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〃Only the ones who can afford these；〃 she said； still laughing。 She showed him the exquisitely hand…carved implement。 〃Feel it；〃 she offered。
〃Sticky；〃 he said immediately。
〃But guaranteed never to tangle your hair； Nicholas；〃 she had
said in her singsong voice。 〃This boxwood is brought all the way from Kyushu； the southern island。 It is cut and steamed to remove any imperfections and then dried for more than a week above a boxwood…shaving fire。 Then the lengths are tied together and bamboo hoops slipped over the bundles； and they are left to dry for thirty years to ensure that they are pletely dry before being carved。
〃In the shop in Asakusa where I buy these； their craftsmen have studied for twenty years。 They sit for ten or twelve hours at a time； immobile except for their working hands； to shape these bs。〃 Nicholas had been fascinated then just as he was fascinated now。 Even with such an everyday implement as a b； he thought； we take exceptional care and artistry in its manufacture。 Could a Westerner…any Westerner…ever fully understand the reasons why。 Or would they think us mad to devote such time and intense effort to such a small and seemingly insignificant matter。
Again on impulse； he entered the shop and bought a b for Justine。 As he waited for the saleswoman to reoil the boxwood； carefully wrap it in three separate layers of high…grade rice paper； and then place it into its hand…sanded cedar box； his eyes traced the forms of the bs lying in artistic display。 With each meticulously rounded corner； with each matched tooth end； he again saw Yukio in front of the mirror； her pale hand rising and falling like a tide through the river of her dark hair。 He saw that ebon cascade highlighted against the snow…white kimono； its crimson edges moving like flowing blood。
He leaned forward and； hands on her delicate shoulders； turned her around； lifting her so that she rose。 Soft rustle of silk like the bittersweet drift of heavenly cherry petals in mid…April when； it seemed； the ancient gods of Japan returned； filling the scented air with their ethereal presence。
The feel of her； the sight of her； the scent of her； all bined to transfix him； so that he experienced again his deep…seated fear of what she brought out in him： the intensity of sexual feeling。 He was barely eighteen； it was 1963。 He had had no experience with women； especially one as powerful as Yukio。
It was as if she held him in a tender spell； and now her palm came up to stroke his cheek and he shuddered at the fiery lick the caress engendered in him。
As was usual with them； she had to take the first few steps； sliding her fingertips back along her own body； pushing the rim of the kimono away from her shoulders。 It parted with a rustle； revealing the inside slopes of her hard…nippled breasts。 Nicholas' breath caught in his throat and his belly contracted painfully。
With a slither the soft white kimono slid down her arms； the line of crimson along its verge flickering like flame。 And now she was bare； the light striping her； throwing into deep shadow the erotic dells of her torso； hiding as it revealed。
Nicholas felt the terror filling him up as； like a sorceress； she moved； freeing his own sexuality； drawing out his own ribboning desire。 He could deny her nothing at moments like this。
And yet there was a deeply buried sadness in her as she reached between his thighs； caught gentle hold of him； stroking。
〃Is that all you can think of？〃 he said thickly。
〃It's all I have；〃 she said in a moan； guiding him。
Slowly refocusing； Nicholas' gaze lit upon the empty space in the display case caused by the present he had bought Justine。 Yukio was gone just as the boxwood b was gone from the case。
The spotlights' glare was harder in just that spot； magnifying the nothingness。 He wondered what had ever bee of Yukio's magical boxwood b。 Had Saigo hurled it after her into the Straits of Shimonoseki？ Had she been wearing it when he clubbed her； stunning her； then binding her for the long rowboat ride across those haunted waters？ Or had some small child found the artifact among her abandoned belongings and was wearing it today？
Nicholas found that his eyes were full of tears。 Despite his vow never to relive the moment when his evil cousin had told him of Yukio's death； he had done it。 His heart was breaking anew； he felt her loss as keenly this moment as he had a year ago。 Perhaps this was one wound that time would never heal。
Blindly he received the exquisitely wrapped package； signed the American Express receipt。 It was as if Yukio's kami had appeared at his side； linking arms with him； and； standing by his side； was now looking down at the display of boxwood bs with him。
And for that moment it was as if death had been banished from the world of man； as if there was no dark barrier between life and death； the unknown being suddenly known and accepted。 Did he walk with the dead； or had Yukio crossed over to live again at his side？
With a start； Nicholas found himself alone again in the shop。 The saleswoman was looking at him oddly； not certain whether to smile or frown at the peculiar expression on his face。
Back on the Nakamise…dori； he returned to the precincts of the Sensqji Temple； where rice crackers and tortoiseshell sticks were
still sold just as they had been a hundred years before。 He wanted to stay immersed in the past； unwilling as yet to let go of the last sweetly painful tendrils of his waking dream。 At a streetside stall he paused to buy a confection made of egg and flour poured into a doll…shaped mold before bean jam was squeezed on and the whole was grilled with the deftly economical movements of the ancient vendor。
But； once holding the tiny cake in his hand； he found that he had no taste for food； especially sweets。 The past was like the taste of ash in his mouth。 He had thought that with Saigo's death the detritus of his earlier life would dry up and blow away like the soft shed skin of a snake。 But he saw now on his return to Japan that this was not so。 It could not be。 There was a certain continuity to life that was not to be denied。 As Nicholas' father； the Colonel； had often said： this is the only true lesson of history； and those who do not heed it； perish because of their ignorance。
Now； at the doorway to the Sensqji Temple； he gave the unwanted food to an old man with a back as thin and bent as a sapling's trunk in a high wind。 The old man； in a black snapbrim hat and Western dress； nodded his thanks but made no effort to smile。
As Nicholas went into the temple itself； echoes and the ripples of history seemed to reach out from the dim incense…filled interior with its high vaulting ceiling and cool stone floor； to remind him once again of all that he dare not forget。
When he reemerged into the spangled night of shitamachi； Tokyo's downtown； the old man was still where Nicholas had left him； one hand curled around the thick copper rim of the huge vessel used to burn incense。
Nicholas had had enough of old Japan and the tangled web of memories it had unearthed in him。 He longed for the spark and dazzle of the new Tokyo； the soaring； ugly buildings so new the lacquer had not yet dried