Tokyo Traffic

Chapter 3

Chapter 3Staring through the diamond frame of his upraised arms, Detective Hiroshi Shimizu felt for one still moment that a circuit connected, and his inner spirit took over. With a loud shout, he sprang forward and drove his sword onto the shoulder of his attacker, barely feeling the other sword strike his ribs.

Pivoting and facing off again, they reset for another still moment, shouted and drove at each other as if turning into pure human energy for an instant before reconvening into a solid state once more.

Across the kendo dojo, dozens of similar pairs squared off, reset, and attacked. Their blows thudded onto the tight-stitched padding and clinked off the lacquered chest protectors. If not for the armor, pads, and mask, the force of the blows would have broken bones.

Their eyes, hidden inside the silver gridded helmets, searched for the one small opening that would let them land a cruelly elegant blow. The shout-whacks, squeak of feet, and short screams formed a collective rhythm, like the buzzing attack of large, angry insects with hard shells and deadly stingers.

Learning to shout again had taken Hiroshi a long time. The years of not doing kendo had drained the spirit to yell. It took time to set his bare feet lightly, but evenly, on the wood floor. It took him even longer to put aside the overhead lights, airless room, and weight of the bogu armor, and relearn how to strike.

The first few hits of every practice session hurt his forearms but by the end of practice, he understood again that protection came from within, from how his reflexes moved him. The pain, which could linger for days from certain blows, started to feel like something to just set aside.

As practice drew to a close, it reached a crescendo as everyone set and struck faster and faster. At last, sensei called time and the pairs let themselves go slack. They stretched and walked off the exhaustion. As the partners pulled off their helmets and bowed to each other, and to the dojo, someone’s cellphone started ringing in one of the bags at the side of the practice room. Everyone laughed at the timing except Hiroshi. He knew it was his.

Hiroshi’s opponent pulled the helmet from her head and let her long hair cascade down over the dark-blue of her uniform. Hiroshi looked at Ayana’s face, flushed and sweaty, as beautiful as when waking up, when smiling after a couple drinks.

Ayana bowed to Hiroshi with a smirk and was quickly swept up by her friends into a chatting, complaining, face-wiping, water-drinking circle.

Hiroshi ambled to his phone. He picked it up sheepishly, bowing an apology to no one in particular and everyone in general. He stepped into the hall to take the call, trying to hide from Ayana’s irritation. His work intruding was not something she’d gotten used to.

“I’m supposed to be off tonight,” Hiroshi insisted to his boss, Detective Sakaguchi, but he listened as he was told the details. Corpses couldn’t wait.

Hiroshi watched Ayana gather her gear into the carrying bags as she chatted with friends. The women had drawn close, sharing a passion for the demanding practice and directed aggression of the kendo world.

Hiroshi walked back to their group, bowed to Ayana’s friends, and started taking off his uniform piece by piece, wiping things down and placing them in his bag. Carrying the heavy protective gear was part of the training, Ayana told him when he brought home a pair of rolling carry bags as a moving-in-together present. But she accepted it, reluctantly, and after practice they wiped the bags together and set everything out to dry on the balcony of the apartment they shared.

After bowing deeply to the sensei and the dojo, and casually to her friends, Hiroshi and Ayana walked down the long slope that led away from the Kanda River toward Kagurazaka, Tokyo’s old geisha quarters.

After moving into Ayana’s apartment, Hiroshi let himself be mesmerized by the old sloping lanes, stonework paths lit by soft yellow lanterns, and reservations-only restaurants in the area. He’d become familiar with the chic bistros, smart cafes, and yeasty bakeries that subdivided the area into Little Paris in Tokyo.

As they got closer to home, Hiroshi said, “Let’s eat out.”

“Let’s eat in. I’m sweaty,” Ayana parried.

“OK. I’ll stop by the deli. You go on home and shower.”

“Why are you being so nice?” Ayana asked. “Ah, must be the phone call.”

“I’m being nice because you had to work so hard practicing with me.” Hiroshi would confess he’d be at a crime scene all night after he shopped. He’d negotiated a couple of hours’ delay from Sakaguchi.

Ayana scoffed. “I needed an easy workout so I wouldn’t be exhausted for the tournament.”

Hiroshi knew she was right. She was better at kendo than he was, and worked harder.

Ayana handed him one of the lightweight shopping bags she kept tucked everywhere. He turned toward the shops along Waseda-dori, but turned back to watch Ayana just as he’d always done after he walked her to the station when they were at college.

They had been in the same seminar and were on the kendo team together. And once on the beach at Kamakura after a kendo tournament, they’d been lovers. After watching the sun set, they huddled under their kendo gear on the fine sand and spent the night in each other’s arms. In the morning, they stumbled to a public bath and ate breakfast together.

But Hiroshi’s uncle had pressed him to study accounting in America, and too confused and heartbroken to explain, he left without even saying goodbye to her. They did not see or hear from each other until they met again during a case the year before. They had both made their mistakes by then and their feelings picked up where they’d been on the beach that night.

Hiroshi hesitated moving in to her place because the apartment was part of Ayana’s divorce settlement, and his last attempt at living together ended with his girlfriend, Linda, moving back to Boston. After making up for lost time, moving in together seemed the obvious thing to do. They hardly even discussed it. His lease was up. She cleared out her closets to give him room.

At the deli counter, Hiroshi ordered a kilo of Ayana’s favorite ravioli, a little carb-loading before her tournament. He picked out a deli-made white sauce and a bucket of salad with beans, olives, and pickled peppers tossed with greens he couldn’t remember the names of. Next door, he picked up two bottles of French wine, but he knew he shouldn’t drink. When he didn’t, Ayana would know he was going back to work.

Ayana was out of the shower when Hiroshi got back and began setting the table by the balcony. Trying to decide when to tell her, he set everything on the table and kissed her. She shrank away in mock horror after sniffing at him and shoved him toward the shower. He came out to find the ravioli boiled, the sauce warmed, wine opened, and salad in her favorite bowl.

He started to explain, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand and a slug of wine. “I can guess.” She looked out the sliding glass doors of the balcony.

“I put them off for a while. So we could eat.”

“That’s progress,” she said, swirling her wine. She set down her glass and went to the kitchen area. She brought back bottled water for Hiroshi and poured it into the wine glass she’d set out for him.

“Recently, you’re getting more phone calls than ever. Keitai interruptus.”

“I’ve been getting home earlier, haven’t I?”

“But you never turn the keitai off.”

“You said I should take the promotion.”

“If I’d known you were going to abandon me tonight, I would have hit you even harder.”

“You hit hard enough.” Hiroshi touched his ribs where she’d done damage.

“Wait until next time,” Ayana said, laughing in the way she often did before sinking into silent brooding.

“Can we do dinner tomorrow instead?” Hiroshi said cheerily.

Ayana swirled her wine. “Sure, unless there’s a midnight call from Interpol, an accounting scam in Panama, a cryptocurrency fraud, or…” Ayana paused and looked at him.

Hiroshi looked at her until she pointed at the food. He had to get to the crime scene, but he knew better than to go before she let the wine turn to steam. He poured himself a glass of wine anyway and they ate in silence.

His promotion arrived soon after he moved in. It was more for the benefit of the homicide department than for him. Nothing had changed: workload, salary, office. He was an accountant before, “senior” accountant now, and still the only accountant. Hiroshi’s forensic accounting skill was helpful with most homicides, since money could be found at the root of most cases.

His English ability helped with international crimes, of which there were more than ever. After his years in America, he was the only one in the department to cover the English side of things—contacting Interpol, translating documents, liaising with foreign police networks. Some days, all he did was translate.

He wasn’t a detective like Sakaguchi, head of homicide, or Takamatsu, his mentor, who had both worked their way up through the police force. So, most of the time he followed their lead.

Ayana looked at him, her wine glass pressed against her cheek, and sighed. “I’m sorry. The tournament is coming up, so I’m thinking of that. Tomorrow will be the last chance to go out before then.”

Hiroshi got up and kissed her on the forehead and then fell on her, smooching all the ear, neck, cheek, and chest he could land his lips onto until she pushed him away.

“All right, all right. Apology accepted. I’m going to spill my wine.”

“So, spill it,” Hiroshi said, leaning down to tickle her until she did.