Ransom by Jay McInerney Page A

uniforms had found their way into the Nicklaus picture. The proud driver naturally had his arm around Jack, a baby-faced god and credit to his race.
    Because he didn’t want the neighbors asking questions, Ransom asked to be dropped a street away from his house. He had to stand next to the car while the driver found a pedestrian to take their picture.
    He saw a shadow cross his as he approached the corner. He ducked, rolled on his shoulder and sprangback to his feet, but not quickly enough to dodge the second kick, which caught him on the chest and knocked him over.
    Better
, the sensei said.
But not very good
.

9
    En route to Osaka, ancient headquarters of fish peddlers and sake traders, Ransom felt that perhaps the country had begun to go awry when it relaxed the four-tier caste system in which merchants and businessmen occupied the lowest rung, beneath farmers, warriors, and nobility. Kyoto was a museum; Osaka, once reduced to rubble by American bombing, was a collaboration of accountants and engineers. The commute between the two was forty minutes by train. Ransom went to Osaka, like everyone else, to make money.
    Avoiding the rush, he caught a ten-thirty train, his fellow passengers women and children. He felt right at home with his book, a collection of historical tales for children written in childish hiragana, the phonetic system of writing. Though Ransom knew Americans and Europeans who were as devoted to the study of the language as he was to karate, he himself was content to dabble. He wanted to preserve the strangeness of his environment, keep himself just slightly off-balance.
    For several days he had been working on one of the tales; his translation-in-progress was folded into the book:
    The Lord Michizane lost favor in the court through the slander of his enemies and was banished. Not content with this, his enemies required the extermination of his family.
    Spies from court searched the countryside and discovered Michizane’s son and heir hidden in a small town. The son had been entrusted to Genzo, a former retainer of the Michizane family, now a provincial schoolmaster. An edict from the court arrived, commanding Genzo to present the head of the young heir to an envoy from the court.
    Genzo was in despair. He could not disobey an order from the court. Nor could he kill his former lord’s son, entrusted to his protection. A scheme occurred to him. He searched the classroom for a face that resembled the young prince. He would substitute another boy. But the others were rough peasant boys. None resembled the young lord.
    Ransom’s sleeve was tugged. When he looked up he was face to face with a boy standing in the aisle; he examined him for princely features. Meantime, the boy scrutinized Ransom before arriving at his verdict: “Gaijin.”
    Two seats back, his mother gestured frantically.
    Who are you?
the boy demanded.
    I am a spy
, Ransom said.
    The boy nodded gravely. This seemed to be just what he had suspected. The mother came forward, apologizing and blushing, and the kid bolted for the next car.
    * * *
    The envoy from the court arrived on the specified day. Genzo presented him with the head of a young boy. The boy’s features were noble and aristocratic. The envoy took the head in his hands and examined it closely as if he were checking a persimmon for bruises. Genzo kept his hand on his sword. At last the envoy pronounced the head to be truly that of the young prince.
    A final paragraph remained. Ransom wanted to know how it turned out. As the train emerged aboveground at Katsura, he took out his pocket dictionary and set to work; by the time the prerecorded female voice informed him that the train was coming up on Ibaraki, he had roughed it out.
    Not far off, the mother of the dead youth waited. When she heard a sound at the gate she knew that it was not her son. She knew that she would never see her son again. The sliding door of the cottage was pulled back and a man entered.