Min Lee - Pachinko

“My father? He had nothing to do with this.”

“Yes, of course. It was this man, Goro,” Kazu said. “I believe you. I do. Good luck, Solomon.”

Kazu opened the office door and let the two women from Human Resources in before heading to his next meeting.

The speech from HR passed quickly, sounding like radio static in Solomon’s head. They asked him for his identification card, and he gave it to them automatically. His mind kept returning to Hana, though he felt like he should call Phoebe to explain. He needed air. He threw things in the white banker’s box but left the baseball on the credenza.

The HR women escorted him to the elevator and offered to send his box to his apartment by messenger, but Solomon refused. Through the glass-walled conference room, he saw the guys from the poker game but no Kazu. Giancarlo spotted him holding the white box against his chest, and he half smiled at him, then returned to what he was doing. On the street, Solomon got into a taxi and asked the driver to drive him all the way to Yokohama. He didn’t think he could walk to the train station.

Yokohama, 1989

Empire Cafe was an old-style Japanese curry restaurant near Chinatown — a place Solomon used to go with his father on Saturday afternoons when he was a boy. Mozasu still ate there on Wednesdays with Goro and Totoyama. Empire served five different kinds of curries, only one kind of draft beer, and as much tea and pickles as you wanted. The cook, who was always in a bad mood, had a deft hand with the seasonings, and his curries were unrivaled in the city.

Late in the afternoon and long past lunch hour, the café was nearly empty except for the three old friends sitting at the corner table near the kitchen. Goro was telling one of his funny stories while making clownish faces and dramatic hand gestures. Mozasu and Totoyama took bites of their hot curry and sipped beer. All the while, they nodded and smiled at Goro, encouraging him to continue.

When Solomon pushed open the perpetually swollen front door, the cheap sleigh bells attached to the door jingled.

Scarcely bothering to turn from clearing the tables, the diminutive waitress bellowed, “ Irasshai !”

Mozasu was surprised to see his son. Solomon bowed in the direction of the men.

“You skipping work?” Mozasu asked. The edge of his eyes crinkled deeply when he smiled.

“Good, good. Skip work,” Goro interrupted. He was delighted to see the boy. “I hear you go to the office on the weekends, too. That’s no way to be for a handsome boy like you. You should be busy chasing skirt. If I had your height and your diploma, you’d feel sorry for all the women of Japan. I’d be breaking hearts at a rate that would shock a gentle boy like you.”

Goro rubbed his hands together.

Totoyama said nothing; he was staring at the lower half of Solomon’s face, which seemed fixed; the boy’s lips made a thin, crumpled line above his chin. Totoyama’s own face was flushed, since it took only half a small beer to redden his ears, nose, and cheeks.

“Solomon, sit down,” Totoyama said. “You okay?”

He lifted his briefcase resting on the empty chair and set it down on the linoleum floor.

“I—” Solomon tried to speak, then gasped.

Mozasu asked his son, “You hungry? Did Etsuko tell you that you’d find us here gossiping like old women?”

He shook his head no.

Mozasu laid his hand on the boy’s forearm. He’d bought the dark blue suit Solomon was wearing now from Brooks Brothers the time he’d visited Solomon in New York. It had been a nice feeling to be able to buy his son however many interview suits and whatever else he needed at such a nice American store. That was the whole point of money, wasn’t it, to be able to get your kid whatever he needed?

“Have some curry,” Mozasu said.

Solomon shook his head.

Goro frowned and waved the waitress over.

“Kyoko-chan, give the boy some tea, please.”

Solomon looked up and stared at his father’s former boss.

“I don’t know what to say, Goro-san.”

“Sure, you do. Just talk.”

“My boss, Kazu, said that the lady, you know, the seller, she died. Is that right?”

“That’s so. I went to the funeral,” Goro said. “She was ancient. Died of a heart attack. She had two nieces who inherited all that money. Pleasant girls. One married and one divorced. Beautiful skin. Nice, open brows. Real Korean faces. They reminded me of my mother and aunt.”

The waitress brought his tea, and Solomon held the brown, squat mug between his hands. These were the same mugs that Empire had used ever since he could remember.

Totoyama patted the boy’s shoulder gently as if to wake him.

“Who? Who died?”

“The lady. The Korean lady who sold the property to Goro-san. My boss’s client wanted this property, and the lady wouldn’t sell to a Japanese, so Goro-san bought it and sold it to the client, but the lady is dead now, and the boss’s client won’t touch the deal. Something about having a clean public offering and possible investigations.”

Totoyama glanced at Mozasu, who looked equally puzzled.

“She died? Is that so?” Mozasu glanced at Goro, who nodded calmly.

“She was ninety-three years old, and she died a couple of days after she sold her property to me. What does that have to do with anything?” Goro shrugged. He winked at the waitress and tapped the edge of his mug for another beer. When he pointed to the empty beer mugs of Mozasu and Totoyama, the men shook their heads. Totoyama covered the top of his beer mug with his hand.

“What did you pay for the property?” Mozasu asked.

“A very good price, but not crazy. Then I sold it to that client for exactly what I paid for it. I sent Solomon’s boss the copies of the contract. I didn’t make a single yen. This was Solomon’s first deal, and—”

Mozasu and Totoyama nodded. It was unthinkable that Goro would ever seek to profit from Solomon’s career.

“The client bought it for less than what he would have if he’d bought it himself,” Solomon said slowly, as if Kazu were in the room.

“The client got a piece of property that he would never have gotten because he’s Japanese, and she had refused on several occasions to sell to him. He got it cheap.” Goro grunted in disbelief. “So now the client is saying he won’t build the country club? Bullshit.”

“Kazu said the project will be on hold because they didn’t want the bad news contaminating the public offering.”

“What bad news? The old lady died in peace. Though it might take time to wash away that dirty Korean smell,” Goro said. “I’m sick of this.”

Totoyama frowned. “If there had been something questionable about her death, I would know. There’s been no complaint.”

“Listen, the deal’s done. If this little prick wants to cheat you out of your cut, fine. I didn’t expect him to give you a fair bonus, but remember this: That bastard will not profit from you again. I will watch that motherfucker until the day I die.” Goro inhaled, then calmly smiled at the boy.

“Now, Solomon, you should eat some curry and tell me about this American girl, Phoebe. I’ve always wanted to go to America to meet the women there. So beautiful, so beautiful.” He smacked his lips. “I want a blonde American girlfriend with a big ass!”

The men smiled but they didn’t laugh as they would have before. Solomon appeared unconsoled.

The waitress brought Goro a small beer and returned to the kitchen; Goro watched her walk away.

“Too skinny,” he said, smoothing back his dyed black pompadour with his brown hands.

“I was fired,” Solomon said.

“ Nani ?” the three men said at once. “For what?”