He was well aware that she had only introduced the hammerlock into their lesson because she was afraid. He had seen the look in her eyes when he finished his warm-up and conditioning. She had never shown him anything like that uncertainty before.

She thought she was losing him.

So Walter worked hard on Friday night to prove that he was still hers, but something dark inside him could not help but gloat about her weakness. It seemed that Mrs. Harroway was not perfect after all. Like any mortal, she had her doubts and uncertainties, and things did not always turn out the way she intended.

Rorschach, meanwhile, cared nothing for Mrs. Harroway's strengths or her weaknesses. He merely rejoiced in the application of this new technique, one which he had attempted on several previous occasions without much success. The hammerlock seemed so simple: twist the arm behind the back, then lift the elbow. Elementary. Unfortunately, Rorschach's opponents were often able to roll out of the hold, particularly men who had a height advantage over him. Now Mrs. Harroway had shown him the best angle at which to hold the forearm. She had even demonstrated some small joint locks that could easily break the restrained man's fingers if he tried to release himself from the hold. When performed correctly, the move required very little power. She had trapped him with it several times during their Friday night session. Rorschach used it several hours later to pin a pimp against a dumpster. The panderer tried to roll out of the hold and, to Rorschach's delight, dislocated two fingers and a shoulder with practically no assistance.

Walter could not wait for Monday, because he would see Mrs. Harroway again.

Rorschach could not wait for Monday, because she would teach him a new way to inflict pain.

******

Mr. Green had asked Walter to come in to work on Saturday, as he often did when orders were piling up. It would soon be spring; gentlemen wanted their warm-weather suits, while ladies hoped to have frocks ready in time for Passover and Easter. When Walter walked in the door that morning with garment bag in hand, Mr. Green said nothing, although his eyebrows did pop up just a fraction. Walter ignored him and hung his new suit by his station in the back, where he could keep an eye on it. And so he did, looking up at it from time to time with muted excitement while he hemmed cuffs and let out seams for paying customers. He could almost hear the fine wool humming in his mind, calling out to him.

At four p.m. Mr. Green locked up the shop.

"I need to stay late, Mr. Green."

"Walter," he warned, "I can't pay you the overtime."

"No need," Walter answered firmly. "I won't be long."

The tailor regarded him speculatively. His eyes flashed briefly toward the garment bag hanging by Walter's station, but he said nothing. At last he nodded.

"Make sure all the machines are off and the lights are out when you leave."

"Of course, Mr. Green."

When he was alone, Walter unzipped the bag to reveal his new suit. He decided to begin with the coat. Laying the garment on his work station, he examined the sleeves and the neat way in which Mrs. Harroway had pinned the hems. He remembered the sight of her slim fingers tending to him. And the ring.

He paused while reaching for the pincushion. The image of her wedding ring was emblazoned on his mind. Walter wondered what her husband had looked like. He had not seen any pictures of Mr. Harroway in the brownstone. Surely she had some. Was he much older than his wife? Tall or short? Fat or thin? He must have been the distinguished sort of man who wore suits like this one everyday. Walter's mind turned a corner: had Mr. Harroway been his wife's submissive? Had she dealt with her husband the way she dealt with Walter? Had he knelt at her feet and yearned for her slightest touch? Had he too called her "ma'am", knowing that she was mistress of his heart and body?

Walter frowned. There was so much about his dark lady that was mysterious. He suddenly realized that he did not even know her first name. Well, that was a puzzle easily solved. He set down his suit and went to the filing cabinet under the front counter where Mr. Green kept special orders. He found her invoice easily. It was written in the tailor's crabbed script, and Walter was unable at first to read the word that preceded 'Harroway'. He stared fixedly until the letters resolved themselves into a name.

April.

April Harroway.

He said the name over and over to himself in his mind as he returned the invoice to the drawer and walked back to his work station. Shaking his head to clear it, Walter began hemming the left cuff of his jacket.

Her name was April.

What had been the husband's name? Was it something patrician like 'Roland' or 'Edgar'? Biblical, like 'Adam'? Familial, like 'Atwater'? What name had she gasped into his ear when he took her to his bed?

Suddenly Walter recalled a scene from Venus in Furs in which Wanda described a conversation with her husband just before he died:

"'Don't deceive me,' he added on one occasion, 'that would seem ugly to me, but pick out an attractive lover, or preferably several. You are a splendid woman, but still half a child, and you need toys.'"

Did Mrs. Harroway need toys?

Was Walter one of them?

After a moment of deep thought, Walter concluded that he did not mind being her toy; she took good care of her toys, clearly. And yet his lack of concern about this subjugation set off a quiet alarm in the back of his head. Ignoring it, he gritted his teeth and moved on to the right sleeve. When the coat was done, he picked up the trousers. Thoughtlessly, he began to hum. Several minutes passed before he recognized the tune as the tenor aria from 'Turandot'.

****

Mrs. Harroway eyed the mismatched band-aids curiously. Rorschach had severely scraped the middle knuckles on his right hand, and, although he would not normally bandage them, he kept knocking his fingers against objects and re-opening the wounds. There were only three plasters left in the box, however, and the ones in the new box he bought were slightly different than the others. It had not seemed an issue at the time, but, now, under her gaze, his attempt at first aid looked shoddy and ridiculous. He tucked his hands behind his back.

"Will you tell me one day?" she murmured sadly.

Walter frowned. "Tell you what, sensei?"

But he was no fool. He knew what she meant. Mrs. Harroway had seen the bruises and scrapes on his body, but she had made no comment until now. He understood her curiosity about his urgent desire to learn the techniques of judo. Walter wanted to tell her; he trusted her completely. But Rorschach was a harder egg to crack.

She eyed him with that gaze that made him feel naked before her, more naked than he had been when he stood unclothed in her sitting room. Sometimes he felt that he would not be surprised if she knew about Rorschach, if she could see through Walter to the masked vigilante. But she asked nothing more, and Walter gave her no answers. He threw himself instead into several increasingly well-executed demonstrations of the second kata. His sensei's comments were brief and laudatory. She expressed amazement again at what a quick study he was. At last she told him to take a rest. He knelt on the mat to recover his breath and found himself avoiding her gaze. Hauling oxygen into his lungs, he focused on the scroll hanging by the door; he had admired the objet on several occasions, but now his curiosity overwhelmed him.

"Sensei, what is that painting?"

Mrs. Harroway, startled, followed his gaze. "It's a poem," she explained. "A haiku by the poet Basho."

He looked at her quizzically. She padded toward the painting, gesturing for him to join her.

"It says:

'Not this human sadness,

cuckoo,

but your solitary cry,'"

she read, running her finger lightly down the scroll. "My mother painted this for me a long time ago. She was studying Japanese calligraphy."

Walter indicated a set of characters separate from the main body of the poem. "What does this say here?" he asked.

"That's my name," she answered simply.

"April?" he breathed without thinking, then bit his tongue at the insolence.

She smiled indulgently. "April is my legal name, yes. But my mother used my Japanese name when she painted this. The name my father gave me."

He examined the characters as if they might yield their meaning to him. "What is it?"

"Naoko."

"Nah-oh-koh," Walter repeated, trying the unfamiliar syllables with his mouth. He thought it was beautiful, a name for some exotic Oriental princess. He pictured Mrs. Harroway kneeling on a dais in socked feet; she wore a colorful and elaborate kimono, and costly pins decorated her smooth hair. "Naoko."

Her delighted laughter tinkled softly in the dojo. She raised herself on tiptoes and pressed a swift kiss on his lips. Walter watched her pace back into the center of the mat. His throat felt tight.

"I would teach you a few sacrifice throws tonight, but you do bruise so easily," she announced, cocking an eye at him in the mirror.

"Sensei, I don't mind. I want to learn," he insisted. And besides, he knew what pleasure she took in his bruised flesh. He knelt before her eagerly.

"You misunderstand me, dearest," she responded, smiling down at him. "I may have bought you that lovely suit, but there may come a time on Friday evening when I ask you to disrobe. At least in part."

Walter looked stricken. She reached down to stroke the shell of his ear gently with her thumb. He grimaced, knowing that he would do whatever she asked of him, even if there were other people present.

"I shouldn't like the others to think that I treat you so viciously."

"They can think what they like," he growled. "I don't belong to them."

He did not fully realize what he had said until she was kneeling in front of him with his face in her hands. Her dark eyes shone. He bowed his head under the beautiful intensity of her gaze.

"Do you know, darling, the party does not begin until ten. And I'd hate to arrive too early. Perhaps you'd like to make a night of it." Her airy tone did not fool him in the least. "'King Lear' is playing. We could have a light theater supper, then go to the show. The party would be in full swing, so to speak, when we arrived."

Walter looked up, smiling despite himself.

"I know it's a great deal of time for you to commit, since I only-"

"Yes," he said simply.

"Yes?"

He nodded.

The kiss she drew him into was deep and sweet and slow, and Walter hung from her lips like a drowning man.

****

A/N: The translation of Basho was written by Robert Hass (former U.S. Poet Laureate). He rocks my socks. :D