The old man laughed, with his mouth shut. He sounded like a woodpecker.

“A kakekomidera, eh?” Ushikawa said. He offered him a Seven Stars cigarette. The old man took it, let Ushikawa light it for him with his lighter, and took a deep, appreciative drag on it. This is exactly what the Seven Stars must long for, Ushikawa mused—to be enjoyed so thoroughly.

“Women whose husbands smack them around and run away, their faces all puffed up, they—they take shelter there. They don’t have to pay rent.”

“Like a kind of public service,” Ushikawa said.

“Yes, that sort of thing. They had this extra apartment building so they used it to help people in trouble. She’s tremendously wealthy, so she could do whatever she wanted, without worrying about making money. Not like the rest of us.”

“But why did Mrs. Ogata start doing that? Was there something that led up to it?”

“I don’t know. She’s so rich that maybe it’s like a hobby?”

“Well, even if it is a hobby,” Ushikawa said, beaming, “that’s a wonderful thing, to help people in trouble like that. Not everyone with money to burn takes the initiative to help others.”

“Of course it’s a nice thing to do,” the old man agreed. “Years ago I used to hit my old lady all the time, so I’m not one to talk.” He opened his mouth, showing off his missing teeth, and guffawed, as if hitting your wife every once in a while were one of life’s notable pleasures.

“So I take it that several people live there now?” Ushikawa asked.

“I go past there when I take a walk every morning, but you can’t see anything from outside. But it does seem like a few people are living there. I guess there will always be men in the world who beat their wives.”

“There are always far more people in the world who make things worse, rather than help out.”

The old man guffawed again loudly, his mouth wide open. “You got that right. There are a lot more people who do bad things than do good.”

The old man seemed to have taken a liking to Ushikawa. This made Ushikawa uncomfortable.

“By the way, what sort of person is Mrs. Ogata?” Ushikawa asked, trying to sound casual.

“I really don’t know that much about her,” the old man replied, knitting his brow like the spirit of an old, withered tree. “She lives a very quiet, reserved life. I’ve done business here for many years, but at most I’ve just caught glimpses of her from afar. When she goes out she always has a chauffeur, and her maids do all the shopping. She has a man who is like her personal secretary and he takes care of most everything. I mean, she’s a well-bred, wealthy woman, and you can’t expect her to talk with the hoi polloi.” The old man frowned, and from the midst of those wrinkles came a wink, directed at Ushikawa.

By hoi polloi, the old man with the yellowed face seemed to be talking about a group composed primarily of two people: himself and Ushikawa.

Ushikawa asked another question. “How long has Mrs. Ogata been active in providing a safe house for victims of domestic violence?”

“I’m not really sure. I’ve only heard from others that the place is a kind of kakekomidera. But about four years ago, people started to go in and out of that apartment building. Four or five years, something like that.” The old man lifted the teacup to his lips and drank his cold tea. “It was about then that they built a new gate and the security got tighter. It’s a safe house, after all, and if anyone can just wander in, the folks who live there won’t be able to relax.”

The old man seemed to come back to the present. He looked at Ushikawa a bit suspiciously. “So—you said you’re looking for a reasonably priced place to rent?”

“That’s correct.”

“Then you better try somewhere else. This neighborhood is full of expensive mansions and even if there are places for rent that come on the market, they’re all high-end rentals aimed at foreigners who work in the embassies. A long time ago there were a lot of regular people who lived around here, ones who weren’t so wealthy. As a matter of fact, finding places for them is how our business got started. But there aren’t any affordable houses left, so I’m thinking of closing the business. Land prices in Tokyo have skyrocketed and small fry like me can’t handle it anymore. Unless you have bags of cash to spare, I suggest you try elsewhere.”

“I’ll do that,” Ushikawa said. “The truth is, I am a bit strapped. I’ll try some other location.”

The old man breathed out cigarette smoke and a sigh. “But once Mrs. Ogata passes, you can bet that mansion will disappear. That son of hers is a real go-getter, and there’s no way he’s going to let a prime piece of real estate like that in a premium area just sit around. He’ll knock it down in a flash and put up an ultra-high-end condo. He may very well be drawing up the blueprints as we speak.”

“If that happens this whole neighborhood won’t be quite as serene as it is now.”

“Yup, you won’t recognize it.”

“You mentioned her son. What business is he in?”

“Basically he’s in real estate. The same as me. But the difference between us is like chalk and cheese. Like a Rolls-Royce and an old bicycle. He takes a huge amount of capital and then makes investments on his own, one after another. He licks up all the honey himself, without leaving a drop behind. Nothing spills over in my direction, I can tell you that. The world sucks, that’s for sure.”

“I was just walking around a while ago and wandered all around the outskirts of that mansion. I was impressed. It’s quite a place.”

“Well, it’s definitely the best residence in this neighborhood. When I picture those beautiful willow trees being chopped down, it hurts.” The old man shook his head as if he really were in pain. “I can only hope that Mrs. Ogata lives a little longer.”

“I hear you,” Ushikawa agreed.

Ushikawa found a listing for the Center for Victims of Domestic Violence in the phone book and decided to contact them. It was a nonprofit organization, run by volunteers and headed by several lawyers. Ushikawa made an appointment in the name of his phony office, the New Japan Foundation for the Advancement of Scholarship and the Arts. He led them to believe he might be a potential donor, and they set the time for the appointment.

Ushikawa proffered his business card (which was the same as the one he had given to Tengo) and explained how one of the purposes of his foundation was to pinpoint an outstanding nonprofit organization that was making a real contribution to society, and provide them with a grant. Though he couldn’t reveal who the sponsor was, the grant could be used in any way the recipient wished. The only requirement was to submit a simple report by the end of the year.

Ushikawa’s appearance didn’t inspire any goodwill or trust, and the young lawyer he spoke with eyed him warily at first. However, they were chronically short on funds, and had to accept any support, no matter the source.

“I’ll need to know more about your activities,” Ushikawa said. The lawyer explained how they had started the organization. Ushikawa found this history boring, but he listened carefully, his expression one of devoted interest. He made all the appropriate noises, nodded in all the right places, and kept his expression docile and open. As he did, the lawyer warmed up to him. Ushikawa was a highly trained listener, adopting such a sincere and receptive manner that he almost always succeeded in putting the other person at ease.

He found the opportunity to casually nudge the conversation in the direction of the safe house. For the unfortunate women who are running away from domestic violence, he asked, if they can’t find an appropriate place to go, where do they end up living? He put on an expression that showed his deep sympathy for these women whose fate was like that of leaves tossed about in some outrageously strong wind.