The Fat Innkeeper Read Free Page B

and “hair.” The priest’s tonsure must have looked like an especially attractive target. Am figured
     that if he was to survive under Japanese ownership, Ikkyu was as good a role model as any. At the moment, though, he decided
     it would be better to act like the priest.
    “To many,” said Am, “the whale is holy.”
    Hiroshi looked at the whale, a distinct longing to his glance. Then he turned back to Am. “You will take care of it?” he asked.
    “I will,” said Am.
    The two men looked at one another. For once, the Fat Innkeeper’s phalanx of fellow countrymen was not between him and one
     of the
gaijin—a
word, and a Japanese philosophy, that translated to “outside person.” Sharon said that the Japanese felt that the rest of
     the world was deprived in that they had not been born Japanese, a severe disability to their way of thinking. And though they
     might be living in foreign lands, in their own mind they were never the outside person. They were
wareware Nihonjin—we
Japanese.
    Reaching into his shirt pocket, Hiroshi pulled out one of his business cards. The importance of the transaction Sharon had
     only recently explained to Am. “There is a ritual to
meishi,”
she said, “the exchange of calling cards. You are supposed to accept the card and look at it, and make some comment. You
     don’t just take a card and stick it in your wallet. That’s an insult. You’re giving the person your backside, and not the
     attention they deserve.”
    The card was outstretched toward him, hanging there like an executioner’s ax, a reminder of his misplaced intentions. Am accepted
     the card, offered a nod that was close to a bow, and then dug out his wallet. Maybe he had an old business card. That’s how
     he could save face. His heart was pounding, and his throat was tight. He had resented having to get bilingual business cards,
     English on the one side, Japanese on the other, and walked around the security hut muttering, “This is still the U.S.A., isn’t
     it?” The land of the free, and the brave. And the foolish.
    There were no old cards, only plenty of the new. He had to play the cards, bluff it out. Am handed Hiroshi a card, English
     side up, his title of safety and security director clearly displayed. But Yamada wasn’t content with only the English version.
     He turned the card over.
    Good job, Ikkyu-san, thought Am. This time you just pissed into the wind.
    The Fat Innkeeper did a double-take. So much for the stereotype of orientals being inscrutable. He stared at the card, his
     eyes wide, then looked back to Am.
    “So,” he said, “you are a samurai?”
    It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Until Sharon’s lecture, Am hadn’t known that the Japanese collected
     business cards as boys did baseball cards, hadn’t been aware of their importance. Like most impetuous acts, he hadn’t thought
     ahead, had neglected to consider what he would do when asked for a business card from someone who was Japanese. He thought
     of trying to explain to Hiroshi that it had taken all of his willpower not to identify himself as House Dick on the English
     side of the card, but figured something would be lost in that translation. Like his job.
    “Yes,” Am finally said. “I am a samurai.”
    The Fat Innkeeper didn’t respond right away. He regarded Am for several moments, then finally gave the tiniest of nods, turned,
     and began to walk away.
    Am let out a lot of silent air. Why hadn’t he made it easier on himself and just announced he was the son of God? To the Japanese,
     samurais are icons. The warrior myth is not one they take lightly. Samurai films are their westerns, and their shrines. Japanese
     executives often take up swordplay and archery, sports drawn from the samurai tradition. Some consider the samurai mentality
     to be a major part of the Japanese psyche.
    He breathed deeply, took in a lot of whale, and gagged slightly. What a night.
    A wave surprised him. Sometimes