was, in itself, part of the art.

As with the swordsman, there could be no

time for conscious thought, merely the powerful stroke guided by
intuition. No decision that confronted him throughout a business day
would demand half so much mental control, inner resolve.
Just then, at the far end of the pond, the first sun flickered through
the wisteria. Suddenly, without his consciously knowing the exact
moment had arrived, as a Zen archer's arrow must release itself of its
own will, his hand struck. The dark tip of
the brush pirouetted down the paper, starting at the left and laying
down a mere five lines, twenty-two syllables.

Inishie ni
Once held,
ari kemu hito no
it’s said,
moteri cho
by men of long ago,
omitsuwa wo
my ancient prize--
ware wa mochitari
at last is near!

It was done.
He sighed, leaned back, and reached for the cup of green tea that
rested beside him on the polished boards. The verse was in an archaic
style, a few syllables longer than a haiku, modeled on an eight-hundred-
year-old work by a court poet of the Heian era. The strokes were
perfectly nuanced, the flow of the brush precise, the intuitive strength as
natural as a waterfall.
Noda drained his tea, then rose to go back inside. His antique house
was tastefully "empty": its tatami-floored rooms, measured in multiples
of those standard three-by-six reed mats, were barren, a museum to
times past. They also were open to each other, their sliding doors,
fusuma, being pushed wide. The walls, too, were vacant expanses of
white plaster with only an occasional mounted six-fold screen depicting
poetry parties of the Heian era, that courtly civilization portrayed in The
Tale of Genji. And there were no overhead lights, merely an occasional
cypress andon floor lamp to augment the pastel glow of the rice-paper
shop windows.
 "Asa-han." He curtly ordered his gray-haired cook to bring
breakfast, then turned to mount the ancient stairs.
"Hai." She nodded and was gone.
Although he kept the lower floor exactly as it had been two
centuries past, the upstairs was a different matter entirely. It had been
converted into a high-tech office, hooked through a maximum security
TeleSystems TCS-9000 direct uplink (via the mid-Pacific Mareks-B
satellite) to the mainframe of his new NEC information management
system in the Kyoto headquarters, an augmented NEAX 2400 IMS,
which handled voice, data, text, image. He had scarcely flipped on the
system when the woman who managed his kitchen appeared, bowing,
and deposited a tray bearing miso broth, rice, an uncooked egg, and
more tea.
He grunted thanks as he was checking a CRT screen for the current
rate on Fed funds, the cost of the money American banks lend each
other overnight to meet reserve requirements. No surprises. Then he
turned and cracked the egg over his rice, adding a leaf of dried nori
seaweed. As he leaned back, chopsticks in hand, he quickly glanced
through the Tokyo papers, followed by The Asian Wall Street Journal
and the satellite edition of London's Financial Times. Finally he tossed
them aside.
This was always the moment when he liked to take measure of the
three photos standing in a row across the back of his teak desk. The first
was his deceased wife Mariko—long-suffering, deferential, resignedly
selfless. A model Japanese woman. He still thought of her with fondness,
but as was expected of a Japanese helpmate, she always ran a distant
second in his affections. His work came first.
The next picture was very different. This woman's face was white,
her hair a lacquered wig, her lips a tiny red pout. Her name, Koriko, had
been assigned years ago in the Gion district of Kyoto, and she was
holding a three-stringed lute, a samisen, and intoning some classical
melody from centuries past. These days she purchased thousand-dollar
kimonos the way most office girls bought jeans, but she worked for the
money. She was a geisha, a real one, an artist whose calling required
years of training and commanded the awe of even the most modern
Japanese. Like a prizefighter or a matador, she'd spent long painful
hours perfecting style, technique, art. She had been Noda's one-time
protégée, beneficiary of his patronage. Now, though, she had other
"patrons." He still missed her, but the memory was fading.
 The third photo was a face familiar to all of Japan's avid TV
viewers—Akira Mori. She was wearing a dark blue Western suit, her
hair a glossy pageboy cut, the conservative look of times past. It was the
occasion of her graduation from the School of Law, Tokyo University
(Tokyo Daigaku, or Todai as it's known), an important moment. Todai's
alumni represent a network, a batsu, of the country's ruling elite, who
compete with each other for the choicest, most prestigious government
ministries. Although she had chosen a more visible career, she still relied
heavily on her contacts in this governing clique, heads of the leading
ministries, including Finance, Foreign Affairs, and of course the Ministry
of International Trade and Industry, MITI.
Matsuo Noda himself had, in fact, once headed MITI, probably
Japan's most powerful ministry. He came from ancient samurai stock—
fittingly perhaps, since the bureaucrats of modern Japan are mostly of
that class. The samurai caste, men who served a liege lord and were
forbidden to engage in trade, were actually Japan's first public servants.
In between civil wars they became sword-carrying bureaucrats. Many a
modern bureau chief has ancestors who wore two swords and sliced up
a peasant or a merchant now and then with impunity, which may help
explain why the average citizen still views government officials with
such nervous awe.
A Todai honors man himself, Noda was a natural for MITI, which
runs what is in many ways a covert operation. The head offices are in a
nondescript, soot-covered building of tinted glass and limestone near
Tokyo's Hibaya Park, guarded by armed, helmeted members of Japan's
National Police. Inside it's mostly open floors and lines of gray steel
desks; no plush carpets and mahogany suites. MITI has twelve bureaus,
each devoted to a major industrial sector. If its officials decide Japan's
strategic interests would be served by a certain manufacturing group's
cutting production, lowering prices, altering product lines, these
"recommendations" are passed along. And it happens.
Noda began his career there by circulating through the different
sections, "going around the track" as it's called, after which he
proceeded to run the General Affairs office of various bureaus, by which
time everybody had him picked for a mover, on the "elite course."
Eventually he was promoted to section chief in the International Trade
Bureau, next on to bureau chief, and finally at age forty-seven he made
the top. Vice minister.
After he reached the pinnacle, he held the job for a mere five years,
then routinely left. He had to go; early fifties and you're out. MITI is no
country for old men. He moved on to head the Japan Development
Bank, JDB, where he financed various high-tech start-up industries.
Finally he retired and went out on his own.
Unlike most other retired government officials, however, he didn't
accept any of the lucrative private offers he received, the suddenly
"vacant" spot on a conglomerate's board of directors. No, he had his
own smoldering vision. In a dazzling and successful departure from
usual Japanese convention, he
founded Nippon, Inc., an adjunct to Japan's major financial players,
with headquarters in the commercial center of Kyoto. His new
organization immediately became a financial fixture in the new
postindustrial, high-tech Japan, and now, five years later, Nippon, Inc.
was a thriving force in the management of capital. These days even the
new generation at MITI routinely called him up for "consensus."
For Matsuo Noda now, everything was in place; he was at last ready
to pursue a lifelong dream. He'd never forgotten the end of the war, that
last day on Okinawa when Ushijima's 32nd Army was a dazed remnant.
He'd been in the cave above Mabuni when the general radioed his
farewell to Imperial Headquarters, then severed his own spinal cord.
Matsuo Noda, with anguish he could still remember, had burned the
regimental flag and told those remaining to scatter, to become
guerrillas—repeating Ushijima's last command to "fight to the last for
the eternal cause of loyalty to the emperor." Noda had declared that
their struggle would continue on for a hundred years if need be.
He had overestimated the difficulty. The plan now poised had
required less than fifty.
As usual for a work-at-home Saturday (just another business day in
Japan), he was wrapping up loose ends from the week, finishing reports,
signing off on audits. Two printers were running, since he preferred to
work with hard copy, and he was reviewing the list of outstanding loans
NI was in charge of monitoring, checking for any early signs of trouble.
Had any credit ratings slipped? If a receiving corporation was publicly
traded, had its stock faltered? What was the overview: securities, un-
amortized discounts on bonds, cash on hand? Next he paged through
the weekly updates from the Small Business Finance Corp., the National
Finance Corp., the Shoko Chukin Bank, various credit associations and
savings banks. It was all on his Kyoto information base, pulled off the
new fiber-optic network that linked Japan's financial centers.
He was about to ring down for fresh tea when a priority override
flashed on the screen for his eyes only. This meant a coded message that
could only be unscrambled using a special module in the computer. The
Kyoto office knew he was on line, but they hadn't wanted to route the
information directly.
Highly irregular.
He punched in the code, called up the receiving routine, and waited
for the message.
There had been a call from ship-to-shore phone, the
communications line linking him directly with Dr. Shozo Takahashi,
director-in-charge of his top secret "project" in the Inland Sea. The
director was requesting that Noda-sama contact him immediately via
scrambler. Top security. He felt his pulse begin to race as he digested
the news.
It had been so easy. Almost too easy.
He sat perfectly still for that timeless, historic moment, gazing at the
photograph of Akira Mori. A promise kept, from long, long ago. Four
decades now, and he had never forgotten what he had said he would do
for her.
He called down for tea, waited till it had been delivered, then
punched on the phone and switched it to the security mode.
But even on the scrambler, Takahashi began circumspectly. As the
esteemed Noda-sama was aware, their "project" had, over its three years,
contended with great difficulties and many disappointments. They were
working at the very limits of undersea technology. As Noda-sama also
knew, he went on, their early attempts at seismic vertical profiling had
been a complete failure. Takahashi took personal responsibility for that.
Next they had changed strategy and utilized state-of-the-art microwave
radar, hoping that minuscule changes in density along the bottom might
indicate what they sought. That too, Takahashi apologized, had been
unproductive from the start as Noda-sama had been informed, and he,
Takahashi, took full blame for the failure.
Noda cut in at that point, impatient and wanting to circumvent the
litany of apologies. Why was Takahashi calling?
The director paused dramatically, then declared he wished to
inform the august Noda-sama that their latest approach, the use of a
new digital magnetometer, had at last borne fruit. Only this morning
they had detected and brought up an "item." In the treacherous straits
east-northeast of Shikoku. It was a water-tight gold case embossed with
what appeared to be a sixteen-leaf chrysanthemum or kiku. The imperial
insignia.
 Other confirming inscriptions? Noda nervously reached out and
clicked off the humming computer.
Yes, the formal script across one end appeared to be no later than
tenth century. Although they dared not open the gold case for fear of
damaging its contents, at this moment preliminary analytical procedures
were underway and the early results, including a makeshift attempt at
shipboard X-ray crystallography, suggested that the steel inside, which
clearly showed traces of copper alloy, contained less than a hundredth
of one percent of iron oxide. In short, it was possible the "item" might
be perfectly preserved.
It was theirs, Takahashi said, in that breathy, clipped language
inferiors use to signify great importance and great deference. It was his
extreme honor to announce to the esteemed Noda-sama that the most
important archeological find in the history of Japan now belonged to
Nippon, Inc., and they—
"Chigau," Noda cut him off, in the curt tone expected of superiors.
Incorrect: it belonged to its rightful owner and would now be returned.
And furthermore, he added, Nippon, Inc. had just ceased to exist.
Since the name for ancient Japan was Dai Nippon, "Great Japan," as of
this moment Nippon, Inc. had just become Dai Nippon, International. A
complete reorganization would begin immediately.
Finally he ordered a total blackout. Radios silenced. No shore leave
for crew or scientists.
He clicked off the phone and repressing a tremble, descended the
stairs.
And there on the garden veranda, using a new brush and perfumed
sumi ink from his rare collection, Matsuo Noda composed a very
elaborate letter, long swirls of black down a perfect sheet of thick,
flowered paper hundreds of years old. It was then sealed in a silver case
and hand delivered by special messenger to a fortress in, the center of
Tokyo.
Five days later its recipient read it before a nationally televised press
conference, and Japan exploded.

CHAPTER FIVE
 "Kami wo araitai no desu ga. Ii desu ka?” Tam peered through the
doorway and nodded hello to the girl in the blue Imperial Hotel
uniform. The hair salon was almost empty. Perfect.
"Hai, so." The girl, startled at the gaijin’s accentless Japanese, bowed
to the waist. "Dozo."
"Manikyua mo onegai shimasu." What the heck, Tam thought, why
not go all the way, get a manicure too.
"Hai. Dozo." Another bob as the girl ushered her forward.
There was the plush, padded chair. Big, gray, and voluptuous. She
sighed and settled back. Heaven. Perfect peace in the middle of hectic
Tokyo. She knew that here for an hour or so she would be an honored
guest, smothered with attention. One of the most incredible experiences
in Japan.
While three of the girls began shampooing her hair, they went back
to chattering about the new husband a matchmaker had just arranged
for the petite assistant in the back. The bride-to-be was blushing and
there were plenty of giggles all around, hands over mouths. Tam
realized, though, that the girls were being a little circumspect. Who was
this strange brunette gaijin, speaking Japanese with no accent. Maybe
she understood what they were saying.
She did.
The woman who would become Tam Richardson was born Tamara
no-name in Kobe, Japan, the somewhat embarrassing result of an
evening's diversion for an anonymous GI. Her mother, equally
anonymous, had prudently given her over for adoption rather than face
the social awkwardness of raising a fatherless, half gaijin child.
She was eventually adopted by Lieutenant Colonel Avery
Richardson, U.S. Air Force, and his wife Mary, proud Iowa
stock, six years after she'd been stuck in the orphanage. That was during
the latter days of the Occupation, but they'd stayed on in Japan through
'54 while Lieutenant Colonel Richardson served as adviser for the
rearming of what would be the Japanese Self Defense Forces. He'd also
become a Japanophile by then, so he left her in a Japanese school rather
than subjecting her to the "army brats" on the base. Finally they
returned to the States, with a dark-eyed little daughter who'd spoken
Japanese for almost a decade and being the achiever she was, read it
virtually as well as a high-school graduate.
The thing she remembered best from all those years, though, was
one word. Gaijin. It wasn't exactly that the modern Japanese consider
gaijin inferior. They no longer dismiss Westerners as "red-bearded
Barbarians." No, gaijin were merely unfortunate, luckless folk not part of
the earth's elect tribe. You were either born a part of Japan, a full nihon-
jin, or you were forever outside of it, gaijin.
But knowing it was one thing, and living it as a kid was something
else. She wasn't one of them, and they made sure she got the message.
Finally, however, she discovered the hidden secret of Japan. Most
Japanese get very uncomfortable around a gaijin too fluent in their
language or customs, since that outsider has penetrated their life without
the constraint of relationships and obligations. No gaijin can ever
entirely belong to their seamless culture for one simple reason: no
outsider could ever be held accountable to the powerful social and
family interdependencies that allow a population half that of the U.S. to
get along in a place functionally smaller than California. So to survive
there if you're not nihon-jin, you just play that fact for all it's worth.
Then, like everybody else, you've got a niche; yours merely happens to
be outside the system. As an almost-nihon-jin you're threatening; as a
gaijin, you're safe. She'd finally learned this the hard way, from all those
unsmiling little girls in blue school uniforms who used to hiss "gaijin."
But thanks to them, Tam Richardson learned to be a permanent
outsider. And a survivor.
Well, here she was again, ready for another bout. Round- eyed
"Tama-chan" all grown up and still on the outside.
Though she knew Tokyo well from times past, she was still trying to
readjust. After checking into the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo's Hibiya
section, she'd showered, changed, and headed out for some jogging—
the best way she knew to see a lot of the
city quick. Her major puzzle: where to look for the new impulse behind
Japan's big drive, their meteoric move toward the target of dai ichi,
"number one" in the world. Try to feel the vibes, she told herself, be a
tourist and see the "New Japan" through fresh eyes. If it had been
winter, she'd have gone straight over to Shinobazu Pond in Ueno Park to
watch the migratory Siberian waterfowl diving for fish among the
clumps of floating ice. In spring she would have first monitored the
radio to find out which park had the finest cherry blossoms, then gone
somewhere else to avoid the sake-swilling crowds. And if it had been
summer, she probably would have headed for the cool of the Imperial
Palace East Gardens to catch the pink and red azaleas.
Autumn, though, was a time for swallowing the city whole. She
started with the Meiji Shrine, that garish tribute to Japan's
Westernization, then moved on to the Imperial Palace, itself a place that,