Rainfall

does is search the guy’s pockets for a deliverable.

    Someone must have found out about the connection, figured it was too risky to take out a foreign bureau chief, and decided to just plug the leak instead. It had to look natural, or they would have provided more grist for Bulfinch’s mill. So they called me.

    All right, then. There had been no B-team. I had been wrong about Benny. I could let this one go.

    I looked at my watch. It was not quite 5:00. If I wanted to, I could easily get to the Blue Note by 7:00, when the first set would begin.

    I liked her music and I liked her company. She was attractive, and, I sensed, attracted to me. Enticing combination.

    Just go,
I thought.
It’ll be fun. Who knows what’ll happen afterward? Could be a good night. The chemistry is there. Just a one-nighter. Could be good.

    But that was all bullshit. I couldn’t say what would happen after her performance, but Midori didn’t feel like a one-nighter. That was exactly why I wanted to see her, and exactly why I couldn’t.

    What’s wrong with you?
I thought.
You need to call one of your acquaintances. Maybe Keiko-chan, she’s usually good for a few laughs. A late dinner, maybe that little Italian place in Hibiya, some wine, a hotel.

    For the moment, though, the prospect of a night with Keiko-chan was oddly depressing. Maybe a workout instead. I decided to head over to the Kodokan, one of the places where I practice judo.

    The Kodokan, or “School for Studying the Way,” was founded in 1882 by Kano Jigoro, the inventor of modern judo. A student of various schools of swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat, Kano distilled a new system of fighting based on the principle of maximum efficiency in the application of physical and mental energy. Loosely speaking, judo is to Western wrestling what karate is to boxing. It is a system not of punches and kicks, but of throws and grappling, distinguished by an arsenal of brutal joint locks and deadly strangling techniques, all of which must of course be employed with great care in the practice hall.
Judo
literally means “the way of gentleness” or “the way of giving in.” I wonder what Kano would make of my interpretation.

    Today the Kodokan is housed in a surprisingly modern and bland eight-story building in Bunkyo-ku, southwest of Ueno Park and just a few kilometers from my neighborhood. I took the subway to Kasuga, the nearest station, changed in one of the locker rooms, then climbed the stairs to the
daidojo
, the main practice room, where the Tokyo University team was visiting. After I threw my first
uke
easily and made him tap out with a strangle, they all lined up to do battle with the seasoned warrior. They were young and tough but no match for old age and treachery; after about a half hour of nonstop
randori
I was still consistently coming out on top, especially when it went to groundwork.

    A couple of times, as I returned to the
hajime
position after a throw, I noticed a Japanese
kurobi
, or black belt, stretching out in the corner of the tatami mats. His belt was tattered and more gray than black, which indicated that he’d been wearing it for a lot of years. It was hard to guess his age. His hair was full and black, but his face had the sort of lines that I associate with the passage of time and a certain amount of experience. His movements were certainly young; he was holding splits without apparent difficulty. Several times I sensed that he was intently aware of me, although I never actually saw him looking in my direction.

    I needed a break and made my apologies to the college students who were lined up, still waiting to test their mettle against me. It felt good to beat
judoka
half my age, and I wondered how much longer I’d be able to do it.

    I went over to the side of the mat and, while I was stretching, watched the guy with the tattered belt. He was practicing his
harai-goshi
entries with one of the college students, a stocky kid with a crew cut. His entry was so powerful that I caught the college kid wincing a couple of times as their torsos collided.

    He finished and thanked the kid, then walked over to where I was stretching and bowed. “Will you join me for a round of
randori
?” he asked, in lightly accented English.

    I looked up and noted an intense pair of eyes and strongly set jaw, neither of which his smile did anything to soften. I was right about his watching me, even if I hadn’t caught him. Did he spot the Caucasian in my