Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

I had no idea that Saito wasn't shitting me about getting measured on Christmas Eve evening for a tux to wear on Christmas day, but, sure enough, a grossly hunched-over old man was opening a tailor shop on a narrow street in Roppongi, off the main drag of nightclubs but still in the district of Mr. Tanaka's apartment house, when we pulled up outside.

There had been a large, black Cressida sedan waiting at the curb when we left the bar. Cressida at the time was the top of the Toyota line and the interior approached that of a limousine. Saito sat in front with the chauffeur, while I sat in back with Tanaka. I expected some hanky-panky as we drove, and the older man did draw close to me and give me a feel here and there to get the measure of my musculature and package, but then he sat back into his seat and nodded to the rearview mirror, where I could see Saito's eyes reflected.

I guess I passed muster, as the sedan drove on without burping me out onto the sidewalk, leaving Tanaka off in front of a high-rise building, where he must have been known and revered from the immediate appearance of two doormen to help him out of the car and into the building.

The Cressida continued on to the tailor shop, which obviously was open only for our needs. I gave Saito a quizzical look when we entered the shop and stood there as the gnarled little man bustled around, turning enough lights on to illuminate his work area. Saito shrugged and said, "Mr. Tanaka owns many businesses."

It was a miracle—and real entertainment; I can even say making this Christmas Eve special—what the hunched-over little man could do in an hour of measuring; free-hand cutting of top-quality, light-weight wool gabardine fabric on a large wooden table; and pinning of slabs of material to my frame as I stood, legs spread and arms held out full length. Throughout, Riyoshi Saito stood off to the side, a slight smile on his face, watching me.

I watched him too. This little adventure would be extra special, I thought, if it was Saito who was buying my Christmas and not Mr. Tanaka, no matter how generous the old man was. I could tell from watching Saito watching me, that he was as interested in me as I was in him.

Afterward he asked me, "Have you eaten?" and when I said I hadn't had my evening meal, he took to me a noodle restaurant—more of a sidewalk stand than a restaurant—where we sat on stools right on the sidewalk at a counter in front of a store front and ate ramen noodles and drank sake. We quickly found common ground on admiring and collecting Japanese woodblock prints of the early twentieth-century Shin-hanga period, and he told me of his collection and I told him of mine. Art work aside, I was aching to show him "mine" and to get the measure of "his," and I had the feeling from his brief touching of my arm with his fingers and embarrassed drawing away that he felt the same. But he made no overtures, and after the meal was over, he remained on the sidewalk and let the chauffeur drive me back to the New Japan.

"I will come to your hotel with the finished tuxedo at 6:30 in the evening tomorrow," he told me in parting. "Mr. Tanaka will take you to the theater and then dinner. And then afterward . . . have you experienced the Japanese art of Beautiful Bondage?"

"No I haven't," I answered.

"Ah. You may want to look that up before tomorrow evening," he answered, as the Cressida pulled away from the curb.

Christmas Day was such a mad house in the office, though, that I didn't have a chance to look that term up.