Rainfall

later it turned out they weren’t. At times those things haunt me.”

    “Haunt you?” she asked, not understanding.

    “Borei no yo ni.”
Like a ghost.

    “My music made the ghosts go away?”

    I nodded and smiled, but the smile turned sad. “It did. I’ll have to listen to it more often.”

    “Because they’ll come back?”

    Jesus, John, get off this.
“It’s more like they’re always there.
Sugita koto wa, sugita koto da.
” The past is the past.

    “You have regrets?”

    “Doesn’t everyone?”

    “Probably. But are yours like everyone else’s?”

    “That I wouldn’t know. I don’t usually compare.”

    “But you just did.”

    I chuckled. “You’re tough” was all I could say.

    She shook her head. “I don’t mean to be.”

    “I think you do. But you wear it well.”

    “What about the saying ‘I only regret the things I haven’t done’?”

    I shook my head. “That’s someone else’s saying. Someone who must have spent a lot of time at home.”

    I knew I would learn nothing more about her father or the stranger today without questions that would betray my true intention in asking them. It was time to start winding things down.

    “Any more shopping today?” I asked.

    “I was going to, but I’ve got someone to meet in Jinbocho in less than an hour.”

    “A friend?” I asked, professionally curious.

    She smiled. “My manager.”

    I paid the bill and walked back to Aoyama-dori. The crowds had thinned, and the air felt cold and heavy. The temperature had dropped in the two and a half weeks since I had taken out Kawamura. I looked up and saw unbroken clouds.

    I had enjoyed myself much more than I had expected — more, really, than I had wanted. But the chill cut through my reverie, reviving my memories and doubts. I glanced over at Midori’s face, thinking,
What have I done to her? What am I doing
?

    “What is it?” she asked, seeing my eyes.

    “Nothing. Just tired.”

    She looked to her right, then again at me. “It felt as though you were looking at someone else.”

    I shook my head. “It’s just us.”

    We walked, our footsteps echoing softly. Then she asked, “Will you come see me play again?”

    “I’d like that.” Stupid thing to say. But I didn’t have to follow through on it.

    “I’m at the Blue Note Friday and Saturday.”

    “I know,” I said, stupid again, and she smiled.

    She flagged down a cab. I held the door for her as she went in, an annoying part of me wondering what it would be like to be getting in with her. As it pulled away from the curb, she rolled down the window and said, “Come alone.”

8

    THE NEXT FRIDAY I received another page from Harry telling me to check our bulletin board.

    What he had found out was that the stranger on the train was indeed a reporter: Franklin Bulfinch, the Tokyo bureau chief for
Forbes
magazine. Bulfinch was one of only five male foreigners living in the Daikanyama apartment complex I had seen the stranger enter; all Harry had needed to do was cross-reference the names he found in the local ward directory against the main files kept by the Immigration Bureau. The latter kept information on all foreign residents in Japan, including age, birthplace, address, employer, fingerprints, and a photograph. Using this information, Harry had been able to quickly determine that the other foreigners failed to match the description I had provided. He had also obligingly hacked and uploaded Bulfinch’s photo so I could confirm that we were talking about the same guy. We were.

    Harry had recommended a look at forbes.com, where Bulfinch’s articles were archived. I checked the site, and spent several hours reading Bulfinch’s accounts of suspected alliances between the government and the
yakuza
, about how the Liberal Democratic Party uses threats, bribery, and intimidation to control the press, about the cost of all this corruption to the average Japanese.

    Bulfinch’s English-language articles had little impact in Japan, and the local media were obviously not following up on his efforts. I imagined this would be frustrating for him. On the other hand, it was probably the reason I hadn’t been tasked with removing him.

    My guess was that Kawamura was one of Bulfinch’s sources, hence the reporter’s presence on the train that morning and his quick search of Kawamura. I felt some abstract admiration for his doggedness: his source is having a heart attack right in front of him, and all he