È un facile vangelo, . . .

ma che intristisce il cor.

Suzuki kicked the toe of her boot into the dirt at the edge of the side walk, scuffing up a puff of dust. She didn't like the boots. She didn't like the elaborate hat, she didn't like the shirtwaist, and she most definitely did not like the gored skirt. Besides which, her undergarments were, frankly, some sort of unnatural horror. It was all terribly stylish, of course. Yamadori had promised her that. Yamadori had lived here as a young man, and claimed he had good judgment on the matter. Had it been her decision, Suzuki would have worn her own clothes, but Yamadori had insisted they dress like the locals. He wanted them to blend in with the crowds. Suzuki complied, but she knew people would notice her no matter how she was dressed. Her accent, her posture, everything about her marked her out as foreign. And besides, Suzuki wanted to be recognized, at least by one person. There was no point in killing Pinkerton unless he knew why he was going to die.

The buildings here were so odd - tall, wooden houses painted in bright colours, huge rectilinear blocks of brick, fancy buildings with smooth columns and carved stone greenery. It was all so serious, so solid-looking. Still, the apparent solidity had clearly been of very little use. Here and there was a half-ruinous structure, still under repair nearly two years after the earthquake that had damaged a huge portion of the city. The area near where the ship had docked must have been destroyed utterly - all the buildings there were brand new, standing tall in the sunshine. Suzuki had been in earthquakes. Her stomach knew the sick feeling that came of the whole world rocking like a baby in its mother's arms. She could imagine the horror of those bricks collapsing through a roof onto innocent people below. Suzuki had seen apparently-happy homes collapse under forces less tangible than falling brick.

Yamadori exited one of the buildings, and walked down the steps, smiling. He looked so casual in the local clothes. The blue suit and round-collared shirt made him look like a mischievous school boy, rather than a wealthy and powerful man of the world. Only the large carpet bag he carried in his left hand belied this impression. Suzuki knew that the object packed at the very top of this bag - the last thing put in, and therefore the first that would come out - was a gun. Packed next to the gun was a knife, its small, sharp blade still stained with the blood of a woman Pinkerton had driven to suicide.

"It looks like the address Sharpless gave us is still correct. It's an older house, the policeman told me, survived the earthquake. It should be easy to find."

Suzuki nodded. "And our plan is still the same?"

The plan was simple; confront Pinkerton with his crimes, and force him into suicide, using the same blade that had killed Pinkerton's first wife. The gun was there for extra inducement, if the subject proved less than eager, or, if necessary, for Yamadori to effect Pinkerton's dispatch himself. Suzuki wasn't the only one who had vowed that Pinkerton would get what he deserved.

"Unless you've changed your mind about the boy?" Yamadori asked.

Suzuki sighed. "Much as I'd like to take him back to Nagasaki, we can't. This will be bad enough if Pinkerton doesn't willingly do as we ask. I don't want to get Sharpless in trouble with his government, after all he's done for us."

Yamadori nodded, and the two set off.

When they arrived at the house, Suzuki's breath caught in her throat. She was not shocked by the house itself. It was another of the brightly-painted wood plank things, banks of windows protruding at oblique angles. At first, the houses had looked shocking and surprising to Suzuki's eyes, but they were rapidly migrating into the category of commonplace. No, what surprised Suzuki was the view.

Like Nagasaki, San Francisco is defined by great hills hulking above an extensive harbour. The house was near the top of one of these hills, with the city laid out below and the harbour beyond. Far below, Suzuki could see ships steaming by. With allowances for architectural style, the view was virtually identical to the view from the house Pinkerton had rented in Nagasaki. Despite the bright sun, Suzuki felt cold when she thought of Pinkerton trying to recreate a simulacrum of home, false but compelling.

Suzuki realized that Yamadori was already well ahead of her. He was leaning over the garden gate, chatting with a blonde woman, dressed all in black. She was sitting on a deck chair, a tea cup in one hand, a book in the other. In a distant corner of the garden, a small child dug in the dirt with a pail and small shovel. Yamadori and the woman seemed to come to some sort of an agreement, and Yamadori turned, waving Suzuki forward while unlatching the gate.

The blonde woman set down her tea cup, and looked over Suzuki and Yamadori, her expression of general dull curiosity not quite obscured by an anxious narrowing of the eyes.

"Mrs. Pinkerton?" Yamadori asked. "Mrs. Benjamin Franklin Pinkerton?"

The woman nodded, as Suzuki had known she would. Suzuki had met Mrs. Pinkerton before. Several years had passed, but the woman still looked just the same to Suzuki's eyes - blonde and fluffy and thoughtless. The only difference was that when she had come to Nagaski, Mrs. Pinkerton had always worn white.

"Katherine Pinkerton, if you prefer. Or Kate." the woman said, softly.

There was another change then, Suzuki noticed. This was not the loud, outspoken Mrs. Pinkerton that Suzuki remembered from their previous meetings.

Suzuki asked, "Do you know who we are?"

Doubtfully, Kate Pinkerton nodded. "Miss Suzuki, of course. And you must be - " she paused for a moment, then uncertainly tried, "Prince Yamadori?"

"Yes," Suzuki tried to smile. "You recognized us."

"Prince is such a poor translation for koshaku," Yamadori muttered. Suzuki glared at him. This is neither the time nor the place, she thought.

Kate sighed. "I think I know why you're here, too." she said.

Yamadori turned to look at Suzuki. Suzuki shrugged, waiting for Kate Pinkerton to speak again.

Kate looked around, turning in her chair. "Benjy!" she called.

Suzuki raised an eyebrow. Surely this woman didn't call her husband 'Benjy'.

The child at the far end of the garden looked up, then sprinted towards them. Benjy was not, in fact, Lieutenant B.F. Pinkerton, U.S. Navy. Benjy was a small boy.

"Hi, Mama," the boy said, resting his head on Mrs. Pinkerton's knee. Kate stroked the boy's hair as Suzuki watched in fascination.

Yamadori's eyes were wide. "He isn't - "

"Of course he is," Suzuki interrupted. The boy had grown, since she had seen him last. He was much taller, and his hair had darkened. His eyes, though - they were still blue, deeply, endlessly blue. They were his father's eyes.

"I'd know him anywhere," Suzuki said, with a sigh. "I was his nursemaid, after all." She smiled politely, knowing that her row of neat, small teeth would do nothing to set Kate Pinkerton at ease.

"You're right," Kate confirmed. "He's my husband's -" she paused a moment, looking down at the boy. He was staring at Suzuki and Yamadori, not listening to Mrs. Pinkerton. Quietly, she admitted, "My husband's son with that woman."

"She was my friend!" Suzuki could feel her face turning red as she glared at Mrs. Pinkerton. "And she was his wife. She was more his wife than you are. He married her first!"

The child's eyes grew wide. He backed away from Suzuki, clinging to Kate Pinkerton's knees.

"Suzuki-san," Yamadori cautioned, his tone gentle.

Kate's cheeks flushed. "If I had known about her, do you think I would have gotten involved with him? But once I had married him . . . what was I supposed to do, go home to my parents and admit that my new husband was little better than a bigamist?"

"You had to tell them eventually," Suzuki pointed out, nodding at the little boy whom Mrs. Pinkerton had pulled up onto her lap.

Mrs. Pinkerton shook her head. "Benjy is adopted, aren't you, Benjy?"

"Yes, mama," the boy agreed, readily enough.

"So you see? My parents know nothing. I did tell them that Benjy has family in Japan, though. A grandmother, is that right?"

"There is also a great uncle. Some great aunts, as well," Yamadori explained, his tone serious.

"I see. I see." Kate looked down at the small boy on her lap, and said nothing more.

Barely registering Mrs. Pinkerton's unhappiness, Suzuki looked up. "This is all very well, but where is your husband?" she asked.

Yamadori's eyes flickered to the carpet bag, then back to Kate's face.

Kate looked shocked. "My husband?"

"Of course. Lieutenant Pinkerton. Will he be home soon?"

"Home? Oh, but Miss Suzuki -" Kate Pinkerton took a deep breath. "He is dead."

Suzuki felt her mouth fall open.

"Dead?" Yamadori probed, cautious disbelief permeating the single syllable.

Mrs. Pinkerton set the little boy down. "Go play with your shovel," she instructed. She waited until he had run off.

"Dead." Kate's voice wavered, then strengthened as she concluded the word.

Suzuki looked down at her hands. They had sailed across an ocean for their revenge, and the man was dead.

Yamadori nodded, a desperately faint smile on his face. Suzuki realized that he was trying to be sympathetic.

"What happened?" Yamadori asked.

"He felt guilty, you know. Terribly guilty. And he was a naval officer, you know, he had his side arm . . ." Kate trailed off, wiping a tear from her cheek.

"I am very sorry," Yamadori said. He reached out to pat Mrs. Pinkerton's hand.

Suzuki glared, but said nothing.

"Anyhow," Kate sniffled. "I can understand Benjy's grandmother wanting to see him. She's related to him. I'm only — only his stepmother. But please, if you've come to take him to Nagasaki, let me come with you?"

Suzuki felt her cheeks redden again, but this time with surprise. She looked over at Yamadori, who was shaking his head.

"No, no, that is not why we have come here. We have no intention of . . .We were in this county by co-incidence, you see, and . . . actually," Yamadori paused, transferring the carpet bag from one hand to the other, then opening it slowly.

Suzuki stiffened. They had agreed that nothing was to happen to Kate or the child, but she had no idea what Yamadori might have in mind.

"Actually," Yamadori continued, not looking at Suzuki, "We brought him a present. A memento, really. It belonged to his grandfather, once."

Suzuki watched as Yamadori pulled the knife out of the bag. He fished a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, muttering, "Ah, it's a little dirty, one moment . . ."

He buffed away the last, dried remains of blood that still clung to the blade. Suzuki felt her throat grow tight, and she swallowed uncomfortably. Yamadori held the knife out to Kate.

Mrs. Pinkerton grasped the knife, turning it over. The blade caught the sun, sending a beam of light across the garden. The inscription on the blade glistened in the light. Kate blinked at it.

"What does it say?"

Yamadori shrugged, then answered, "Live with honour."

Suzuki looked at him in disbelief.

Kate smiled. "That's lovely."

"Yes. You must give it to the boy, when he is old enough. Let him know that it belonged to his mother, and to his grandfather before her. Unfortunately, Miss Suzuki and I have to be going, right, Miss Suzuki?"

"I — what?" Suzuki spluttered.

"That dinner at the embassy, we will be late," Yamadori's voice was smooth, his tone calm. Suzuki glared at him, but then nodded.

"Yes, of course. We must be going. So nice to have seen you again, Mrs. Pinkerton." Suzuki bowed, nearly losing her hat in the process. In a few moments they had all made their farewells.

When they were halfway down the hill, Suzuki turned to Yamadori.

"Why did you lie to her?" she asked.

"I didn't lie to anyone."

"That isn't what the inscription says. It says 'one dies with honour who cannot live with honour.'"

"Both the child's parents died by their own hands. I don't think it's wise to give him ideas."

"That's true," Suzuki agreed, looking at her feet. "I can't believe Pinkerton's dead. We came all this way, and he's dead."

"Is it so terrible that you didn't get your revenge?"

"The way you talk, you'd think you didn't care about her at all!"

"Didn't care about her?" Yamadori looked incensed. "I asked for her hand in marriage. I loved her. I would have taken her and the child and made them both happy. You know I would have."

"Maybe," Suzuki admitted. "And maybe not. It doesn't matter now."

"No," Yamadori agreed, looking up for a moment at the sun. "It doesn't. Besides, Cho-san was avenged. The man who wronged her is dead, and we had nothing to do with it."

"That's true. There's no danger of murder accusations or arrests. We're safe."

"We're safe, and we retain our good names. There are worse outcomes," Yamadori smiled at her.

Suzuki sighed, and then, to her own surprise, found herself smiling back.