LITMIR.BIZ

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exactly eight o’clock, the taxi drew up in front of the house. Kimiko was waiting at the door, as if she had been standing there since the moment of her return. Her eyes lighted up with relief.

      “Good evening, Mr. Masters,” she greeted him with a bow. “Thank you for coming.” She led him into the living room. It was unusually large, its walls covered by delicately colored silk cloth. Two Italian provincial sofas, matching armchairs, and hand carved, straight-backed Louis XIV chairs of oiled cherry wood were tastefully located. To one side stood a combination television stereo set. He was surprised, for it was totally European. So unlike his opinion of her being traditionally Japanese.

      A young, stunningly beautiful girl, wearing a sheath like dress, was seated on one of the straight backed chairs. She stood up as they entered.

      She would be about twenty three or four, reasoned Masters.

      “This is my daughter, Hiroko,” said Kimiko.

      The girl was taller and more rounded than her mother. They shook hands in the western fashion. “Good evening, Mr. Masters,” she said easily, although it was evident that she had heard of him and knew the reason for his visit.

      “Would you care for something to drink?” asked Kimiko. He could see from her deep breathing that she was controlling her nervousness only by a great effort.

      “I cannot drink whisky,” he replied. “May I have tea?”

      “Of course. I would be most pleased.” She walked quickly to the kitchen to give instructions.

      Masters took a seat on the sofa across from the girl. He could hardly keep his eyes from her. The long, narrow face in the picture was still the same, the skin a flawless ivory, subtly rouged, and the almond shaped eyes which filled her face held the same soft, black irises of her mother. Her hair was piled high on her head, held in place by a band of sparkling rhinestones.

      “Mother said you know of my father.” She spoke English fluently, with the merest hint of a lisp.

      “Yes. I wish it could have been happy news. I’m sorry.”

      “You must not be. We have always been certain that he...” her voice lowered, “...was dead. But there was still the constant shred of doubt which lingered in my mother’s mind and it caused her considerable sadness. Now, at least, she will be able to accept the finality of his death.” She leaned forward. “Please, Mr. Masters, my mother is from the old Japanese way of life. It will be very difficult for her to ask you to speak. This is because of our custom between man and woman. Please help her.”

      Hiroko broke off the conversation as Kimiko led in the wrinkled servant carrying a tray. When they were served, Kimiko sat on a stiff backed chair and folded her hands. Her eyes fastened on Masters.

      “Please, Mr. Masters, would you tell us all you know about my husband.”

      Masters sipped the fragrant drink slowly to collect his thoughts. “I was a platoon leader on Iwo Jima,” he said slowly. “We were mopping up in the hill area at the north end of the island. A group of our men had a fight with four Japanese soldiers in a cave along the beach and killed them. A wallet and a thousand stitch belt was taken from your husband.”

      “Did you see him?” whispered Kimiko.

      “Yes.”

      “How did he die?” she whispered again, brokenly. Her jaw muscles were tight and the skin of her hands shone white with the pressure upon them.

      “He died instantly. Without pain. He died fighting as a soldier.”

      A small sigh escaped from Kimiko’s lips. “Thank you with all my heart, Mr. Masters, for having come to tell us.” She was struggling to control the tears. “Do you know where I can find the body?”

      They had left the corpses to the sun and the sea crabs. Perhaps burial patrols had found them later to fling the remains into the common burial pit with the thousands of other enemy soldiers.

      “He was taken to the main Japanese cemetery and interred with his comrades. There were no means by which our forces could keep individual records, so they were buried together.”

      “Who killed my father?”

      Masters’ head lifted at the sharp question from Hiroko. Her eyes were flashing.

      “Hiroko”“ called Kimiko, appalled that a guest, especially a man, should be spoken to in such a manner.

      “That’s all right, Mrs. Tanaka, she’s entitled to know.” He turned back to the beautiful girl and looked at her levelly. “There were many soldiers shooting at the same time, not only at your father but also at his three comrades. It would be impossible to say which one actually killed him.”

      “Did you shoot also?” she asked bluntly.

      A dark silence fell over the room. Masters slowly placed the teacup and saucer on the table by his side and stood up.

      “Yes. I shot, too,” he replied quietly.

      In the utter stillness, he strode to the door and let himself out, then walked slowly down the street until he found a passing taxi that took him to his hotel.

      Back in his small room, he lay fully dressed on the bed, listening to the pounding of the tired organ he called a heart, feeling no release of relief, no sense of expiation, only a heaviness and inertia. When dawn began to steal through the single window of his room, he finally fell into a fitful slumber.

       CHAPTER 3

      It was almost noon when Masters descended to the narrow lobby of the hotel. To his surprise, Kimiko was waiting there, sitting stiffly erect on a chair in a corner. She rose as he came down the staircase.

      “Good morning, Mr. Masters,” she said. “I hope you will forgive my intrusion.”

      “That’s all right, Mrs. Tanaka. Have you been waiting long?”

      “Since eight o’clock,” she answered simply, directly, and he wondered if she had ever told a lie, even a white one, in her whole life.

      “I’m sorry. You should have asked the clerk to waken me.”

      “I did not mind waiting. Have you eaten?”

      “Not yet.”

      “May I join you, please?”

      “Of course.” He guided her out into the street. It was a bright, sunny day, warm and balmy, the street crowded with workers and shoppers going to lunch or idling the time away. “There is a tea room two blocks away,” he said. “Would that be okay?”

      “Yes, thank you.”

      He studied her from the corner of his eye as she walked gracefully beside him, halfway between the short, quick step of the older Japanese women and the free swinging stride of a young girl. She seemed to be partial to suits, and wore a trim, linen skirt and jacket with a white, nylon blouse which accented the smooth, somewhat dusky lines of her throat. She was a very attractive woman and he enjoyed walking at her side.

      “Won’t you have trouble, taking off work all morning?” he asked.

      “I am the owner of the boutique, Mr. Masters. It is one of eighteen stores in my chain.” She was unable to conceal her pride, even with a great effort.

      He stopped. “I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, that lovely home of yours and the office at the store. I thought perhaps you were the manager. I congratulate you, Mrs. Tanaka.”

      As her eyes lowered and she bowed her thanks, he could see that she was pleased with his comment.

      At the restaurant she ordered a salad while he asked for a roll and tea. “Is that all you are eating?” she asked in surprise.

      He answered easily. “Doctor’s orders. I had a bit of a heart condition a year ago.”

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