CHAPTER 60 – Kaerō ka na

Eric’s town car pulled up outside the Culver City Sofitel a little past seven, finding his artist standing on the curb, dolled up in the most expensive clothing he had ever seen her wear.

“You win the lottery?” He grinned as the window wound down, exposing the warm interior to the elements. “Where did poverty Eppie go, and what have you done with her?”

“Hey there, stranger,” Eppie performed a playful pirouette for her lawyer. “Like what you see?”

“I want to say you look older and wiser,” her Newfoundland gave her a brotherly grin. “But I can see you haven’t grown an inch…”

“I see your humour hasn’t improved much either.” Eppie rolled her eyes as she slid into the passenger’s seat. “So. New ride? Big promotion?”

“Corporate loan car. For your sensei.” Eric slapped the black leather steering wheel. “Fresh from Culver’s studio lot. Mercedes S-560, BlueTEC Hybrid LH. 700 miles per tank. You think I can afford this on my salary? Curon said Kiritani-san was an A-Lister?”

“Yeah,” Eppie puffed out her cheeks. “He’s 87.”

Eric winced. “No wonder. His medical age is probably older.”

Eppie raised both brows.

“Corporate sent a medical report as well. Your sensei’s got arthritis, hypertension, and a whole other list of words going down two pages. That’s why they sent this thing—”

Eric gestured at the captain’s chairs in the middle row. “Heated seats, sixteen massage settings, shoulder-mounted heat vents, total sound isolation. We got active suspension as well. Rides like a cloud.”

“Wow,” Eppie felt as depressed as she was impressed. She would not have thought of all this. She would have just… put her sensei in the cabin of Eric’s comfortable pickup. Tule Lake was a long drive away, though, and any kind of driving was harsh on a body degraded by five decades of homelessness. “I should thank the Director.”

“They should thank you.” Her Newfoundland delivered a thumbs-up with his eyes. “Did you know rumours have made it as far as Tokyo? President Oribe has spoken to Mr Davis and Mr Curon. There are a lot of people keeping an eye on this.”

“Whoa.” Eppie felt impressed yet again. “That’s crazy. The President of Japan!”

She was pretty sure that Japan had Prime Ministers, though…

Eric snorted, then laughed at her usually know-it-all face. “Takashi Oribe, President, Sony Music Entertainment, Japan…”

Alright, alright—what’s so funny, ERIC?
Did you know I am from an alternative universe?
Oh, you didn’t? Not so funny, now, eh?

“… But yes, I suspect things will get political once the March Exhibition starts. I hope Kiritani-sensei stays healthy throughout.”

“Ergh—knock on wood…” Eppie’s rapped the expensive-looking walnut panels. To be honest, that a five-decade-long vagrant could be 87 and still creating art daily was a miracle in itself. Americans with Platinum healthcare dearly wished they had Kiritani’s stamina at 80.

System, can I boost Kiritani-sensei’s [Vitality]?”
The [System] was silent.
Eppie sighed.

“Hey…” Eric handed her some tissues. “Don’t ruin your makeup now.”

Eppie didn’t need it. She wasn’t wearing makeup. She watched the city slide by instead, and allowed the silence to communicate the repressive feeling crowding her heart against her ribs.

LAX remained no less exhausting than any other time of the year; only Eric and Eppie had the privilege of Sony’s fleet parking, meaning they leisurely stood at the exit gate with their big, polished sign that said “KIRITANI-SENSEI” in both English and Japanese.

“I assume he flew First Class?” Eppie leaned in against her Newfoundland. It was always nice to have Eric bodily about. Hanging with her lawyer was a different vibe from leaning on Curon.

Her enquiry was answered when, from the customs exit, an airline hostess in the colours of Delta’s VIP services, tiny golden pin and all, wheeled an indignant Henry Kiritani toward them in a rented wheelchair.

Eppie almost burst into laughter.
Henry Kiritani no longer looked like the man she recalled from Central Park, nor the one she had last encountered feeding his cats. Somewhere between Kiritani getting his medicals, his documents and his citizenship, Diana Mirabelle must have gotten involved, because the sensei she now saw wore a charcoal haori over a thick merino kimono shirt paired with dark, loose trousers that were ironed and straight-cut, and large, soft-soled shoes. It was not ostentatious, but it sure as hell didn’t come from K-Mart. She was pretty sure that, even if they scoured Saks, there wouldn’t be an outfit of a similar style.

No, this was custom work, from a boutique that only a Fashion Editor would know.

Their eyes met, and the old artist, much to Eppie’s delight, actually blushed. His hair had finally been tamed, and what was left of it was now swept back and loosely styled. His beard, which was grey and white, hung from his chin in the Confucian style of the old scholar-bureaucrats, unstyled.

He now looked like the man he would have become. A sensei of the arts.

They greeted the attendant, and she handed over a tote. Eppie did not even have to guess what was inside because she could already see the bulge of the pen packets, the cardboard cardstock, and other, less important belongings.

Eric took the suitcase, an expensive-looking carry-on with a French-sounding brand name.

Once Kiritani was less self-conscious, he regarded her warmly, as she did as well.

“You really came,” he said. Not a question, just a gentle affirmation.

“Of course we came,” Eppie replied. “Yakusoku shimashita kara.” She had promised.

She hugged him. Gently, softly, delicately, like she was embracing a large heron. It took Kiritani a few seconds to reciprocate, and when he finally did, he had a message for her.

“Watashi no tenshi, Eppie-san.”

My angel.

Eppie felt the heat climb her neck before she could stop it.

Her Newfoundland looked on as the cat and the heron continued to embrace. If he had a tail, it would have thumped the floor like a rhythmic bongo drum.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Sō—” Kiritani stepped back, his balance braced by Eppie. “Nokotta mono o mi ni ikimashō…”

Let’s see what’s left.

The drive north started with Kiritani falling asleep in the gently vibrating captain’s chair with the heat tuned to perfection. The thing with the obscenely priced Mercedes was that it really was dead silent in the cabin, so much so that the old artist grew instantly drowsy, then was gently snoring within twenty minutes.

“I’ve mapped the toilet breaks, morning tea, luncheon, more breaks, dinner, and motel on the GPS already,” Eric spoke softly and in low tones. “I was going to ask you later, but I guess now’s a good time. Give me an update on William.”

“Yeah, I figured you might want one,” Eppie had already processed a summary for her Newfoundland. “What has Rick told you?”

“Just the broad strokes,” Eric said. “You, your revenge. Your plan to make the guy kill himself…”

“Whoa…” Eppie raised both hands. “Where the hell did you hear that?”