It was another month before I finally got close to that crocodile briefcase. There were near misses. One week, Goto failed to show up. Another day, he hurried past the piano like a man desperate for the bathroom—or a safe to empty his booty into. Once, he actually arrived empty-handed and left dragging an enormous bag of golf clubs that looked like they’d never seen a blade of grass. The only time he stopped to talk, he kept his distance. It was all I could do to keep from staring at that damned reptilian thing in his hand.
I didn’t really mind. The days went fast. The ones leading up to Sunday were Looking Forward to Momo days. The ones afterward were passed in dreamy, detailed replays. And through all the food and sex and growing affection, Momo never reminded me about my promise. I suppose she knew she didn’t have to.
In the end, though, I did get something out of that briefcase. It just wasn’t what I expected. One afternoon I was hovering near Akiko while she navigated a tricky section in a Mozart sonata. Goto arrived. He sank into the leather chair, laid the briefcase across his knees and snicked it open. No “Frank-san!” No slap on the back. Akiko didn’t miss a beat, but my heart did.
I watched out of the corner of my eye. Goto took out an envelope, snapped the lid shut again, stood up and dropped the envelope on the chair. Akiko played on. Then Goto caught me looking at him. That was when I knew I had a problem.
He gave me a look I’d never seen on him before. Or on any human. If a barracuda could smile, that’s what it would look like. All this time, I thought I’d been watching Goto. But that smile told me it had been the other way around. Maybe he’d been reading my mind, something I was beginning to think Japanese people were pretty good at. If so, he hadn’t liked what was written there. The look only lasted a heartbeat before Goto turned and left. But in that time, he stripped me bare.
Akiko finally finished. I hadn’t really been listening. She put her hands in her lap, and her shoulders went down, as though someone had let the air out of her. “You may as well take it,” she said.
“Take what?”
“The envelope. It’s for you.”
“How do you know?”
Akiko laughed. It wasn’t a funny sound. “Poor Frank,” she said. “You don’t have any idea, do you? He gave it to you. You have to take it. Even if you don’t, it won’t change anything.”
She got up like a sleepwalker, picked up the envelope and stuffed it into my shirt pocket. “Money is power, Frank.” Akiko left the room and returned with her weekly lesson payment. She handed it to me formally, holding the bills with both hands and dipping her head. For a moment, she reminded me of stout, earnest Mrs. Ogawa.
“Goodbye, Frank,” she said.
“Same time next week?”
“Please let yourself out.” Akiko went back to the piano and began the Mozart again.
Something was very wrong. I half expected Chisel Face to be waiting for me beside the pond. Or a Mercedes with black-tinted windows to pull out behind me as I walked to the train station. But neither of these things happened, and the good news was, it was Wednesday. I couldn’t wait to see Momo, even if it was only for a wordless ride on a train. On Sunday, in the Fifteen Love, Momo would make it all go away.
I pulled out the envelope and headed toward the station, counting money as I walked. A hundred thousand yen, more than a thousand Canadian dollars. If Goto was angry with me, he had an odd way of showing it.
The next time Momo and I met in the Fifteen Love, I didn’t mention the money or the look on Goto’s face. When I tried to tell Momo I was still no closer to solving the puzzle of the crocodile briefcase, she just did that cute sideways thing with her lower lip. “Maybe next week,” she said. “I trust you, Frank.” She pulled my head down to hers.
That’s how I wish I could remember her. If that night had been the last time I saw Momo, I’d have nothing but happy memories. But I did see her again, and that changed everything.