Dragon Dance Read online

  Back on the INN side of the screen, Harper was leaning forward slightly.

  “Our mission is not just to supply food and drink. We also have a mission to spread positive human values. At Starjacks cafés people of all races, ages, and religions can gather together and enjoy super-tasty, great-value cakes and pizzas made with all-natural ingredients ...”

  On the NHK side, they were back at the hospital. Ambulances were swerving into the forecourt; stretchers carrying prone bodies were being wheeled through sliding doors. Then they cut to a senior doctor peering sternly through his glasses.

  “What information can you give us?” asked the female reporter.

  “It appears to be a new strain of the E. coli bacteria, never seen before in Japan. It is extremely dangerous, even to healthy adults ...”

  “And do we know how it was transmitted?”

  “Investigations are not yet complete, but we can say that the bacteria was certainly present in the orange juice.”

  “So we should be careful about drinking imported orange juice?”

  “Of course. That goes without saying.”

  Back on the INN side, Kip Harper was winding up his speech, as smooth and confident as ever.

  “Now I have a special message for our Japanese customers,” he said, his face filled with boyish enthusiasm. “Remember this, folks, Starjacks is super-fresh and super-tasty. Or as you folks over there say, Starjacks is totally oishii!”

  At that point someone off-screen handed him a plate with a bagel on it. Harper gave a huge wink, picked it up, and sank his pearly white teeth into it. But Martine was no longer watching. The doctor’s words were still echoing in her mind—“the bacteria was certainly present in the orange juice.” Orange juice! Bad for your health! That was the second time her mystery e-mail admirer had forecast an upcoming disaster. Once might be a coincidence, but not twice. What on earth was going on?

  Martine switched the screen to computer mode and logged onto her files in the office. She found the e-mail from her mystery admirer and read it again. Kimura’s friend had asked her to establish a dialogue with the man. Apparently they needed greater data flow to have a chance of tracking him. That went against not just her natural instincts, but the guidance given by the Tribune’s own security department. Responding to an online stalker was positively [126] discouraged—there was no saying where it would lead. On the other hand, she had a feeling that if she let this story slip she would regret it afterward. In Martine’s thinking there were two kinds of regret. Positive regret—for things you shouldn’t have done, but did—was unavoidable, part of growing older and wiser. Negative regret—for what you should have done, but didn’t—was the kind that gnawed at your soul forever. She typed in a two-line reply.

  Thank you for giving me such useful advice. Perhaps you could tell me who you are and how you know these things.

  She gazed at it for a few moments, then clicked on “Send.”

  An hour later Martine walked into the nearly deserted restaurant of the Seikyu Tower Hotel. The Seikyu had once been one of the most fashionable places to have Sunday brunch, but today there were as many staff as customers. White-jacketed waiters with slicked-back hair and shiny shoes stood around gazing blankly into space. Martine guessed they were dead on their feet, having worked all night in bars and clubs. Most of them were in their late twenties, probably graduates of medium-grade universities. They would be living on the kind of wages that used to be paid to teenagers for holiday jobs.

  Martine took a table by the window, no need to book. The last time she had sat here was for a casual lunch with Makoto. It had been two years ago, when they were just getting to know each other. She remembered Makoto explaining how he was going to get his beer into the major hotel chains, and the way his eyes lit up with enthusiasm. He had been irresistible. Somehow or other—they still argued about whose idea it was—they had ended up taking a room in the hotel and staying there until evening. Martine still found Makoto’s enthusiasm irresistible. She only wished it was occasionally focused on something other than his beers.

  This morning she was meeting not Makoto, but Gary Terashima of the US Embassy. As usual he was late. Martine gazed out the window at the bulk of Mount Fuji, which looked close enough to reach out and touch. Not so many years ago, you could see Mount Fuji only on public holidays, when the factories were closed and the air was free of pollutants. Now you could see it almost every day, one beneficial side effect of the collapse of the manufacturing sector.

  “Can I offer you something?”

  Martine looked up into the eyes of a tall young waiter, bending down to offer her a menu. He had a strong, smooth face, broad shoulders, and a wide, confident smile. Martine noted the outline of an electroplasma tattoo on the. back of his hand. The plasma was deactivated, but the “nZw” logo was clearly visible.

  [127] “Coffee and fresh orange juice, please.”

  The waiter flicked a quiff of hair from his forehead. “I’m afraid we aren’t serving orange juice. You know, the incident yesterday evening.”

  “Well, in that case I’ll have grapefruit juice.”

  “No grapefruit juice either. That’s also an imported product. How about some apple juice made from delicious Tohoku apples? It’s good for your health.”

  The waiter was still looming over her, grinning in a slightly odd way. Martine remembered hearing that even in some of the best hotels the staff were providing unofficial sexual services these days. For the lonely businessman there were chambermaids and elevator girls keen to supplement their meager incomes. And for bored middle-aged housewives, there were pretty-boy waiters and masseurs.

  “A glass of water, please.”

  “Plain or sparkling?”

  “Plain.” The waiter backed away, still grinning ingratiatingly. Martine took the Nikkei Shimbun out of her bag and started browsing through a long article on fiscal reform, the code word the government used to describe its program of tax hikes and benefit cuts. As usual, the Nikkei was parroting the government line about the need for national sacrifice, everyone pulling together, and Martine guessed that whole chunks of the article had actually been written by government officials. Nozawa, of course, was promising lower taxes and higher benefits. The shortfall, he claimed, would be made up by reducing foreign aid to zero and introducing a penalty tax on investment in overseas financial markets—the speculation tax. His numbers didn’t add up, but then neither did the government’s.

  Martine gave up on the Nikkei article halfway through and looked around her. Three tables away a middle-aged couple were sitting down to a breakfast of croissants and coffee. The man was wearing a dark suit, and was occasionally fingering his collar in a way that suggested he didn’t wear one very often. The woman was conservatively but elegantly dressed, in a blue dress and thick pantyhose. They were totally silent. Martine placed them as country people who had done well from the crisis, perhaps by keeping their wealth in gold bullion stashed under the floorboards. It was often the most conservative and unsophisticated people who survived best, whereas the risk takers were wiped out at an early stage. Anyway, the couple’s relative position had been boosted to the extent that they could afford to stay at the famous Seikyu Tower. The only problem was that the Seikyu now was a different place from the glamorous hotel they remembered seeing in magazines and trendy TV dramas. So they sat there chewing their croissants in silence and trying to hide their disappointment.

  Gary Terashima finally came rolling in with a heavy handshake and a [128] string of loud pleasantries. He was a third-generation Japanese American, big-boned and athletic. The job title on his namecard was “economic analyst,” though his information-gathering activities generally had little to do with economic data. The good thing about him was that he was completely frank about what he wanted and why. The less appealing thing was that he always wanted something in return.

  “Gee, isn’t it terrible about this poisoned orange juice? I eat at Starjacks all the time. It’s the onl
y place around here you can get a decent pastrami sandwich, you know with rye bread and pickles ...”

  “Do you think this incident will affect US-Japan relations?”

  Terashima looked puzzled. “Why should it? It was an accident, for God’s sake, the kind of thing that happens all the time.”

  When the waiter came over, Terashima ordered doughnuts, coffee, and orange juice. He spoke Japanese haltingly, with a heavy American accent.

  “Sorry, we aren’t serving orange juice,” said the waiter. “How about some apple juice made from delicious Tohoku apples?”

  Terashima shook his head. “Uh-uh. I’ll have a Coke instead.”

  “Sorry, but we don’t have Coke either.”

  “Yes, you do. You have it in the bar downstairs. Now go down there and get me a Coke right away.”

  The waiter’s smile froze, and he turned away without another word.

  Terashima reached into his briefcase, pulled out a copy of yesterday’s Tribune, and slapped it on the table. He jabbed a big square-tipped finger at the interview with Nozawa.

  “Congratulations. You got good access there.”

  “Thank you,” said Martine cautiously.

  “Still, I think you were too sympathetic. The guy is a fruitcake, a putz, and a menace to global security.”

  “Because he opposes American interests?”

  “Because he opposes everyone’s interests. Japan needs the US, now more than ever. This world is a dangerous place, you know.”

  “The Japanese public believes that being allied with the US makes it even more dangerous. That’s what the opinion polls say, anyway.”

  “Look, the public here changes its mood like my five-year-old daughter. That’s why you need stable political leadership, the kind that gives people a sense of security and direction. If you don’t have that, God knows what will happen.”

  Martine shrugged and took a sip of coffee. The problem was that the “stable political leadership” that Terashima’s people had sponsored for decades had proved to be hopelessly corrupt. As the UNG scandal had shown, hardly a single senior politician was untainted by the rot.

  [129] “The same goes for journalists too,” continued Terashima. “You’re too happy to see any kind of turmoil. You should think more seriously about defending democratic values.”

  “You mean you want the Press to put the boot into Nozawa?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Why don’t you put the boot into him yourself? You people are pretty good at that sort of thing, aren’t you?”

  “Well, something will have to be done,” muttered Terashima darkly.

  Martine raised an eyebrow. “Something? Like what?”

  “Martine, you need to understand—this Nozawa business has cropped up at a very bad time.”

  “Any time would be a bad time for you, wouldn’t it?”

  “This is a particularly bad time. As you know, the administration has just initiated a major foreign policy review. The word on the grapevine is that we could be looking at a one hundred and eighty degree shift, the kind that happens once a generation. This could be the big sayonara.”

  For once the mask of joviality had gone. Terashima was looking deadly serious.

  “Sayonara to who?”

  “To Japan, of course. We have these policy reviews every time there’s a new administration, and it’s always the same thing—the pro-Japan people against the pro-China people. Last time around, our team won big time, but this time we’re in a position of real weakness. Let’s face it, the pro-China guys have got some strong arguments, and of course they’ve got the president herself on their side.”

  “Strong arguments? I didn’t expect that from you.”

  “Come on—look at Japan and what do you see? A total shambles. The economy keeps shrinking, our best friends are all screwed up with this UNG scandal, and the public has gone dancing with the Pied Piper of Hamelin.”

  “Not an easy sell, is it?”

  Terashima shook his head sadly. “We’re calling it a temporary adjustment, but that’s what we said last time and the time before that. Frankly we never imagined the fundamentals could get this bad. It’s been the most serious forecasting error since the collapse of the Soviet Union.”

  “Surely there are problems with China too—the massacres, the missile exports, the whole human rights issue.”

  “Yeah, but this is a pragmatic administration elected on a program of economic recovery and reducing foreign entanglements. Nobody likes the Chinese, but the reality is they’re getting stronger and richer and we need them on our side. It’s better to have them inside the tent pissing out than outside the tent pissing in—if you’ll excuse the expression.”

  [130] Martine wrinkled her nose, assailed by distant memories of camping holidays in the south of France.

  “I see. And what happens to the Japanese when they get pushed out of this tent of yours?”

  “They’re gonna get wet, of course.”

  “They might prefer to build their own tent, as Nozawa suggests.”

  Terashima sucked his breath in through his teeth, one of the few Japanese traits passed down from his forbears.

  “Nobody’s got any patience for that kind of crap, believe me. We got the Indian situation, we got the Romanian situation, we got a new guy in Algeria that makes Gaddafi look like Tony Blair, we got the whole world spinning out of control. Now over in Japan—nice, polite Japan, where nothing unexpected is supposed to happen—suddenly we got this rabble-rousing fruitcake threatening our security interests.”

  “It must be pretty tiresome for you.”

  “No kidding. It’d be better for everyone if Nozawa goes.”

  The words were spoken with a quiet vehemence that surprised Martine.

  “Goes where?” she asked lightly.

  But Terashima was not to be drawn out any further. The Coke arrived on a silver tray and he grabbed it without a word and took a long suck on the straw. The waiter leaned against the wall watching, his face a mask of hostility.

  After brunch Martine walked through Ginza. Once it would have been packed with shoppers, but now many of the stores had stopped opening on Sundays. The Matsukawa department store was still boarded up, and the ground floor of the old Mitsuya department store was now a pachinko parlor. On the other side of the street was a string of discount shops, money lenders, and fast-food outlets. Amongst them was a Starjacks outlet, supposedly the most profitable in Asia. Today it was totally empty.

  Martine thought about what Terashima had told her. It made a certain kind of sense. Japan had been the wealthiest country in Asia for three hundred years, while China had lurched from disaster to disaster—internal collapse, colonization, civil war, communism. Now, though, the roles were being reversed. China was booming, while Japan was mired in stagnation. The Americans, beset by their own economic problems and keen to lighten up on global commitments, were just responding to that reality. There would be uproar from the Taiwanese, just as there was in the seventies when Nixon turned his back on them. And now, just as then, the support of big business and the labor unions would be decisive. Human rights, free Tibet, save the panda—those issues played well when the good times were rolling. In a global depression people had different priorities.

  When Martine got home, there was a light flashing on her answering [131] machine. The message was from Shimizu, complimenting her on the Nozawa interview and asking her to call him back. As she picked up the phone, Martine wondered how he had got her home number.

  “Ah, Meyer-san, thank you for the prompt reply. The sensei was very pleased with your work. He is absolutely convinced you are the finest journalist in the world.”

  “That’s nice to know.”

  “And he apologizes for cutting the interview short. Now he wants to go ahead with part two.”

  Martine paused to think. “Part two? Another piece would be rather unusual, coming so soon after the last one. I’d have to ask my editor whether he can fin
d space.”

  “Why not do the interview first? When your editor sees the material, he’ll find a space immediately. I can assure you of that.” Shimizu gave a smug little laugh. He was certain of it.

  “When do you want it?” asked Martine.

  “The sooner the better. How about tomorrow at four?”

  “Fine,” said Martine dryly. She might have to accept being ordered around, but she didn’t have to like it. No sooner had she put down the phone than it started ringing again. Would Nozawa never leave her alone? She scooped up the receiver.

  “Yes?” she said, not bothering to disguise her impatience.

  “What’s the matter with you? Have you got a hangover or something?”

  Martine heaved a sigh of relief. It was Makoto, now in Los Angeles. He was in a good mood, cautiously optimistic about the reception he was getting.

  “I think these investors understand what I’m doing. They can see the potential ...”

  Martine thought about explaining what had been happening—the e-mail messages, the orange juice, the Nozawa concert. She decided against it. Makoto’s mood was too precious to spoil. He sounded so relaxed, burbling away like a man fifteen years younger. Martine would have liked to have seen him when he was fifteen years younger. She would have liked to have known him when he was softer, dreamier, more willing to make mistakes. But that part of him had been given to another woman. And when Sachiko-san had gone, she had taken it with her.

  “I’ve just been thinking,” said Martine suddenly. “Maybe I’m in love.”

  She had no idea why those words popped into her head. But, there, she had said it.

  Then came a pause in which she could almost hear Makoto’s brain whirring.

  “Who with?” he asked, tentatively.

  “Who do you think, you silly man.”

  [132] There was another pause, twice as long as the first.

  “Thank you very much,” said Makoto finally.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said thank you very much. I’m grateful.”