Fatal Reaction

without reason or explanation.
    We fought traffic all the way into midtown. Finally, the driver delivered me to the St. Regis, left me with his beeper number, and went off to wherever it is that limo drivers disappear to. I crossed the sumptuous lobby and found the house phone. I had begun the day at Danny’s funeral and then flown a thousand miles to bring the news that he was dead. The fact that I also meant to try to persuade Hiroshi to use his influence with his father-in-law did nothing to lighten the burdens of the day.
    I dialed Hiroshi’s suite and was instructed by the voice that answered to come directly upstairs. In the elevator I stared at my reflection in the polished brass of the doors. A grim and prim corporate attorney bearing a black briefcase and bad news stared back. As clearly as if she were with me I heard my mother’s voice. It said, “I don’t understand why you choose to do this.” As the elevator doors parted and I stepped out into the long hall that would take me to meet Hiroshi, I had to confess that at that moment I didn’t understand either.
    I pressed the bell beside the double door to the suite and listened as the four notes chimed sweetly on the other side. A few seconds later the door was opened by a slim young Japanese in an expensively tailored double-breasted suit. I assumed he was the secretary. Indeed, in the manner of a good underling he made no attempt to introduce himself but instead stepped back to let me pass, announcing, “This way, please.” I suspected the phrase was the total extent of his English.
    I followed him into the living room, which was enormous for New York, not to mention Tokyo. We stood smiling idiotically at each other for a few minutes amid the striped Regency chairs and tasseled curtains. He couldn’t have been much over twenty-two or twenty-three and I wondered what kind of services, secretarial or otherwise, he had come to New York to provide.
    An inner door opened and another man emerged from the bedroom, hand extended, apologizing profusely for keeping me waiting. From the neck up Hiroshi Toyoda was pure Japanese, but everything else about him was disconcertingly American: his jaunty manner, his mid-Atlantic accent, even his pink Ralph Lauren button-down shirt and his crisply ironed khakis. We shook hands, and he waved me into a seat, dismissing his secretary with a few words of Japanese.
    “Thank you for making the time to see me,” I said, feeling terrible about what I was about to do.
    “My pleasure, my pleasure,” replied Hiroshi, “though I must confess I am surprised that Dr. Azorini didn’t send Danny to discuss whatever it is you have come to talk to me about.”
    “I’ve come to discuss Danny.”
    “Oh?”
    I took a breath. There are no words that can soften the impact of what I had to say. No right way to catapult a person into grief. So I just came out with it. “Danny died a few days ago,” I said. “He had a perforated ulcer and he bled to death. It was very unexpected.”
    For a moment I almost thought Hiroshi hadn’t heard me. His face was frozen, impassive, his body completely still. I waited awkwardly, reminding myself that the Japanese disdain the American need to talk all the time and instead value the ability to accept silence.
    “I think I should go,” I said quietly, after several minutes had passed. “I do not wish to intrude on your sorrow.”
    “No, no. You have come all this way just to bring me this sad news. You must at least stay and have tea with me.”
    “I would like that. Thank you.”
    “If you would be so good as to excuse me for a few minutes, I will make the necessary arrangements.”
    He rose and retreated into the bedroom. I got up and walked over to the window and looked down at the city traffic. Either Hiroshi was a tremendous actor or his surprise at learning of Danny’s death was genuine. I was glad. The negotiations with Takisawa were going to be hairy enough without suspecting our future partners of murder.
    Hiroshi returned a few minutes later looking composed and serious. He had changed into a business suit and tie. His demeanor had changed as well. Somehow with the news of Danny’s death the Western-style openness he’d displayed when I first arrived was gone, replaced if not by an Eastern reserve, then by a greater formality. While he no longer seemed precisely grief stricken, he did somehow seem more Japanese.
    The doorbell rang and a room service waiter appeared with our