The Salaryman's Wife (22 page)

“I’ve brought something mysterious for you.” I pulled my box out of the Mitsutan shopping bag. As Mr. Ishida examined it, I started to narrate the legend of Princess Miyo.

“I know the story, of course. I presume you’re interested in learning if your purchase connects to the legend.” He set down the box.

“Could it be genuine?” I asked.

“It is interesting. Especially since the name is inscribed in
hiragana
and not
kanji
.”

“Mostly women wrote in
hiragana
, right?”

“Yes, they wrote in phonetics for the centuries before they were allowed to study
kanji
. But Princess Miyo was a young lady in the 1860s, when national reforms were beginning to include an education curriculum for all. A princess, especially, would have had a private teacher.” Mr. Ishida scratched his cheek.

“What about the carving? Do you think a woman might have been trained to do that?”

“Certainly. Noblewomen often carried knives so they could be prepared to commit suicide, should enemies take over.”

“So maybe it isn’t a fake.” My spirits rose.

“Even if she didn’t carve this herself, it was surely done in the nineteenth century. I’ll show you something for comparison.” Mr. Ishida rummaged in a corner, coming back with a small wooden hibachi—a brazier in which coals were once burned for warmth in the household. The hibachi had calligraphy running down one side that had been smoothly worn down by age; this, we compared to the carving on my small box.

“The wood used for your box is lighter and cheaper, but both are from the same era. I feel it.” Mr. Ishida held my box almost reverently. “Most likely someone between 1830 to 1870 has carved this name. Probably a child.”

“It could have been her.” I pictured a beautiful little girl in a handmade silk kimono, her head bent industriously over the box as she whittled away.

“May I keep this for a few days?” Mr. Ishida interrupted my daydreaming. “I have a colleague at the
Tokyo National Museum with an interest in the aristocracy.”

“Of course,” I murmured before wondering what Miyo would want. I closed my eyes, feeling the uncanny connection again. Only it wasn’t just a little girl in an exquisite kimono enjoying a way of life soon coming to an end, it was myself in the first grade, panicked over what crayon to use when drawing my skin color. It was young Setsuko huddled in a cardboard box, and Mariko shunned at the swimming pool. We four, a number considered bad luck because it was pronounced
shi
, the homonym for death.

I’d almost forgotten Monday was nonburnable garbage day, so after I’d gotten my backpack and lunch together and walked out the door I had to double back to get the bag of bottles and cans. The phone was ringing inside the apartment. I ran past Mariko, who was cuddled deep in her futon.

“Hey, Rei. What’s new?” It was Hugh Glendinning.

“What happened with Yamamoto?” It bothered me that he hadn’t reported in the day before.

“I drove him home yesterday, where he met his mother and father. Tearful reunion and all that.”

“Has he talked to the police yet?” When Hugh didn’t answer, I exploded. “You’re killing yourself, do you know that? You could very well be charged as the accomplice in his trumped-up death!”

“Accessory,” he corrected. “But I’m fairly certain he’s innocent. Remember the disc, the one he said contained the battery formula? Hikari can’t find it in
the office. Just like Yamamoto thought, Nakamura must have gotten nervous and taken it home.”

“Unless Yamamoto is lying about everything.” I glanced at Mariko, whose ponytail was peeping a bit higher out of the blankets. She was listening.

“Wait to sling your arrows until I find the disc,” Hugh told me.

“Until you find it? What are you going to do, break into his house?”

“Technically, it won’t be a forced entry. You’ll see.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I need you, Rei.” Hugh’s voice was silky. “You know how to get to the house. And as far as physical searching goes—crawling under tables and such—I’m still incapacitated.”

“Why not hire a professional detective to help you?” I cast about for a logical alternative.

“Impossible. If Ota got wind of the business, he’d drop me.”

“Because you’d be breaking and entering,” I pointed out.

“No, what we’re doing is more akin to gaining access to the house through a ruse. We’ll be cleaning the house in lieu of the regular maid.”

“Gee, you really know how to get me excited.” First the Nakamura bathroom, now the whole house. I was upwardly mobile.

“I’ve already asked the girl who cleans my flat to bring a spare maid’s uniform for you. We’ll go over there tomorrow, and if it makes things more attractive, I’ll pay you out of my government account.”

“Having you pay for dinner and taxis is humiliating enough, and the only reason I’ve let you do that is I simply can’t afford it. Talking to me about your spy fund is insulting beyond belief. Even if I wanted to go, I have a midday tutoring session!”

“Couldn’t you come down with cramps or one of those mysterious girls’ things bosses are loathe to explore?”

“Don’t be sexist.” I said, all the while thinking that if I got into Setsuko’s house to look around, I might find some real evidence of the American father. I could perhaps prove to Hugh that Setsuko’s death had less to do with high-tech thievery than dysfunctional family relations.

“Richard could fill in for me, I suppose. But if I do go—”

“I know.” He was laughing. “You’ll do the driving.”

I would feel safer in a car than a train, I thought as I walked to Minami-Senju station to catch my ride to work. These days, I couldn’t stop brooding about how Mrs. Yogetsu had died at my station. It gave me the chills to pace the platform from where she’d been pushed, but none of the commuters who regularly waited there had talked about the incident.

For me, the train station had become a sinister place. When I was alone, I imagined a stalker in the shadows, and when hordes surrounded me, I imagined an anonymous knife in my back or shove onto the tracks. Some people believed there was safety in numbers, but for me, there was only paranoia.

I made it to work in one piece to find Richard awaiting me with a telephone message slip in hand.

“Guess who called?” He held out an imaginary kilt and did an imitation of Scottish dancing.

“He called here, too? I don’t know what’s wrong with the man.” I rolled the message into a spiral before tucking it in my pocket.

“Miss Bun gave the phone to me because he couldn’t speak any Japanese. He said something about an urgent message for you. Baby, if you play this right, you could move to Roppongi Hills.”

“Or prison! Did he say he was all right?”

“He’s at home among all his dreamy luxury appliances and the view of Tokyo Tower.” Richard sighed. “I’m so annoyed you didn’t see the bedroom. I asked about it but he said no, you absolutely did not roll between the sheets.”

“You didn’t!” I was horrified.

“Of course I did. He said something terribly dry and British and laughed afterward. Very sexy laugh.”

“Richard, you’ve got to help me.” I drew him into a corner and told him about my need to leave. I couldn’t tell Mr. Katoh I had another farewell ceremony to attend. After a few minutes of bitching, Richard agreed to help. We were cementing the details when Mr. Katoh walked in.

I hadn’t expected to see him at an hour when he usually was closeted with the other section heads. I slid off the desk where I’d been sitting and threw
myself into a bow. Mr. Katoh greeted both of us pleasantly, then fixed his attention on me.

“Bad weather today, isn’t it, Miss Shimura? Not like your California.”

“Well, rain at this time of the year, I’ve grown to expect it,” I said, sensing from his tone that something else was brewing. Richard caught it, too, and fled with some excuse about papers left in a classroom.

“Shall we go in the conference room? I have a problem I hope you can assist with. As you perhaps already know, our company plans to expand English instruction.”

“Are you hiring new teachers?” I sat down across from him on one of the nice leather chairs the senior executives used at their board meetings.

“Eventually. But it is a big expansion from just the Tokyo headquarters to our factory and offices in Osaka.”

Osaka was a booming business city, arguably the heart of capitalist Japan. Still, it had a crushing reputation for dullness. Nobody I knew would want to trade multicultural, cutting-edge Tokyo for Osaka. Still, my boss was counting on me.

“I could probably locate some potential teachers through the English Teachers’ Association,” I offered.

“That is considerate.” Something about my boss’ language told me that wasn’t precisely what he was after. “Miss Shimura, we are very happy with your work.”

“Thank you,” I said, ducking my head a bit to show appreciation.

“In fact, the company would like to offer you a
promotion.” The miserable look on his face contradicted his words. “After your years of loyal service, we plan to upgrade your status from a contract worker to company employee with full benefits. We would like to start you in Osaka.”

“Permanently?” I croaked.

“Yes. You could live in the female employee dormitory.”

Great. From what I’d heard, shared corporate dorm rooms were minuscule, with barely enough room to hang clothes, let alone house my antiques. Living in the dorm would be like college revisited, with the addition of a curfew and a surly matron at the door.

“Why aren’t you sending Richard?” I felt overcome by bad fortune.

“Mr. Randall is not so comfortable with the Japanese culture. We especially thought of you.”

“It’s a lot to think about.” I didn’t ask about the money, because I found myself suddenly feeling that no amount would be enough to compensate for the loss of friends and relatives and the life I had painstakingly built.

“Miss Shimura, what do you think?” Mr. Katoh’s tired brown eyes pleaded with me.

“May I give you my answer later?”

“Of course.” Mr. Katoh sounded startled, which reinforced my feeling that his offer was actually an order that had come down from above.

I felt so stunned by Mr. Katoh’s proposal that my feigned physical collapse just before lunchtime was fairly realistic. Mr. Katoh became extremely upset and wanted to call an ambulance, but Richard came up
with the perfect solution of putting me in a taxi ostensibly headed to St. Luke’s. The taxi stopped at the train station, per my request, where I hopped the Hibiya line over to Roppongi.

When Hugh opened the door to his apartment, I could tell the maid had been there. Tidy before, his living space was now fanatically organized. The CDs and magazines appeared alphabetized, the windows gleamed without a single streak, and the scent of pine cleaner was everywhere. If this was the kind of performance I had to imitate, I was in trouble.

“Why did you call me at the office? You could have blown everything,” I said, shaking my head at the cup of tea he was offering.

“I was trying to check your clothing size. You didn’t call me back, so I had to simply accept what Fumie brought me.”

“Your maid really wears this?” I held up the black polyester uniform with a ruffled white apron that looked straight out of an adult video.

“Don’t worry, it’s freshly washed.” He showed me into his room and left. I looked around and saw there actually was a triptych of sumo wrestlers on the wall, although I couldn’t discern the artist’s seal. Trying to get closer, I stubbed my heel on the corner of a rowing machine and swore.

The only other piece of furniture in the room was a massive sleigh bed. I sat down on the edge and began taking off my conservative work suit. Something was bothering me. I realized when I was fully undressed that it was my lack of goose bumps. I scanned the room and saw no space heaters. Hugh
had central heating, the first I’d encountered in a Japanese residence.

I hung up my clothes in his closet and couldn’t help running my hand through his long row of suits, noting the fine textures and colors too expensive to be defined: taupish browns and bluish grays and charcoals. What did it say about him, that he chose such expensive things? I closed the closet and went out to the living room, hoping my face wouldn’t give away my snooping.

“That’s a good length for you,” Hugh said, looking at the too-short uniform. He had been making notes on the fold-out map, his bad ankle propped on the coffee table. A few inches of the bandage showed from underneath his gray flannel trousers. Although he’d come to the door without crutches, he still had a slight limp.

“Do you have a Bible?” I asked, suddenly inspired.

“Sorry, I’m rather lapsed in terms of religion!”

“One of those will do.” I went to the bookshelves and gave him a large, faux-leather-bound law book. “Now you look like a Jehovah’s Witness.”

As we loaded the car with a plastic bucket and cleaning supplies, I explained the concept. There was no good reason for a business-suited
gaijin
to roam a suburban neighborhood. Unless, of course, he had a religious mission.

“If I open my mouth, I’ll be lost,” Hugh groaned.

“Nobody will expect you to speak much Japanese. But if you’re supposed to be ex-American military, you’ll need to keep the Scottish accent to a minimum.”

“No way, man.” He practiced a California Valley boy accent which made me snicker until we entered the Shuto Expressway, where sudden lane changes sent me into a state of confusion. There was no time to read the
kanji
on the signs; here, Hugh guided me and I simply obeyed.

“How much longer? That wasn’t fun at all.” I rubbed at the tension in my neck and shoulders when we finally made it past the traffic jams of Yokohama and onto an uncrowded toll road.

“Judging from the signs, it’s about an hour. You can speed up, but you’ll see no one goes over one-hundred kilometers per hour.” Hugh hit his seat’s
RECLINE
button and stretched back.

“You’re one to talk, given all your tickets,” I said, accelerating.

“It’s only parking tickets. Why would I want to speed? If you pass one hundred, this obnoxious little bell rings. Listen, it’s happening now! Rei Shimura, I have a cell phone in hand. I could call the police right now!”

“You wouldn’t.” I stayed at 110 for a few minutes, slowing down when the bell started driving me crazy. The Toyota-installed Big Brother stuff really worked.

“You’re good for someone who’s never been on the left before. Not too much wavering into the shoulder, and your turns in the city were impressive,” Hugh told me.

“Thanks.” I felt pleased in spite of myself.

“You should get your own car,” he continued. “Everyone sells after a few years to avoid the taxes, so
you can get a bargain on something used. Although I reckon its hard to find a parking garage in your ghetto.”

“Find me something on the radio, will you?” Thinking about leaving Tokyo for Osaka was upsetting me.

Hugh clicked the radio to the station I woke up with every morning.

“Good afternoon, it’s two o’clock from the J-WAVE singing clock!” I sang along with the corny station identification, which was followed by a Spice Girls hit. The British pop group segued into an old favorite from Echo and the Bunnymen, and Hugh joined in with a rich tenor. Somehow, it didn’t surprise me that he could carry a tune. What did jolt me was the fact he knew the lyrics to “Lips Like Sugar” as well as I did.

“How old did you say you were?” I asked.

“Thirty-two. I’m ancient, remember? This is eighties music, I danced to it all over Germany and New York.”

“We’re five years apart.” Half a decade.

“Good at math, why don’t you teach that? Or music. I like your voice.”

We sang companionably for a while longer, Hugh doing an imitation of Robert Smith, The Cure’s mournful lead singer, that made me laugh so hard I almost missed the Hayama exit. I wondered why I could be so cheerful in the face of committing a crime and, as if on cue, got lost. It turned out the toll road entrance into Hayama was different than the taxi ride Hikari and I had taken. After driving aimlessly for a while, I admitted to Hugh I had no clue how to proceed.

“Hikari said to go north.” Hugh pulled out his map again.

“Hikari says a lot I don’t believe. I’d rather just stop at a police box to get directions,” I told him.

“Are you insane? Do you plan to register our names and faces with the police again?”

“Nobody knows me. I could go in and you could hide. Just get down low in the passenger seat. No, not with your head in my lap.” I pushed him off and kept driving. Where was the ocean? I was surrounded by hills. Finally I saw the convenience store I remembered as the turning point for Nakamura’s neighborhood.