“Omedeto!” she cried, swooping down to hug him.
“The head of the department slipped me the news yesterday afternoon,” he said. “It won’t be announced until next week, but he assured me the professorship is mine. If I finish my book by the beginning of June, the university press will publish it in time to use in the fall.” He smiled up at her and added, “Now you can be proud of me tonight in front of your future in-laws.”
Yumi felt a pang; she hadn’t realized how ashamed he’d felt about his career. “I was proud of you before,” she insisted.
He patted her hand, then pushed up his reading glasses and returned to his article on seventeenth-century trade.
“Ohayo, Yumi,” said her mother, appearing with the laundry basket. “Do you need anything from the department store? Your father and I are going to Mitsuyama this morning to buy him a new suit.”
“Do you think I need to get a funeral dress for Rika’s wake tomorrow?”
Yumi’s mother thought for a moment. “Do you still have that nice black dress you bought in Boston? Nobody will expect someone your age to have funeral wear yet. Rika was a close friend, but she wasn’t family.”
Yumi nodded, relieved she didn’t have to spend her Saturday shopping for such a dreary purchase. “I just need some dark stockings, then,” she said.
“Thanks for reminding me—I need some, too. I’ll pick up two pair.” She turned to her husband. “Let me put this load in the washer, then we can go.”
He grunted his agreement and returned his attention to the journal article.
Yumi scooped out a bowl of rice and stirred a raw egg into it, thinking that now she didn’t have to go buy stockings, she’d have time to make a quick stop at the net cafe to ask about
Chapter 48
Saturday, April 13
4:00 P.M.
Yumi
Her hair professionally twisted into a glossy knot for tonight’s engagement ceremony, Yumi picked up her pumps at Mr. Minit and stopped by the game center to leave a post on the Whitelight website, asking if anybody knew
In one of the narrow backstreets, Yumi joined the throng of computer nerds and cosplayers flowing around the islands of maids passing out flyers for their cafés, looking for Yuka.
Every weekend, ordinary people transformed themselves into characters from manga comics and anime movies, dressing themselves in outfits that gave them the power to act cuter or more courageous or less shy than they really were. A girl in a slit-to-the-hip white sheath adjusted the orange hat of a fellow Soul Eater fan. On the next corner, a pair of Decora-kei gals in pink and black skirts with several dozen plastic barrettes in their hair flirted with a boy in whiteface holding a guitar. A “doctor” and “nurse” in bloodied scrubs with eye patches posed for a foreigner. Finally she picked out a group of characters from the serial comic Samurai Deeper and spotted a girl with pink hair, handing a bottle of tea to a boy with red contacts dressed as Demon Eyes Kyo.
“Yuka-san?” Yumi ventured. The girl nodded, trying to place her.
Yumi introduced herself. “Nikki from Paniq Button thought you might know someone I’m looking for. She told me that a Goth who quoted Venom Vixen was stalking you last year . . . ?”
The red-eyed Kyo stepped forward protectively. “Why are you looking for that creep?”
“I need to talk to him. My best friend was killed and I think he knows something about it.”
They drew back in horror. Yumi explained about Rika, and how
“What do you know?” Yumi pleaded. “Please tell me.”
The girl sighed. “He could be the same guy. When he first approached me, I was surprised. He dressed Goth: hair dyed extra-black, eyeliner, really proud of this black tailcoat he had. Most of them don’t mix with cosplay groups, but he really knew Samurai Deeper—all the story arcs, all the characters. I couldn’t figure out why he dressed like a Goth when he was so into comics.”
“Turns out what he was really into was death,” Kyo interjected.
“What?”
“Ritual suicide, actually,” Yuka explained. “The reason he’d read so many samurai comics was that he was obsessed with seppuku.”
Seeing Yumi’s puzzled look, Kyo explained, “The proper way for a samurai to kill himself was to stab himself with a dagger, but to make sure there was no unnecessary suffering, he had a friend standing by to cut his head off with a sharp sword as the dagger went in.”
“Huh,” Yumi said. “The guy I’m looking for said something about not wanting to die alone. Maybe the awful disease he was suffering from got worse, and he needed help to end it all.”
Ryo snorted. “Disease? He’s still using that old lie?”
“What do you mean?”
“Leukemia, right? He told your friend he was dying of leukemia.”
“No. It was something else. Something neurological.”
The boy grimaced. “He’s not sick. He’s never been sick. He just says that to get attention. To get sympathy.”
“How do you know?”
Kyo looked at Yuka. “You okay talking about it?”
She took a deep breath and nodded. “He started coming here every weekend, hanging around on the fringes of our group. At first we welcomed him, but after a while we noticed he wasn’t really interested in Samurai Deeper, he just wanted to talk about the death scenes, over and over. And he was always quoting Venom Vixen lyrics, even though they’re so last millennium. People were beginning to laugh at him behind his back, until he told us about the leukemia.”
“He was tall, but really skinny—like a scarecrow,” Kyo explained. “He looked like he could have blood cancer. We totally believed him. Everybody felt bad about making fun of him. For a while.”
“Then I made the mistake of standing up for him one time when the teasing was ramping up again,” said Yuka. “He began waiting for me after work, so I started sneaking out the back to avoid him. Then I saw him hanging around outside my apartment building. It was starting to piss me off, so one day I took off running to give him the slip. I figured that because he was so sick, he wouldn’t be able to keep up, but he caught me easily. I told him I didn’t like being followed and I didn’t think anybody who could run like that could really be dying of leukemia, and not to hang around us any more.”
She hung her head. “He stopped coming here on weekends and he quit following me. I felt guilty, but relieved, too. About a month later, he showed up again, but he didn’t come near us. He was sort of lurking around on the edges of other groups but I could feel him watching me. I was trying to get up the nerve up to apologize in case I’d been wrong about the leukemia, but he disappeared.” She paused and her lip quivered. “Then when I got home, there were some photos in my mailbox.”
“They were all of Yuka,” Kyo said. “Coming out the back door at work. Looking out her bedroom window. Shopping in Shibuya.”
“When was this?”
“Last December.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“No.” She twisted her golden spear nervously. “But sometimes . . . I wonder. I look around, trying to spot him, and even though I’ve never seen him again—”
“What’s his name?”
“He said it was Daigoro, but I think he was lying.”
“It’s so old-fashioned,” Kyo explained. “Nobody’s named their kid Daigoro since the Meiji Restoration.”
Yuka looked at Yumi anxiously and blurted, “Do you think h
e’s dangerous?”
“Don’t worry, the police are looking for him now,” Yumi assured her. “If he had anything to do with my friend’s death, they’ll arrest him. I know one of the detectives, and I’ll tell him what you just told me.”
Yumi thanked them, then made her way to the train station. She ought to tell Kenji what she’d learned from the FlashMob editor and Yuka, but she definitely wasn’t in any shape to call him after what happened in the alley last night. Four deleted text attempts later, she arrived at Komagome Station, the information unsent and the problem unsolved.
Chapter 49
Saturday, April 13
6:00 P.M.
Yumi
The doorbell rang at the Hatas’ house in Komagome.
“Yumi!” called her mother from the entryway. “Someone’s here to see you.”
She finished putting on her earrings as she made her way to the door, then stopped short.
It was Kenji.
Her mother’s puzzled face asked the question louder than words: Who was this young man calling for her daughter as they were about to leave for her engagement ceremony?
“Oh. Nakamura-san. Mother, you remember Kenji Nakamura, don’t you? We made a model of the Ise Shrine together in third grade. Now he’s the detective in charge of Rika’s case.”
“So desu ka,” Mrs. Hata said, giving the standard acknowledgment a worried cast. “You became a police officer? How terrible. I mean, terrible that you have to work on such a sad case. Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hata,” he said, stepping inside. “Go-busatta shiteimasu,” he added politely, removing his shoes.
Yumi’s mother checked her watch and began to fill a teapot in the kitchen, but Yumi stopped her. “That’s all right, Mom, he’s not going to stay long. Why don’t you finish getting ready?” She took the pot from her mother and watched her disappear into the back of the house.
“Wow,” Kenji said, as soon as she was gone. “You look amazing in that kimono.”
Yumi scowled. It had arrived that afternoon from Ichiro’s parents, so she’d been forced to wear it. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.
“You didn’t answer my messages.”
Yumi’s face burned. She turned away so he wouldn’t see.
“Yu-chan.” He moved up behind her and she became all too aware of what had happened the last time he stood that close.
“About last night . . .” he began.
“Oku-san, where did you put my new tie?” Mr. Hata called from the back room.
Yumi stepped away quickly, unable to face him. “I’m sorry. This isn’t a good time. I have to leave with my parents in a few minutes.”
“Okay, I understand.” He retreated across the room, folded his arms, and leaned against the sink. “But there’s something you need to know.
“Me? Why?”
“I don’t know. Did you do anything inside that club that might have attracted his attention? You weren’t asking about him, were you?”
“What if I was?”
“Yumi . . . !”
She raised her chin defiantly. “I didn’t think anybody else was going to. Did you talk to him?”
Kenji frowned, remembering the frustrating interrogation in the alley. “Mm.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Denied being there. Denied being involved. Denied knowing Rika or the others.”
Yumi’s brow creased. “What does he look like?”
“Tall. Thin. Hair hanging in his eyes, dyed extra-black. He was wearing one of those formal coats. With—what do you call it—tails.”
“Like half the guys at the Nyx.”
“And he lied about being sick. He’s not crippled.”
“I know.”
“What?”
Yumi told him what she’d found out from Rika’s freelance editor and the cosplayers in Akihabara. “
“I do, but I’m not going to tell you. I don’t want you anywhere near him. I can’t have you in the middle of this investigation.”
“I’m already in the middle of it. And clearly he doesn’t want to talk to you. Maybe he’ll talk to me.”
That stung. Kenji’s face clouded. “Absolutely not. Look, I appreciate what you’ve found out so far, but you have to let me take it from here. This has to be done carefully. I could get in trouble for investigating him outside my orders, and if he feels he’s being harassed . . .”
“You’re worried about me harassing him?”
Kenji stepped forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. “No, I’m worried about your safety. He’s weird, maybe crazy. He was following you. If anything happened to you . . .”
She wrenched her shoulders away. How dare he treat her like a helpless woman who was just going to mess things up! Hearing footsteps approach, she hastily stepped back before her parents came through the door.
“Are you ready to go?” Mrs. Hata smiled, tucking a fresh handkerchief into her purse.
“Yes,” Yumi said, hoping her makeup hid her flaming cheeks. “Nakamura-san was just leaving.”
Chapter 50
Saturday, April 13
9:00 P.M.
Yumi
The private room at the Tokyo City Club was paneled in dark wood, a perfect backdrop for the seven ritual engagement gifts arrayed on handcrafted cedar stands, embellished with elaborate red and gold decorations symbolizing long life, fidelity, and happiness. Most couples skipped the formal yuino ceremony, substituting a visit from the groom to the bride’s father with a big bottle of his favorite spirits, but privileged families like the Mitsuyamas still did things the old-fashioned way.
Yumi had been dismayed to discover just how many of the traditional “gifts” were actually fertility charms, and as she formally accepted the dried cuttlefish and bundle of seaweed, she made a mental note to set up an appointment at the women’s clinic to discuss birth control options.
She was relieved she’d decided not to consult Ichiro about that particular subject, though, after seeing the kimono his mother had chosen to wear tonight. Mrs. Mitsuyama couldn’t have communicated her expectations for their marriage more clearly if she’d wrapped herself in a big sign that read, “I WANT GRANDSONS IMMEDIATELY, IF NOT SOONER.” Her dark blue kimono featured a border of golden carp leaping up a waterfall embroidered in silver thread. Technically, it was close enough to Boys’ Day for her choice to be seasonally appropriate, but Yumi knew that such a blatant allusion to the classic tale of the carp that climbed the waterfall to become a dragon could only mean one thing.
As did the kimono Yumi unexpectedly found herself in, its design reeking of maidenly virtue. She’d been intending to dust off the one her family had scrimped and saved to buy for her Coming-of-Age day—a multicolored, “four seasons” design of the sort chosen by frugal families because it could be worn thereafter on any occasion, at any time of year—but this morning a courier had arrived with a package from the Mitsuyama department store. Everything in it had been chosen for her by Ichiro’s mother, from the costly kimono, hand painted with fluffy pink peonies, to the pale gold zori sandals and matching handbag. She’d had no choice but to wear it, even though she hated pink and found the conservative flowery design beyond trite.
Looking in the mirror, she’d barely recognized herself. Was she really going to the most exclusive private club in Tokyo dressed like a relic from historical drama reruns?
When they first arrived at the City Club, her parents had been stiff and out of their element, but fortunately, after the first few courses were served, everybody relaxed, helped along b
y liberal doses of dai ginjo sake. The families toasted Yumi and Ichiro, then tended to the business of becoming better acquainted as they appreciated their way through the chef’s seasonal delicacies.
Mr. Mitsuyama whispered something to the server who was clearing the last of their plates, before returning his attention to Yumi’s father. Dr. Hata was enthusiastically expounding on seventeenth-century trade, his promised professorship already making him sit taller, speak with authority, and even wear his clothes with more confidence. Tonight Yumi’s mother looked less careworn than she’d ever seen her, as she listened to Ichiro’s mother describing what it felt like to wear the wedding kimono that had been hand embroidered in Kyoto and worn by every Mitsuyama bride for six generations.
The server brought a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and Mr. Mitsuyama directed him to open it right away and pour, handing the glasses around.
Yumi accepted one, mystified. Hadn’t the customary engagement toasts already been made?
Mr. Mitsuyama rose. “I understand we have additional cause for celebration tonight,” he said, turning to Yumi’s father. “Hata-sensei is being named to a professorship in the Faculty of Letters at Toda University, a very prestigious post. Congratulations, Dr. Hata. We’re proud our son has found a bride from such a scholarly family. Kampai!”
Yumi’s father bowed his head modestly as they all echoed, “Kampai!”
How had Ichiro’s father known about the appointment? The announcement was planned for next week and she was sure it hadn’t been mentioned at the table tonight. Mr. Mitsuyama resumed his seat and bent toward Dr. Hata, telling him he was delighted that Yumi’s father taught at Toda, where generations of his family had received their degrees.
And suddenly she knew. How had it been done? Had Mr. Mitsuyama called in favors? Reminded the university of obligations going back generations? Made a donation of a certain size, a gift so removed from the Faculty of Letters that it would never be connected to the elevation of his future daughter-in-law’s father? Whatever the means, Ichiro’s father had made sure that by the time the public wedding announcement was made, the bride would be from a family that was unquestionably suitable. A professor, after all, moved in a far higher sphere than a mere lecturer. She looked at her father’s beaming face and knew he hadn’t guessed. He thought he’d received the honor on his own, a testament to his years of patient scholarship.
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