RainStorm

decided that I liked the restaurant,
    although not without some ambivalence. It was sleek without feeling
    artificial, with decor of leather and wood and other natural materials;
    good lighting; and lots of clean, vertical lines. Still, there was
    something vaguely disconcerting about how suddenly it, and the
    surrounding hotel and shopping complex, had sprung up. None of
    it had been here when I was living in Tokyo, and yet here was a virtual
    city within the city, which the planners had christened Roppongi
    Hills. You could almost imagine the Titan gods of the
    metropolis whipping a white sheet from over their newest creation
    and proclaiming with a nourish and a falsely modest bow that It
    Was Good.
    And maybe it was good. Certainly the people around me seemed
    to be enjoying it. Still, the place had no history, and, somehow, no
    context. It was attractive, yes, but it all felt fearlessly forward-looking,
    miraculously unmindful of the past. And therefore, I thought, oddly
    American.
    I smiled. No wonder I felt ambivalent. It was a transplant, like me.
    An hour later, I saw Tatsu walk in through the lobby entrance,
    pause, and scope the room. A waitress approached and said something
    to him, probably an inquiry about seating him, and he responded
    by tilting his head in her direction but without taking his
    eyes off the room. Then he saw me. He nodded his head in recognition
    and muttered something to the waitress, then shuffled over.
    I smiled as he approached and rose from my seat. There was
    something eternally endearing about that trademark shuffle, and
    about the interchangeably rumpled dark suits that always accompanied it. I realized how glad I was that Tatsu and I had found a way
    to live under a flag of truce. Partly because he could be such a formidable
    adversary, of course, but much more because he had
    proven himself a fine friend, albeit not one above requesting a "favor"
    when practicality demanded.
    We bowed and shook hands, then looked each other over. "You
    look good," I told him in Japanese. And it was true. He'd lost a little
    weight, and seemed younger as a result.
    He grunted, a suitably modest form of thanks, then said, "My
    wife has entered into a conspiracy with my doctor. She cooks differently
    now. No oil, no frying. I have to sneak into places like this
    one to satisfy my appetite."
    I smiled. "She's on your side."
    He grunted again and looked me up and down. "You're staying
    fit, I see?"
    I shrugged. "I do what I can. It doesn't get easier."
    We sat down. I said, "You know, Tatsu, that's the most small talk
    I've ever gotten out of you."
    He nodded. "Don't tell my colleagues. It would ruin my reputation."
    I smiled. "How's your family?"
    He beamed. "Everyone is very fine. I will be a grandfather next
    month. A boy, the doctor says."
    My smile broadened. "Good for you, my friend. Congratulations."
    He nodded his thanks and looked at me. "And you?"
    "Me . . ."
    "Your family."
    I looked at him. "You know there's no family, Tatsu."
    He shrugged. "People get families by starting families."
    Tatsu had set me up with a few women not long after I'd first
    returned to Japan, following the Late Unpleasantness. It hadn't
    worked out all that well.
    "I think I'm pretty well committed to my exciting bachelor's
    existence," I told him. "You know, meet new people. See the world."
    It came out less flip than I had intended, and maybe with a
    slightly bitter edge.
    "'It doesn't get easier,'" he said. "As you noted."
    I sighed. "Still trying to connect me to something larger than
    myself?"
    "You need it," he said, his expression serious.
    Christ, just what I always wanted--a maternal Tatsu. "Information
    is what I need," I said.
    He nodded. "Does this mean our small talk is over?"
    I laughed, surprised. "I didn't want to exhaust you. I know
    you're not accustomed to it."
    "I was just warming up."
    I laughed again, thinking, Why not.
    We wound up discussing all sorts of little things: his joy at his
    daughter's pregnancy, and his fear that he and his wife might look
    at the child as some sort of replacement for the infant son they
    had lost; his frustration with bureaucratic inertia, with his inability
    to do more to fight the corruption that he believed was poisoning
    Japan; the way Tokyo, the way the country, was changing in
    front of his eyes. And I told him some things, too: how the Agency
    had tracked me down; how eventually I would have to move, and
    painstakingly reinvent myself again; how I tried