The Game in the Past. John Zeugner
to the task. “And about such a transfer, it did occur, didn’t it? You might ask in the State Department, Garret Weaver, if he’s still there. I remember he handled the files at about that time. When was it again?”
“August, 1947.”
“Yes, in the summer of 1947, in the late summer. And you say all the files were shipped to where?”
“Norton Air Force base in California.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“Well, well, you should try Weaver on that one. Yes, I would try Weaver. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”
In five more minutes Guade ended the discussion and as the hall emptied, joined Moran near the simultaneous translation booth in the back. At first Moran thought he should immediately apologize for losing whatever had been in the envelope, but as Guade approached him a certain wariness took hold. To his own amazement, either out of guilt or perhaps fear, he held back and let Guade direct the conversation.
Guade merely motioned him away from the booth toward the metal stacks of the library proper adjacent to the lecture room.
“Thanks,” Guade said. “He wasn’t exactly forthcoming, was he?”
“Well, you have Weaver’s name to pursue.”
“Hmmn,” Guade said, “Didn’t it strike you a bit odd he pretended not to remember Atcheson. But Atcheson reported to him.”
“He recovered on that.”
“Precisely. Deliberate recovery. You go through that stuff I gave you?”
“No. Not yet. To tell the truth I nearly passed out on the subway. When I got back to the hotel I simply folded up.”
“Okay. Okay. No rush, I suppose. He signed the transfer order, Weaver didn’t.”
“Who is Weaver?”
“Never heard of him,” Guade suddenly looked around. There was a youngish Japanese fellow in a lightly billowy suit nearby. He seemed to be examining some of the oversize books. “Look, I’ve got to go to lunch. Why don’t you call me tonight, or we could get together later, after you’ve gone through the stuff. You will get to it, won’t you?”
“I’m not sure it’s worth my time. I started you out on this, and it’s turned out to be a little more than the lark, the joke, I intended.”
“It’s no joke, not yet anyway,” Guade said. He rocked back, adjusted something in his hearing aid. “Where’s the stuff now?”
“In my hotel room.”
“In the open?”
“In my bag.”
“Hmmn, and you haven’t looked at it?”
“No. I didn’t get the chance,” Moran could truthfully say.
“Well, call me later, will you?”
“Okay. I’ll try to get to it this afternoon.” The hotel story would cover, Moran realized. If when he got back only socks and torn school paper were in the envelope, the transfer could have occurred any time during his absence. “But there is a bit of a problem.”
“What?” Guade said, all attention.
“You can’t get into business hotels till after 4:00 p.m. You have to leave by 10:00 a.m. and you can’t come back before 4:00.”
“Well, why don’t you check on Weaver, using whatever they have here?”
“No. I’m going to Asakusa to sight see, or maybe to Meiji Shrine, or maybe both. But I’ll call you tonight. I’ll get to it as soon as I get back to the hotel.”
“Okay, okay. Call any time after 9:30 or so.”
“Well, it may be later than that.”
“Any time. Just call.”
“Were you pleased with his answer to your question?”
“Not pleased. Confused. I’ll pursue it at lunch. Call me tonight.”
“Yes. Yes,” Moran answered, a bit irritated at Guade’s constant directives.
Outside the building he caught a cab to Shimbashi station. He decided Asakusa was too far away, on the other edge of the city, and so settled for Meiji Shrine, even though that meant riding the JNR loop line which was always crowded and somewhat confusing. At the station Moran ate a bowl of noodles, a far cry from Guade’s doubtless elegant luncheon with Wells. On the other hand, Wells might not enjoy it. A consummate fencing match, Guade anxiously dropping bits of information and Wells easing past them, foisting them off on the mysterious Weaver. Even the name seemed right—Weaver. Moran made his way upstairs to the JNR line. For some reason there were fewer English signs on that line but Moran managed to get to Harajuku, the stop for Meiji. He followed the crowds through the extraordinarily wide gravel walkways. He was careful to step over the timber in the doorway to the shrine. It was either irreligious or unlucky to step on the sill, he remembered, and Moran felt neither and both. When he got to the inner court of the shrine, he was approached by an elderly Japanese gentleman who was, remarkably, unkempt and not recently shaven.
“I must beg your acquaintance and indulgence,” the old man said, “for my English is all inadequate, but I need to practice.”
Moran stiffened for the inevitable questions. The afternoon suddenly seemed sultry. The breeze died away and the open spaces seemed occupied by heavy, humid air that would have to be penetrated for exit.
“You perhaps have looked into these cuts and nicks on these august timbers.”
Moran noticed them only because the old man pointed them out.
“They were made by hurled coins. At new Years, our most celebration time thousands of we Japanese come here to make an offering to the shrine. The ones in the back have to throw their offerings. Hence these marks. Isn’t it interesting to you?”
Moran knew the old man had memorized the speech and he wondered if the fellow knew what he was saying, or had only gotten a native speaker to coach him on the sounds. “Yes, very interesting,” Moran said, moving away from the interior court.
The old man followed. “How long have you been in Japan?”
“Not very long,” Moran answered.
“Why did you come?”
“I teach here, or rather in Kansai.”
“When will you leave Japan?” The old man went on. So the questions as well as the speech were memorized.
“Not for a while,” Moran said, consciously speeding up his pace on the gravel.
The old man hastened to keep up. “What did you expect Japan to be like. Do you like we Japanese?”
“Ah yes. Yes.” Moran said, “Very much. You are very civilized.”
“Thank you. I must leave now. I have enjoyed our English conversation. But my English is so poor. I must harder and harder at it. Thank you, again.”
“Thank you for the information,” Moran said to the old man who was already in a deep bow. The old man stood up, reached into his pocket and held out his card for Moran to take.
“My meishi,” the old man said, “you may call on me any time.”
Moran was familiar with this custom. He should now proffer his own meishi but that would lead, he was certain to more, endless English conversations. “Thank you, I’m sorry I don’t have a card to give you.”
“That is correct and satisfactory to me.” The old man bowed again and back stepped, bowing. Involuntarily Moran returned the effort. In the still air he and the old man continued this back stepping and bowing until Moran felt his shoe bang into