24

The Signal Turns Red

* The Long Arm Reaches Out Cinnamon was not alone when he arrived at nine oclock the next morning. Beside him in the passenger seat was his mother, Nutmeg Akasaka. She had not been here in over a month.

She had arrived with Cinnamon unannounced that time too, had breakfast with me, and left after an hour or so of small talk.

Cinnamon hung up his suit coat and, while listening to a Handel Concerto Grosso (for the third day in a row), he went to the kitchen to make tea and toast for his mother, who had not yet eaten breakfast. He always made perfect toast, like something to be used in a commercial.

Then, while Cinnamon straightened up the kitchen as usual, Nutmeg and I sat at a small table, drinking tea. She ate only one slice of toast, with a little butter. Outside, a cold, sleety rain was falling. Nutmeg said little, and I said little-a few remarks about the weather. She seemed to have something she wanted to say, though. That much was clear from the look on her face and the way she spoke. She tore off stamp-sized pieces of toast and transported them, one at a time, to her mouth. We looked out at the rain now and then, as if it were our longtime mutual friend.

When Cinnamon had finished with the kitchen and started his cleaning, Nutmeg led me to the fitting room. This one had been made to look exactly like the fitting room in the Akasaka office. The size and shape were virtually identical. The window here also had two layers of curtains and was gloomy even during the day. The curtains were never open more than ten minutes at a time, while Cinnamon was cleaning the room. There was a leather sofa here, a glass vase, with flowers, on the table, and a tall floor lamp. In the middle of the room stood a large workbench, on which lay a pair of scissors, scraps of cloth, a wooden box stuffed with needles and thread, pencils, a design book (in which a few actual design sketches had been drawn), and several professional tools, the names and purposes of which I did not know. A large full-length mirror hung on the wall, and one corner of the room was partitioned off by a screen for changing. The clients who visited the Residence were always shown to this room.

Why Cinnamon and his mother had had to make an exact reproduction of the original fitting room in this house I had no idea. Here there was no need for such camouflage.

Maybe they (and their clients) had become so accustomed to the look of the fitting room in the Akasaka office that they were unable to come up with any new ideas for decorating this place. Of course, they could just as well ask, Whats wrong with a fitting room? Whatever the reason for having it, I myself was pleased with it. It was the fitting room, not any other room, and I felt a strange sense of security there, surrounded by all kinds of dressmaking tools. It was an unreal setting, but not an unnatural one. Nutmeg had me sit on the leather sofa, and she sat down next to me. So. How are you feeling? she asked. Not bad, I answered. Nutmeg was wearing a bright-green suit. The skirt was short, and the large hexagonal buttons came up to the throat like one of those old Nehru jackets. The shoulders had pads the size of dinner rolls. The look reminded me of a science fiction movie I had seen a long time ago, set in the near future. Almost all the women in the movie wore suits like this and lived in a futuristic city.

Nutmegs earrings were large plastic things, the same exact color as her suit. They were a unique deep green that seemed to have been made from a combination of several colors, and so they had probably been special-ordered to match the suit. Or perhaps the opposite was true: the suit had been made to match the earrings-like making a niche in the wall the exact shape of a refrigerator. Maybe not a bad way to look at things, I thought. She had come in wearing sunglasses in spite of the rain, and their lenses had almost certainly been green. Her stockings were green too. Today was obviously green day.

With her usual series of smooth linked movements, Nutmeg drew a cigarette from her bag, put it in her mouth, and lit it with her cigarette lighter, curling her lip just slightly. The lighter, at least, was not green but the expensive-looking slim gold one she always used. It did go very well with the green, though. Nutmeg then crossed her green-stockinged legs. Checking her knees carefully, she adjusted her skirt. Then, as if it were an extension of her knees, she looked at my face.

Not bad, I said again. The same as always. Nutmeg nodded. Youre not tired? You dont feel as if you need some rest? No, not especially. I think Ive gotten used to the work. Its a lot easier for me now than it was at first. Nutmeg said nothing to that. The smoke of her cigarette rose straight up like an Indian fakirs magic rope, to be sucked in by the ceiling ventilator. As far as I knew, this ventilator was the worlds quietest and strongest.

How are you doing? I asked. Me? Are you tired? Nutmeg looked at me. Do I look tired? She had in fact looked tired to me from the moment our eyes first met. When I told her this, she gave a short sigh. There was another article about this place in a magazine that came out this morning-part of the Mystery of the Hanging House series. Sounds like the title of a horror movie. Thats the second one, isnt it? I said. It certainly is, said Nutmeg. And in fact, another magazine carried a related article not too long ago, but fortunately no one seems to have noticed the connection. So far. Did something new come out? About us? She reached toward an ashtray and carefully crushed out her cigarette. Then she gave her head a little shake. Her green earrings fluttered like butterflies in early spring. Not really, she said, then paused. Who we are, what were doing here: no one knows yet. Ill leave you a copy, so you can read it if youre interested. But what Id really like to ask you about is something that somebody whispered to me the other day: that you have a brother-in-law whos a famous young politician. Is it true?

Unfortunately, it is, I said. My wifes brother. Meaning the brother of the wife who is no longer with you? Thats right. I wonder if hes caught wind of what youre doing here?

He knows I come here every day and that Im doing something. He had somebody investigate for him. I think he was worried about what I might be doing. But I dont think hes figured out anything else yet.

Nutmeg thought about my answer for a while. Then she raised her face to mine and asked, You dont like this brother-in-law of yours very much, do you?

Not very much, no. And he doesnt like you. To put it mildly. And now hes worried about what youre doing here. Why is that? If it comes out that his brother-in-law is involved with something suspicious, it could turn into a scandal for him. Hes the man of the moment, after all. I suppose its natural that he would worry about such things.

So he couldnt be the one leaking information about this place to the mass media, then, could he?

To be quite honest, I dont know what Noboru Wataya has in mind. But common sense tells me hed have nothing to gain by leaking things to the press. Hed be more likely to want to keep things under wraps.

For a long time, Nutmeg went on turning the slim gold lighter in her fingers. It looked like a gold windmill on a day with little wind.

Why havent you said anything to us about this brother-in-law of yours? Nutmeg asked.

It isnt just you. I try not to mention him to anybody, I said. We havent liked each other from the beginning, and now we practically hate each other. I wasnt hiding him from you. I just didnt think there was any need to bring up the subject.

Nutmeg released a somewhat longer sigh. You should have told us. Maybe I should have, I said. Im sure you can imagine whats involved here. We have clients coming to us from politics and business. Powerful people. And famous people. Their privacy has to be protected. Thats why weve taken such extreme precautions. You know that much. I nodded.

Cinnamon has gone to a lot of time and trouble to put together the precise and complicated system we have for maintaining our secrecy- a labyrinth of dummy companies, books under layers of camouflage, a totally anonymous parking space in that hotel in Akasaka, stringent management of the clientele, control of income and expenses, design of this house: his mind gave birth to all of this. Until now, the system has worked almost perfectly in accordance with his calculations. Of course, it takes a lot of money to support such a system, but money is no problem for us. The important thing is that the women who come to us can feel secure that they will be protected absolutely.

What youre saying is that that security is being undermined. Yes, unfortunately. Nutmeg picked up a box of cigarettes and took one out, but she just held it for a long time between her fingers without lighting it. And to make matters worse, I have this fairly famous politician for a brother-in-law, which only increases the possibility of scandal. Exactly, said Nutmeg, curling her lip slightly. So what is Cinnamons analysis of the situation?

Hes not saying anything. Like a big oyster on the bottom of the sea. He has burrowed inside himself and locked the door, and hes doing some serious thinking.

Nutmegs eyes were fixed on mine. At last, as though recalling that it was there in her hand, she lit her cigarette. Then she said, I Still think about it a lot-about my husband and the way he was killed. Why did they have to murder him? Why did they have to smear the hotel room with blood and tear out his insides and take them away? I just cant think of any reason for doing such a thing. My husband was not the kind of person who had to be killed in such an unusual way.

But my husbands death is not the only thing. All these inexplicable events that have occurred in my life so far- the intense passion that welled up inside me for fashion design and the way it suddenly disappeared; the way Cinnamon stopped speaking; the way I became swept up in this strange work we do- its as though they were all ingeniously programmed from the start for the very purpose of bringing me here, where I am today. Its a thought I cant seem to shake off. I feel as if my every move is being controlled by some kind of incredibly long arm thats reaching out from somewhere far away, and that my life has been nothing more than a convenient passageway for all these things moving through it.

The faint sounds of Cinnamons vacuuming came from the next room. He was performing his tasks in his usual concentrated, systematic manner. Havent you ever felt that way?

Nutmeg asked me.

I dont feel that Ive been swept up in anything, I said. Im here now because it was necessary for me to be here.

So you could blow the magic flute and find Kumiko?

Thats right.

You have something youre searching for, she said, slowly recross-ing her green- stockinged legs. And everything has its price.

I remained silent.

Then, at last, Nutmeg announced her conclusion: Weve decided not to bring any clients here for a while. It was Cinnamons decision. Because of the magazine articles and your brother-in-laws entry on the scene, the signal has changed from yellow to red. Yesterday we canceled all remaining appointments, beginning with todays.

How long will a while be?

Until Cinnamon can patch the holes in the system and we can be sure that any crisis has been completely bypassed. Sorry, but we dont want to take any chances-none at all.

Cinnamon will come here every day, as he always has, but there will be no more clients.

By the time Cinnamon and Nutmeg left, the morning rain had cleared. Half a dozen sparrows were washing their feathers in a puddle in the driveway. When Cinnamons Mercedes disappeared and the automatic gate closed, I sat at the window, looking at the cloudy winter sky beyond the tree branches. Nutmegs words came to mind: some kind of in- credibly long arm thats reaching out from somewhere far away. I imagined the arm reaching down from the dark, low-hanging clouds- like an illustration from a sinister picture book.