A Clean Kill in Tokyo

Mulberry, the English leather goods manufacturer. They had a store in Minami Aoyama, and I wondered if she was on her way to return something.
    Midway to Aoyama-dori she turned into Paul Stuart. I could have followed her in, tried for a chance meeting there, but I was curious about where else she was going, and decided to wait. I set up in the Fouchet Gallery across the street, where I admired several paintings that afforded me a view of the street until she emerged, a Paul Stuart shopping bag in hand, twenty minutes later.
    Her next stop was at Nicole Farhi London. This time I waited for her in the Aoyama Flower Market, on the ground floor of the La Mia building. From there, she continued onto a series of nameless Omotesando backstreets, periodically stopping to browse in one of the area’s boutiques, until she emerged onto Koto-dori, where she made a right. I followed her, staying back and on the opposite side of the street, until I saw her duck into Le Ciel Bleu.
    I turned into the Tokyo J.M. Weston shop, admiring the handmade shoes in the windows at an angle that afforded me a view of Le Ciel Bleu. I considered. Her taste seemed mostly European. She eschewed the large stores, even the upscale ones. She seemed to be completing a circle that would take her back in the direction of her apartment. And she was carrying that Mulberry bag.
    If she was indeed on her way to return something, I had a chance to be there first. It was a risk because if I set up there and she went the other way, I would lose her. But if I could anticipate her and be waiting at her next stop before she got there, the encounter would seem more like chance and less like the result of being followed.
    I left the Weston store and moved quickly up Koto-dori, window-shopping as I walked so that my face was turned away from Midori’s position. Once I was clear of Le Ciel Bleu, I cut across the street and ducked into Mulberry. I strolled over to the men’s section, where I told the proprietress I was just looking, and began to examine some of the briefcases.
    Five minutes later, Midori entered the store as I had hoped, removing her sunglasses and acknowledging the welcoming
“irrashaimase”
of the proprietress with a slight bow of her head. Keeping her at the limits of my peripheral vision, I picked up one of the briefcases as though examining its heft. From this angle, I felt her gaze stop on me and then linger longer than would have been warranted by a casual glance around the store. I gave the briefcase a last once-over, then set it down and looked up. She was still watching me, her head cocked slightly to the right.
    I blinked once, as though in surprise, and approached her. “Kawamura-san,” I said in Japanese. “This is a nice surprise. I just saw you at Club Alfie last Friday. You were tremendous.”
    She evaluated me silently for a long moment before responding, and I was glad my gamble had worked. I sensed this intelligent woman would be cynical about coincidences, and might have suspected, had I come in after her, that she had been followed.
    “Yes, I remember,” she said finally. “You’re the one who thinks jazz is like sex.” Before I could come up with a suitable response, she continued. “You didn’t have to say that, you know. You could try to be more forgiving.”
    For the first time, I was in a position to notice her body. She was slender and long limbed—perhaps a legacy from her father, whose height had made him easy to follow down Dogenzaka. Her shoulders were broad, a lovely counterpart to a long and graceful neck. Her breasts were small, and, I couldn’t help but notice, shapely beneath her sweater. The skin on the exposed portion of her chest was beautiful: smooth and white, framed by the contrast of the black V-neck.
    I looked into her dark eyes, and felt my usual urge to spar dissipate. “You’re right,” I told her. “I’m sorry.”
    She closed her eyes briefly and shook her head. “You enjoyed the performance?”
    “Immensely. I have your CD, and have been meaning to catch you and your trio for the longest time. I travel a lot, though, and this was my first chance.”
    “Where do you travel?”
    “Mostly America and Europe. I’m a consultant,” I said in a tone indicating that my work would be a boring topic for me. “Nothing as exciting as being a jazz pianist.”
    She smiled. “You think being a jazz pianist is exciting?”
    She had a natural interrogator’s habit of reflecting back the last