Blood and Chrysanthemums by Nancy Baker Page B

were true only to those who willed them to be, who ignored the knowledge that his body was decaying even as they stood there and that his soul had long since fled. None of you know what death looks like, she wanted to scream. None of you have any idea at all.
    Whispers from somewhere behind her made her realize she was still standing at the coffin. She leaned over and laid the white chrysanthemum beside the head. She opened her mouth to say goodbye but her throat froze around the words. She swallowed hard and moved away.
    Outside the temple, in the sunlight of the autumn afternoon, she took a deep breath, trying to clear her head of the incense and the confusion of sorrow and anger that filled her. Someone touched her arm and she turned to find an old friend of her father offering sympathy and tears. She bowed to the woman, mouthing the words of thanks, and submerged herself back in the rituals of grief.
    There was still the cremation to be seen to, then a gathering at Robert’s house, but the mourners lingered in the temple garden, reluctant somehow to move on. Lisa saw faces she recognized: friends of her parents, several of her colleagues from the university, neighbours. There were others she did not know and she found herself studying the faces carefully. Not the Caucasian ones, of course—they were safe. But the Japanese . . . she hunted the male faces as if there would be some clue there, some way she could deduce the presence of secret tattoos and underworld ties.
    She felt terribly vulnerable, held by the old world the gardens and temple seemed to evoke. Since her return from Toronto, she had struggled to stay only in the world of the now, of the here. On the suburban streets of her brother’s neighbourhood, in the white sterility of the university laboratories, she had felt safe.
    It hadn’t saved her, of course. But it had been two weeks since the night Takashi Yamagata had questioned her and she had not heard from him again.
    Behind her, someone said her name.
    She turned and saw a young woman watching her from the shadow of a tree. “Dr. Takara,” she repeated, stepping forward a little. Lisa’s feet moved before she thought about it, bringing her closer. The woman took off her sunglasses and smiled. She had a wide, friendly face framed by black hair cut in an exquisitely precise bob. Her charcoal-coloured suit was simple and discreet, the skirt a tasteful yet chic length above her knees. “Please accept my condolences on your loss.” Her English was clear and precise, but edged in an accent strong enough to tell Lisa that she was no Nisei, born and bred in Canada.
    Lisa bowed automatically and saw the woman echo her action. “Thank you. Did you know my father?”
    “No. But he had done business with my employer’s organization.” Lisa froze again, suddenly wanting to look around, to search the shadows and bushes for the threat she was sure was waiting, but she did not dare. Surely they wouldn’t do it here, she realized, forcing herself to think logically. Not in front of so many people. If they had wanted to question her again, there had been a thousand more opportune moments than this one. If they had wanted her dead, that night in the limousine would have ended with her body floating in Vancouver harbour.
    “I’m sure he would be gratified by your kind thoughts,” she said carefully, grateful suddenly for the formalities of mourning.
    “My employer would very much like to extend his sympathies to you in person.”
    “We’re having a reception at my brother’s home. We would be happy to have him join us.”
    “Unfortunately, he has other commitments. He would be very grateful if you could meet him this evening.” Her voice was polite but Lisa could hear the iron beneath it.
    “I can’t.”
    “Tomorrow then.”
    “I’m afraid I’m busy.”
    “Please, Dr. Takara. My employer is a very patient man but some of those who work for him are not. He wishes you to know that he understands