Rurouni Kenshin Fan Fiction ❯ Falling in Love Again ❯ Tell Me Why ( Chapter 9 )

Falling in Love Again

A Rurouni Kenshin Pop-Art Remake

By Oryo

Special thanks to fujifunmum (and her adorable patience) and Pirandella (Congratulations!!!)

Thanks to my reviewers Girliegirl (sorry, I forgot you the last time), Kamorgana, Firuze Khanume, Far Strider, Fitz, Kensuyoko and Chibi-chan. I'm very grateful for all your encouragement.

Warning: Language, because Sam is still in a very bad mood, you remember, and his mood will not get better. Controversial political opinions!!!! (You have been warned.).

Chapter 9: Tell Me Why

(Hehe, my first idea of a title was the anachronistic "An Englishman in New York", but as the Englishman doesn't show up as much as planned, I had to change the title, and it was not easy at all. But I got my hand on a book with Beatles songs, and this is one of the not so famous, from 1964.)

Tokyo, years 36/37 of Meiji (1904/5)

It was so strange.
Not waking up in the middle of the night. It happens often despite my decreasing strength. Too often even. It's the harvest moon. It is still disturbing my dreams, sometimes in a good way, sometimes in a bad way.
It was strange to see the moonlight falling into the room, bathing the futon and my beloved in its light. So beautiful and distant, like a person I never saw before. And do I know her? Or were there things she hid from me in the past years. Unasked questions, unsaid words, missed occasions, something that had to be said at last.
I looked at her for hours, until she awoke all of sudden. Maybe, she felt my gaze. She turned on the light, then looked back at me. And when I told her what I was thinking, she called me an idiot and smiled.
Who she is? The woman I love.

New York, May 22, 1965

The coffee tasted bad, it fit to his mood: The new day had started like the previous had ended, with bad news and murder. Shatner had received the news just before he went to meet Jasper Cagney.

This time, Shatner's own men had been executed in the early morning hours. And this should not have happened. They had been warned and should have disappeared for a few weeks, the risk was calculated, new papers had been prepared for these men and their families. Everything had been part of the game, and their death told Shatner that he had lost the first round.

"'Morning, boss!" Jasper Cagney sat across from him, and Shatner recognized that he knew the news already. "Bad thing, that!"

"Were these names one part of the information your new collaborators had asked for?" Shatner didn't bother with greetings and polite conversation. He hoped that the news Cagney brought from his meeting with the inner circle of the "family" was good enough that his men hadn't died for nothing.

"No names. They just asked if the police, or the FBI had infiltrated some of their gangs."

That meant they must have known their names before the meeting, and just wanted proof that their new informant didn't try to fool them.

"Tell me about the meeting!"

"At first, I spoke with three men: O'Sullivan whose tasks are as unreadable as his face."

"Is this the Irish man who works in this Club? Velvet and whatever."

"Yes, and he has contacts to a lot of music clubs. That seems to be his cover. I have already tried to find out details about his life, but it is impossible. No record with the police, impeccable immigration papers."

"What about the two other men?" Shatner took a cigarette from his pack, the sole delight of a frustrating morning.

"Now it gets interesting. Both of them are Italians. One of them is called Huberto Salvatore. He is a business man. What better cover could he have? I have not even found out which position he has in this organization. It's the third man who might interest you most. His name is Ernesto Usica."

This bastard! Of course, Henry Shatner knew that name. It was because of this man that he had asked for his present position in the first place, searching for an assignment he could use to make up for his previous failure. Even before he learned about the secret organization, and the "spider", and all the other scum of this city. And their relationship to one of his old enemies. One year before, Usica had been suspected of the murder of several policemen, and some other people but the accusation had been dropped because the witnesses refused to appear in court. The idea of Usica being involved with the "spider" was one more reason to hunt them down.

"And what else did you find out? " He asked, stuffing the rest of his cigarette in the ashtray. The bad news of the day even had ruined its flavor.

"Later, they brought me to see the spider." Jasper Cagney answered, too much pride in his voice.

"Don't let it go to your head! What did you find out about the spider?"

Cagney grinned widely: "Obviously, the she wants to take over the complete New York underworld."

"Who?"

"The "spider". Her name is Yumi Komagata, she has been back from Europe for one week." Shatner dropped the next cigarette he was taking from the pack. He was absolutely sure that Cagney had been fooled, however clever he believed himself to be. But he kept this thought to himself. The reason why he knew it was not in the slightest Cagney's business. "Yeah, boss, the spider is a woman. And you will be delighted to hear that I remembered immediately where I have read this name before."

"Stop trying to be clever, Cagney! You are lousy at it. Where?"

Jasper Cagney told him, and when Shatner lit his new cigarette, he found the flavor far better than before. "What else?" He queried.

"They have actually started something that they call the time of cleaning. Whatever they mean by that." Shatner thought immediately of the elimination of Kane and his men. Cleaning sounded very much like eliminating. "But it seems that they have planned a very big coup."

"What?"

"I have no fucking idea. Obviously, they don't trust me that much. Yet."

***

The phone must have rung several times when I was out taking a nice long walk in the Central Park. I can hear it from outside, while I'm climbing the last stairs. Though, it stops just before I enter the apartment. Oh, I'm not sorry, because I prefer the day continuing as nicely as it has begun.

When I was a child I loved Saturdays. Although neither my grand-parents, nor my parents were very traditional, we always went to my grandparents for dinner, and they always had guests on these occasions who brought their children with them. And we had lots of fun.

Yacko hates Saturdays because of dad's desperate attempts to keep the family tradition, which were always pathetic. For this reason, he usually stays away from the house most of the day, and I have to amuse myself. Walking in Central Park always makes me happy.

Returning from it, taking off my blazer - the weather was already mild enough for a light summer blazer - , I feel so light and joyful. I decide to do some dance exercises before I give the fridge a second thought, just pouring myself a glass of milk. Dancing isn't work at all anyway. I empty my glass, before changing into my dancing clothes.

Warming up and stretching, I think with regret that, in the last week, I still had no chance to speak with Kenneth about my plan to enter the New York Ballet. However, even this doesn't matter anymore when I begin the exercises for real.

The performance of the classical moves at first at the barre , then freely in the room, absorbs me so deeply that I have no notion of the flow of time and the world around me. That's why I get a real fright, when, suddenly, I hear loud footsteps rumbling through the corridor, and the noise of a shattering door. But after a few seconds, I gather my wits together.

The door of the little apartment is broken, and at the sight of it I feel both pity and anger. Fueled when I hear the noise of something heavy falling on the ground. This is not a pleasant sound at all, but I am far more angry than scared. Putting my fists on my hips, I go in the main room. And I am not surprised at all to see Sam Sherman.

"What do you think doing here, Sam?" I ask him, seeing him kicking the table. The armchair lies on its back, the wardrobe is open and a bundle of clothes are randomly sprawled on the floor.

"Showing this tricky little bastard what happens when he pisses me off." He is really outraged, his face red and eyes sparkling in fury. "When he plays dirty tricks on me."

"What are you talking about? And stop destroying the furniture. Some of these things belong to me."

Sam takes a deep breath and crosses his arms over his chest. If his face were not so scary, I would have said that he was pouting. Then he starts telling me a stunning story, leaving me amazed. Obviously, Kenneth was playing tag with some private eyes, and, my cheeks grow heated hearing this, he had changed into women's clothes to fool them. For a few seconds, I try to picture him in a dress, and I blush even more.

"Do you have an idea why he is doing that?" I ask quickly, to distract myself.

Sam glances suspiciously at me. "I believe that he has some ideas to help you get rid of the guys blackmailing you. But as fucking stubborn as he is, he wants to do it alone."

And we all know how it ends when he is stubborn like that. In the best case, he ends up with a bullet in his body and a heavy concussion. I do not even want to consider the worst case. "And why do you think that destroying his room would change anything?"

Playing the cool cat, Sam pushes his hands in his pockets.: "No, I thought I could find some clue to where he has gone." He might be right, but overturning the armchair, kicking the table, and spreading clothes around does not appear to me like the best way to find out anything. Then, almost at the same second, we look at the black metal box, sitting on his desk. "Must be there."

Before I can open my mouth to say that I might find a wire in my kitchen, a fist guided by anger hits the poor box. The lock is not strong enough to withstand it and breaks under the impact.

"He will not be happy when he sees that." I comment, because, despite all these annoying secrets, I feel a bit sorry for Kenneth.

"I don't give a fuck about his happiness." He growls, opening the box. Then why do you hang around with him?, I ask myself, but swallow the comment. Sam is already outraged enough. Instead I join him at the desk. On top in the box, we find a letter from Miya and a very old and strange looking book. Sam takes the book, turns the pages, and even the sound of the rustling paper is unusual. The surface is smoother than normal paper, and the handwriting is unreadable. I think it is Japanese, and I am amazed, because I never thought that Kenneth was familiar enough with this language to read it. "How can anyone read this scribble?" Huffing, Sam tosses the book back on the desk. Then, suddenly, he grins and takes the letter. "Look at that! It's amazing." He shows me a photo of Kenneth in traditional Japanese clothes. And he is right, it is amazing. While I am looking at the picture, I feel like I am seeing the photo of a completely unknown person. It is Kenneth and it is not him at the same time. It reminds me of the strange expression in his eyes when he threatened Santa Gallo. This look seems very appropriate to the kneeling young man. "He really has a soft spot for photos." Sam concludes.

He is right again, because almost all of the box contains photos. They are laying in the box in random order. Looking at them, both of us seem to be inspired by curiosity rather than anger. Is the real problem that we know almost nothing about Kenneth, just glimpses? And discovering his memories is tempting, even if we can't figure out what he's doing.

Most of the photos show Kenneth with other people, and I am sure that he keeps them to remember these people. I smile when I find a bundle of three photos tied together with a rubber band where I recognize the boy from my childhood memories with this short, short hair, at three different ages. It looks as if they have been taken in one of these photo booths on Coney Island. Two of them show Kenneth with a girl and a boy, both of them have slightly Asian features like himself. He is standing in the middle, and they have their arms around him. All three of them are beaming. On the back is written "Happy Birthday, Shin-chan! From Soza and Yumi." On the last photo, he is alone with the boy, both of them a bit stiff, and not grinning, but nevertheless with a happy look on their faces. What a difference! While Kenneth appears like a skinny, little mouse, a cute mouse, but a mouse nevertheless, the other boy is already an extremely good-looking young man. This time, I cannot read what is written on the back, because it is just - how did Sam call it? - scribble.

"Isn't it cute?" Sam interrupts my thoughts to show me another photo. And I laugh, seeing Kenneth nose to nose with a small tiger striped cat. You could almost hear the purring of the cat, because his hands are deeply buried in the fur of the little animal. Only then I realize that Sam said "cute". It is a very strange expression for him to apply to Kenneth. Not wrong, though. Glancing up at Sam, I could swear I see his cheeks growing darker. "Hey, it's cool to look at photos, but this is a waste of time!" He changes the subject quickly, emptying the complete contents of the box on the desk. The last things remaining stuck in the box are a bundle of letters, and beneath it some folded papers. One is the marriage license of Kenneth's parents, Akane Sakamura and Malcolm Farrel, with the seal of the American Ambassador in Japan. As expected, the second document states Kenneth's birth on June 15, 1937. "Holy fucking shit!" Sam exclaims when he has a look at the third document.

Then he shows me the paper. It is another marriage license, and there is no doubt to whom it belongs, because the names of the married couple are Maria Teresa Blancanieve and Kenneth S. Farrel. And they had married on October 31, 1958. Here in New York City.

Sometimes, glimpses may be better than the truth. Sometimes, the truth hurts, even against all reason. Seeing this document, I have no desire anymore to learn anything else about Kenneth's past. It is better to concentrate on the present.

"It does not look as if we're going to find any clues in this box." I say, leaving the desk, looking in the dresser. Looking but not really seeing anything. In his letters, Kenneth never mentioned this marriage, not one single word.

"Of course," Sam's voice makes me almost jump, I didn't realize that he had stepped behind me. "it must be in one of the fucking suitcases. A false bottom - typical." After a night at the movies with him, I have no doubt where he found this particular knowledge. Sam has pulled the bigger suitcase from the top of the dresser. Being obviously heavier than expected the suitcase comes down too fast, hitting Sam's head before it falls on the ground, opening on impact. "Fucking thing!" A long, curved metal object with a strange hilt rattles on the floor. "What the fuck?"

"This must be the sword." I explain, and I'm right when I see Sam grabbing the hilt and pulling the sword out of its sheath. "He inherited it from the brother of his grandmother." I'm not completely sure, but it is a very nice feeling to surprise him with my knowledge.

"Wow." Sam blurts out, once more easily distracted. "But something is wrong with it."

"You can ask him about it later." I am almost sighing, while I am looking in the suitcase to verify if Sam's suspicion about the false bottom was true. Unfortunately, it is not, because I find no trace of it. "There is no false bottom."

With obvious regret, Sam puts the blade back in its sheath and lays the sword on the floor. Then he takes the other suitcase, standing in the dresser. And this time we are successful, even if we need some time to find it. There is a false bottom. Although I have to look for a knife to cut it open, because we cannot remove it easily.

"Holy fucking shit!" Sam repeats his former words, echoing my own thoughts. The false bottom has hidden no less than five false passports, one of them with the name of a woman. The faces on the small photos are quite different, but having studied Kenneth's face so often in the last few weeks, I can recognize traces of his features in all of them. "What a tricky bastard!" Sam repeats another of his former statements. Besides the passports we find a postcard written in a foreign language, and I am sure it is German. I recognize the words "Berlin" and "Waldorf Astoria", and a phone number that could really be the number of a room in this hotel. "Yes, must be there." Sam declares when he has snatched the postcard from my hand. "You see," His voice vibrates with feverish enthusiasm. "the stamp is from here, and the postmark is from New York, too. It must be there. Let's call the number!"

To tell the truth, the idea of calling a stranger embarrasses me a bit, but on the other hand, I'm sure that Kenneth is only ready to admit something he wants to hide when he is cornered. I only have to remember the effort it took, threatening him with corporal punishment, before he would tell me what happened last weekend and that he had a problem with a drug dealer.

"Yes, let's do it!" I say, recalling my anger about his stubbornness.

We go over to my apartment and take the phone from the hall into the kitchen. And while Sam is taking a handful of the hazelnuts standing on the counter, I dial the number written on the postcard.

"Yes." The voice on the phone is deep, smooth and absolutely masculine, like velvet wrapped around a sharp blade, or like hot cocoa made with very dark chocolate. I have to swallow before I find my voice.

"Excuse me, Mister - "

"My name is Bond, James Bond."

"What?" Sam who has approached his head to hear my conversation on the phone, is yelping incredulously, almost spitting little pieces of hazelnut over the table. I am somewhat perplexed too. Weren't there some movies about a British spy? "This is a fucking joke."

"What can I do for you, Miss?" The voice modulates in a perfect British accent, expressing indulgent patience. My growing irritation helps me to keep my wits together.

"My name is Karen Kaszowiz. Excuse my intrusion on your privacy, but do you know a man called Kenneth Farrel?" I say, feeling like the stupidest girl in the world for asking so shyly, and for asking at all. The man calling himself James Bond is silent for a few minutes, then he laughs quietly.

"You shouldn't leave yet." Still amused, he speaks to a person in the same room with him. "Someone wants to speak with you. It's a young lady. I'm impressed." Another, more familiar voice in the background says a very bad word. "Don't be so sensitive! It's really for you."

"What can I do for you?" Kenneth is asking even more shy than I was.

"You are an idiot." I yell in the phone, infinitely relieved that I can release the turmoil of feelings inside me. "How dare you to hide things concerning me? You -"

"You fucking stubborn bastard," Sam has snatched the receiver from my hand. "remember what you promised me? How can you keep me out now?"

"What?" I tear the receiver back to me. "The both of you have conspired behind my back. After all it's my house and it concerns me the most. Do you take me for a stupid, little child? I don't need to be protected all time, and -"

"Don't take me for a fucking child either, someone you can push away when things get serious! If you dare to do this one more time, I will prove you that I'm not. I will beat you until you forget who you are, and I will rip off your fucking ass, and -"

That is the moment I cut the connection: "I do not think that he needs more details to understand what you want to tell him." We are a bit breathless after this action, but then we share a moment of grinning satisfaction.

Then Sam gets up. "Sometimes he is such a jerk! Spoiling my whole fucking day, like this!" Shoving his hands in his pockets, he slowly goes to the door. At the door, he turns towards me, grinning: "I'll be back in an hour or so. Don't kill him alone, missy! I want to help."

After a few minutes of pure shock, I decide to take a shower, before Kenneth returns. Being clean and properly dressed gives arguments much more weight.

*

He is not back, yet, when I get changed. Meanwhile, the anger has faded a bit, and annoyance, then regret take its place. All these secrets hurt me, but the unmentioned marriage is just the smallest of all these riddles. There might be more and darker ones, hidden behind the false passports and his meeting with this man. James Bond? I should have asked Sam about those movies. The name must be a joke anyway, but who would give himself the name of a movie hero?

Finally, when I have eaten a bit, I go over to his rooms again, the door being broken anyway. It is really damaged, I will have to call someone to repair it. However, what Sam has done inside the rooms I can repair alone. I do not know why, but I feel better doing something, and putting everything back in order is better than sitting and waiting. So I put the photos, letters and documents back in the box, but it is obvious that the damage to the lock is irreparable. Shrugging, I straighten the armchair, and I fold the clothes sprawled on the ground before putting them back in the place where they might belong. Keeping the false passports, I put the smaller suitcase back in the dresser. The sword is too fascinating to immediately put it back in the other suitcase. Like Sam, I pull it out of its sheath, looking at the elegantly curved metal. The beauty of it makes me forget that I hold a weapon in my hands. Though, Sam was right, something is strange about the sword. The sharp blade is on the smaller side, and it is very sharp: I cut my finger a bit, when I touch it lightly.

"It's reverse bladed, but sharp nonetheless." Kenneth's voice speaking to me all of sudden startles me.

"Don't creep up on me like that!" I fight it back, throwing him a narrow glance.

"Sorry." Kenneth is standing at the entrance of the room, and a sad, little smile is curving his lips. It is not at all what I expected from him. "I feared the room would look worse."

He says, dropping the bag he was carrying. Then he opens it and brings out another metal box, blue and gold, with a red dragon on the cover. Without saying more, he goes to his desk, opens the damaged box and puts everything, photos, letters and documents, in the new box. I cannot see his face, hidden by his hair, and even his posture does not reveal very much, but his hands tell more than anything else. For a few seconds, they seem to search for the most perfect place, moving the box back and forth a few times. When they leave the box alone, they rub against each other, stretching as if the skin became too tight. And I decide I will not ask him about the marriage, not when he was not ready to speak about it.

"You know," Kenneth breaks the silence after a while, lifting his head and smiling friendly. "I waited one week before I accepted the sword. It might be an unusual weapon, and I really wasn't sure about its general value, but the symbolic value and the obligation it implies are quite heavy." He takes the sword from my hands, looking very thoughtful, but not gloomy, when he continues. "But then I thought what better symbol of a new beginning could I find: Fighting for my beliefs as hard as I can, and respecting human life. That's what it means, more or less."

So were the trip to Japan and his return to New York both meant to be signs of a new beginning, for a new life beyond this past he does not like to reveal? Seeing him like he is now, I think he has all right to hide his dark side. It's all in the past anyway, and the past is the past, while the present is the present. Too much past in the present, and you stop living your life at all. I know that well enough, because I learned to deal with the past by concentrating on the present problems.

"So did you find out that your family had changed when you traveled to Tokyo for the funeral?" I ask finally, searching for a proof of my suggestion. Kenneth does not ask what I mean, and I think he is aware that I refer to his letter.

"Yes," He says softly, placing the sword on the desk. "the first visit to the family in Tokyo was very awful. Before, I had experienced racial prejudice, or discrimination only from white people, or from Hispanics, when they had fought in the war. Maybe, it would have been different if Kumiko and I had lived within the Japanese community. But as it was, I was utterly shocked that my own relatives considered me unworthy for the family because of my mixed blood. In their eyes, my mother had not only betrayed her country, and dishonored her own father, but had betrayed their trust and dishonored them, too, because she was set under their custody at the time when she met my father."

I follow his gaze to the photo of his parents. They look so happy, and it is almost incredible how much hurt is lingering under the surface of this cheerfulness.

"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't want to upset you. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No, don't worry about me. It was not the same anymore when I went there for the funeral. We all have changed. And today is a good day to -."

Loud and heavy footsteps interrupt us, and a little bit later Sam appears at the entrance. "Ah, there you are. And still alive? Obviously, the missy didn't kill you." Crossing his arms over his chest, he glances dourly at Kenneth. Whatever he has done in the last hour, his mood was not improved by it. "Don't think that I'll let you off this easily! And don't try to hide anything!"

"I had no intention of deluding you." Kenneth stays calm, as if he did not recognize the fury radiating from him. "I did not know that you might spy on me, I just did not want you to get involved in this. It is not the same as playing tag with the thugs of this neighborhood. It is a very dirty game."

"And you are a fucking master of dirty games."

At first, Kenneth blushes deeply, then the sad, little smile reappears for a few seconds.: "Yes, I am, and I am not proud at all about it." Sam opens his mouth and shuts it, whatever he expected, this answer leaves him as stunned as I am. "Anyway, the damage is done, and I have no idea, yet, what problems will come from your little action."

"Oh, you don't worry about me." Sam returns to his usual behavior.

"But why did you go to visit this man anyway?" I ask to get them back on track. Kenneth does not answer at first, but, going to the table, he pulls out a metallic clinking bundle from the inside pocket of his jacket and lays it on the table. From his other pockets, he pulls out other little things that look like technical stuff, while Sam opens the bundle.

"What the fuck is that?" He is expressing my own thoughts, when we see what is inside. It is a set of hooks in different sizes, small files and other very mysterious things.

"Kenneth, what is all this stuff for?"

Kenneth remains silent. Going back to the place where he has dropped his bag, he takes a very, very small camera from it. He also sets it on the table beside the other things.

"Hey, say something!" Sam tries to get rid of his surprise in his usual way, by smacking Kenneth's shoulder. "What the fuck are you up to?"

"As I said, we will play tag. With Santa Gallo's men, with the men trying to blackmail Mister Gelbstein and some other people who are getting really annoying. I thought I might need some things, too special to buy in a store. Of course, I would not have done anything without telling you. But, I really do not like the idea, that he knows that you care about me."

"Who?" Sam and me are asking almost with the same voice. Then Sam answers the question by himself: "Of course, you mean this guy you met. He isn't really James Bond?" The stern expression on Sam's face is a bit softened by rekindled curiosity, and a hint of fascination.

"Good grief, no!" The exclamation is almost desperate. Then Kenneth's voice slips into an annoyed muttering. "He thinks he's a genius and writing bad spy stories is one of his minor - pass times. He writes them and sells them to this Irish guy through an agent."

"Ian Fleming?"

"Yes, I think that is the name."

"But what's his real name?" Sam has taken some of the hooks from the bundle and plays with them.

"Believe me, you are safer not knowing."

"Mm, he can provide you with all this technical stuff. That only leaves us with one conclusion:" Sam is playing with the hooks, letting them slide back and forth between his fingers. Like the cowboys in the movie we saw did with their guns. Then he grins victoriously. "He might not be James Bond, but he is a spy nonetheless."

"More or less."

"And you are a spy, too." Sam exclaims triumphantly, holding the hooks as if holding two imaginary guns. I fear that he is right after a few things Kenneth has said, after this small glimpse of his past he let us see.

"No," This time, Kenneth answers more sharply than before, taking the hooks from his hands. The expression of his eyes is far from smiling politeness. "no, you are wrong. I have stopped working for them many years ago." He throws the hooks on the table, and with a soft clinking, they fall exactly on the open bundle.

"Working for who?" Sam is faster than me, and far more excited. "For the MI6?"

"No." Kenneth slowly crosses his arms over his chest, leaning lightly against the armchair. The expression of his face is once more unreadable, but not as harsh as before. "For the bad guys."

There is a hint of bitter irony in his voice, unusual for him, but I am sure it is meant to be a protection from our reaction. Because I know immediately what he is talking about. I do not need Sam's incredible yelp: "For the Russians?" to get this idea.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why? Good grief! Ask me something hard why don't you?" Kenneth's arms sink down, and he settles on the armrest, as if tired. "We always had acquaintances in these circles, because Kumiko had a great esteem for them, despite her different convictions. Obviously, the Japanese Communists in San Francisco helped her to survive in our first years in this country. And later when she got a job in a Garment factory she always kept contacts to the leftist groups because of her political engagements. And her husband had a lot of acquaintances within Cubans who fled the Batista regime."

"No!" Sam interrupts him annoyed. "We don't want to hear about them. We want to hear about your reasons."

Kenneth closes his eyes for a second: "There is no simple answer, Sam, I did not have a special epiphany." Then he shrugs. "Though, when I went to Europe, I was completely out of balance. I was so filled with anger and fury on one side, and helpless distress and confusion on the other." He speaks softly, looking down at his hands. Nightmares, I think, remembering his letter, nightmares and nobody to talk to about them. "It affected everything, even dancing. Sure, I got my form back, when I was in Paris. I could do everything that you can do with pure will power, but I felt nothing. It was just exhausting my body, and fulfilling the duty I had towards Madame Kaszowiz. My reputation there was almost as bad as it was here in school. Always the rumor that I got my place through special favors."

Sam makes a choked sound, but he does not ask what Kenneth means by this. Against my will, I blush. What he says reminds me of an older guy in my own dance school who asked for things from the girls and promised them more success. I slapped this jerk in the face for daring to offend me. Then I surprised myself as much as him when I knew which part of the masculine anatomy you had to kick to cause the most pain. Of course, I knew it was similar for the boys, but nobody ever talked about it.

Without reacting to our irritation, Kenneth continued with his calm voice. "Anyway, it was just one more reason that I did not find any friendship there, although I tried to keep my anger under control, being as nice and polite as I could. And then I met these people, most of them students and a bit older than myself. They were friends of Yvette, the daughter of the friends of Madame Kaszowiz who I stayed with at that time. Yvette studied music, but she had a lot of friends studying at the Sorbonne."

While speaking these last words, Kenneth takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, then lights a cigarette. "They were so different. They did not consider me a Japanese rat, or as a worthless half-breed. They were young French people who had all formed their opinions from the previous war, and whose dream was to end all wars and injustice, including racial prejudices. And they believed that the power of money was the cause of all these things, and that's why they fought it. It was so easy to believe in this dream because it gave me an answer for all these questions bothering me. And besides the fight for a better world it was just nice to enjoy their company, to go to Jazz Clubs, or dancing, or to the theatre. I fell for one of these guys, and it was the first time I really felt something for a guy." My cheeks grow very hot, hearing him speaking like that about another man, Kenneth just smiles all of sudden. Rising from the armrest, he reaches for the ashtray from the table.

Sam who had gone to the window, leaning against the sill with crossed arms, mutters something but I cannot understand what he's trying to say. Still feeling embarrassed and confused, I wonder what he must think about Kenneth's revelation. Or did he already know the truth, and tried to cover it up by trying to hide his embarrassment. When he realizes I'm watching him, though, he turns away, his hands in the pockets of his pants, he goes to the desk, takes the sword and starts examining it carefully. Curiously, I ask myself if I was wrong, or was he indeed blushing.

But I'm distracted from my curiosity about Sam when, Kenneth continues speaking, back on his former seat. "So maybe the answer is somewhere in the middle of all this, and not only me, but some of the others became easy prey for the KGB contact agent that infiltrated our group. Maybe it is because when you are young and foolish, you think that to make the world a better place you have to do more than just sit and wait. Maybe it was the thrill of it, this feeling of being alive while living every day on the edge of danger. The play, the performance - I even got back the feeling for dancing that I had lost." He pauses for a second, taking a slow draw from his almost finished cigarette, then goes on with his explanation. "Whatever it was, when our little group broke apart, it was already too late for me to step back. And for the following four years, I did nothing else but going forward without looking back." His smile faded and he stuffed the rest of his cigarette in the ashtray angrily. "And then I woke up, and I realized that I had betrayed my own beliefs, instead of making the world a better place I became a blind instrument of people who didn't care at all about a human being's life."

"And what's with this guy you met today?" Sam turns back to us, still with the sword in his hands. He still looks grim, but somewhere in his eyes is a glint of excitement. "You left him out of your interesting story."

I feel the same way, but I also sense more unspoken darkness and pain behind the simple narration. Instead of adding more questions, I go to the window. Fresher air could relieve my uneasiness, or at least, I could just move.

"Will you promise me that you won't say one single word about this to anyone?"

"Sure." Sam says.

"Of course." I answer, opening the window and taking a look at my neighborhood. Who could I tell such things to anyway? You don't tell your neighbors or even your friends: 'Did you know? My boarder, my childhood crush was a KGB agent.'

Somewhere outside, I hear a bird singing, while Kenneth is speaking again: "He was my supervisor, kind of. Because they wanted someone to control me when our little group broke apart, they sent me to London, arranging everything, even finding a place in another dance school. His cover is the identity of an art dealer and appraiser, because frequenting galleries and auction houses guaranties good contacts to important people. And he felt obliged to give me the final polish, as he liked to say. So for the next few years, I moved between London and West-Berlin where he lived alternately. Working as a messenger, or as a contact agent. And doing a few other things. Mostly collecting information about people or places."

The unreality of this situation is more striking with every word. I turn away from the window. The three of us in this room talking about such dark things, while the sun is shining outside, and spring is displaying all its splendor.

"And when the fuck were you in Los Angeles?" With a swift movement, Sam has drawn the sword from its sheath and holds the tip against Kenneth's neck. "Just don't be too shy to tell us details!"

Los Angeles? Obviously, Sam knows a few details more than I do.

Without blinking, Kenneth takes the blade with his fingers and moves it a bit away from his neck: "It was my last assignment. I was supposed to meet a scientist who would give me some documents. But the meeting was a trap: I killed some FBI agents and escaped."

Oh god! This statement is the worst, just imagining it makes my stomach cramp. But the tone of Kenneth's voice leaves no doubt that he states the truth. He has lowered his head. His bangs hide his eyes, but I can see that his jaw is tight. God, I just wish that this was over, I just want this conversation to end.

"Fucking shit!" Sam lets the sword tip sink to the floor.

"I ... I missed my flight back to London, then called the person who had given me the assignment. I was completely out of it, but he just told me not to panic, and ... and asked me to take the next possible flight. But ... I never returned, not only because it was impossible to take a flight because of the FBI, but also because I just couldn't imagine continuing as if nothing happened. I stayed in Los Angeles, trying to survive as well as I could."

"Fucking shit!" Sam repeats, putting the sword back in its sheath. "But one thing I don't understand. Why did you contact this guy anyway?"

Kenneth shrugs: "He owes me a favor, and I have a few advantages over him. Or I did have before he knew about you."

He is so serious that even Sam doesn't know what to say. And in this silence, I hear the phone ringing very faintly. Incredibly grateful for this way to escape, and to break the strange paralysis holding me in its grip, I excuse myself, and leave them alone. The phone in the hall is ringing insistently.

"Karen Kaszowiz. What can I do for you?"

"This is Kay Blackhawk." His voice is very tense and extremely tired, alarming me immediately. "I got this number from Maggie. I'm very sorry to disturb you, but can you tell me if you have seen Sam."

"Yes, he is here. Did something happen?"

"Thank God!" I hear him exclaim through the line, but he doesn't answer my question. "Could you call him to the phone?"

"Yes, I can. Please, hold the line!" I lay the receiver on the phone table, and go over to Kenneth's apartment again.

Kenneth and Sam are still in the same places where I left them, and when I enter the room, Kenneth is saying tiredly: "This is not a game, Sam.".

Sam swings the sheathed sword with a euphoric move: "Now, you are contradicting yourself. You said it is a dirty game. I'm always good at playing games, dirty or not." He explains with grinning self-confidence. "Trust me!" They exchange a strange look, then suddenly glance at me with almost the same expression on their faces.

For a second, a really weird idea lingers at the edge of my consciousness, but I don't give it a second thought. "It is for you, Sam. Kay Blackhawk wants to speak with you." I explain.

Sam looks curious. Handing the sword to Kenneth, he leaves the room. Slowly, Kenneth stands up from the armrest, goes to the desk and lays the sword down.

"Won't this man be frantic at the idea that you may tell us all these things?" I ask just to break the silence.

"He should," Kenneth turns back to face me. "And that he does not seem to care is one of the things bothering me." Then he smiles faintly. "But do not worry, I will take care that you will have no trouble because of it. Do you want some tea?" The sudden change of the subject is astounding, startling me beyond words. His smiles grows a bit brighter. "I need something to do, so I thought I could prepare tea and a little bit to eat."

"Tea would be fine." I find my voice, smiling back, and we go over to my apartment. Oh yes, I think, it would be good for all of us just to sit around the big kitchen table, to have tea. Returning to the daily rituals would give us something to hold on.

Though, even before we enter, I can see that this day's not getting any better, because Sam is yelling lots of swear words and kicking the furniture. I have a sense of déjà-vu. The phone table is already tipped over, and the phone lies on the floor like a wounded animal. And the other furnishings are in danger, too. Can't this man keep his temper for one hour?

"Are you crazy?" I shout at him, finally finding something to release the tension inside myself. "Will you stop destroying my furniture? These are definitely mine."

But this man ignores me completely. "Can you imagine this fucking asshole!" He exclaims, knocking over the coat rack, then kicking the couch in the hall.

"Stop this!" I yell louder.

Unfortunately, I was not loud enough, because Sam just continues like before: "For one week he didn't show up for one fucking second, and then he has the guts to call Kay in the middle of the fucking night, just to tell him that the fucking police will raid our place." He really looks as if he has gone crazy. His eyes are sparkling in even more fury than before. Not even his anger about Kenneth's disguise had put him in such a state of rage.

Envisioning the couch broken to pieces, I pick up the umbrella that has fallen on the floor with the coat rack. Furiously, I hit him on his back with the end. That gets his attention, and I seize the opportunity: "Sit down and shut up, you idiot!" I shout. Sam is gaping at me, and another jab with the umbrella forces him into obedience.

"Thank you, Karen." Kenneth says in the following silence. When I turn, more than a bit angry that he has left me alone with this situation, I see that he has put the phone table back in its place. "I could not have done it better." He smiles, picking the phone up from the floor. "... Yes, this is Kenneth Farrel. Yes, Karen has calmed him down. Literally. ... Yes, she is, indeed." His smile definitely grows warmer while he is looking at me. Kay Blackhawk must have given me a compliment, I think, my cheeks are feeling heated all of sudden. "Good grief!" One second later, Kenneth's smile vanishes as if someone had turned off an invisible light switch. "Yes, Sam told us. More or less." Concentrating hard on what Kay is telling him, Kenneth lets himself slump against the wall, then settles down on the floor a few seconds later. "Good grief!" He repeats with a toneless voice, closing his eyes. Then after a few more minutes while I can hear the distant voice in the phone without understanding any details, he clears his throat. "Yes, I will tell him, I think he will be glad to hear it. ... Should he call you back? ... Okay, I will tell him. ... Yes. ... Bye!"

Placing his finger on the cradle, Kenneth cuts the connection.

"So what else did he say about that fucker?" Sam growls, still sitting on the couch with a grim face.

Kenneth gets up, setting the phone on its table. "You should go to his place. And you should not return home. Kay has gathered most of your things and all the instruments anyway. So you do not have to worry about it." Sam is visibly relaxing, and a part of his fury seems to pass with this news. After a short break, Kenneth continues. "It looks as if Arthur needs to disappear for a few weeks, because some unknown people have killed all of Kane's men except for Arthur. ... He was not with them, because ... because he was somewhere else for a buy. When he came back to the place where he usually meets with Kane's other men, he saw that his car was burning, and all the police around. That's when he called Kay. Kay said Arthur was not very coherent on the phone, so he is not sure if he has understood everything."

"At least, he had still enough brains, to call Kay, and they were not too mushy from his score."

"Do you mean drugs?" Deeply disturbed, I interfere before the discussion could become more mysterious. Recalling the few things, Kenneth has told me about what he called his little accident, I remember the name Kane, but the idea that the object of Mimi's admiration might be drug addicted seems so incredibly absurd.

"Yes." Kenneth answers nevertheless. Then he looks at Sam again. "What do you want to do now?"

"What should I do? Now, I will go to see Kay. And then I will get pissed." Sam answers and stands up. "This is such a fuck of a day."

Kenneth pushes himself away from the wall. "Perhaps you should not -"

"No! Shut up and go fuck yourself." All of sudden, Sam's fury is back. "I don't need your fucking help, or understanding." With these last words, he storms out of the room. His footsteps rumble down the staircase.

"He will feel better later." Kenneth says calmly, not angry at all. "What do you think about the tea now?"

*

Half an hour later, we are sitting at the kitchen table, the teapot and a little plate with biscuits between us. "To have tea" was one of the first daily rituals Kenneth brought in our life. Normally, we have it together when he comes back from work, before he starts to prepare dinner and I go to do some other chores. And my amazement about his knowledge of tea has not diminished yet. Before we started our daily ritual, tea was just hot water with a bitter flavor for me. Now I almost cannot imagine how to live without it.

Feeling much more comfortable than before, I dare to ask one of the questions bothering me. I think it is not a dangerous matter, but I feel a bit embarrassed about it.

"Does he know about you?"

"Mm." Kenneth makes, sipping tea. His face calm and a bit thoughtful.

"Has he no problems with it?"

"Pardon!" As if he was waking up from deep sleep, Kenneth turns his head to look at me.

"He has no problems with your - inclination?" It is really embarrassing to ask about it, although I was not unfamiliar with people liking people of the same sex, it is not a subject for polite conversation.

"Who?"

"Sam."

"Obviously." Kenneth says, shrugging, then blushing a bit. But confusion does not remain longer than a few seconds, then he slips back into his previous thoughtful behavior.

"Is it really true that this man - Arthur Sherman - is drug addicted." This is a more dangerous matter, but it is bothering me too much to just get over it. Kenneth is nodding. "But it is illegal to use drugs. And these men - I mean it is horrible how they died, but they tried to kill you. So is it not right when the police interfere?"

"In principal, yes." Kenneth answers immediately, obviously he is not spaced out this time. "But it is a bit late. They should have stopped this traffic many months ago, but by raiding the places afterwards they do not resolve the problem. Nor will they find out who killed these men." Suddenly, Kenneth's face becomes very serious. "Will you do me a favor regarding the place where you work?"

Oh no, we will not have this discussion again, and certainly not today. "I told you I will not stop working there."

My anger is fueled when I see his lips twitching in a hint of amusement. "That was not what I wanted to ask you." He replies. "Even if I do not like the idea, you last argument was very convincing." During the last discussion, he finally gave me one serious reason why he wanted me to stop working. He told me that Thea had witnessed the murder of our previous owner, and that he suspected our present boss was paying protection money to a bunch of drug dealers. Now, I could understand his worries, but I did not understand at all why I should stop working there when Thea and my other colleagues were in the same danger as me. That shut him up, as I remember now. "No, I just wanted to ask you to keep your eyes open. And to tell me if you notice something suspicious, but do not take any risk. Just be on guard!"

"Okay," I say, still hesitating a bit, then a pleasant idea crosses my mind. I put a severe expression on my face and glare at him, as if I wanted to ask something evil. "But you have to do something for me in exchange."

Unfortunately, my poker face breaks and I burst out laughing. His extremely suspicious expression is just too funny, blowing away all the painful and dark revelations like a breath of fresh air. "You have to help me to prepare myself for the New York Ballet. There will be a try out ..." A wave of enthusiasm carries me away, almost choking me, my cheeks growing hot and my pulse speeding up.

"It would be my privilege." Kenneth replies warmly. Then he rubs his forehead with a tired movement: "You cannot imagine how glad I am. You see, with everything that's happened in the last few weeks, I was unable to give my true wishes more than a few thoughts." Barely hidden, regret, annoyance and frustration show in his voice. Maybe, he would have bared more of his dreams, but before he can say anything else, Yacko enters the apartment with his usual noise. I hear things thrown through the entrance hall.

Rising from my chair, I leave the kitchen to tell this annoying brat that he'd better put his jacket on the coat rack, his shoes in the shoe-closet and ...

"Hey, look what I have." He stops my words, even before I open my mouth. Of course, his left shoe is lying at the door, while his right shoe has been thrown to the foot of the couch. "Look what they gave me. Their cakes are so delicious, even better than what he makes." With a cake shaped packet wrapped in nice looking paper, he points at Kenneth who has joined me.

"Who gave you the cake?"

"Mister Gelbstein's daughter. You see, I went to drop the key of the store in their mail box, but Deb - the stupid girl came to the door before I could leave. It was her birthday, and she had lots of guests. And she forced me to eat with them, and everyone wanted to chat with me. They grew even more nicely when they knew that we are Jews, too. Shouldn't I have a bar mitzvah this year? They told me that when I turn thirteen it would be time for it. And then I'm a full grown man. And ..."

He stops suddenly, glancing at me and chewing his lip. Maybe I failed to keep my face calm when my heart was filled with pain. After all the disturbing news of this day, isn't it ridiculous that I feel this hurt? And Yacko has not even tried to tease me now, he was just vibrating in excitement and happiness. So why do his words wake up a little, but piercing pain in my heart? Because he passed his afternoon in the circle of a family who still live with everything what we have lost? This is very selfish, since Yacko barely remembers this happiness.

"Yes, we will certainly celebrate your bar mitzah." I say cheerfully, chasing away the unshed tears. "And this was very nice of them. Let's have a look at the cake!" And then, while we are returning into the kitchen, another thought crosses my mind. Something that I have not paid attention to at first. "What is this story with the store key?" I ask Kenneth, not amused at all. "Don't tell me that you used him for your disguise?"

"No, no." Yacko exclaims, before Kenneth can answer my question. "I wanted to do it. I wanted to stay in the store. I wanted to show the stupid girl, that there was no reason to be frightened of the bandits. She is the one who is too scared to stay in the store. So I bet with her that I could stay there for one hour, because only stupid girls and - cowards are scared." He ends his explanation quickly, hurrying to the fridge and taking out a coke. Obviously, at first, he has intended to use another word and realized how inappropriate it was. Remembering that for a few days, no words like "queer" or "fag" have come from him, the amazement about his change distracts me a bit from my anger about Kenneth.

"You should not call her 'stupid girl' when she has invited you for her birthday." I say calmly.

During Yacko's explanation, Kenneth has taken a big plate from the kitchen cupboard, now unwrapping the cake and putting it on the plate, he says: "So, you won your bet. Then now it is up to you to fulfill your part of our agreement."

"What agreement?" I ask, suspiciously again.

Yacko chews his bottom lip again, then takes a sip from his coke. Then he raises his shoulders, and goes to the door.: "Come, I will show you." He puts on his shoes, leaves the apartment and starts descending the stairs.

Kenneth and I are following him. And suspicious is a very weak word to express my feelings. To distract myself and because these things need to be clarified, I tug Kenneth's sleeve to stop him for a few seconds.

"Never do that again. Do you hear me? Using his pride for your own intentions."

"There was no risk. The whole family of Mister Gelbstein was in the house, and he had two of his friends to help him." Kenneth answers, but his expression shows embarrassment.

"Perhaps," I say with determination, not to let him go with this. "but if you involve him again with something you want hide from me, you will have serious problems with me. Do you understand me?"

Kenneth looks at me and nods. Then he smiles apologizing, and I let his arm go. It's strange, I think, when I have a real reason to be angry, I stay so calm, while stupid little incidents immediately get on my nerves. Like ... "What is this?" I exclaim, my former composure is gone.

Yacko has taken us into one of the apartments on the fifth floor. Besides some old chairs and mattresses, and a pile of comic books, the main room is filled with technical stuff: TV's, transistor radios, tape recorders and more strange things. Everything looks old, and some of the objects are completely dismantled. The separate pieces lying in a mysterious order.

"We did not steal it." Yacko says. "Not really. Everything was already supposed to be garbage. I just figured out how they work. I thought I could repair them and then sell them and then we'd have money. And you could pay these assholes off."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why should I? You are only interested in dancing, not in real and serious things." He answers, all cocky. "And a man has to have some secrets, and girls can't keep secrets anyway." He explains with his usual arrogance, but I decide not to overreact this time. After all, this proved that he cared about the house and our problems as much as I did. "And I thought I could make us a cool TV and our own record player since we had to sell all the cool things. We don't need the 'bad' guy to have that stuff." I am stunned and touched at the same time: Although he liked listening to music on Kenneth's record player as much as any of us, it must have hurt Yacko's pride that Sam had just picked up the record player somewhere while he must have been working for weeks to get one of his things working. "You see, I'm very useful, and when I'm adult I will become the world most famous engineer, and I will construct lots of cool machines. But I can already be useful now."

"I have no doubt." I say, and I am really impressed. He is just as determined as me, only his talents are different.

I see that Kenneth bites his lips to keep himself from smirking while he is crouching beside one of the dismantled tape recorder. How much more than I does he already know about Yacko's dreams? "Have you found out what the problem is?" He asks, and immediately Yacko is by his side, starting to explain.

Though, I don't understand this very well, but suddenly, I know that Kenneth must have planned to use Yacko's talent with the technical things he has gotten today. Yacko would feel a lot prouder when he could prove his talents. Then, while I am thinking about what I could do, another thought crosses my mind.

"Can you construct something like a security lock?" I interrupt their chatting. "For the house door, or for the apartment doors. If we could tell people that they do not need to fear Santa Gallo's men, it might be easier, to get people to rent from us. This would be the quickest way to pay our debts once and for all. And then they have no reason to annoy us anymore."

Yacko's eyes are sparkling excitedly. Getting up, he smacks my back. "Sometimes, you have quite good ideas for a girl. Mm - what would we need for such things?"

Though, a few seconds later, we transfer the planning to our kitchen. Yacko is sitting at the table with a lot of papers, a pen in one hand, a piece of cake in the other, while Kenneth and I are preparing dinner. I feel relieved because making plans and doing something has been the best way to get over the disturbing news of this day.

*

I am very tired when I come back from work, but as I promised, I go over to let Kenneth know I'm back. Music pours through the wall in the small corridor before his apartment, but it stops abruptly when I press the door bell. A little bit later, Kenneth opens the door.

"Hi, Karen, come in!" Kenneth greets me with a smile and I go in his room while he disappears into the kitchen.

"Hi, missy." Sam is sitting on the couch with a saxophone, but he looks just a little bit drunk.

Yacko lies beside him, curled in a little ball, deeply asleep. The things Kenneth had gotten from that spy are still lying on the table, along with three glasses. Under the table, I see empty Soda and Bitter Lemon bottles and a bottle with Whiskey. Slightly irritated I turn to look at Kenneth who has come to bring me a forth glass.

"Don't tell me you let him drink alcohol?"

Kenneth smirks: "No, it is the placebo effect. He was so excited by the idea of drinking Whiskey that the Soda knocked him out."

"Very funny." Sam comments, glancing at my sleeping brother.

Unfortunately, our conversation wakes him up for a moment just to ruin the cute picture of a peaceful sleeping boy. Because he finds enough spirit to say: "Hey, this is a men's party. Ugly girls are forbidden." And by falling asleep again, he flees my rightful anger. It is one of his incredible abilities, falling asleep no matter the circumstances when he is tired.

"Come, Karen, please, sit down!" Kenneth says, before I find a way to release my anger, and he taps the armchair. He takes the chair from his desk, settling himself down so he can rest his arms on the backrest.

"Are you feeling better?" I ask Sam who shrugs. "If you want you can have one of the empty apartments in my house. I have decided that I will look for new renters, and I could start with you. If you don't have enough money, ..."

"Don't waste your breath, missy. I have already found something. But, hey, nice offer." He plays a funny little melody with his saxophone, an alto saxophone, and he seriously surprises me with this. He improvises and twists one melody with another one. Some of them I know, some might be his own inventions. Finally, he ends after a variation on "Yesterday", the newest song of this English group. The Beatles.

"Play it again, Sam." Kenneth asks with a sleepy voice, peeking from behind the haze of his hair. After a moment of stupefaction, Sam and I start laughing at unison. "What is it?" Kenneth raises his head a little bit more.

"You don't know that movie?"

"What movie? I meant the last song, I like it."

"What movie? You really lack culture." Sam replies, still snickering, and then he plays not Yesterday again but As Time Goes By:

You must remember this,

Kenneth blinks, then smiles. Maybe, he knows from what movie the song is from, without knowing the famous sentence.

A kiss is just a kiss

Then he closes his eyes, and I turn my eyes away, the picture is so achingly sweet.

A sigh is just a sigh ...

Though, after all, is this not a beautiful end for this disturbing day?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ End of Part One: On the Road ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's notes: On occasion, I change the order of the notes a bit, and so we start with:

1. Let's talk about Kenshin and the KGB: At first, I have no reason at all to have sympathy for them, but, unfortunately, I don't have much sympathy for all the others either. So as much as I'm concerned, it is all the same.

Rurouni Kenshin is in some ways like the bible, no offense meant. Every reader takes from it what he wants, and every reader interprets it differently in relation to his own beliefs and personality. So as I have no problems to associating Kenshin's beliefs with leftist ideas, I do it in this story. Only I put myself in a mess that I quickly realized when I started my research. The principal problem is that the Cold War is not really the right analogue to the Bakumatsu. One of the local conflicts issuing form the Cold War would be a better reflection, p. ex. the Cuban revolution. But as it is now, the story is adapted to the general conflict, and changed through this influence. I hope you forgive me this liberty.

More information about the KGB, its recruiting methods and structure may follow in a later chapter.

2. Let's talk about the master spy! As Shin-chan was not ready to give more details, I still cannot tell you his real name. But don't worry, he will make a glorious appearance. With all the hints, a genius, a womanizer, you might easily figure out that he must be Hiko Seijuro. In my story, he is more ambiguous than in the original, because I gave him some aspects of Okubo Toshimichi. Except for one. The James Bond thing was meant to be a joke, from himself and from me.

3. Let's talk about characters (II)! The bad guys: Huberto Salvatore is supposed to be Hoji. And no doubt, Enrico Usica is supposed to be Usui. I had this picture of him as a Mafia killer with sunglasses instead his "blindfold", and I couldn't get it out of my head.

The girls: And, of course, Maria Teresa Blancanieve is ... fanfare ... Tomoe. And now you ask yourself the same question as Karen and Sam, although they didn't voice it. Hehe, but you have to wait for an answer.

Yvette is Ikumatsu, since a geisha is rather an entertainer, so it makes sense that she could be a singer in modern times. She will make an appearance in a very late chapter.

Reminder: Yumi is Yumi, Soza is her brother (my OC), Simon O'Sullivan is Soujiro. Did I forget someone mentioned?

4. Let's talk about life and such: Religion: Saturdays - I think you rather know, but I just mention it - it is Sabbath: the holy day for the Jews.

Bar Mitzvah is celebrated when a boy turns thirteen, and as Yacko says the day marks the begin of his life as an adult. At this occasion, he reads some lines from the Torah in Hebrew in the Synagogue.

France: The Sorbonne is the oldest University of Paris.

Music: Yesterday, hehehe, no comment.

Cuba: Fulgencio Batista took over the Cuban government in 1936, and ruled Cuba until 1959 when he was forced to leave because of the victory of the revolution. During this time, New York was one of the centers of the Cuban refugees. Even Fidel Castro had been to New York in this time. (I have collected my information from different sources, so it is difficult to give one special link.)

This is the end of Part One. And therefore, I thank everyone who has taken part at this travel through the time, my dear reviewers whose encouragement helped me so much, and also everyone who has read without reviewing. I hope you liked the "trip" so far, and I hope to welcome you again in a couple of weeks for the next part.