“If I’m gone when you get home,” she said, “go down to Donata’s. She’s expecting you.”
When I returned at 3:15, I didn’t proceed directly to Mrs. Lorenzo’s. I didn’t feel guilty about going to our apartment instead, because I was trying to figure out how to ensure our safety, which was the primary job of the man of the house, after all. As strange as it might sound, however, I did feel terribly guilty about not feeling guilty.
In the kitchen, I opened the drawer nearest the wall phone and took out the directory and looked for a listing for my new friend on the fifth floor. I found one at our street address for YOSHIOKA, GEORGE. The mailboxes in the lobby featured only last names. I don’t know why I expected him to have a Japanese first name when presumably he had been born in the United States, but I stared at the listing for maybe a minute, wondering if, unknown to me, there could be a second Yoshioka in the building.
As I was finally about to dial the number, the phone rang, startling me. I stared at it, certain that the caller must be the witch—She knows I’ve come home!—but then embarrassed by my fearful reaction, I snatched up the handset. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon, Jonah Kirk,” said Mr. Yoshioka.
“Oh. Hi. I didn’t think it was you.”
“Who did you think I was?”
“Eve Adams.”
“I assure you that I am not her.”
“No, sir. I can tell you’re not.”
“I must first inform you that I most happily consumed the last of your mother’s cookies, and it was as entirely delicious as the first. Thank you for them.”
“I could bring up some more, if you want.”
With evident mortification, he said, “No, no. I am so sorry. I did not phone you to request cookies. If I did so, you would think me unspeakably rude.”
“No, sir. I would think you know a good cookie when you taste one, that’s all.”
My reply seemed to confuse him. He was silent for a moment before he asked, “Are you entirely alone, Jonah Kirk?”
“Yes, sir. Mom’s gone to Slinky’s and I’m supposed to go down to Mrs. Lorenzo’s instead of her coming up here.”
“I have something important for you, Jonah Kirk. Very important. May I bring it down momentarily?”
“Sure.”
“There are unwholesome forces at work in this building. We must at all times be most discreet. I will not ring your bell. I will not knock. You will be waiting for me. Yes?”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“If I encounter wickedness on my way to you, I will retreat to my rooms and phone you to discuss another time to meet.”
“Wickedness?” I said.
“Wickedness, Jonah Kirk. Great wickedness.”
30
I waited at the front door of the apartment, which I’d unlocked and opened just a crack. Peering through the gap, waiting for my co-conspirator, I was taken by surprise when suddenly he appeared from my left, having come down the back stairs instead of the front, as quiet as a cat.
Mr. Yoshioka smiled at me through the gap, and I let him into the apartment. He was carrying a brown-paper shopping bag with cord handles, which he put down next to the door as I closed it.
“How are you this afternoon, Jonah Kirk?”
“Kind of scared, I guess.”
“Scared? Frightened? Of what?”
“Whatever great wickedness you’re going to tell me about.”
“You already know the great wickedness. It is Miss Eve Adams.”
Something about the tailor was different. Although this was a holiday, he still wore a suit and tie, but in spite of all his talk of wickedness, he seemed more relaxed than usual.
“You also said there were ‘unwholesome forces at work in this building.’ ”
“That again is a reference to Miss Eve Adams and to those who are in league with her.”
“Who’s in league with her?”
“Different people come and go. I hear their footsteps overhead, muffled voices, but I never see them.”
“Has she been in your apartment again?”
He looked as solemn as if he were at a funeral. “Yes. She left another photograph.”
“Of the second tiger screen, of the court lady carved in ivory?”
“It is not a Polaroid. It is instead a page torn from a book, a photograph of Manzanar.”
I remembered from our conversation over tea. “One of the places you lived in California.”
“A photograph of the gates to the place where I lived.”
“How could she know?”
“I believe that she guessed … and was right.”
“Then she must be a witch, for sure.”
Just then I realized why Mr. Yoshioka looked more relaxed than usual. Although he wore a suit and tie, as always, for the first time he wasn’t also wearing a vest. He’d made a concession to the holiday.
Only that morning, I’d been terrified when I realized that Eve Adams had worked her way into our locked apartment during the night and had photographed me in my sleep; but now I was excited to have an outrage to share with Mr. Yoshioka, an outrage that seemed to one-up a picture of some little town in California.