A Lonely Resurrection

itself when her eyes shifted from my face to Murakami’s. She must have known him, and, based on the story I had told her, obviously didn’t expect to see us together. She was trying to process the incongruity, certainly. But the suddenness of her change of expression told me there was more. She was scared.
    Yukiko sat next to Murakami and across from me. She looked at me for a long moment, then briefly at Murakami, then back at me. Her lips moved in the barest hint of a cool smile. Murakami stared at her as though waiting for more, but she ignored him. I felt a tension building and thought,
Don’t play with this guy. He could go off.
Then she turned her eyes to him again and permitted him a smile that said,
I was only teasing you, darling. Don’t be such a child.
    The tension dropped away. I thought that if anyone had a measure of control over the creature sitting next to me, it was probably this woman.
    Naomi took the remaining seat.
“Hisashiburi desu ne,”
I said to her. It’s been a while.
    “Un, so desu ne,”
she replied, her expression now neutral. Yes, it has. She might have thought it odd that I was now using Japanese when the other night I had insisted on English. But perhaps I was only deferring to our other companions.
    “You know each other,” Murakami interjected in Japanese. “Good. Arai-san, this is Yukiko.”
    Naomi gave no indication of having noticed my new name.
    “Hajimemashite,”
Yukiko said. She continued in Japanese, “I remember seeing you here a few weeks ago.”
    I bowed my head slightly and returned her salutation. “And I remember you. You’re a wonderful dancer.”
    She cocked her head to the side. “You look different, somehow.”
    My American and Japanese personalities are distinct, and I carry myself differently depending on which language I’m using and which mode I’m in. Probably it was this, as much as his nervousness in Murakami’s presence, that had caused Mr. Ruddy not to remember me. Yukiko was responding to the difference but unsure of what to make of it.
    I ran my fingers through my hair as though to straighten it. “I just came from a workout,” I said.
    Murakami chuckled. “You sure did.”
    A waitress came over. She set down four
oshibori,
hot washcloths with which we would wipe our hands and perhaps our faces to refresh ourselves, and a variety of small snacks. The arrangement completed, she looked at Murakami and, apparently knowing his preferences, asked, “Bombay Sapphire?” He nodded curtly and indicated that Yukiko would have the same.
    The waitress looked at me.
“Okyakusama?”
she asked.
    I turned to Naomi. “The Springbank?” I asked. She nodded and I ordered two.
    The vibrant half Latina that had emerged the other night had retracted like a turtle into its shell. What would she be thinking?
New name, new Japanese persona, new
yakuza
pal.
All fodder for conversation, but she was saying nothing.
    Why? If I’d run into her in the street, the first thing she would have said would have been, “What are you doing back in Tokyo?” If I had used a different name, surely she would have commented on that. And if she heard me speaking in unaccented, native Japanese, of course she would have said, “I thought you said you were more comfortable with English?”
    So her reticence was situation-specific. I thought of the fear I had detected when her eyes had first alighted on Murakami. It was him. She was afraid of saying or doing something that would draw his attention.
    The last time I had seen her, I had the sense that she knew more than she was willing to say. Her reaction to Murakami confirmed my suspicion. And, if she were inclined to give me away, she already would have done it. That she had failed to do so created a shared secret. It made her complicit. Something I could exploit.
    Yukiko picked up an
oshibori
and used it to wipe Murakami’s hands, cool as an animal handler grooming a lion. Naomi handed me mine.
    “Arai-san is a friend of mine,” Murakami said, looking at me and then at the girls and smiling his bridged smile. “Please be good to him.”
    Yukiko smiled deeply into my eyes as if to say
If we were alone, I would take suuuch good care of you.
In my peripheral vision, I saw Murakami catch the look and frown.
    I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of this bastard’s jealousy,
I thought, imagining Harry.
    The waitress came and put the drinks on the table. Murakami drained his in a single draught. Yukiko followed