The Fat Innkeeper Read Free Page A

considered epicurean delights. And what about Napoleon’s letter to Josephine? “I will
     return in a week. Do not bathe.”
    “The whale came a long way,” said Am.
    Hiroshi nodded. “Yes.”
    “Those who live along this coast have sort of adopted these whales,” said Am. “They think of them as…”
    Dogs? No. In some parts of the orient, dogs are admired more on the plate than on the leash. And besides, a dog was too small
     and too domesticated. “… spirits.”
    The Japanese understood about spirits. Am had prepared for the Yamada takeover differently from anyone else. Some of the Hotel
     staff had studied the Japanese language and culture, but Am had read Japanese folktales, believing that a country’s folktales
     are the Cliff Notes to its soul.
    “Yes,” said the Fat Innkeeper, still nodding. “Such a large animal would have a large spirit. And a generous one, to come
     ashore to us in this way.”
    If a cow died on Am’s doorstep, mightn’t he view it as manna from heaven? This was a hundred cows, and then some. Hell, this
     was a barbecue roast for the city of La Jolla—that is, if any La Jollans had a propensity for whale blubber. But how do you
     explain Bambi-syndrome in Japanese? Was there a way to announce delicately that a public-relations disaster would ensue if
     Yamada carved steaks out of the whale? God, Greenpeace would be picketing before the night was out.
    “Yes, the spirit decided to call.” Decided to leave his thirty-ton carcass as a hell of a calling card. “Now we have to respect
     the vessel left to us.”
    The Fat Innkeeper thought about that for a bit. He was still offering a small smile, still trying to understand why this great
     bounty from the sea couldn’t be utilized, couldn’t be cubed and served with a little seaweed and soy sauce.
    “But since the vessel is landlocked now,” Hiroshi said, “and will never sail again, its useless wood could warm the house.”
    Even without a Japanese translator, Am figured the roundabout interpretation was, “Let’s do some carving, and store some whale
     in the walk-in.”
    He wiped perspiration from his forehead. How do you genteelly explain that sacred cows aren’t to be butchered? “The little
     children,” Am said, “that go to Sea World might want to come see this one instead.”
    Hiroshi still didn’t look convinced. Spirits and little kiddies hadn’t yet moved him, and Am wondered what would. He also
     wondered what Ikkyu-san would have done. The hero of many Japanese folktales, Ikkyu was a combination acolyte/jester who was
     always finding himself in difficult, if not impossible, positions.
    Am’s favorite Ikkyu story had the acolyte traveling with a priest to a temple. The call of nature struck Ikkyu, and he started
     to open the front of his kimono at the side of the road, when the priest admonished him to stop, as the deity of the road
     was there. Farther up the road they came to a field, and Ikkyu again prepared to urinate, but the priest stopped him once
     more. “You can’t go there!” he was told. “You’ll violate the deity of the harvest.” They continued along, the acolyte’s bladder
     pressing him further, when they came to a river. Ikkyu was about to relieve himself into the water when the priest angrily
     told him, “The water deity is in the river. Nobody would ever do it there!” The acolyte hurried forward, and stopped by a
     large boulder, but again he was interrupted by the priest, who chided him for even thinking of violating the deity in the
     large rock. A desperate Ikkyu looked around for some spot that wasn’t holy. Then a thought came to him. He scrambled up the
     boulder and started peeing on the head of the priest. “What are you doing?” cried the priest. “There is no
kami
on your head,” said Ikkyu-san, and continued right on urinating.
    The story was special to Am even before he explored the footnote, and the pun, surrounding
kami, a
word that means both “deity”