A Lonely Resurrection

response to that was,
The hell with it.
    I went to see her.
    I took a long, meandering route, moving mostly on foot, watching as the city gradually grew dark around me. There’s something so alive about Tokyo at night, something so imbued with possibilities. Certainly the daytime, with its zigzagging schools of pedestrians and thundering trains and hustle and noise and traffic, is the more upbeat of the city’s melodies. But the city also seems burdened by the quotidian clamor, and almost relieved, every evening, to be able to ease into the twilight and set aside the weight of the day. Night strips away the superfluity and the distractions. You move through Tokyo at night and you feel you’re on the verge of that thing you’ve always longed for. At night, you can hear the city breathe.
    I stopped at an Internet café to check the Body & Soul website and see who was playing. It was Toku, a young vocalist and flugelhorn player who had already developed a reputation for a soulful sound that belied his twenty-nine years. I had two of his CDs but hadn’t seen him perform.
    It was possible Yamaoto had learned Midori was in Tokyo from the investigative firm she had retained. If so, there was a chance she was being watched, perhaps by Murakami himself. I did a thorough check of the likely spots around the club. They were all clear.
    I went in at about eight-thirty. The place was full, but the doorman let me in when I told him I was a friend of Kawamura Midori, who was here for Toku’s performance. Oh yes, he told me. Kawamura-san mentioned someone might come. Please.
    She was sitting at the end of one of the two long tables that parallel Body & Soul’s walls and overlook the floor, where the musicians were set up. I scanned the room but didn’t spot any likely threats. In fact, the evening’s demographic was young, female, and obviously there to see Toku, who, with his quintet, was now captivating them with his elegiac “Autumn Winds.”
    I smiled at what the band was wearing: tee shirts, jeans and sneakers. They all had long hair, died
chapatsu
brown. Their contemporaries would think it was cool. To me they looked young.
    I made my way to where Midori was sitting. She watched my approach but made no move to greet me.
    She was wearing a black, form fitting sleeveless turtleneck that looked like lightweight cashmere, her face and her arms luminous in contrast. She leaned back in her chair, and I saw a pair of leather pants, soft with age and use, and high-heeled boots. Other than a pair of diamond stud earrings, she’d left things unadorned. I’d always liked that she didn’t overdo the jewelry or makeup. She didn’t need it.
    “I didn’t really expect you,” she said.
    I leaned in so she could hear me over the music. “You didn’t think I’d get your message?”
    She cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you’d show up if I proposed the time and place.”
    She caught on fast. I shrugged. “Here I am.”
    There were no seats open, so she got up and we leaned against the wall, our shoulders not quite touching. She took her drink with her.
    “What’s that you’re having?” I asked.
    “Ardbeg. You introduced me to it, remember? It tastes like you now.”
    “I’m surprised you enjoy it, then.”
    She glanced at me, sidelong. “It’s a bittersweet flavor,” she said.
    A waitress came by and I ordered an Ardbeg. We listened to Toku sing about sorrow and loneliness and regret. The crowd loved him.
    When the set was over and the noise of the ensuing applause had died down, Midori turned to me. I was surprised to see concern on her face, even sympathy. Then I realized why.
    “Did you. . . you must have heard about Harry,” she said.
    I nodded.
    “I’m sorry.”
    I waited a second, then said, “He was killed, you know. Those PIs you put on him got word to the wrong people.”
    Her mouth dropped open. “They told me it was an accident.”
    “That’s bullshit.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Circumstances. At one point they thought they had me, so they figured they didn’t need him. Besides, his stomach was full of alcohol. But Harry didn’t drink.”
    “Oh, my God,” she said, her hand over her mouth.
    “Next time, hire a firm that takes its confidentiality obligations a little more seriously.”
    She shook her head, her hand still over her mouth.
    “I’m sorry,” I said, looking down. “That wasn’t fair. This was nobody’s fault but the people who did it. And Harry’s, for not