WHEN HE came out to the anteroom, there was no one to be seen, not even a maid, and the fire was crackling away. He returned to his room, rubbing his hands against the cold, though the temperature had risen from the overnight freeze. He unpacked his Sony shortwave radio and placed it on the low table. In his old life, he’d sometimes surfed the international airwaves looking for jazz. He went to the window. The glass was opaque, the snow ridged against it a mere shadow line, and he reached out with his fingertips. They stuck to the glass: Everything here was as cold as his thoughts. Never could he have anticipated what Tokie had done. Criminal minds he knew about, but he’d been ambushed by an honest one bent on a mission springing from a naive notion of justice and, above all, from love. Had she found her inspiration in the melodrama and convoluted plots of the Kabuki plays? Aoki sneezed. He turned from the window and looked at the padded kimono but put on a tweed jacket that felt tight over the sweater.
