The Heat of the Sun

efficiently at his collar and the many buttons of his tunic. Embarrassed, I half-turned from him as I removed my own
clothes. Cursing Le Vol, I tried to think what questions I should ask. Manchuria: check. Korea: check. War with America: likely or no?
    Covering myself with a small, thin towel, I prodded my ashplant over the slithery tiles, then lowered it, discarded the towel, and was about to ease myself into the steaming water when the great
man appeared beside me, gripped my arm, and said, ‘No. First you wash.’
    ‘I’ve washed,’ I said, ‘earlier.’
    ‘You wash,’ he declared, and I limped after him, naked, to a bank of showerheads that protruded from one wall. Ice-cold water struck me like a blow, and I gasped and whimpered while
Yamadori, unperturbed, threw out remarks about the weather and the stock market; once, in a rich baritone, he boomed out a melody from La Bohème : ‘ O Mimì, tu
più non torni ...’
    He reminded me, I decided, not so much of a samurai as of a sumo wrestler. Lathering myself, I tried not to look at his ponderous swaying belly and the surprisingly large genitals that impended
beneath it, like obscene fruit, from a frizz of wiry black; but he, I could tell, was looking at me. Acutely, I was aware of my spindly arms, my sunken chest, the disfiguring scars on my injured
leg, and was relieved when he gestured at last towards the pool. No steps led down from the sides, but he slipped his bulk into the water with unexpected grace. I followed, squelching my buttocks
to the tiles and pitching forward, floundering, crying out at the sudden, startling heat.
    The water was opaque, a greyish green. Steam coiled around us, infused with sulphurous scent; Yamadori lay back, luxuriating, and closed his eyes. The time had come for my questions, and I
struggled to recall phrases Le Vol had used, babbling out at last, ‘Many of us in the West have been alarmed by the rise in Japanese militarism. Should we be – in your view?’
    Yamadori sniffed, hummed.
    I tried again: ‘Japan, to the world’s astonishment, became the only non-Western nation to defeat a Western nation in war, in the Russo–Japanese war of 19...’ (1904? 1905?
I decided not to risk it.) ‘Is the world more inclined to censure Japanese military adventurism than that of other nations – in your view?’
    He sighed; his belly rose and fell. ‘Young man, why ask me this? My secretary has the answers, prepared in press releases. Am I to weary myself by repeating what has passed my lips already
countless times?’
    The bathing chamber was vast, greenish like the water, with a high, vaulted ceiling. Through crisscrossed panes of skylights, a dawn pallor glowed. Still we were alone, and I was both relieved
and alarmed; other bathers might be banned from the great man’s ablutions, but I had expected attendants, slim boys in loincloths or naked, aquatic geishas, ready with scrapers and
back-scrubbers, like slaves in ancient Rome.
    Yamadori sang Puccini again; his voice was remarkably pleasant. In his old life he must have spent many a night at the opera. Cautiously, I asked him whether he missed his playboy days.
    For a moment I thought he would not reply; the great whale body stirred not a jot, and I felt content: I had done my duty by Le Vol. No Pulitzer Prize would come from this scene. It was
over.
    The pallor from the skylights grew golden; buttery shafts of radiance sank into the steam. Yamadori’s baritone came again – speaking not singing – bearing pictures of an
ancient culture: pagodas like dragons’ scales, stacked tier on tier; the flick of fans in strange ceremonies; suits of armour flashing like jewelled crustaceans; giant torii jutting from the
sea; robed figures ascending sacred stairs. This, said Yamadori, was the time of Tokugawa, the feudal regime that had ruled in splendid isolation from the world before the coming of Meiji and the
birth of modern Japan.
    ‘After Tokugawa... ah, but all of us come after Tokugawa now!’
    He shifted, and the slosh of water startled me.
    He went on: ‘There are those who see me as a superficial man’ (I had never, I wanted to assure him, entertained such a thought), ‘idler, skimmer of the surface, seeker after
vain pleasures. Call me butterfly if you will – a fluttering thing of no weight, no consequence!’ (I never would, I almost said – no, never; but held my breath, as if some
revelation were about to come.)
    ‘I was born, Mr Sharpless,