As the music began, my first thought was that I should keep in mind what it would sound like if I were asked to perform a Japanese folk melody on the koto, the biwa, or the shamisen. Pretty god-awful, I’m sure. Therefore, it was not surprising that the resulting performance by the Pan-Pacific Orchestra was nothing to cause Duke Ellington, or perhaps even Kay Kyser, to lose any sleep. The band was distinguished by its precision, its metronomic tempo, and the absolute internal synchronicity of its ensemble work. Unfortunately, while these are outstanding traits for an electric sewing machine, they are among the last things you look for in jazz. The musicians all had rather thin tones and employed a vibrato that seemed far too fast, like a nervous soprano at her first public performance.

That said, I was immensely flattered. They did not hit a single clinker, and it was evident that many hours of practice had been put in, both individually and by the entire ensemble. I felt the forced smile on my face gradually turn into a more genuine one.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and saw that it belonged to Gail.

She was dressed in a long black skirt and a dark gray sweater. Her eyes were small and red and had not been bathed in boric acid. She wore no makeup, and her color was pale.

I stood and held her. She let me do so, but it was not romantic, nor should it have been. I wondered how she had allowed Russ to hold her. That too should not have been.

I sat her in my chair and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Gail.”

She didn’t look at me. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I called you but I couldn’t—”

“Ray, shut up. I’m here to do this, I don’t want to talk about anything but this.”

The band finished playing my stock arrangement and looked my way. I felt funny reacting in any fashion while Gail was sitting there, clearly in shock and in mourning. But she helped me decide what to do by applauding herself. Fumio and my new pal Key Kaisa joined in. I walked toward them, clapping my hands and calling out, “Bravo! You played it better than Fletcher Henderson himself!” This was, of course, an outrageous lie, but it didn’t cost anyone anything. As the band members who understood English translated my compliment for the handful that didn’t, I heard an excited buzz sweep across the orchestra.

I introduced Gail to Fumio Dakuzaku, who gave Gail one of his cards and explained to her that, as both the band’s librarian and a representative of the imperial government, he was honored to formally accept her work. He added how very sorry he was to hear her sad news.

Gail glared at me as angrily as her mother ever had. “There was no need to tell anyone.”