Ian Fleming - YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE (James Bond Classic)

Tiger Tanaka rested his fist on the table opposite Bond. The two men looked carefully into each other’s eyes. There was dead silence in the box-like little lath-and-paper room, and the soft gurgling of the tiny brook in the ornamental square of garden outside the opened partition could be heard clearly for the first time that evening. Perhaps it was this silence, after all the talk and giggling, or perhaps it was the deep seriousness and purpose that was suddenly evident in Tiger Tanaka’s formidable, cruel, samurai face, but Bond’s skin momentarily crawled. For some reason this had become more than a children’s game. Tiger had promised he would beat Bond. To fail would be to lose much face. How much? Enough to breach a friendship that had become oddly real between the two of them over the past weeks? This was one of the most powerful men in Japan. To be defeated by a miserable gaijin in front of the two women might be a matter of great moment to this man. The defeat might leak out through the women. In the West, such a trifle would be farcically insignificant, like a cabinet minister losing a game of backgammon at Blades. But in the East? In a very short while, Dikko Henderson had taught Bond total respect for Oriental conventions, however old-fashioned or seemingly trivial, but Bond was still at sea in their gradations. This was a case in point. Should Bond try and win at this baby game of bluff and double-bluff, or should he try to lose? But to try and lose involved the same cleverness at correctly guessing the other man’s symbols in advance. It was just as difficult to lose on purpose as to win. And anyway did it really matter? Unfortunately, on the curious assignment in which James Bond was involved, he had a nasty feeling that even this idiotic little gambit had significance towards success or failure.

As if with second sight, Tiger Tanaka spelled the problem out. He gave a harsh, taut laugh that was more of a shout than an expression of humour or pleasure. ‘Bondo-san, with us, and certainly at a party at which I am the host and you are the honoured guest, it would be good manners for me to let you win this game that we are to play together. It would be more. It would be required behaviour. So I must ask your forgiveness in advance for defeating you.’

Bond smiled cheerfully. ‘My dear Tiger, there is no point in playing a game unless you try to win. It would be a very great insult to me if you endeavoured to play to lose. But if I may say so, your remarks are highly provocative. They are like the taunts of the sumo wrestlers before the bout. If I was not myself so certain of winning, I would point out that you spoke in English. Please tell our dainty and distinguished audience that I propose to rub your honourable nose in the dirt at this despicable game and thus display not only the superiority of Great Britain, and particularly Scotland, over Japan, but also the superiority of our Queen over your Emperor.’ Bond, encouraged perhaps by the crafty ambush of the saké , had committed himself. This kind of joking about their different cultures had become a habit between himself and Tiger, who, with a first in P.P.E. at Trinity before the war, prided himself in the demokorasu of his outlook and the liberality and breadth of his understanding of the West. But Bond, having spoken, caught the sudden glitter in the dark eyes, and he thought of Dikko Henderson’s cautionary, ‘Now listen, you stupid limey bastard. You’re doing all right. But don’t press your luck. T.T.’s a civilized kind of a chap – as Japs go, that is. But don’t overdo it. Take a look at that mug. There’s Manchu there, and Tartar. And don’t forget the soanso was a Black Belt at judo before he ever went up to your bloody Oxford. And don’t forget he was spying for Japan when he called himself assistant naval attaché in their London Embassy before the war and you stupid bastards thought he was okay because he’d got a degree at Oxford. And don’t forget his war record. Don’t forget he ended up as personal aide to Admiral Ohnishi and was training as a kami-kaze when the Americans made loud noises over Nagasaki and Hiroshima and the Rising Sun suddenly took a backward somersault in to the sea. And, if you forget all that, just ask yourself why it’s T.T. rather than any other of the ninety million Japanese who happens to hold down the job as head of the Kōan-Chōsa-Kyōku . Okay, James? Got the photo?’

Since Bond had arrived in Japan he had assiduously practised sitting in the lotus position. Dikko Henderson had advised it. ‘If you make the grade with these people,’ he had said, ‘or even if you don’t, you’ll be spending a lot of time sitting on your ass on the ground. There’s only one way to do it without cracking your joints; that’s in the Indian position, squatting with your legs crossed and the sides of your feet hurting like hell on the floor. It takes a bit of practice, but it won’t kill you and you’ll end up gaining plenty of face.’ Bond had more or less mastered the art, but now, after two hours, his knee-joints were on fire and he felt that if he didn’t alter his posture he would end up bandy-legged for life. He said to Tiger, ‘Playing against a master such as yourself, I must first adopt a relaxed position so that my brain may be totally concentrated.’ He got painfully to his feet, stretched and sat down again – this time with one leg extended under the low table and his left elbow resting on the bent knee of the other. It was a blessed relief. He lifted his tumbler and, obediently, Trembling Leaf filled it from a fresh flagon. Bond downed the saké , handed the tumbler to the girl and suddenly crashed his right fist down on the lacquer table so that the little boxes of sweetmeats rattled and the porcelain tinkled. He looked belligerently across at Tiger Tanaka. ‘Right!’

Tiger bowed. Bond bowed back. The girl leant forward expectantly.

Tiger’s eyes bored into Bond’s, trying to read his plan. Bond had decided to have no plan, display no pattern. He would play completely at random, showing the symbol that his fist decided to make at the psychological moment after the two hammer blows.

Tiger said, ‘Three games of three?’

‘Right.’

The two fists rose slowly from the table top, quickly hammered twice in unison and shot forward. Tiger had kept his fist balled in the Stone. Bond’s palm was open in the Paper that wrapped the Stone. One up to Bond. Again the ritual and the moment of truth. Tiger had kept to the Stone. Bond’s first and second fingers were open in the Scissors, blunted by Tiger’s Stone. One all.

Tiger paused and placed his fist against his forehead. He closed his eyes in thought. He said, ‘Yes. I’ve got you, Bondo-san. You can’t escape.’

‘Good show,’ said Bond, trying to clear his mind of the suspicion that Tiger would keep to the Stone, or alternatively, that Tiger would expect him to play it that way, expect Bond to play the Paper and himself riposte with the Scissors to cut the paper. And so on and so forth. The three emblems whirled round in Bond’s mind like the symbols on a fruit machine.

The two fists were raised – one, two, forward!

Tiger had kept to his Stone. Bond had wrapped it up with the Paper. First game to Bond.

The second game lasted longer. They both kept on showing the same symbol, which meant a replay. It was as if the two players were getting the measure of each other’s psychology. But that could not be so, since Bond had no psychological intent. He continued to play at random. It was just luck. Tiger won the game. One all.

Last game! The two contestants looked at each other. Bond’s smile was bland, rather mocking. A glint of red shone in the depths of Tiger’s dark eyes. Bond saw it and said to himself, ‘I would be wise to lose. Or would I?’ He won the game in two straight goes, blunting Tiger’s Scissors with his Stone, wrapping Tiger’s Stone with his Paper.