He picked up his galoshes and his furled umbrella, half bowed to me again, and said, “Let us hope tomorrow is a day for songbirds.”
“Let us hope.” I sort of bowed to him and immediately wished I hadn’t, afraid that he might think I was mocking him, which I wasn’t.
He climbed the stairs toward the fifth floor. Because I was embarrassed to leave a puddle of rainwater on the floor, I didn’t move until he was at least four flights ahead of me.
In our apartment, I put the wet umbrella in a pot that stood beside the door for that purpose, and I set my galoshes to dry on a rubber mat beside the pot.
By then I had realized that Mr. Yoshioka lived in 5-C, the apartment directly beneath that in which Fiona Cassidy—aka Eve Adams—was a temporary resident. The possibility that he might be enlisted as an ally in my investigation of the woman began to intrigue me.
My mother had not yet returned from Woolworth’s because she’d had some other task after work. She didn’t expect to be home until six o’clock, which would leave her little time to change and be off to Slinky’s.
The previous day, she had made peanut-butter cookies according to Grandma Anita’s recipe. Unlike most cookies of that type, they were not oily or chewy, but crisp and crunchy. After she took them from the oven, as they cooled, she shredded dark chocolate on top, which melted and then solidified into a thin crust.
The cookies were stored in a deep, round tin. Too pleased by my cunning, I put half a dozen of the treats on a paper plate, covered them tightly with Saran Wrap, and carried them up to the fifth floor, to present them to Mr. Yoshioka, less as a neighborly gift than as an inducement to conspiracy. My motives were not entirely deplorable. I did in fact like the tailor and felt sorry for him if, as everyone suspected, he had a tragic past.
In our lives, we come to moments of great significance that we fail to recognize, the meaning of which sometimes does not occur to us for many years. Each of us has his agenda and focuses on it, and therefore we are often blind to what is before our eyes.
On the fifth floor, when Mr. Yoshioka answered his doorbell, all I saw was a neighbor, a shy man, who was still dressed for work. He hadn’t taken off his suit coat, hadn’t loosened his tie.
I held out the plate. “My mom made these. You’ll like them.”
He appeared to be uncertain, not sure that I meant to give him the cookies. “These are the product of your mother’s labor?”
“She baked them. Peanut butter. They’re delicious with milk. Or without. You don’t have to have milk to eat them. I mean, if maybe you don’t like milk or it makes you sick, or something.”
“I am making tea.”
“They might go with tea. Milk or coffee, absolutely.”
Tentatively, he took the plate of cookies. “Would you like to join me for tea, Jonah Kirk?”
“Yeah, that would be great. Thank you.”
His dress shoes were on a mat beside the door. He still wore socks, but the shoes had been replaced by white slippers.
“It is not necessary for you to take off your shoes,” he said.
“No, I want to. I want to do what you do in your own place.”
“I do not keep all traditions of Japan. You should not be worried we will sit on the floor to eat. I do not.”
“Neither do we,” I said, as he closed the door. “We never did. My people, I mean. Unless maybe back when they were slaves, maybe they weren’t given furniture, though I think they were. Not fancy furniture, of course, not from Macy’s, just crudely made stuff.”
He smiled and nodded. “I assure you also that I do not subscribe to the ancient tradition of seppuku.” When I stared blankly at him, he said, “That is the polite word for hara-kiri.”
I’d seen some old war movies. I knew what hara-kiri was. Suicide by sword. Disembowelment.
“Relax in the living room, Jonah Kirk. I will return with tea.”
I wondered if I had gotten myself in trouble and, if so, just what kind of trouble it might be.
25
After I removed my shoes, I went into the living room in my stocking feet.
First I noticed how clean Mr. Yoshioka kept his apartment. Mom was obsessive about cleaning, but our place didn’t gleam like this.
The room seemed immaculate partly because it didn’t contain much; there was no possibility of clutter. The lines of the slat-back walnut couch were stark, with box cushions covered in a gold fabric. The matching chairs had black cushions. Two simple side tables held black-ceramic lamps with gold shades.
The wood floor had been sanded smooth and finished in a high gloss. I figured Mr. Yoshioka must have done the work himself. Mr. Smaller performed only the most necessary repairs, not décor changes.