Solomon shook his head. All he could think of were the innumerable times he had spent in Goro’s presence listening to his hilarious stories about his many girlfriends and his constant encouragements for Solomon’s future. Goro had this remarkable clarity about the world. A great man, his father always said about Goro—a noble man—a true bushi who understood sacrifice and leadership. It had been Goro alone who had built up Haruki Totoyama’s mother’s uniform business from nothing, and all because he’d felt bad for a single mother raising two boys. His father said that Goro was always doing good things for poor people quietly. It was absurd to consider that Goro could have been responsible for the lady’s death. The woman would have sold the property to Goro because he was known as a good Korean businessman. Everyone knew this.
“Human Resources is waiting outside. Solomon, you don’t know how it works, I don’t think, because this is your first job at a bank, but when you’re terminated from an investment bank, you have to leave the building immediately for internal security reasons. I’m sorry.”
“But what did I do?”
“The transaction is postponed for now, and we will not need such a large team. I’m pleased to give you a reference. You can put me down for whatever you want. I would never mention this to your future employers.”
Solomon leaned back in his chair and stared at Kazu’s hardened jaw. He paused before speaking:
“You brought me in on purpose. Because you wanted me to get the Korean lady to sell. You knew—”
Kazu put down the baseball and moved to the door.
“Brother, I gave you a job, and you were fortunate to have it.”
Solomon covered his mouth with his hands.
“You’re a nice boy, Solomon, and you will have a future in finance, but not here. If you are trying to imply that you were being discriminated against, something that Koreans tend to believe, that would be incorrect and unfair to me. If anything, you have been preferred over the natives. I like working with Koreans. Everyone knows this about me. The whole department thought that you were my pet associate. I didn’t want to fire you. I just don’t agree with your father’s tactics.”
“My father? He had nothing to do with this.”
“Yes, of course. It was this man, Goro,” Kazu said. “I believe you. I do. Good luck, Solomon.”
Kazu opened the office door and let the two women from Human Resources in before heading to his next meeting.
The speech from HR passed quickly, sounding like radio static in Solomon’s head. They asked him for his identification card, and he gave it to them automatically. His mind kept returning to Hana, though he felt like he should call Phoebe to explain. He needed air. He threw things in the white banker’s box but left the baseball on the credenza.
The HR women escorted him to the elevator and offered to send his box to his apartment by messenger, but Solomon refused. Through the glass-walled conference room, he saw the guys from the poker game but no Kazu. Giancarlo spotted him holding the white box against his chest, and he half smiled at him, then returned to what he was doing. On the street, Solomon got into a taxi and asked the driver to drive him all the way to Yokohama. He didn’t think he could walk to the train station.
20
Yokohama, 1989
Empire Cafe was an old-style Japanese curry restaurant near Chinatown—a place Solomon used to go with his father on Saturday afternoons when he was a boy. Mozasu still ate there on Wednesdays with Goro and Totoyama. Empire served five different kinds of curries, only one kind of draft beer, and as much tea and pickles as you wanted. The cook, who was always in a bad mood, had a deft hand with the seasonings, and his curries were unrivaled in the city.
Late in the afternoon and long past lunch hour, the café was nearly empty except for the three old friends sitting at the corner table near the kitchen. Goro was telling one of his funny stories while making clownish faces and dramatic hand gestures. Mozasu and Totoyama took bites of their hot curry and sipped beer. All the while, they nodded and smiled at Goro, encouraging him to continue.
When Solomon pushed open the perpetually swollen front door, the cheap sleigh bells attached to the door jingled.
Scarcely bothering to turn from clearing the tables, the diminutive waitress bellowed, “Irasshai!”
Mozasu was surprised to see his son. Solomon bowed in the direction of the men.
“You skipping work?” Mozasu asked. The edge of his eyes crinkled deeply when he smiled.
“Good, good. Skip work,” Goro interrupted. He was delighted to see the boy. “I hear you go to the office on the weekends, too. That’s no way to be for a handsome boy like you. You should be busy chasing skirt. If I had your height and your diploma, you’d feel sorry for all the women of Japan. I’d be breaking hearts at a rate that would shock a gentle boy like you.”
Goro rubbed his hands together.
Totoyama said nothing; he was staring at the lower half of Solomon’s face, which seemed fixed; the boy’s lips made a thin, crumpled line above his chin. Totoyama’s own face was flushed, since it took only half a small beer to redden his ears, nose, and cheeks.
“Solomon, sit down,” Totoyama said. “You okay?”
He lifted his briefcase resting on the empty chair and set it down on the linoleum floor.
“I—” Solomon tried to speak, then gasped.
Mozasu asked his son, “You hungry? Did Etsuko tell you that you’d find us here gossiping like old women?”