Popular Hits of the Showa Era Part 5

"All I really saw was Vancouver. The man I almost got serious about had to go there on business, and we decided I'd visit him sort of secretly, but I could only stay three days. It was definitely a pretty place, the scenery and everything, but there wasn't much to do. Seems like all we did was ride bikes."

"Hemii, you never told us about this before! You were married then, weren't you? You mean you were having an affair?"

"My husband and I were already separated by this time, and the bicycle-lover was in the same sort of situation. Anyway, there wasn't that much you could do or see on a bicycle in Vancouver, but at the close of each day we'd end up at this little zoo. I mean, I guess you'd call it a zoo. It wasn't on the scale of Ueno Zoo or Tama Zoo or anything, but the entrance or whatever, the gate where you bought tickets, was really magical, like something out of a fairy tale, and there was a big painting of one of the animals, but without anything tacky about it, if you know what I mean. I still remember that place. Or maybe I should say, that's about all I do remember."

"What kind of animal? A grizzly bear? Or a moose or something?"

"A white wolf. This wolf was the biggest attraction at the place, kind of like the panda at Ueno, and there were usually lots of people in front of its cage, but we always got there around sunset, when most of the people were leaving. I still remember buying the tickets and going in to see the wolf, and even though I was already in my thirties my heart was pounding like a little girl's."

"Because of the white wolf?"

"That was a big part of it, yeah, though of course there was the bicycle-lover too-but the funny thing is, I can hardly remember anything about him him. Of course, we only dated for a short time but, I mean, why is it that I barely remember a man I almost got serious about but can still close my eyes and see that white wolf so clearly? He was all by himself, because the other wolves were in a separate cage-I mean, they weren't cages so much as these fenced-in s.p.a.ces that looked like mountain scenes, with big rocks and everything-and each of the three times we went there that white wolf was sitting in this very n.o.ble sort of pose on top of the highest rock, kind of looking off into the distance and not moving a muscle. I remember asking the man, 'Is it alive?' And to this day, every time I go cycling, which isn't very often because, I mean, when do you get the chance? But each time I do, I remember that white wolf sitting there like a statue on those gray rocks, and I remember saying those words. Is it alive? Is it alive? Is it alive? Is it alive? Is it alive? Is it alive?"

The Italian restaurant was nestled in a wooded area dotted with small villas and summerhouses. The building itself was unusual, in that its exterior walls were made of concrete poured into molds to resemble square, round, and triangular logs, and the name of the place was almost too long to say without pausing for breath: Monte Varvarini di Noventa. When the Midoris arrived on their bicycles they were greeted at the entrance by a foreigner wearing a threadbare tuxedo and bleating, "Ira.s.shaimase!"-not an Italian man, apparently, but one from the Middle East or South America or someplace. They ordered spaghetti and carpaccio and minestrone and linguine. The fact that there were no other customers in the restaurant made it seem a sort of showcase for the bursting of the economic bubble, and the spaghetti carbonara was, to everyone's astonishment, garnished with crumbled sc.r.a.ps of hard-boiled eggs.

"In my office there's this twenty-three-year-old who recently got married, and she invited me to her wedding because we used to have tea together sometimes, and she always just struck me as an average sort of girl, but then the other day she called me up and said, 'Takeuchi-san, I'm having an affair!'"

"My! And she just got married, right?"

"Just a couple of months ago. But the guy she's having an affair with, she was seeing him even before she got married, and she says he was actually more her type but he wouldn't ask her to marry him, so she was like, All right, you're not the only man in the world All right, you're not the only man in the world, and she married this other guy she was seeing at the same time. The one she married is some sort of civil servant and very serious and conservative and when they have s.e.x it's over before she knows it and the things he talks about bore her to death, and the other one works in a boutique in Aoyama and plays in a band and knows how to get any drug you might want, and he seems to have other girlfriends too, but she sees him two or three times a week, and then about a week ago the civil servant found out about it, and the way he found out was because she didn't know the other guy's condom had slipped off and was still inside her and her husband found it when they went to have s.e.x, and she just thought, Oh, to h.e.l.l with it Oh, to h.e.l.l with it, and told him everything, and would you believe it? He started bawling like a baby and pleading with her, going, 'It's okay if you want to keep seeing the guy, just please don't leave me!'"

A man like that, the four Midoris all agreed, had no business being alive.

After lunch they headed for the tennis courts.

II.

They rode the tandem bicycles down a dirt road to the courts and rented rackets and b.a.l.l.s at the little log-cabin-style office from a young man with no shortage of pimples. He directed them to Court B, where they split into two teams for a doubles match. None of them had ever played before, so their serves were rarely within the lines and nothing resembling an extended rally ever occurred, but the four Midoris enjoyed themselves immensely, cheering and shrieking every bit as energetically as the younger groups on either side of them. They had reserved the court for two hours, but after an hour of playing their particular style of tennis, in which all four players jump up and down and squeal with delight whenever one of them manages to hit the ball, they'd had their fill and sat down on the benches, drinking sports drinks and chattering excitedly. None of them had produced so much as a drop of perspiration, but they had achieved one of their dreams-tennis by the lake-and spirits were high. Tomiyama Midori peered up at Mount Fuji, looming right in front of them, and said, rode the tandem bicycles down a dirt road to the courts and rented rackets and b.a.l.l.s at the little log-cabin-style office from a young man with no shortage of pimples. He directed them to Court B, where they split into two teams for a doubles match. None of them had ever played before, so their serves were rarely within the lines and nothing resembling an extended rally ever occurred, but the four Midoris enjoyed themselves immensely, cheering and shrieking every bit as energetically as the younger groups on either side of them. They had reserved the court for two hours, but after an hour of playing their particular style of tennis, in which all four players jump up and down and squeal with delight whenever one of them manages to hit the ball, they'd had their fill and sat down on the benches, drinking sports drinks and chattering excitedly. None of them had produced so much as a drop of perspiration, but they had achieved one of their dreams-tennis by the lake-and spirits were high. Tomiyama Midori peered up at Mount Fuji, looming right in front of them, and said, Come to think of it Come to think of it...

"I used to come here when I was little, not the tennis courts but Lake Yamanaka. I wonder why I've forgotten about that for so long. My father worked in a bank that had a lodge where the employees could stay on their holidays. Judging from the position of Fuji, I'd say it was on the far end of the lake, like if you walked halfway around the lake from here, that's about where the lodge was. It seems like we went there every summer when I was little, but of course my father was just an average clerk in the bank, so he could never get a vacation of any length, more like three days at a time, and I even seem to remember trips where we stayed at the lodge just one night, but anyway we went there many, many times. I wonder how old I was when this thing happened-I remember my father carrying me on his shoulders, so I must've been really small, first or second grade, maybe. It wasn't much of a lodge or anything, nothing special about it, just a dining hall and three or four rooms upstairs lined with bunk beds, but it was on this gently sloping hill, and out in the garden was a barbecue, just a simple one made out of bricks with a heavy iron screen kind of thing sitting on top, and I remember the last dish we'd cook would always be yaki-soba yaki-soba noodles, but we grilled all sorts of things, steaks and potatoes and hamburgers and frozen prawns, and the adults drank beer and we kids drank orange pop, and then, before going to bed, we always had fireworks. My father usually took his vacation after the Obon holidays, so it was just about the time of year it is now, but it's funny, isn't it, that I'd suddenly remember this? I had this one big firework called a Rainbow Fountain, because it would shoot out this fountain of colorful sparks for like forever, but the fuse was damp and it wouldn't light. We always started with the little ground spinners and sparklers and things and gradually went bigger and bigger, and this one that wouldn't light was the one I'd been saving for last, so it made me really sad and I started crying, and my father came up to me and said, 'What's wrong?' and I just pointed at the dud firework, and he squatted down and reached for it, and wouldn't you know, just as he's reaching for it the d.a.m.n thing goes off. He managed to cover his face with his left hand, but his right hand got really badly burned. You know, fireworks are incredibly hot, hotter than fire even, and my father's hand turned all white, but he didn't want me to worry, so even though he was biting his lip to keep from screaming he tried to smile. He held his hand under the faucet and ran cold water over it, and then they put on some ointment, but after a while it swelled up to about twice the normal size. But he kept telling me it didn't hurt, didn't bother him at all. And then, years ago, the last time I remember thinking about all this, I was trying to make some porridge with this turtle soup stock that one of the girls at my office had given me, and as I was heating it up I accidentally touched the pot and burned my finger-just a little bit, but it really hurt-and that made me remember my father's burn, which had covered the whole palm of his hand, and I couldn't even imagine how painful that must have been, and yet he tried to act like it was nothing at all-just because he didn't want me to worry, right? It made me feel like, you know, like he really cared about me. But it's funny, isn't it? I'd forgotten all about that this entire time. I wonder why I'd remember it right now." noodles, but we grilled all sorts of things, steaks and potatoes and hamburgers and frozen prawns, and the adults drank beer and we kids drank orange pop, and then, before going to bed, we always had fireworks. My father usually took his vacation after the Obon holidays, so it was just about the time of year it is now, but it's funny, isn't it, that I'd suddenly remember this? I had this one big firework called a Rainbow Fountain, because it would shoot out this fountain of colorful sparks for like forever, but the fuse was damp and it wouldn't light. We always started with the little ground spinners and sparklers and things and gradually went bigger and bigger, and this one that wouldn't light was the one I'd been saving for last, so it made me really sad and I started crying, and my father came up to me and said, 'What's wrong?' and I just pointed at the dud firework, and he squatted down and reached for it, and wouldn't you know, just as he's reaching for it the d.a.m.n thing goes off. He managed to cover his face with his left hand, but his right hand got really badly burned. You know, fireworks are incredibly hot, hotter than fire even, and my father's hand turned all white, but he didn't want me to worry, so even though he was biting his lip to keep from screaming he tried to smile. He held his hand under the faucet and ran cold water over it, and then they put on some ointment, but after a while it swelled up to about twice the normal size. But he kept telling me it didn't hurt, didn't bother him at all. And then, years ago, the last time I remember thinking about all this, I was trying to make some porridge with this turtle soup stock that one of the girls at my office had given me, and as I was heating it up I accidentally touched the pot and burned my finger-just a little bit, but it really hurt-and that made me remember my father's burn, which had covered the whole palm of his hand, and I couldn't even imagine how painful that must have been, and yet he tried to act like it was nothing at all-just because he didn't want me to worry, right? It made me feel like, you know, like he really cared about me. But it's funny, isn't it? I'd forgotten all about that this entire time. I wonder why I'd remember it right now."

"It's because your heart is open right now," Suzuki Midori murmured, and Tomiyama Midori nodded. The other two Midoris understood as well. And why were their hearts open now? Because they were doing what they really wanted to do. Until now, they'd never known what that was. Until now, there hadn't been been anything they really wanted to do. anything they really wanted to do.

"Back when I was married, I was always somewhere else in my mind, thinking about all sort of things, and now I feel like I understand why."

They were pedaling their swan boat over the surface of the lake, plowing slowly through the shimmering golden fan painted there by the sinking sun, their hair waving in the wind.

"Whenever I was with my husband, whether we were eating dinner or taking a walk, or even just talking about things, I was always thinking about something else. At the time, though, it never even occurred to me that there was anything abnormal about that."

Suzuki Midori squinted into the setting sun as she spoke.

"When you're married to someone, you talk about all sorts of things, right? Since we didn't have any children to talk about, my husband would tell me about things at the office, that a colleague of his who'd once visited us at our home had cancer, or that a man who'd entered the company the same year as him got tricked by the mama-san of some bar into cosigning on a loan and now his life was a living h.e.l.l, things like that. And we had a pet cat named Fu Ming, kind of a Chinese-sounding name, who was part Siamese, and I was still in my early twenties and didn't want to be some boring housewife who can only talk about things she saw on TV that afternoon, so mostly I talked about Fu Ming, but even when we were talking and laughing about the cat I'd be thinking about something completely different. 'Today Fu Ming was chasing a fly and jumped up on the coffee table but landed on a ca.s.sette tape and slipped and nearly fell off'-I'd be telling my husband some story like that, but all the time my brain would be somewhere else, some really stupid place. Like I might be thinking about that morning, when I walked with him to the station to see him off and a tall woman in a suit pa.s.sed by and he stared at her for about three seconds. I'd be thinking, That's probably the type of woman he really likes That's probably the type of woman he really likes, and it would turn into a kind of obsession that kept ballooning, getting bigger and bigger, and I'd start to feel like I hated having a person like him for a husband. It wasn't the sort of thing I could even talk to anyone about, though, so I'd just feel sorry for myself, and it would go on like that. I'd be rehashing these things in my mind, over and over, even while I was sitting there laughing with him, telling him funny stories about Fu Ming. It was like that the entire time we were together, and finally I started to wonder if there wasn't something wrong with me, but I didn't have anyone to discuss it with, and then, after about half a year or a year of that, Fu Ming got this sickness called hydro-peri-something, where her tummy filled up with water, and she died, and after she died I didn't have much to say to my husband anymore. It wasn't because I was thinking about Fu Ming or grieving or anything, it just felt like my head was completely empty. I mean, it wasn't about the cat. It was about the fact that I'd never told my husband any of the things I was actually thinking. So, well, I'm the one who was messed up, I guess, but it was always that way for me. I've never known what it feels like to do something and have it be the only thing in my head. Even during, excuse me, s.e.xual intercourse, I'd be thinking about something else completely. It's terrible, I know, and I got to hate the whole situation so much that I ended up getting a divorce, but even getting divorced didn't fix the problem. But now...the amazing thing is that now, everything's changed."

The western slope of Mount Fuji was turning pink and lavender in the setting sun.

"Everything's changed...."

The wind had died, and the shadow cast by the swan boat stretched out across the gla.s.sy surface of the lake, heralding the rapid approach of night.

"There's a place somewhere in this world," Suzuki Midori said, remembering some tidbit she'd read in a book, "where they talk about the night as if it were a living creature. Not just that day loses its light, but that the creature called night comes and swallows everything up...."

The little bar they were looking for was down a narrow lane that separated the bike rental shed from a souvenir shop. The bar, sandwiched between a noodle kitchen and a coffeehouse, had an old-timey sign hanging over its windowless entrance. little bar they were looking for was down a narrow lane that separated the bike rental shed from a souvenir shop. The bar, sandwiched between a noodle kitchen and a coffeehouse, had an old-timey sign hanging over its windowless entrance.

The man was already there, drinking a gla.s.s of Suntory Old with water and ice. When the four Midoris opened the door and looked in, he waved and said, "Hi! Over here! Over here!" From the top of his haircut to the soles of his black patent-leather shoes he exuded, along with a faint odor of sweat, the air of a man who had never had any luck with the ladies, just never had any luck with them at all.

There were no other customers in the place, which was furnished with only a short counter and three small tables. A woman wearing no lipstick or any other makeup except for thickly painted layers of blue, green, and brown around her eyes-a dubious cosmetic strategy-and a chubby girl who looked to be about middle school age and well below average intelligence, chanted "Ira.s.shaimase!" in unison as the Midoris stepped inside.

Suzuki Midori, intuiting that no one wanted to sit next to the man, made that sacrifice herself. The man, having presumably picked out the best articles of clothing he owned without giving any thought as to whether or not they went together, wore a yellow shirt, pink-and-gray-checkered trousers, purple nylon socks, a brown blazer with black stripes, and a red silk neckerchief.

"I'm Sakaguchi," he said. He was a member of the Self-Defense Forces.

III.

"You must be the four ladies who are all named Midori." must be the four ladies who are all named Midori."

Sakaguchi was gulping his whiskey and water even as he said this, so that it came out more like, You must be You must be gulp, gulp, the four ladies who the four ladies who gulp, gulp, are all named are all named gulp, gulp, Midori Midori. His cheeks and the flesh around his eyes were flushed, but Suzuki Midori knew it wasn't merely the result of alcohol. He was plainly nervous and self-conscious in their presence. They might be Oba-sans in their late thirties, but this man had probably never in his life been surrounded by four women before, and certainly not by four women who had any sort of interest in him. All of them could sense that much.

"Would you like something to drink?" He arranged his mouth in a smile as he said this. "When I say 'something,' I mean whiskey, is what I mean. That's all there is in this joint."

It was an appalling and alarming smile.

"This whiskey, in the old days they called it 'Dharma.' Isn't that funny? Dharma. They used to sell it in a wooden case, six bottles to a case. From the time I was in high school I used to think that was something really special, and I decided that someday I'd become a man of such importance that people would bring me gifts like that, whole cases of Dharma. But then at some point-and just overnight, really-along come your Early Times and your Jim Beam and your I. W. Harper, and before you're even used to the idea that there's so many different types of liquor in the world, everybody stops drinking domestic whiskey. Okay if I mix it with water? This bar, the one thing about it, the water's delicious. There's a well out back, and I'm told that the mama-san and her daughter draw fresh water from it every day. Not with a motorized pump either, but with a pulley and a bucket on a rope, just like in the old days."

A lot of effort was clearly going into maintaining the smile, and yet you sensed that if you were to praise it as lovely or charming, the owner would continue to bear it for an hour or two or, if necessary, all night long. "Whiskey and water would be wonderful," said Suzuki Midori, and Tomiyama Midori smiled and nodded, saying, "We're not so young that we don't have fond memories of Suntory Old!" Rea.s.sured, perhaps, Sakaguchi finally let go of the smile. Even the mama-san and her hostess offspring breathed a sigh of relief from behind the counter as the smile was disa.s.sembled, and the Midoris were aware of tension going almost audibly out of the room, like air escaping a balloon. None of them had ever before met a man who could create a general atmosphere of panic simply by smiling.

"I heard all about you ladies," Sakaguchi said, his face back in neutral now. The Midoris drained their whiskeys and water.

"Is that so?" Henmi Midori smiled politely. "Well, a certain person told us about you too, and this bar, and what time we could find you here."

The "certain person" she referred to was a small man of indeterminate age who looked like an adult version of a premature baby and whom one of Henmi Midori's coworkers had met in a nightclub. The man, according to his own account, had started a children's clothing company some twenty years before, but after it had gone belly-up some three years ago, he'd begun working in his present capacity as an agent and go-between. Henmi Midori and Suzuki Midori had gone together to meet him in the lobby lounge of one of the high-rise hotels in West Shinjuku. The small man showed up wearing a un.o.btrusive suit, and as he sipped at a cup of tea with milk, he slid a memo pad across the table and said, "Write down what it is you want." Henmi Midori did as instructed and slid the pad back to him, along with an envelope containing his fee. The fee was 250,000 yen, not including the price of the tea.

"The merchandise is in the car," Sakaguchi was telling them now. "I'll hand it over to you later on, but first I need to explain some things."

After saying this much, he suddenly lowered his eyes and bit his lip. It was as if he wanted to say something but was too embarra.s.sed. Henmi Midori hurriedly said, "Oh, don't worry-we have the cash right here," but Sakaguchi looked up, shaking his head. It ain't that It ain't that, he said, slipping into some sort of regional accent.

"I was contacted about this a week ago. I only had a few M16s in stock, so I had to do some real scrambling to find what you wanted, and that kept me so busy that I didn't give it any thought at the time, but then as I was waiting for you ladies tonight it hit me, and it was kind of a shock."

He looked to be on the verge of tears, and Suzuki Midori asked, "What is it?" in a tender voice, as if she and this SDF man, who looked roughly her age, were old and intimate friends. It wouldn't do to have him getting all shocked and unstable on them now-they hadn't received the merchandise yet, and they needed him to teach them how to use it. At the same time, she couldn't help but wonder what exactly it was that emanated so powerfully from men who have no appeal for women. It was almost like an odor, and it was the same no matter where they lived or how old they were or what they did for a living. Maybe you could find out exactly what it was if you did a chemical a.n.a.lysis of their hair or urine-discover some kind of marker that was either caused by or responsible for their never having received a woman's affection.

"The fact is, about ten years ago, I met a lady named Midori on the sh.o.r.e of that lake out there, and your names are Midori, and I don't know if it's karma or what it is, but this Midori, she was a terrible liar."

"My!" said Takeuchi Midori, letting this most common and versatile of interjections escape her parted Chanel-red lips, along with a little sigh. Sakaguchi seemed to gain courage from that "My!" and as he mixed and guzzled an even stronger drink he muttered, as if to himself: That's right, that's what she was, a liar. That's right, that's what she was, a liar.

"We were only together for half a year or so, but one lie I'll never forgive her for was, I was born in the mountains and never ate much fish, so I had no idea that the head of the buri buri, the mature yellowtail, is one of the most delicious parts, and a member of my squadron who was from Kyushu, he wanted out of the Forces because he was getting married-why that's a reason to quit the Forces is a mystery to me, but a lot of the younger fellows are like that these days-and I helped him out by putting in a good word here and there, so when he got back to his home town he shipped me a whole buri, packed in ice, you see, and me and some of the other fellows were talking about how to go about cooking and eating it, and I was going out with that woman then, and really enjoying every day, you know, living life to the fullest, and she came by and saw the fish and said, 'Well, first of all, you don't need the head, right?' And she cut off the head and wrapped it up and took it away. Then later I found out that the head is the tastiest part, and you use it to make a dish called buri-daikon, and after that the other fellows started calling her the Buri Burglar. That wasn't all, though. She told me a lot of other lies too."

Takeuchi Midori breathed another "My!" and gave him a melting, sympathetic look. "That's terrible!"

Sakaguchi mixed himself a fresh one, going easy on the water, and tossed it down.

"But the worst lie of all," he gargled, leaning forward with outspread hands, as if begging for mercy, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "She told me she was a stewardess, and she was really just a tour bus guide tour bus guide!"

Each of the four Midoris made use of the interjection "My!" to convert their spasms of laughter into scandalized gasps, and they all nodded in frantic agreement when Takeuchi Midori cried, "It's just plain wrong to deceive people that way!"

"This Midori woman, I know now that she had other men, and she only came to see me when she felt like it, on nights when she couldn't meet any of the others, but what made me really angry-well, there were lots of things that made me mad, but after I realized that she probably boiled that head with daikon radishes and ate it with another man, well, I not only couldn't eat buri anymore, I couldn't eat radishes either! Also, she was a really good singer, and just because she knew I'd never been on an airplane, she told me that stewardesses have to sing for the pa.s.sengers!"

The Midoris were compelled to ask a question or risk being reduced to convulsive giggles.

"You really never flew in a plane before?"

"Dozens of times during parachute training, but that was on military transport planes. But the thing that still bothers me the most is...is she...she used to tell me I was a good singer too. Naturally I started to wonder if that wasn't just another lie, and, well, I haven't been able to sing ever since. So...would you mind if I sang a song right now?"

Oh, please! Please do! Please sing for us! We love listening to men sing!

The song was the late Ishihara Yujiro's "Rusty Knife," and Sakaguchi's singing was so bad that it gave the lyric a strange new pathos and poignancy. Listening to his version, Suzuki Midori was reminded that no one ever said it would be easy to go on living in this world; Takeuchi Midori pondered the n.o.ble truth that n.o.body's life consists exclusively of happy times; Henmi Midori vowed to remember that it's best to keep an open heart and forgive even those who've trespa.s.sed against us; and Tomiyama Midori had to keep telling herself that hitting rock bottom is in fact the first step to a hopeful new future. Sakaguchi was gripping the mike in both hands, his eyes were closed, and sweat dripped from his forehead as he sang all three verses and choruses to the bitter end. The freakish mother-and-child duo behind the counter stood at attention, watching Sakaguchi's performance through eyes that shone with a mixture of unnatural fervor and bottomless despair, like members of the Housewives' Civilian Defense Corps seeing off a squadron of young kamikaze pilots.

By the time Sakaguchi had finished, the Midoris were all perspiring profusely beneath their clothing.

"Here she is," Sakaguchi said, taking a large tennis bag from the trunk of his car and casually extracting something that looked like a telescope and was only a little longer than a tennis racket. she is," Sakaguchi said, taking a large tennis bag from the trunk of his car and casually extracting something that looked like a telescope and was only a little longer than a tennis racket.

"It's called your M72 LAW, which stands for Light Anti-tank Weapon. Comes loaded with a sixty-six-millimeter HEAT rocket. Exceptional killpower, and it's lightweight, so even a lady can use it. Disposable type, good for a single use only. The American forces accidentally left a pile of these behind after the joint maneuvers a couple of years ago. It's been properly maintained, and I think it's your best bet."

7.

After the Acacia Rain

I.

The Midori Society didn't leap into action the moment they'd got their hands on the rocket launcher but began holding a new series of study groups to research guerrilla and terrorist tactics. All four of them had regular jobs, so the meetings had to be held at night. Meanwhile, they continued to track the movements of the enemy camp, conducting regular surveillance on Ishihara, n.o.bue, and the others. Midori Society didn't leap into action the moment they'd got their hands on the rocket launcher but began holding a new series of study groups to research guerrilla and terrorist tactics. All four of them had regular jobs, so the meetings had to be held at night. Meanwhile, they continued to track the movements of the enemy camp, conducting regular surveillance on Ishihara, n.o.bue, and the others.

Sat.u.r.day night, another study group. Suzuki Midori's apartment. Only three of them were present, as Henmi Midori was busy staking out n.o.bue's building.

"All right, then. Does anyone have any questions or opinions about the things we went over last night?"

Chairwoman Suzuki sipped her green tea and looked at Takeuchi and Tomiyama in turn. They had all decided to refrain from drinking alcohol at these meetings. Especially on Sat.u.r.days, when the meetings often lasted into the wee hours, alcohol would only invite drowsiness and impede concentration.

Takeuchi Midori raised a hand. "I'm reading the greatest book!" she said. She was drinking a cup of thick espresso, which she'd brought in her own thermos. "It's by this famous general from the Republic of Korea named Paik Sun-yup, and it's called Anti-Guerrilla Warfare Anti-Guerrilla Warfare. Three nights ago we talked about Guerrilla Warfare Guerrilla Warfare by Ernesto 'Che' Guevara, right? Well, Che's book is a sort of manual written from the guerrilla's point of view, of course, but Paik Sun-yup writes from the other side. He was a specialist in suppressing communist guerrillas from North Korea. And he-" by Ernesto 'Che' Guevara, right? Well, Che's book is a sort of manual written from the guerrilla's point of view, of course, but Paik Sun-yup writes from the other side. He was a specialist in suppressing communist guerrillas from North Korea. And he-"

Suzuki Midori interrupted her. Hang on a second Hang on a second, she said.

"Takee, are you using less makeup than usual? You're not even wearing any lipstick."

Takeuchi Midori blanched and gave a little gasp. Her hand darted into the purse beside her, and in less time than it takes to say so, she was checking her face in the little round mirror of her compact.

"I'm sorry," she said with honest contrition. "I didn't realize..."

"I'm not saying it just to get on your case, believe me."

Suzuki Midori took a leisurely sip of her green tea. She'd recently acquired a keen appreciation for how economical tea and coffee were compared to things like brandy and wine and whiskey. In the past, she had often mindlessly gulped down wine that cost five or six thousand yen a bottle at Seijo Ishii, whereas a hundred-gram bag of even the finest green tea from Yame or Uji was under three thousand yen and would easily last ten days. Besides, the caffeine kept you sharp. Leaders of all the world's guerrilla and terrorist groups have said to drink tea rather than wine, and now she understood why.

"I've made the same sort of mistake myself any number of times and had to hurry into the nearest powder room to fix it, so I'm just speaking from experience. Didn't Guevara and Marigh.e.l.la both emphasize this very point: that if something's important, it's worth rehearsing and reiterating again and again? That's why I keep harping on these things. Going light on the makeup is a habit you can fall into without even realizing it, but people around you are quicker to notice such things than you might imagine. The last thing we want is for people to think there's anything suspicious about our behavior, right? That's why, even though we've all got so much else to do with our time these days, we keep meeting once a week at the karaoke club in front of the station, and that's why when we buy these reference works, each of us goes to the trouble of traveling to bookstores in distant towns, putting on ap.r.o.ns or dressing in college-girl fashions, or wearing other things we'd never really wear, like those purple jeans of mine. These are the kinds of details we have to keep working on, never letting down our guard. After all, a group of women our age buying manuals on guerrilla warfare and terrorism at their local bookstore would be pretty conspicuous, right? Didn't Marigh.e.l.la and Action Directe's Nathalie Menigon both warn against exactly that sort of thing? We've lost two of our comrades, Nagii and Wataa, so we have to make sure there's no trail of evidence leading back to us when we exact revenge on the dirtbags responsible."

Takeuchi Midori was nodding in agreement as she peered into her compact and carefully applied her red Chanel lipstick. "How's this?" she said when finished. Given the thumbs-up, she smiled and said, "I've got to be more careful!" Perhaps it was partly because of the lipstick, but that smile was unlike any she'd ever exhibited before, and the other two Midoris were mildly stunned.

"Takee!" Chairwoman Suzuki gasped. "What is with the s.e.xy smile? Even my my heart just skipped a beat!" heart just skipped a beat!"

"Seriously, Takee," said Tomiyama Midori. "Do people at work tell you you're looking especially hot these days?"

Takeuchi Midori bowed her head, blushing, and said that in fact they did.

"My section chief asked me if I'd found a new lover or something. It was strange. I couldn't imagine what he was talking about."

"You have have found a new lover," Suzuki Midori said, and tilted her head toward the far corner of the room. The M72 was there, closed up inside its outer tube. "But back to what you were saying, Takee. What's so good about this Korean general's book? Did you find anything we can use?" found a new lover," Suzuki Midori said, and tilted her head toward the far corner of the room. The M72 was there, closed up inside its outer tube. "But back to what you were saying, Takee. What's so good about this Korean general's book? Did you find anything we can use?"

"Well, nothing in particular, I guess, but..." Takeuchi Midori leafed through her underlined copy of Anti-Guerrilla Warfare Anti-Guerrilla Warfare. "Oh, wait. For example: 'j.a.pan has no history of guerrilla warfare.' I thought that was worth noting. And this one: 'A fascinating thing about human beings is that the more they begin to disintegrate psychologically, the more they tend to fall back on custom and habit.' Well, just things like that...I guess it's not much help, is it? No really practical tips or anything...."

She closed the book and shrugged, still wearing that s.e.xy half-smile. Suzuki Midori and Tomiyama Midori were wondering what it was that had effected this transformation in her-and, indeed, in themselves as well. They had both had similar experiences at their respective offices. Tomiyama-san, Suzuki-san, you're looking awfully pretty lately Tomiyama-san, Suzuki-san, you're looking awfully pretty lately....