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learning Japanese, and his crash program of acculturation culminated in marriage to one of his students, Akiko, who seemed to him to embody all of the traditional virtues of Japanese womanhood. When her parents disowned her for marrying a gaijin, Ryder understoodthat no matter how good his command of Japanese verbs and their tenses, he would always be one.
    His mother, living with a new husband in El Paso, wrote to wish him happiness in his marriage, which was more than she had learned to expect. Wedding presents from friends in Austin included a pair of handmade ostrich-skin boots and a black Stetson with silver and turquoise band. Ryder wore both to the ceremony, and continued to wear them. A year after his marriage he opened the first cowboy supply store in Japan.
    The location he found for the store was nearly ideal, on the street car route a few blocks from a major intersection. Rent was reasonable; in fact, it seemed like a steal. Then Akiko told him that the oyabun—literally, father; colloquially, godfather—of the largest yakuza syndicate in Kyoto lived practically next door, in a walled compound guarded by a large detachment of foot soldiers, latter-day would-be samurai, who lounged around the gate comparing shoe shines and fingering dice. They were under strict orders not to harass the local citizenry, on the principle of not fouling the nest. But so much coiled menace was not easily contained. There were incidents. People got pushed around. Missing finger joints testified to the occasional breaches of discipline. Those who called unnecessary attention to the organization atoned by severing one of their own fingers with a sword in the presence of the aggrieved superior, and presenting it, wrapped in silk, with humble apologies. Starting with the little fingers, violent or very stupid subordinates would lose half a hand learning about discipline.
    The sentries didn’t know what to do when a cowboyappeared at the gate of the compound one day asking to see the boss. Protocol was unclear. There ensued a conference at the gate. Ryder waited, a large gift-wrapped package under his arm. After fifteen minutes he was admitted, and passed through a courtyard of immaculate raked gravel, the kind you saw in the gardens of Zen temples. The house was elegant and austere. Ryder was disappointed, having expected something spectacularly tacky—statues of nude women, pink flamingos. A brawny thug with a marbled face escorted him along the stone walk. The door was opened by an even larger man, who was alarmed when he saw the package. At his command Ryder opened it, taking care not to tear the wrapping paper. He had been in the country long enough to know that the presentation was as important as the present itself.
    He was shown to a room at the back of the house, where the man told him to wait, closing the sliding screens behind him. Ryder seated himself on the tatami floor. The room was bare except for a scroll, a pen-and-ink landscape, enshrined in the corner alcove. The sliding glass windows on the south wall overlooked a garden with a fish pond. Orange and white carp cruised the murk beneath a canopy of lily pads.
    An hour later the door opened again, and Ryder rose. The man bowed; Miles bowed lower, uncertain if this was the big guy, the oyabun, or just a subordinate. He had a mild, chubby face, wore a dark dress kimono, and looked like someone whose spare time was devoted to calligraphy or stamp collecting. This, Ryder decided, had to be the honcho. An underling would flaunt his authority. They exchanged traditional greetings, Ryder outdoing himself inhis employment of polite verb endings and honorifics. His host matched him to a point, finally conceding to Ryder the humbler rung of address. His name was Koyama, Big Mountain. He complimented Miles on his mastery of the language. Ryder protested that he was a rank beginner. He commented on the beauty of the house and garden. Koyama said that the gardener had been