July 16
As he flew the London-Dublin leg of the journey Fitzduane reflected on the chain of events that had culminated in Japan.
The origins went back about seventy years, arguably even longer. World politics, seemingly so remote, had impacted directly in this case. And individual actions had had terrible and unforeseen consequences.
Who would have thought that fate would eventually catch up with Hodama the kuromaku. He had survived so much only to be struck down at the height of his power as a consequence of a routine bit of thuggery decades earlier.
If the Namakas had not had their father executed and been left alone and starving in postwar Tokyo would they ever have become criminals? Today, they would probably have graduated with distinction from Todai and be model citizens.
As for Katsuda, his criminal imperative could be traced directly back to the Japanese occupation of Korea and the appalling treatment in the past of so many Koreans in Japan, including the killing of his own family. He was a man motivated by hate. Given his background, it was easy to understand.
Fitzduane did not know what distortions in his upbringing had caused Schwanberg to go bad. Frankly, he did not care. Certainly Vietnam had not helped. Many brave men and women had fought in it, but it had not been the best of wars.
In the final analysis, the origins did not matter. You dealt with the situation as it existed now and you did what was necessary as well as you could and accepted the consequences. And that was the end of it.
When the aircraft landed in Dublin, Fitzduane thought at first he must have taken the wrong flight. The weather was near perfect, the sky a rich blue, and the temperature downright balmy. It was like landing in the South of France. For a moment he expected to see the vivid scarlet of bougainvillea and to smell the perfume of oleander and hibiscus and to be surrounded by tanned bodies. He was soon disabused. The patrons of DublinAirport looked as pale and sun-starved and as cheerful as ever. The Irish, he conceded, were an odd lot, in truth. They loved their rain and windswept land.
He smiled to himself. The day was a false promise, a temporary illusion, but Kathleen and Boots running toward him were very real.
He swept Boots into his arms and kissed and hugged him, and son Kathleen was in his arms, too, and as he felt her body against him and her lips against his, he had a feeling of returning to normality, to values that were important and worth building on.
Boots, jumping up and down with happiness and impatience, immediately opened Chifune's gift to him, and his face shone as he beheld the cuddly sumo doll inside. It was love at first sight.
"It's a sumo, Boots," said Fitzduane. "A Japanese wrestler."
"Zoomie! Zoomie! Zoomie!" shrieked Boots, and shot around in circles, alternately hugging his new friend and then throwing him in the air.
Kathleen, alone with Fitzduane for a few seconds, put her arms around his neck and looked up at him. She had forgotten what a big man he was. He looked pale and tired and pleased to be back, and, she thought, rather magnificent. Her lover looked what he truly was, every inch the warrior.
"So, my love," she said quizzically, "how was Japan? Cherry blossoms and geisha girls?"
A thousand images flashed through Fitzduane's mind too fast to comprehend, and then they were gone and only Kathleen in his arms was real.
He laughed. It rained a lot," he said. "It was surprisingly bloody wet. I felt quite at home."