Collector of Secrets Read Free Page A

age. Black layered robes covered him, except for a hint of white at the V-neck collar and the tightly bound cloth around his wrists. His slender face sported a thin beard running downward from the bottom of his lower lip and extending out along his chin, like an inverted T .
    The train’s soft female voice floated into the air— “Doa ga shimarimasu. Go chui kudasai” —before switching smoothly to English. “The door is closing. Please be careful.” The doors rolled shut and the train shuddered into motion.
    Max waited a moment, unsure whether he would embarrass the man by directly acknowledging the intervention. But the opportunity to interact with a priest proved irresistible, and he followed tradition, bowing his head while expressing his gratitude. “ Domo arigato.”
    “You’re welcome. I am sorry for those boys.” The priest responded in a clear English voice. “You are American?” He pocketed a Nintendo DS into the folds of his robe, while a wooden string of prayer beads remained clutched in his right hand.
    Max was impressed by the near-perfect intonation. “Yeah, I’m from California.”
    “Aaaah,” the priest said knowingly. “Where did you grow up?”
    “I . . .” The guy seemed uncharacteristically straightforward for a Japanese—perhaps a common trait of religious figures—but Max wasn’t about to reveal to a stranger that he had spent his childhood shuttling between a dozen towns and cities. “I lived in L.A.”
    “I went there once, while attending school in San Francisco.” The priest pressed his palms together as he spoke. “My name is Toshi.”
    Max knew the routine of questions that would follow. It was always the same: What do you think of Japan? Are you an English teacher? Do you speak Japanese? Even so, he chose to play along. Meeting an English speaking Shinto priest was a rare opportunity indeed.
    The twenty-six-minute ride passed swiftly. Finally, Toshi stood as the train slowed on the approach to Hamamatsucho station, and Max couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. “My English school is just one more stop,” he noted casually. “Do you work around here?”
    “No. This is where I live.” Toshi leaned against a pole to brace himself. “Please come visit me anytime.” As the train ground to a halt, he bowed and held out a black business card with both hands.
    While accepting the card, Max caught a brief glimpse of the priest’s pinkie ring, the prayer beads having covered it until now. The rapid movement made it difficult to clearly discern, but the image was of multiple gleaming petals, like those of a golden flower.
    The priest vanished into the swirling bustle of the platform’s crowd, accompanied by the soothing female voice announcing the train’s departure.
    Soon, the station disappeared into the distance while Max stared at the embossed lettering on the card— SUZUCO GAMES —and the map to Toshi’s house on the back.

IT WASN’T really an English lesson, but Takahito Murayama knew it was supposed to be. At least that’s how the Thursday meetings with Max had begun nine months earlier. They were located at his office on the third floor of a narrow five-story building squeezed between two other structures of equally slim proportion. Built in the late 1970s and situated in Tokyo’s Minato ward, the brown tile exterior was frosted with big-city grime. The Plum Tree Restaurant occupied the ground floor. A cramped staircase leading to the floors above could only be accessed with a nod to the building’s owner, who sat entrenched at an outdoor table. The laconic man was surly at best. Unshaven, he smoked an endless chain of non-filtered cigarettes while consuming a bottomless cup of green tea.
    The first few lessons had been filled with quiet tension, despite reassurance that Max was the best teacher at his school. Mr. Murayama had decided beforehand that he wouldn’t cooperate with the young American, who he assumed would be overly talkative,