Windy City Blues

THE TAKAMOKU Joseki

I

MR. AND MRS. Takamoku were a quiet, hardworking couple. Although they had lived in Chicago since the 1940s, when they were relocated from an Arizona detention camp, they spoke only halting English, Occasionally I ran into Mrs. Takamoku in the foyer of the old three-flat we both lived in on Belmont, or at the corner grocery store. We would exchange a few stilted sentences. She knew I lived alone in my third-floor apartment, and she worried about it, although her ma

As time passed, I learned about her son, Akira, and her daughter, Yoshio, both professionals living on the West Coast. I always inquired after them, which pleased her.

With great difficulty I got her to understand that I was a private detective. This troubled her; she often wanted to know if I was doing something dangerous, and would shake her head and frown as she asked. I didn’t see Mr. Takamoku often. He worked for a printer and usually left long before me in the morning.

Unlike the De Paul students who formed an ever-changing collage on the second floor, the Takamokus did little entertaining, or at least little noisy entertaining. Every Sunday afternoon a procession of Asians came to their apartment, spent a quiet afternoon, and left. One or more Caucasians would join them, incongruous by their height and color. After a while, I recognized the regulars: a tall, bearded white man, and six or seven Japanese and Koreans.

One Sunday evening in late November I was eating sushi and drinking sake in a storefront restaurant on Halsted. The Takamokus came in as I was finishing my first little pot of sake. I smiled and waved at them, and watched with idle amusement as they conferred earnestly, darting glances at me. While they argued, a waitress brought them bowls of noodles and a plate of sushi; they were clearly regular customers with regular tastes.

At last, Mr. Takamoku came over to my table. I invited him and his wife to join me.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said in an agony of embarrassment. “We only have question for you, not to disturb you.”

“You’re not disturbing me. What do you want to know?”

“You are familiar with American customs.” That was a statement, not a question. I nodded, wondering what was coming.

“When a guest behaves badly in the house, what does an American do?”

I gave him my full attention. I had no idea what he was asking, but he would never have brought it up just to be frivolous.

“It depends,” I said carefully. “Did they break up your sofa or spill tea?”

Mr. Takamoku looked at me steadily, fishing for a cigarette. Then he shook his head, slowly. “Not as much as breaking furniture. Not as little as tea on sofa. In between.”

“I’d give him a second chance.”

A slight crease erased itself from Mr. Takamoku’s forehead. “A second chance. A very good idea. A second chance.”

He went back to his wife and ate his noodles with the noisy appreciation that showed good Japanese ma

Mrs. Takamoku smiled. “You are familiar with go?” she asked, giggling nervously.

“I’m not sure,” I said cautiously, wondering if they wanted me to conjugate an intransitive irregular verb.

“It’s a game. You have time to stop and see?”

“Sure,” I agreed, just as Mr. Takamoku broke in with vigorous objections.

I couldn’t tell whether he didn’t want to inconvenience me or didn’t want me intruding. However, Mrs. Takamoku insisted, so I stopped at the first floor and went into the apartment with her.

The living room was almost bare. The lack of furniture drew the eye to a beautiful Japanese doll on a stand in one corner, with a bowl of dried flowers in front of her. The only other furnishings were six little tables in a row. They were quite thick and stood low on carved wooden legs. Their tops, about eighteen inches square, were crisscrossed with black lines which formed dozens of little squares. Two covered wooden bowls stood on each table.

“Go-ban,” Mrs. Takamoku said, pointing to one of the tables.

I shook my head in incomprehension.

Mr. Takamoku picked up a covered bowl. It was filled with smooth white disks, the size of nickels but much thicker. I held one up and saw beautiful shades and shadows in it.

“Clamshell,” Mr. Takamoku said. “They cut, then polish.” He picked up a second bowl, filled with black disks. “Slate.”

He knelt on a cushion in front of one of the tables and rapidly placed black and white disks on intersections of the lines. A pattern emerged.

“This is go. Black play, then white, then black, then white. Each try to make territory, to make eyes.” He showed me an “eye”-a clear space surrounded by black stones. “White ca

“I see.” I didn’t really, but I didn’t think it mattered.

“This afternoon, someone knock stones from table, turn upside down, and scrape with knife.”

“This table?” I asked, tapping the one he was playing on.

“Yes.” He swept the stones off swiftly but carefully, and put them in their little pots. He turned the board over. In the middle was a hole, carved and sanded. The wood was very thick-I suppose the hole gave it resonance.

I knelt beside him and looked. I was probably thirty years younger, but I couldn’t tuck my knees under me with his grace and ease: I sat cross-legged. A faint scratch marred the sanded bottom.

“Was he American?”

Mr. and Mrs. Takamoku exchanged a look. “Japanese, but born in America,” she said. “Like Akira and Yoshio.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand. It’s not an American custom.” I climbed awkwardly back to my feet. Mr. Takamoku stood with one easy movement. He and Mrs. Takamoku thanked me profusely. I assured them it was nothing and went to bed.

II

The next Sunday was a cold, gray day with a hint of snow. I sat in front of the television, in my living room, drinking coffee, dividing my attention between November’s income and watching the Bears. Both were equally feeble. I was trying to decide on something friendlier to do when a knock sounded on my door. The outside buzzer hadn’t rung. I got up, stacking loose papers on one arm of the chair and balancing the coffee cup on the other.

Through the peephole I could see Mrs. Takamoku. I opened the door. Her wrinkled ivory face was agitated, her eyes dilated. “Oh, good, good, you here. You must come.” She tugged at my hand.

I pulled her gently into the apartment. “What’s wrong? Let me get you a drink.”

“No, no.” She wrung her hands in agitation, repeating that I must come, I must come.

I collected my keys and went down the worn, uncarpeted stairs with her. Her living room was filled with cigarette smoke and a crowd of anxious men. Mr. Takamoku detached himself from the group and hurried over to his wife and me. He clasped my hand and pumped it up and down.

“Good. Good you come. You are a detective, yes? You will see the police do not arrest Naoe and me.”

“What’s wrong, Mr. Takamoku?”

“He’s dead. He’s killed. Naoe and I were in camp during World War. They will arrest us.”

“Who’s dead?”

He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know name.”

I pushed through the group. A white man lay sprawled on the floor. His face had contorted in dreadful pain as he died, so it was hard to guess his age. His fair hair was thick and unmarked with gray; he must have been relatively young.

A small dribble of vomit trailed from his clenched teeth. I sniffed at it cautiously. Probably hydrocyanic acid. Not far from his body lay a teacup, a Japanese cup without handles. The contents sprayed out from it like a Rorschach. Without touching it, I sniffed again. The fumes were still discernible.