Ransom (19 page)

“I reft my heart in San Franshisco,
desu ne?
”

Ransom turned away and lathered up his wash cloth.

“I am a boy. My name is. How do you do? I am fine shank you.”

They were still at the faucets when he went to the tubs. Without making a very conspicuous detour he would need to walk directly behind them to get to the water. They
both turned and stared as he walked past. He felt that holding the washbucket and cloth in front of his crotch would be a concession of some kind, so he didn't. The smaller one said something nasty that he couldn't make out. He lowered himself into the first tub.

They began directing all of their comments at him. He couldn't hear all of them, but one refrain was how bad gaijin smelled.

He moved to the second tub. The two men stood up and sauntered over. They looked down at Ransom.

My friend wants to get in that tub
, the little man said. His chest was taken up with a tattoo of a geisha in a long flowing kimono. On the larger man's chest a dragon roared, brilliant in red and green, and there was a scar on his right cheek. Both had wide, fleshy faces and crewcuts. The taller one was in decent shape; probably a budoka of some kind, kendo or karate. Ransom was tired of their shit and he would have liked to see if he could knock them around, but it wasn't worth it. He climbed out of the tub and stepped into the third, lying back and closing his eyes. The two men splashed water over the rim from the next tub and discussed the erotic utility of gaijin women.

When Ransom abruptly stood up they fell silent. He turned to look at them, and for a moment saw fear in both. Then he wasn't sure what he was going to do. He did not want to retreat in cowardly fashion, nor did he want to put up with any more of their talk. He got out of the tub and stepped over to the fourth and hottest. Steam drifted and curled over the surface. He stepped in as casually as he would onto a subway car.

The shock seized his lungs and the next sensation that
separated out from a solution of pain was the waves, made by his entry, abrading his flesh like sandpaper. He kept a stoic demeanor, resisted the urge to move; motion increased the heat. Once the water was still it became almost tolerable. He wasn't sure if he had done this for himself or for them, but he stayed in until it was no longer painful, ignoring them, their words swamped in the watery echoes, and then he stood up, walked over to the cold tub and submerged himself completely until he felt cool on the outside.

Ransom picked up his gear and walked out, not looking back, though he could hear their taunts. Inspired, he towelled off and dressed quickly. There were two baskets of clothing on the floor beside the lockers, and one Funky Babe shopping bag. He emptied both baskets into the shopping bag.

The old lady thanked him as he slipped out the door. He picked up the shoes in the entryway and added them to the bag. Out on the sidewalk, he felt lightheaded. The noise of traffic seemed to reach him from a great distance. He walked to the corner and deposited the shopping bag in a trash can, pausing for a moment to admire the velour lapels of a maroon sport jacket, then walked out to Kawaramachi Street to the bus stop.

“What's the weather in Kyoto?” Honda asked.

“Muggy,” Ransom said.

“Muggy? What is this?”

“
Mushi atsui
.”

“You should move to Osaka. Be closer to office.”

Ransom grunted noncommittally.

“I do not mean to criticize, but Mitsubishi class wishes to know why you do not go out drinking with them. As you surely know, relaxation drinking is an important part of business scene in Japan.”

“I have karate practice every night. Besides which, I don't drink.”

“You could join them sometimes.”

“The last time I did my head ached for three days. Everybody had to sing a song and I got ‘I Did It My Way.'”

“Flank Sinatra.” Honda smiled. Then he became serious. “Please. Make a date to join them for drinking.”

“I'll check my calendar,” Ransom said. A Japanese standoff, this. For the moment they would leave it vague.

Honda had to go out and pitch the A-OK Business
English System to a new company. The sulky and unkempt Desmond Caldwell was accompanying him as a live exhibit. Caldwell was wearing a tie and jacket for the occasion.

Ransom sat down at his desk and opened a letter from his father, which he had transferred directly from the mail slot to his breast pocket on his way out of the house. On the train, he had not been eager to open it. He did so now to delay reading the ad copy Honda had left for his comments, which was probably even worse than a fatherly epistle.

The letter was mercifully brief, drifting in tone between high-patriarchal and boys'-night-out: “Although I haven't been in touch of late, my thoughts are often with you . . . breakfast at Polo Lounge . . . Lara Lavalle, the silicone queen, who uses her finger to read her lines off the monitor . . . Hoping this finds you well, Chris. Your loving father.” No lectures about wasting one's life, turning up one's nose at all the golden opportunities. Ransom junior was relieved, and chastened at the thought of the bad-mouth he had put on his dad for both Rachel and Marilyn.

Again he felt the onslaught of panic and regret—he could nearly smell it—and turned in self-defense to the ad copy, a pitch for a new chain of saunas. The art showed a bikini-clad Japanese girl against the Manhattan skyline:

I LOVE SAUNA

Let's Sauna
Let's Sauna for my happy
Let's Sauna for your happy
Let's Sauna joyful life
Let's Sauna for our happy
Oh beautiful day, healthy day, nice a day.
Let's Sauna all happy.

Honda's note indicated that the copy would also serve as the lyrics to a song which would saturate national radio to mark the grand opening of the sauna chain. Ransom didn't know where to begin. Despairing of the language, he decided to evade the issue by consulting with Miti-san, the art director, who because he had scored low on his preschool tests was rejected by the best kindergartens, and subsequently did not get into the best schools, including Tokyo University, thus was unable to get a job at Dentsu, the top Japanese ad agency, and therefore ended up in charge of design and layout for A-OK textbooks and ads.

Miti was holed-up in his cubicle, separated from the rest of the office by a sheet of glass. When Ransom knocked, he was sitting in front of his drafting table reading a magazine. Looking alarmed, Miti-san slipped into his shoes and straightened his tie. They exchanged pleasantries—Ransom asking about the wife and kid, Miti about karate—and then Ransom asked what was the thinking behind the bikini and the New York skyline.

Miti shrugged and looked down at the artwork again, as if he hadn't seen it in a long time.

Don't they have saunas in New York?
he asked, fearfully.

Sure they do
, Ransom said. He was just curious if New York was particularly associated with sauna bathing in the minds of the Japanese.

New York is like sex
, Miti said, relaxing a little.
You can sell almost anything if you attach it to New York
.

Ransom finally convinced Miti that he hadn't come in a spirit of criticism so much as a spirit of curiosity. Miti became almost loquacious.

The principles of Japanese advertising, he said, were really quite simple. Gaijin were glamorous. If you were selling a luxury product—liquor, perfume—you used a gaijin, preferably a blond model, a New York, London or Paris backdrop, and an English slogan. If you were selling a household product, you used a domestic-looking Japanese model. The interesting cases were those in between. Miti had decided that the sauna, being a service, ought to have some racial identification as well as gaijin glamour.

Miti asked Ransom what he thought of Sadaharu Oh, the home-run heir apparent.

Ransom said he was a fine ballplayer.

Miti said,
Hank Aaron is a Negro, isn't he?

Ransom said he was, unsure of the significance Miti attached to this fact. He went back out to his desk and struggled with the sauna copy, the construction of which was brought back to him that evening as he worked through Lesson Nine of Level Two with his Mitsubishi class, Ransom reading and the class repeating, books closed.

I make a deal
.

“I make a deal.”

You make a deal
.

“You make a deal.”

He makes a deal
.

“He makes a deal.”

She makes a deal
.

“She makes a deal.”

Mr. Smith makes a deal
. . .

On Tuesday night the sensei asked Ransom to stay after practice. The cool night air was a relief from the mugginess of the day, which Ransom had spent in Osaka, untangling English words from Japanese constructions, correcting pronunciation in a smoke-filled room in the Mitsubishi building.

Practice had gone well. In sparring, Ransom had given the Monk a hard time for his two points. The Monk, now smoothing and folding his gi on the steps of the gym, was among the last to leave. Finally he cinched the compact bundle with his obi, the kuro obi, bowed to the sensei and Ransom, who remained in their gi, and walked off, looking as if he were closing down a movie.

Ransom watched the sensei walk out to the center of the lot, marvelling at his grace and ease. In one of their first after-practice sessions, the sensei worked on Ransom's gravity. First he imitated Ransom's walk, bouncing up and down, swinging his arms, swivelling his head.
That's how Americans walk
, the sensei said, and months later, seeing a group of American tourists sauntering up Shijo Street, Ransom saw what he meant: moving as if they were trying to launch themselves into space, confident that the air
would part to let them pass, without a worry about the ground beneath their feet. Over a period of months they worked on lowering Ransom's center of balance, bringing it down from his chest. During practice the sensei would clamp a hand over Ransom's head to fix it level as he moved. Sitting on chairs, he said, contributed to the terrible top-heaviness of Americans. Ransom complained that he was never going to get any shorter—that was what it came down to—but his walk had changed.

Now Ransom stood facing the sensei, hands crossed, waiting for instructions.

The sensei poked at the asphalt with the ball of his foot. Then he said,
I don't believe in fancy moves. Triple backward upside-down kicks
. . . He twisted his body preposterously to illustrate.
Movie stuff, that jumping around
. He jumped.
Understand?

Ransom said he understood.

Also
, he said,
it took me two years to get you down closer to the ground. But, when one masters the basics, there are other techniques . . . useful . . . understand?

Ransom nodded.

He said,
I've been thinking about a new technique for you. For your build, some techniques don't make sense. But I think this one will suit you. Ready?

They assumed fighting stance.

The sensei jumped up and let loose a kick at Ransom's chest. Ransom blocked it easily, then saw the other coming at him, sweeping just past his nose, brushing hair over his forehead, the sensei in mid-air in front of him, coming down lightly, all at once.

You spring from the back leg
, the sensei explained.
The
first kick is a fake, but you use it for upward momentum. The first kick is chest level, but it's the second that has the power, head level
.

The sensei reached inside his pants and adjusted himself.

It's dangerous, though
, the sensei said.
Dangerous for the attacker. If you don't spring hard enough, if you're blocked hard on the first, you can land on your back. Also dangerous for the opponent. If you connect with the head kick
. . . He paused.

In practice, we lower the level of the second kick till we can control it. Understand?

Ransom assented eagerly.

It was a matter of combining moves he was already familiar with and extending them. After half an hour the sensei seemed satisfied with his progress.

Let's get a drink
, he said as they were changing.

To say that you didn't drink, Ransom figured, was especially foolish when your sensei was the one asking.

Okay
, Ransom said.
Where?

Gion
, the sensei said.

Ransom said,
I've got an extra helmet
, indicating the shoddy old 250 Scrambler Udo had given him to use until he could clear the sugar out of Ransom's bike.

We can take a cab
, the sensei proposed.

Why waste the money?
Ransom asked.

I'm not getting on the back of that thing
, he said.

Ransom asked him if he'd rather drive.

He shook his head.
I'm not crazy
, he said.
Those things are dangerous
.

They left the bike there and took a cab. Traffic thickened as they approached Gion, and at Sanjo Street, on the
northern edge of the district, the sensei paid the cabbie and hopped out. The gaudier establishments, cabarets with neon signs and loud music, circled the district. Further in, the streets narrowed into one-way alleys and tributary passageways. Drunken businessmen in blue suits stumbled from doorways singing and holding each other up. The signs became more discreet, the architecture more domestic as they walked in, passing tea houses and member's clubs.

The sensei had a bottle at a little nomiya, a tunnel of a place with eight seats along the bar, two of which happened to be empty. The hostess made a fuss over the sensei and the patrons greeted him deferentially; Ransom was subjected to the pet-gaijin treatment. The sensei proclaimed Ransom a real samurai. A bottle of J&B, decorated with the sensei's name and the stylized profile of a clenched fist, was placed in front of them, along with a setup of ice and soda.