Stephen Hunter - The 47th samurai

But something was wrong. Now he waited in the central room, near the desk, with beaten Korean workers, with angry salarymen who’d gotten drunk and acted out and had to be put down with a thump on the head, with grifters and cheats, maybe with the odd minor gangster or two, as gangsters were said to be spread widely throughout Japanese society. They were called yakuza, he knew, “yaks” for short.

But, Wait, wait, wait.

Finally, Ah, yes, you have sword.

His interrogator wore a pale blue uniform with a small handgun-a Smith & Wesson possibly?-in a flapped black holster. He was an unprepossessing man, not one of your beefier cop types.

Yes, sir. The documents are there. I just need the license, and that was supposed to be arranged.

Arranged?

Yes, sir, here’s the letter.

He handed it over.

It’s a relic. It’s from the war. Mr. Yano’s father died in battle and lost his sword. I believe this was it, that it was taken in battle by my father. Mr. Yano came to America looking for the sword. I didn’t have it then and it took me a couple of months, but I think I have it now.

The uniformed officer took the document.

The sword is supposed to be delivered here from the customs office upstairs. It’s all arranged.

Swords are very dangerous. You must wait. I will go check and call your name. Please return to your seat.

And so Bob sat. He thought it would take a few minutes, but the minutes dragged on until sixty of them mounted up, then sixty more. Maybe he could go out, get a book, a newspaper, a cup of coffee, something.

Everyone else in the waiting room had more patience. They could sit without making a sound, without fuss; the passage of time meant nothing to them.

A name would be called out, off they’d go, to be interviewed, deposed, to give a statement, make an identification.

Finally in the third hour a name was called and after a second he realized that it was some sort of approximation of Swagger. It came out “Su waggaa.”

“Yes, here.”

“Ah. Yes. You come, please.”

He went with the officer-a different one, slighter, younger, though in uniform with a little gun in a holster as well-and back through squad and staff rooms, more insurance agency really than cop shop, because there wasn’t the sense of bully-macho, of men who used their weight to require obedience, that you felt in an American variation.

Finally, he was led into a room; a uniformed senior police officer gestured for him to sit down.

“Sorry, we had to do some checking. It’s fine for METI to have plans, but no one here knew a thing. Bureaucracy.”

“I understand. Sorry for the trouble.”

“Called your embassy, had to check with METI, the man there was out to lunch. This is unusual.”

“People don’t usually bring them into Japan. Sure, the swords are so beautiful it’s usually the other way around. Sorry for the problem.”

“Tell me please again.”

Bob went through it, trying to keep his sentences short and clear. His father, Captain Yano, Iwo. The surprise visit, the request. His discovery, his decision to honor his father, Mr. Yano’s father, Mr. Yano and his family. JETRO and METI, his talks with the METI rep in L.A., the letter, the sense that arrangements had been made. He concluded with, “Is there a problem?”

“A small one. You see, this is shin-gunto. You know shin-gunto?”

“Sure. Army sword. I know it ain’t nothing fancy, not like the beautiful swords that are so much a part of the Japanese heritage.”

“Yes. You see it’s not much. Not a beautiful piece by any means, like some. Old, rather hard used. What you don’t see is that we have a regulation forbidding this kind of sword, the army sword, from coming in.”

“That kind of sword?”

“Yes. You see it’s gendaito-”

“Modern.”

“Yes, and so officially it’s not an antique that tells us of our heritage and reflects the skill of our artisans. It’s merely a weapon. We would regard it as we would regard a gun. You know there are no guns in Japan.”

“That’s why I left my bazooka at home.”

“Excellent decision. Anyhow, the gendaito sword, the gun, in Japanese eyes, legally, they would be the same thing.”

“Okay.”

“But I understand and I appreciate. The man who visited you probably wasn’t thinking precisely about this issue. METI wasn’t thinking about this issue, only about necessary import forms, difficulties with customs, that sort of thing.”

“Sorry for the trouble. See, I wanted it to be a surprise. The man I mean to present it to, he doesn’t know I’m here. I only wired him, told him I thought I’d have some good news for him. The reason I did it that way was that when he visited me, he preferred to do it without making an appointment. He didn’t want me going out of my way to arrange hospitality. He was trying to be as helpful as possible. I felt I owed him the same. I knew if I told him I was coming, he’d make a big to-do, he’d meet me, he’d have the house cleaned, all his kids would be dressed up, it would be a major event. I didn’t care to do that. I was trying to act appropriately.”

“I see. I believe you. What I’m going to do is bend the rules a little. I have prepared a sword license for you.”

He produced the document, which looked a little like the Treaty of Ghent, with all its formal kanji characters in perfect vertical columns, utterly meaningless to Bob. It had been stamped dramatically with some kind of red image, and it also had an impressive official serial number.

“See here, where it says ‘year of fabrication.’ By our standards anything that is showa is gendaito, showa meaning from the age of the Emperor Hirohito onward, that is, from nineteen twenty-six onward. So in ‘year of fabrication’ I have written eighteen twenty-five, which puts it in the legally acceptable antique category of shin-shinto, meaning anything from eighteen hundred up to the first year of Emperor Hirohito’s reign, nineteen twenty-six. Given the deep curve of the blade, I am told by our sword expert, that is at least arguable. Therefore neither you nor the man who receives the gift should be in any legal jeopardy. That is what has taken so long.”

“I’m very appreciative.”

“No, it is we who should be appreciative. As I say, I have an officer here who knows a good deal about these things. He understood what a warm gesture of friendship and reconciliation it was for you to return the blade to the family of the original officer. It was his idea how to proceed. He examined the sword very closely. That gesture should not be hindered by stupid regulations.”

“Again, I say thank you very much, sir.”

“All right now. You must keep this license with the blade at all times and I would keep the sword bagged until you make the presentation.”

“I will of course do so.”

“Mr. Swagger, I hope you enjoy your visit to Japan.”

“It is my pleasure, sir. I know I will.”

After a night in a hotel in a part of town called Shinjuku, which he picked at random for economy, after a shower, a western dinner, a walk, a western breakfast, he walked to the train station, through mobs that astonished him.

The city was like being inside a television set. It seemed to be comprised mostly of vertical circuitry, very complex, very miniaturized. He was suddenly transported to somebody else’s future. The reigning design principle seemed to be no wastage. Things were crammed in, built within bigger things, wedged this way and that. Even the alleyways were jammed with restaurants, stalls, and retail shops, each with a worm of neon above it and, of course, a sign. It was a literate society: writing was everywhere, in big signs that counseled certain consumer choices, in the endless series of official designations, of regulations and rulings and serial numbers, or directional indicators.