housing their co-workers.

“I think,” said Am, “that’s one company benefit you don’t have to worry about offering here.”

Hiroshi nodded, but it was apparent he wasn’t really listening. “It is good you are concerned about this man,” he said. “His
shiryoo
should be delivered from the concerns of this world. Unless that is done, there is the threat of
tatari—
curses.”

“Do you really think that?” asked Am.

The Fat Innkeeper looked away, embarrassed. “Does it matter?” he asked. “It is traditional to think in such ways, but now
traditions are forgotten.”

“Maybe that explains our brave new world,” said Am. “More wandering spirits and more curses.”

Hiroshi didn’t smile. “In my country we have
Obon,”
he said, “a Festival of the Dead. But it is not what it
was.
Everyone wants to be a
mobo
or
moga, a
modern boy and girl.”

“What about you?”

Hiroshi reddened slightly and looked uncomfortable. It was clearly not pleasurable for him to talk about some matters, but
he still apparently felt the need to talk. Am knew from Sharon that the Japanese favored indirect speech, quite in contrast
to American “straight talk.” One Japanese anthropologist had written a paper on how candid speech disturbed the Japanese,
and had concluded with a footnote confessing that even writing about it made him feel uncomfortable.

“Sometimes I wonder if I have become a total stranger,” he said, “a
mattaku tanin ni natta
—an outsider. I find myself thinking in English because in Japanese it is difficult to imagine the thoughts I have been having.
Hideki Yukawa won the Nobel Prize in physics. He said that when he thought about physics, he thought in English. I understand
that.”

“Did you want to come here?” asked Am.

A slight shrug. “It was necessary. From here I can see better over there.”

Neither one of them said anything for a minute or two. Am thought about his words. They were similar to the sentiments expressed
by the near-dead. Having almost died had changed their thinking. They said they understood things better now. “Be positive,”
Kingsbury had said. Words for life, or words for death?

“I have to go look after my dead man,” said Am.

“In Japanese, samurai means ‘one who serves,’ “ said Hiroshi.

The translation, thought Am, fit him only too well.

The Hotel limo had picked up Bradford (his real name was Brad, but he had added the “ford” because he thought that was more
classy) and his girlfriend Cleopatra (she herself preferred to be called Cleo, but Bradford liked her full name) at the airport.
The driver, Bradford thought approvingly, knew his stuff. He’d opened the doors for them, addressed them as “madam” and “sir,”
and been appropriately obsequious. There had been a complimentary split of champagne iced and waiting for them. Bradford had
opened the bottle, looked Cleo romantically in the eye, and had poured. When they clinked glasses, he said, “To us.” The words
had the proper effect. Her eyes went soft and stupid, and her brain clicked off. She was sure she was in love. That would
make matters much easier for him.

Going with him to the Hotel was her declaration of independence. And it was his route to independence. Her old man was the
only obstacle between Bradford and money. Mack Harris had made a fortune in his Arizona trucking business. The only thing
that mattered to Mack other than money was his daughter. It figured that Mack was the one who had insisted she be named Cleopatra.
She was his little princess.

Bradford Beck was similar to Mack in that he also loved money, but he didn’t like having to work for it. He had become a stockbroker,
not because he had any enthusiasm for the trade, but because the market was something rich people liked to diddle with. When
Bradford was at the country club he always had a line of patter that the members liked. He knew how to dress their dress and
talk their talk. He wanted in on their fraternity, had assiduously scouted out the moneyed set. He knew their holdings like
a sports fanatic knows batting averages. Cleo Harris was the catch he had been looking for. No siblings, no mother, nothing
between her and a fortune except for a red-necked, greasy-handed father.

Bradford had done his best to charm her old man. He had been attentive and polite, had pretended interest in his words (what
few of them had been thrown his way), and yet the simian had made it clear he didn’t approve of Bradford.

Screw him. After they got married, Daddy Warbucks would still want to please his little darling. He’d cough up for a seven-figure
house, and that would be for starters. And if Bradford could stomach his spoiled baby for a few years, the payoffs would only
get better and better.

“Just you, and me, and the beach, darling,” he said. “La Jolla, here we come.”

The damn Hotel California wasn’t cheap, but in order to make money, you had to spend money. It was Bradford’s way of priming
the pump. She would see that Daddy wasn’t the only one who could protect her, or give her the best. And he could entertain
in ways that Daddy couldn’t. She’d probably be asking him to marry her. They had all but made their eloping official.

“La Jolla,” she whispered, closing her eyes and kissing him.

He closed his eyes and kissed her. He preferred it that way. Bradford didn’t have to look at her, could see visions of dollars
instead of a slightly overweight bleached blonde. She looked more like a million others than a million dollars, but there
were those hidden assets, those wonderful hidden assets.

“The Hotel California,” he said. “They were booked up, but I was able to convince a reservationist that it was our special
occasion.”

Cleo cooed at his masterful manner. He figured the Hotel was perfect. That’s where the gentry went. All of Cleo’s rich friends
had practically grown up there, had escaped Arizona’s summer heat by going to the San Diego coast. But not Cleo. Her father
had always shipped her off to the East Coast for her summers, had sent her off to his sister for some “womanly influence.”
Cleo’s mother had died when she was young. Wasn’t that a shame?

“I hear it’s wonderful there,” she said.

At the prices they charge, thought Bradford, it better be. But it should be the culminating touch. It would demonstrate his
pedigree, his good taste. Cleo was used to the best. She would naturally compare him with Daddy, and he wasn’t going to fall
short. The stay was already choreographed in his mind—the attentive bellmen, the subservient room-service waiters, the glad-handing
maitre d’, the watchful doorman. He would be a showman, surprise her with goodies and treats, provide her with the best time
in her life. He’d give her irresistable romance. And then he’d be rich. God, he’d be rich.

Buoyed by bubbly, the thirteen-mile ride from San Diego’s Lindbergh Field (one of the few airports that is actually located
downtown and not in some suburb) went quickly. When Cleo caught sight of the Hotel, she couldn’t find enough superlatives.
Look at the ocean! And the gardens! And the gazebo! Everything so perfect! She could hardly contain her excitement. The last
time Cleo had felt like this was when she was a little girl and her daddy had taken her to Disneyland. She leaned over and
kissed Bradford. “Thank you,” she said. No one else had ever treated her this way. In high school she had only had three dates,
two if you didn’t count the senior prom, and a friend had set her up for that. Cleo felt grown up now, a lady. And she had
her knight in shining armor, her love.