The Heart's Eye

Dr. Klein

I wake up alone in bed sheets that carry the sweet scent of coconut and vanilla. Sunlight is streaming in from the East-facing window.

Next to my bed sits a covered tray, which, upon examination, contains a bowl of natto and a pot of hot tea next to a small empty china teacup. My clothes are folded neatly on the floor.

I listen to chirps of birds as I dress, wondering if last night's call was the straying of a lonely, abandoned housewife, or a different type of "traditional Japanese hospitality" tailored to the unspoken appetites of western guests. Whichever it was, I found no good reason to say no. I am single, unattached. I cannot even remember the previous time I had anyone in my bed.

My hostess and night companion does not appear to be around as I leave her house and head towards the center of the village. The path is a dirt road, indented by mule hooves. The few houses alongside are wooden, old, strewn in a haphazard, unplanned fashion.

The main street is wider and unevenly paved with hand-cut cobblestones. Blades of green spring grass poke through the cracks. An old man with long, gray hair, wearing a hakama, is sweeping pink petals with a stick broom. He does not even turn to acknowledge me as I walk past him.

The library is easy to recognize. It is three-storied, with a pagoda-styled roof. Above the door hangs a wooden painting of a sitting old man with long pointy white beard pouring over a scroll. The writing underneath, which I cannot read, is in Korean.

Behind the library, there is a large, gray, concrete building. It is the only building that fits the description of Mrs. Nakamura's directions. There are no signs on it, neither in Japanese nor in Korean. The main entrance consists of two large, red, swinging doors, which yield to my push. If Dr. Klein indeed works here, he must not be concerned about his safety.

The interior feels like an abandoned high school. Long, dim corridors with doors on both sides. Many of the doors have plaques, some in Korean, some in Japanese. I cannot read either. As I saunter around the ground floor, I spot a door with a plaque inscribed in Latin letters. It says "Dr. A. Klein".

The hall is empty. I cannot detect any obvious security cameras. I pause for a second to gather my thoughts and then knock politely on the wooden door. I am not the type of agent who barges into rooms brandishing a weapon. I don't even own one.

"Come in," says a familiar female voice.

I turn the brass handle and walk into a spacious, sunlit office, squinting against the glare coming from a large window on the opposite side. The opposite wall appears to made entirely of glass which, in the brilliant Spring sun outside, is too bright to look at. It takes a few seconds for me to make out a solid, sturdy desk in the middle of the room. Behind it stands Mrs. Nakamura with a gun pointed at me.

She is not wearing last night's thick, theatrical makeup, only a tasteful, professional touch-up. Her long, black hair is freed from yesterday's intricate coiffure and tied into a simple ponytail. A fitted black turtleneck and soft gray dress pants give her a streamlined, professional look.

"One word and I will shoot," she says calmly, emphasizing the words one and will.

Her dark-brown eyes are fixed on me. Her body is vigilant, alert, loaded like a spring ready to release. I nod, confirming my compliance, and noting to myself that at this moment I am at a loss for words anyway.

"I can only assume you are here to kill me," she says in perfect American-sounding English. "Or, should I say, convince me to kill myself one way or another. Word is, this is what you do these days."

I would like to think that this is not my typical M.O., but I have to admit that recent evidence does leave a dent in that claim.

On the desk, there is a name plaque that emulates the one on the door. She nods curtly, answering my unasked question. "Klein my birth, Nakamura by marriage. My grandfather was German."