Janwillem De Wetering - The Japanese Corpse

"Banzai?" de Gier asked. "Shouldn't they shout 'Kampai'? I thought 'kampai' meant bottoms up. Banzai is some sort of war cry, isn't it?"

"They should say, 'Kampai,'" Yuiko said, "but these musicians are very crazy. They never react normally to anything. I think it's because they used to play on a cruise ship, Tokyo to San Francisco, back and forth, back and forth, forever. One of them is my cousin. He said they got so bored that they had to go crazy or they would jump overboard. One of them did jump overboard; there used to be six."

"Really?" de Gier asked, turning around to look at the musicians again. They appeared to be normal enough, five middle-aged small men. One was bald, the others had long hair.

"They live in an old temple nearby," Yuiko said. "Sometimes I go to see them. It is very nice out there. They live with their wives and girlfriends, and the bald man has two children. The owner of this club is very fond of them; he often goes out there. They play for him and they have parties. They are quite famous, you know. They often play for the TV studios and they have a lot of records out."

"In a temple," de Gier said dreamily. "I am sure it must be very nice to live in a temple. Do they meditate too?"

The girl mockingly imitated the Buddha posture, pulling up her legs and twisting them into each other and straightening her back. She closed her eyes and pouted. De Gier admired her legs; he could see her thighs and tightly stretched slip. Her pubic hair shone through the nylon.

She opened her eyes and freed her legs.

"No," she said. "They don't meditate but they drink a lot."

"Your English is pretty good," he said. "Why do you work in this bar? I thought English-speaking girls went to Tokyo. They can make a lot of money out there, I believe."

She smiled and ruffled his hair. "I used to work in Tokyo, but I prefer this city. It's nice and quiet here, and we often have foreign guests, especially in autumn. Scholars mostly, who come to lecture at Kyoto University."

"You learned your English in Tokyo?"

"Yes," she said. "My mother teaches English. I began to learn when I was very small and I like reading. I learned a lot of words, and later I took some courses."

The small, band had struck up again, and de Gier moved closer to the platform, putting his arm around Yuiko and taking her with him. The other girl had left them, having been summoned by an elderly man who had sat by himself at the bar, drinking steadily and humming to himself, but who had suddenly seemed in urgent want of female company and had expressed his wish loudly to the bartender, pointing to Yuiko's friend and complaining in a high nasal voice. The girl had darted off, smiling and bobbing, and started her duties by wiping the sweat off his gleaming face, using a dainty lace-lined handkerchief. She was cooing softly to him now, an older sister pacifying a naughty lost little boy.

The band was playing a Miles Davis number. De Gier couldn't remember the title but he recognized the slow exact style which had often heightened his perception in his Amsterdam apartment, when he had been alone with the cat rolled up in a tight ball next to his feet. The alcohol opened his mind a little more, and he seemed to be able to see the music rather than hear it; the trumpet as clear rays of light, the drums and bass as a dark rolling background and the piano as short dark orange bursts of fire. He stayed another hour, with Yuiko quietly sitting next to him, her hand resting on his forearm. She looked pale and there were shadows under her eyes and her hand felt moist.

"All right?" he asked.

"Yoroshii," she said softly. "Just a little tired. It's nice sitting here like this."

The bartender came to bring another bourbon, but he refused it and was served grape juice instead, and later, when the bar was more quiet, coffee in small high cups.

She asked him to go with her to her apartment, and huddled in his arm during the short ride in a bouncing taxi. In her room she was leaning against him and he bent down to look into her face. Her eyes were closed and her lips twitched. She still insisted that she felt fine, and filled the kettle to make tea, but the kettle slipped out of her hands and she collapsed on the floor, a helpless bundle of fear and pain. He picked her up and carried her to the bathroom and held her head while she vomited. He went back to the room and squatted on the tatamis while he heard her rummaging about, washing her face and readjusting her hair, but then there was a squeak and a thud and he rushed back into the bathroom.

She was crying, stretched out on the tiled floor. He asked her where it hurt and she pressed her stomach, but she couldn't talk anymore and whined softly as he stroked her hair.

He left the apartment and knocked on doors and shouted until a middle-aged woman appeared. He couldn't think of any words, and he pushed the woman into the apartment and on until they reached the bathroom. The woman spoke a little English and pronounced the word "hospital."

"A car?" he asked. "You have a car?"

"Taxi," she said, and pointed at the telephone. "O.K.?"

"O.K.," he said. "You tell driver to go to hospital."

She nodded and dialed a number. The taxi appeared within minutes and delivered them at the emergency ward of a large hospital, only a few miles away. Two nurses grabbed the unconscious body and wheeled it away and de Gier sat down. He had to wait for nearly an hour before a young doctor came to answer his questions.

"Food poisoning," the doctor said. "Did she eat anything out of the way? Something rotten or poisonous maybe?"

"Mushrooms," de Gier said. "That's all I saw her eat. I met her tonight, in a bar."

The doctor smiled. "Mushrooms, yes, could be."

"But I ate some too, I feel fine."

"One mushroom is enough. Perhaps they were picked carelessly. Mushrooms look alike. Sometimes they are good, sometimes they are murder. She was lucky you brought her here."

"Would she have died otherwise?"

The doctor shrugged. "Not likely. She is young and fairly strong, I would say, but she could have been very ill for a long time. This way we have nipped it in the bud; she'll be O.K. in a few days."

"Can I see her?"

"No, she is asleep now, better not disturb her. Come tomorrow."

When de Gier came back to the inn, the commissaris and Dorin were eating breakfast, and he flopped down, helping himself to their fried eggs and bacon before the maid came in to bring his own.

"Bad luck," Dorin said, when he had told them how he had spent his time. "I wonder what the yakusa members thought when they saw you in the lion's den. By now they will all know who you are. Maybe the girl was told to prepare a surprise for you."

"She did," de Gier said, with his mouth full. "I thought she was going to die on me."

"She wasn't acting, was she?" the commissaris asked.

"No, sir," de Gier said, buttering another slice of toast. "She wasn't."

"Yes, Sir," Adjutant Grijpstra said. "The Drug-brigade detectives are ready to raid the place tonight, sir. They are after the cook; he is supposed to be the boss here. And I am after Mr. Fujitani, the manager. I think I've got enough on him now to hold him for two days, and maybe he'll break if we question him."

He listened carefully, sucking noisily on his cigar and holding the telephone gingerly. The commissaris' voice was coming through clearly, but there was a slight buzz in the background to remind him of the distance. Six thousand miles, he thought vaguely, or ten thousand miles? He would have to look it up that night in his son's atlas. If he was in the mood for it. Perhaps the raid would take a lot of time or effort. He shrugged. It shouldn't be a problem really. Twelve men to raid one rather small restaurant, at five-thirty in the afternoon. There probably wouldn't be any clients to complicate the situation.