“Are you asleep?”

  Eizo didn’t move. He continued to feign sleep so that Ran would get bored and leave.

  Ran removed his finger but didn’t step away. He stood beside Eizo, and Eizo wished he could keep his distance as he always had. The closer Ran was to him, the more tempted he was to inhale deeper breaths of that clean and earthy scent until it filled every cranny of his head. What on earth did Ran use to wash his clothes to smell this good? Eizo reminded himself to slow his breathing so he wouldn’t give himself away.

  “I always forget you are younger than Aiko. Must be your bloody height.” A pause. “And your sheer audacity. Impudence. The pestilence of Oakwood.” Another pause. “A born irritant. A fishbone lodged in the fucking throat.”

  Eizo resisted the urge to look up. Was Ran baiting him with a dictionary of villainous descriptions, to test if he was really asleep? As much as he wanted to end his pretense to rebuke Ran, he found Ran slagging him off rather amusing and held his tongue instead. At least what Ran thought of him privately aligned with how he acted towards him.

  He heard Ran shift his weight onto his heels. Then, without warning, Ran picked up his right hand. A touch so clinical, it felt like he was holding his arm out for a routine check at the doctor’s.

  “Never,” Ran began. “Never,” he repeated. “Why never?”

  A beat, and he continued. “What were you thinking when you wrote Chapter 150?”

  Eizo’s throat tightened. The haiku, the double entendre.

  “What did the wizard give up?”

  Ran rested Eizo’s hand in his, turning it slightly so the edge of his palm faced up.

  “Is the wizard really powerless?”

  A cool finger traced the scabs that had formed as his burn healed. Again, a sterile touch meant to observe, not violate. Despite that, the skin where Ran touched tingled. An odd sensation was unraveling. Blood pooled in the back of Eizo’s ears, weighing his head down.

  “Or is he hiding something?”

  Ran placed Eizo’s hand back on the table. His fingertips might be chilly to the touch, but his palm was unexpectedly warm.

  “Should I wake you now and make you tell me?”

  Eizo’s fingers curled as Ran removed his hand.

  “If you can do that for New World, I might just⁠—”

  The editor trailed off into silence. Eizo waited for him to continue, but he didn’t say another word. Was Ran now standing there, analyzing him, searching for a clue that might betray his act? Was he watching him with the same eyes that had turned him inside out at the Kichijoji crosswalk?

  Discomfort gnawed at him, and he was about to wake up and tell Ran to beat it when he heard Ran cough a little, an awkward clearing of the throat, as if to shake himself out of a reverie. A rustling of fabric and the beep of numbers on the dial pad.

  “Security desk? This is Miyamoto of Suigetsu. There’s still someone in the coworking space on the 34th floor. Don’t turn off the lights yet.”

  Ran hung up and tapped Eizo on the forehead. “Wake up, stupid seaweed. I hear this place is haunted.”

  A chuckle, and then everything happened in reverse: the soft weight on the seat lifted, the scent of cypress and vetiver faded, the soles clopped away, the glass doors closed, and Eizo was alone again.

  * * *

  Eizo stepped out shortly after Ran left.

  The night was growing colder, the air crisper. He looked up at the sky. The moon and stars were nowhere to be seen. It was as the wizard said in the haiku: A frigid wind blows.

  Shivering from the powerful gusts funneled along the major thoroughfare, Eizo battled the urge to put on his lined windbreaker. He bit down on his chattering teeth and tucked his hands into his pockets, attempting to scrounge up the last pang of warmth he preserved from Ran’s touch. If not for that, Eizo was sure that he’d fallen asleep and dreamed up the entire exchange with Ran.

  Azabudai was an easy twenty-minute walk from Akasaka. He could have sprinted home to outrun the cold. It had been two years since his last run. Even if he kept the speed from his physical peak, he still wouldn’t run. Eizo might dislike the cold, but he didn’t fear it. Not on a night as windy as this. He wanted the tempest to lash his cheeks until he couldn’t feel his face anymore. He welcomed the chill; invited it to strike deep into his bones. Hot air rose, cold air sank. Maybe it would weigh him down, so when he peeled off the layers cast upon him, his feet could still touch the ground.

  33

  It was evening when Kamada Kiko returned home from Geneva. She set her rolling luggage by the door, stepped out of her heels, and made her way to the dining table. Eizo had been waiting in the kitchen since the afternoon, dreading the inevitable moment when the double doors opened.

  “I heard from the professors,” she began as she removed her pearl necklace and placed it in an empty bowl on the kitchen counter. Her coiffed bob, dyed a rich mahogany, arched elegantly under her ears until she washed her hands and patted her hair dry till it straightened. When he last saw his mother, her hair was golden brown, only a little longer than a pixie cut. Her tweed blazer, looped around the strap of her handbag, had slid to the ground. She paid it no mind and stepped over it as she approached Eizo. He set aside his laptop and quickly stood up. Although she reached up to his chest, Eizo always felt he had shrunk several inches in her presence.

  “You are scheduled for a panel interview before the winter break. Admissions will send you the details soon.”

  “Really?” Eizo’s throat went dry. He forced himself to look at her, his usual smile in place. “That’s good news.”

  She pulled out a 1988 Château Lafite Rothschild from the wine chiller and drew a glass and a corkscrew from the shelf. She half-turned to Eizo, waving the glass at him. “Want one?”

  Eizo shook his head.

  Kamada Kiko eyed him for a second. “Still can’t drink?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You should learn to hold your liquor.”

  He responded with a smile, if lips pressed together into a line could be called that. His mother continued their conversation, as if they were resuming an unfinished sentence from the morning, even though it had been two years since they last spoke.

  “Your statement caught their eye.” She stabbed the screw into the middle of the cork, pushed it in, and began twisting the handles clockwise. “They discussed for a while. I think they have a lot to talk to you about.”

  “Then I should start preparing for the interview,” Eizo said. “Mrs. Yasuda made dinner. I’ll heat the dishes.”

  She raised her wrist to check the time. “Let’s be quick. I need to take a work call at nine.”

  “Are you eating in your study?”

  She looked at him as she rested the mouth of the bottle against the glass, rapidly filling up with wine. “No, we’ll eat here.”

  In the past, she’d fill only half the glass and bring it upstairs to her study. Now, the brick-red liquid was threatening to spill. Pressure thrummed in his chest. The prelude to their dinner wasn’t yet over.

  “By the way, I heard you started drinking tea?” she asked.

  Eizo had seen this coming. “I’m starting to appreciate it,” he said.

  “Tell me, what does it taste like?”

  He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Rich with a scent of muscatel, but smooth with no hint of astringency you can sometimes get from oversteeping Darjeeling.”

  “Very well, seems like you remember what I told you.” She headed up the stairs to her room, wineglass in hand. She seemed convinced, for now, at least. “You picked a good one.”

  * * *

  The Kamadas’ dining table was carved from a single slab of gray marble with dramatic black and brown veining, set on thick metallic legs. Growing up, Eizo had always thought the table resembled a snow tiger that would gobble whoever sat there for too long. Large enough for ten but often used by one, the table blended into the rest of the house, an entity that always portrayed its best self. Polished, without a trace of blemish.

  Kamada Kiko came down thirty minutes later, her makeup still intact. She waited until Eizo took his seat in the middle before pulling out a chair from the opposite side of the table. Between them was a simple fare of baked halibut, cauliflower and corn cream soup, garden salad, and rice. Mrs. Yasuda had taken special care to prepare a meal that suited his mother’s preference for Western fare whenever she returned from Europe.

  She glanced at the chopsticks placed on a bone china rest. The choice of cutlery was incompatible with what they were having—they should be using a spoon and a fork instead, but she didn’t say anything and picked up her chopsticks to start eating.

  “Have you received the books?” she asked.

  The textbooks from Mrs. Yasuda. He nodded, waiting for her to take the first bite of food before he did the same.

  “What are you planning to do with them?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing,” she repeated, mulling the word over. She set down her cutlery and looked at him. “They aren’t of use to you?”

  Eizo placed his hands on the table where she could see. The test had begun. The dining table was now the scene for cross-examination, the light overhead a blinding flash into Eizo’s eyes. From now on, she would prod, pry apart, contest, and confirm every word he said as she dissected the litany of meanings they could hold. Before Eizo entered high school, mealtimes were an exposé of his biweekly batting practice with his father. She’d pry into every father-son exchange to scrape the slimmest advantage she could use to drag out the divorce. She’d needed to keep her failing marriage under wraps until she became Saiji’s first female C-suite executive. The proceedings took five years to complete. They had separated three years before that.

  “Not at all,” he affirmed.

  “I wanted to be sure.”

  Her eyes were trained on him, searching for any trace of emotion that would give him away. What she didn’t know was that looking at her was like staring back into a mirror. If his gaze darted to the left, hers would dart to the right. If his mouth twitched, hers followed. It had been two years since they had last sat at the table and shared a meal, but their communication with each other remained unchanged. Like two sides of the same coin, constantly spinning, never facing each other until they catch their reflection in the mirror. There was nothing in him she could pick out without exposing herself first, and vice versa.

  “I have no use for them,” he said. “The books are of the past.”

  Her gaze turned distant. She was contemplating her next course of action, depending on whether she believed him. The length of silence implied that she leaned toward the former.

  “How much do you know about family offices?” she asked after a while.

  “They are common in the US and Europe, but new to Japan. Things are changing, and the ultra-rich here are fast catching on.”

  “Why is that the case?”

  “The Japanese inheritance laws,” Eizo said. “No one wants to surrender half of their wealth to the state after they die.”

  “That’s about the size of it.” Kamada Kiko returned her attention to her plate, using chopsticks to pry apart an already small slice of fish into tinier morsels. “What I’m planning is a joint venture with a wealth management startup. I’m still perusing proposals and more are coming in. I received quite a few when I was in Geneva.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “Sure, it is. What about you? Any good news for me?”

  “Not really. I don’t have my postgrad yet.”

  “It’s more important to get started now than later. We are talking first-mover advantage here. Start early, build your brand, foster trust.” She paused, staring at the bowl of soup for a moment before moving it aside. “The MBA curriculum is not that rigorous. It’s just an established method to build your network and make your name card look better.”

  She set down the chopsticks below the plate, rather than on it, as she had earlier. It meant that she was done. Her plate was still half-filled with rice. She didn’t drink the soup at all.

  “You should know this already. Without a first-class honors equivalent, I am unsure if even a Todai MBA could secure an interview at Saiji. The number of jobs is drying up, but graduates continue to knock on our doors every day. I’m not talking about locals alone. I spoke at an INSEAD event before flying home. You should see the number of eager faces coming up to me, seeking an internship. Unpaid, mind you.”

  “It’s competitive out there, especially for a firm of Saiji’s stature,” Eizo replied, adopting the facade of an understanding son. “I know of people with perfect GPAs who couldn’t even land a phone screening.”

  “It’s not getting better.” She poured another glass of wine and swirled it lightly by the stem. “So, what do you think of the offer?”

  The offer. The compensation for stepping inside the box.

  “You should know that the value of the stake is linked to the value of assets managed by the office,” she added. “To use our full suite of services, you will need a net worth of at least fifteen billion yen.”

  His five percent stake could be worth a fraction of that if he worked hard and brought in clients to invest with them. He would never earn that much as a writer in his lifetime, not even if he produced a record-breaking bestseller for Suigetsu, which would bump his compensation to the highest tier. He would still have to churn out millions of words over years, even decades, hoping his work would remain well-received. A near-impossible feat, compared with the option laid before him. But he must not stop now. He’d told himself this repeatedly after he unsealed the envelope. The momentum was rising. If he faltered, he could never escape this place.

  Eizo straightened himself in his chair, mirroring her expression as he planned what to say next.

  “I’ll forgo the shares,” he said.

  Kamada Kiko froze upon hearing that. For what felt like an eternity, she didn’t speak. She was looking at him, but also looking past him. The last time Eizo saw her like this was eight years ago, manicured nails digging into the edges of the handset. Eizo braced himself. He was doing fine. He had planned for this scenario, one among many.

  “Is five percent too little?” she managed after a while.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I want to learn the ropes first and prove that I’m worthy of joining the business.”

  “Are you still harboring hopes of going pro?” she asked.

  Are you still trying to be like your dad? She must have had wanted to ask.

  “You and I know it’s not possible anymore.”

  Her voice quivered. “Then what’s this hesitation I’m hearing?” She clasped her hands together on her lap. “Did he ask you to go into coaching?”

  “You mean Dad?” Eizo asked, drawing out the last word as much as he could. He set his cutlery on the table, copying his mother’s arrangement. A grimace flittered across her face as she tracked his every move.

  Eizo smiled when their eyes met.

  The rules of decorum between parent and child in the Kamada household held firm everywhere they went. Decorum in the form of manners, courtesy, and respect for your elders. Let them speak first. Let them eat first. Be grateful for their wisdom. In return, the elders should show their children and grandchildren respect through acts of generosity. Respect and generosity moved in a closed loop, like a train pulling carriages of equal weight on the tracks, never breaking the flow. As his grandmother would say, animosity would breed if the flow broke, inviting disharmony into the family.

  As much as a woman who’d divorced a man scorned his existence, their child could still call him father. Once Eizo said the word, she could no longer skirt around her generalizations. She must now be specific in what she said, her tone genteel, for the rules of decorum forbade her from speaking of him as her ex-husband, but as a father to her son.

  “Keio hasn’t been doing that hot either,” he said. “Dad has plenty of former Waseda students to tap for assistant coaches. I’m far down the pecking order. I’m not even that good at strategy or making base plays.”

  “What a dilemma it must be,” she said, “to decide between who you want to be—a person who runs the world or a player who runs on the pitch.”

  A smile crossed her face. She was composing herself. “For the first two years, I don’t expect you to do much. You’ll need time to get to know people, and that’s what the MBA can do for you. But I can give you the stake from day one. After you sign, and my lawyers process the files, it’s all yours. I did the sums. It should double what you would make as an NPB first-teamer.”

  Eizo fought the urge to laugh in her face. First team at one of Japan’s twelve NPB clubs? Even if his knee were fine, he was bound for the farm team in his first two seasons. And that was the best-case scenario. There were plenty of talented shortstops in the pro league. His at-bat rate, even at his season best, didn’t crack the top hundred in Tokyo.

  If you’re trying this hard, I ought to try harder too.

  “I can even intern at the firm for free. Please consider it to be my prideful request.”

  Her delicate brows arched into a frown.

  “Let me earn my place in the family.” He stressed the last word. “The Kamada family.”

  She was still frowning. “There’s still time before the lawyers set up everything. I can absorb your stake into mine for now.”

  Eizo shook his head. “It’s yours to begin with. You carved it out to share with me, but I can’t just take it. I have to earn it. I’ll start with zero, and if you and your partners think I’m good enough, then consider giving me equity in the company.”

  His mother seemed to sense that Eizo wasn’t caving in. “We will leave it as this for now,” she said after some thought. “Let’s talk again after your interview.” A last drink of red wine marked the end of their conversation. If they stayed any longer, the snow tiger would chew them up.

  After his mother returned to her study, Eizo cleaned the dishes and placed them back on the racks. He could have rinsed them and left them inside the dishwasher for Mrs. Yasuda to dry them tomorrow. He also picked up her blazer and placed it in a wash bag for dry cleaning. He did these because he was an obedient son. Well-mannered, confident, intelligent, capable of taking care of himself and his mother. He was young; she was getting older.