Free A Lonely Resurrection by Barry Eisler Page B

relax, get to know each other before I began to probe for what really interested me.
    “What brings you to Tokyo?” she asked.
    “Business. I’m an accountant. Once a year I have to come to Japan for some of the firm’s local clients.” It was a good cover story. No one ever asks follow-up questions when you tell them you’re an accountant. They’re afraid you might answer.
    “I’m John, by the way,” I added.
    She held out her hand. “Naomi.”
    Her fingers were small in my hand but her grip was firm. I tried to place her age. Late twenties, maybe thirty. She looked young, but her dress and mannerisms were sophisticated.
    “Can I get you something to drink, Naomi?”
    “What’s that you’re having?”
    “Something special, if you like single malts.”
    “I love single malts. Especially the old Islay whiskies. They say age removes the fire but leaves the warmth. I like that.”
    You’re good,
I thought, looking at her. Her mouth was beautiful: full lips; pink gums that almost glowed; even, white teeth. Her eyes were green. A small network of freckles fanned out on and around her nose, barely perceptible amidst the background of caramel skin.
    “What I’m drinking isn’t from Islay,” I said, “but it’s got some island character. Smoke and peat. A Springbank.”
    She raised her eyebrows. “The twenty-five?”
    “You know the menu,” I said, nodding. “Would you like one?”
    “After a night of watered-down Suntory? I’d love one.”
    Of course she’d love one. Her pay would include a cut of her customers’ tabs. A few ten thousand yen shots and she could call it an evening.
    I ordered another Springbank. She asked me questions: how I knew so much about single malt whisky, where I lived in the States, how many times I’d been to Tokyo. She was comfortable in her role and I let her play it.
    When our glasses were empty I asked her if she’d like another drink.
    She smiled. “You’re thinking about the Talisker.”
    “You’re a mind reader.”
    “I just know the menu. And good taste. I’d love another.”
    I ordered two Taliskers. They were excellent: huge and peppery, with a finish that lasted forever. We drank and chatted some more.
    When the second round was nearly done, I began to change tack.
    “Where are you from?” I asked her. “You’re not Japanese.” This last I said with some hesitation, as though inexperienced in such matters and therefore unsure.
    “My mother was Japanese. I’m from Brazil.”
    I’ll be damned,
I thought. I was planning a trip to Brazil. A long trip.
    “Brazil, where?”
    “Bahia.”
    Bahia is one of the country’s coastal states. “Salvador?” I asked, to determine the city.
    “Yes!” she exclaimed, with the first genuine smile of the evening. “How do you know Brazil so well?”
    “I’ve been there a few times. My firm has clients all over the world.
Um pai brasileiro e uma mãe japonesa—é uma combinacao bonita,”
I said in the Portuguese I had been studying with cassettes. A Brazilian father and a Japanese mother—it’s a beautiful combination.
    Her eyes lit up and her mouth parted in a perfect O. “
Obrigada!”
she exclaimed. Thank you! Then:
“Você fala português?”
You speak Portuguese?
    It was as though the real person had suddenly decided to reinhabit the hostess’s body. Her eyes, her expression, her posture had all come alive, and again I felt that vital energy that had animated her dancing.
    “Only a little,” I said, switching back to English. “I’m good with languages and I try to pick up a bit from wherever I travel.”
    She was shaking her head slowly and looking at me as though it was the first time she had seen me. She took a swallow of her drink, finishing it.
    “One more?” I asked.
    “Sim!”
she answered immediately in Portuguese. Yes!
    I ordered two more Taliskers, then turned to her. “Tell me about Brazil,” I said.
    “What do you want to hear?”
    “About your family.”
    She leaned back and