The Samurai's Daughter

by Sujata Massey

“My mother’s car insurance. Yeah, yeah. I know.”

  I was afraid of what my mother would say about her smashed window, but she was surprisingly unfazed. The emerald on my finger had done enough, apparently, to mitigate all the trouble. And she didn’t see a link between the two break-ins, because of the different locations of the events.

  “What do you think, Dad?” I asked him when we were alone—my mother had gone to start the dumbwaiter to transfer Hugh’s luggage to my bedroom.

  “I think…you should take your time, not rush into anything,” he said.

  “You mean about thinking there’s a link?”

  “No, I’m referring to your very sudden engagement.”

  So he was talking about our personal news, not the break-ins. I took a few deep breaths and said, “Dad, last night you put Hugh on the spot about not having…serious intentions. Now we’ve told you what we thought you wanted, and you don’t want it—”

  “Just a minute!” He held up a cautionary finger. “Please don’t put words into my mouth. I’m only saying you’re both going through significant milestones regarding work and moving. To add another element of stress like a wedding might cause problems for both of you.”

  “I can’t imagine what kind of problems. Unless it would mean something like you and Mom not coming to the wedding.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No,” I said to my father. “It’s just that if you’re unhappy, you might decide not to come.”

  “How many months until you plan to actually go through with things?”

  I shrugged. “There is no plan yet. We’ll talk about it in Japan.”

  “I like him, Rei. Please believe that. It’s just that you’ve only recently rekindled the relationship. Why not give it a year?”

  “I’m almost thirty,” I said to my father. “Hugh’s already there. How long until we’re grown-up enough to make our own decisions?”

  All night, I tossed and turned in bed next to Hugh; I’d decided not to tell him what my father had said because I didn’t want to make him even more paranoid.

  I lay in bed, listening to the twanging noises of the old radiators and the occasional creak elsewhere in the house. My worries about whether Hugh and I would ever be accepted by my father turned to a nagging sense of worry about things. I hadn’t been able to find a glass repair shop willing to fix the window until tomorrow, so the car was essentially sitting open to anyone in the driveway. I also wasn’t sure if my parents had remembered to lock the door with the new keys after they’d come home.

  I got up quietly, went out into the hallway, and turned on the lights, which offered reassuring illumination as I tiptoed down the stairs. I walked to the front door and checked it. Locked. Ditto for the back door. Looking out the kitchen window, I saw that the car was indeed in the drive. There was nothing more I could do to feel safe.

  As I made my way upstairs again, I used the kitchen staircase—a simple wooden one that once had been used by servants. As I paused on the back end of the second floor, I heard a new sound.

  It sounded like sobbing, stifled in a pillow, and then more quiet sobs.

  Manami. Was she crying because she was missing her family? Or was it because we’d forgotten to check in on her when we’d come home?

  I started up the stairs to her floor, and the cries quickly stopped. She must have heard me coming.

  I spoke softly outside her door in Japanese. “Manami-san? It’s Rei. May I come in?”

  “No,” came the answer, broken and Japanese. “I’m sorry that I woke you.”

  “You didn’t. I was already awake. But I’m worried about you. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  A gusty intake of breath, and then her voice, faint but in better control. “No, Rei-san. I was just…feeling strange. That’s how it is for me in America sometimes.”

  I couldn’t force my way in, so I went downstairs and crawled back into the warm place next to Hugh. Well, I had a project now. I would figure out what Manami needed to feel like part of our family. Maybe the act of doing so would take away the heavy disappointment that my father had caused me on a day that should have been my happiest.

  9

  Project Manami got off to a weak start the next morning. I put on a robe, left Hugh to take his shower, and went downstairs. I had it in mind to bring a cup of green tea and some senbei crackers to Manami’s bedside. Then I’d invite her to come along with me to Hopewell’s, where I would kill two birds with one stone: get the engagement ring resized, and find out what I could about the old Japanese letter that my parents had sold in the seventies.

  In the kitchen, all I found was my mother, already in action. She was rolling out scones. I could smell some baking in the oven, and there were three trays waiting on the counter.

  “Your father already left for the hospital,” she said when she saw me setting up a pot of green tea.

  “It’s for Manami, actually.”

  “She’s out, too. Your dad was going to give her a ride to campus, but she must have left even earlier. Do you want a scone?”

  So Manami was gone; I wouldn’t be able to take her to Hopewell’s. “Thanks, but I’ll wait for Hugh.”

  “That’s nice. You may have two each; the rest are for the party.”

  “Oh, that’s right. The Boxing Day party is this afternoon. What do you need help with?”

  “Well, I noticed you did the silver yesterday, sweetie; thanks for that. I think…well, the baking’s under control…maybe if you could pick up the sushi for me? Oh, darn, the car window. I almost forgot. You can’t possibly drive.”

  “I’ll take the bus then. And Mom, there’s someone coming to fix the glass this morning. Hugh and I already gave him a credit card number; don’t you try to pay for it, okay? We feel so terrible about it—”

  “Don’t, sweetie. It’s a small price to pay for the sake of your engagement.”

  “Speaking of workers, do you know someone who could repair or replace a stove? Before we leave, we want to see if something can be done for—for a client of Hugh’s. She’s living in the worst place imaginable, and can’t get the landlord to do anything about her stove.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, Rei. I must say that you’re doing a lot to try to help everyone. It’ll be a great loss when you’re gone.”

  “Not to everyone,” I said roughly, thinking of my father.

  “I think you’re wrong. But anyway, Emil Sonnenfeld is the person I’d recommend, because he’s usually been able to help me within twenty-four hours. Shall I call him for you?”

  “That would be great. I’ll give you the address.” I handed my mother the card on which I’d written it down on Christmas Eve.

  “What’s the tenant’s name?”

  “Mom, I’m not supposed to divulge that. Just tell him that if it’s an old Filipina lady, he’s got the right place and should send the bill to you. I mean, to me, in care of your house.”

  But my mother wasn’t interested in issues of payment. “She’s from the Philippines? For heaven’s sake, why don’t you invite her to the Asian Language League party.”

  “I’m almost positive she’s not a member. The dues would be too high, anyway—”

  “She’ll be my guest, then. What’s her number? Shall I call her?”

  “Let me do that,” I said. “Or better yet, Hugh. He’s the one she really knows and trusts.”

  “Good morning, good morning.” It was Hugh, dressed for business in a gray flannel suit. “Who is the soul who’s crazy enough to trust me?”

  “Our—I mean your—client,” I said, struggling for balance as he swept me into his arms for a kiss. He reeked of the Caswell-Massey toiletries my mother had stocked in his bathroom. “My mother came up with an electrician who might be able to fix the stove.”

  “Thank goodness you remembered. I’d practically forgotten.” Hugh sounded rueful.

  “That’s what wives are for!” my mother said archly. She was smirking as if she’d enjoyed
the display of public affection.

  “That’s sexist, Mom,” I said, but I couldn’t deny my relief that at least one person in the family was excited about the engagement. “Anyway, I’ll get the sushi on the way back from Hopewell’s. I’m going there to check into Dad’s letter.”

  “Which letter?” my mother asked.

  “The one he mentioned selling back in the seventies. I just want to find out what it was, in case there’s something I should follow up on.”

  “Oh, that. Well, when you’re there, be sure to ask for my friend Mary Jamison. She’s been working there for as long as we’ve been their clients; I’m sure she’d help you. Oh, and the person who does jewelry evaluations might be able to help you resize your ring.”

  “Do you think they’ll charge much?” Hugh asked. “Darling, let me give you something to cover the cost—it’s not right that you’re paying anything toward that ring.”

  “Hugh, I’m sure they won’t charge, because she’s one of us,” my mother said.

  “One of whom?” Hugh raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Our family. We’ve done so much business with them over the years, they will just be happy to see Rei. Especially if she dangles a promise of bringing them some wonderful consignments from Japan.”

  An hour later, I was showered, dressed in a violet wool suit, and heading downtown on the no. 1 bus. For a change, my twenty-year-old outfit fit right in. The society matrons riding the bus alongside me were all wearing clothes from bygone days. Sitting around us were a sprinkling of tourists in teal and purple athletic wear, as well as members of the nose-ring mafia who probably had jobs on Filbert Street. It was a perfect San Francisco moment, and reminded me of why I was occasionally bored by life in perfect-taste Japan.

  I jumped off the bus at Sacramento and Larkin and walked south a few blocks to the intersection with Sutter Street, where Hopewell’s Auction House had stood since the late nineteenth century. I’d been in just the previous week to get the gentleman’s traveling desk for Hugh.

  I went straight to the back desk and asked for Mary Jamison, the veteran appraiser my mother had mentioned. She had always reminded me of my mother—she was about the same age and wore the same kind of pageboy hairstyle, only red; and she’d dressed entirely in black, year round, for as long as I could remember.

  “Darling, look at you!” she said, gesturing toward me. “Love the suit. And the ring—are you engaged?”

  I slid off the loose ring that I’d slipped on my finger just before entering. “I’m almost afraid to wear it. It’s a bit large. It was my fiancé’s grandmother’s ring.”

  “I can take care of that for you.” She held out her hand. “Oh, you’re going to have to tell me all about him. Is he local?”

  “No. He’s from Scotland.”

  “Oh, the one you bought the traveling desk for. I adore Scottish men; that actor, Ewan McGregor—”

  “Hugh’s bigger.” I caught myself. “Heightwise, I mean.”

  “Well, that’s nice, too.” Mary laughed knowingly. Only in San Francisco would ladies my mother’s age feel so at home with the ribald. “I’m sure he’s simply gorgeous. I’m very upset you didn’t bring him with you today. I assume he’s here for the holidays?”

  “Yes, but today he’s working. He’s doing something with Sharp, Witter and Rowe.” I made a face.

  “A lawyer.” Mary sighed. “Well, there are worse things than having a man who’s still got work to do. Around here, so many people have lost employment that you wouldn’t believe it.”

  “I’ve noticed,” I said, thinking about all the people in the coffee shops. “Actually, I want to ask you about an auction that was held a long time ago. My parents sold a letter here in 1976. It was from a government official, which is why I’m interested.”

  “We could check the sale catalogs,” Mary said. “Tell you what. Why don’t you go over to the jewelry counter and let Gary fix the ring for you. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  Gary used something remarkably low-tech—a cigarette lighter—to warm the platinum and then reshaped it to the exact size of my finger. We were both admiring the way it looked when Mary came back.

  “Here, I’ve got it,” Mary said, waving a catalog that had been discolored yellow with age. “There was a sale in July of that year, and your father’s letter was probably item number 453, which we described as a rare scroll containing the signature of Emperor Hirohito, dated 1928.”

  “Emperor Hirohito?” I stood in the center of Hopewell’s, the bustle around me fading into silence. I felt my heart drumming under the tight violet wool suit. This was the first I’d ever heard that my family had any connection with Japan’s most notorious leader—the emperor who led Japan into war and, following Japan’s defeat, hung on to his imperial seat for over forty more years.

  “Yes, Hirohito,” Mary answered. “As you know, there’s always been a terrific market in letters signed by heads of state—not to mention royalty.”

  “What else can you tell me about it?”

  Mary scrutinized the catalog. “There’s not much of a description of the letter’s contents, but it was authenticated by an appraiser. Though I can’t speak for certain about how he did the authentication, it probably was done based on a careful analysis of the stationery, the seal, and, of course, the signature.”

  “Who appraised it?” I asked.

  “Oh, in those days we used John Nishida. But he passed away two years ago.” Mary sighed. “All I can really tell you is how much it sold for.”

  “Of course. And the buyer, if you’ve got that,” I added, trying to sound casual.

  “It brought nine thousand dollars. Regarding the buyer, I’ll have to check elsewhere in the office for that record.” Mary looked at me. “If I tell you who bought it, what will you do with the information?”

  “Nothing much. I want to see the letter and transcribe its contents for a family history project I’m doing. So far, the family holdings I’ve analyzed have just been decorative arts objects. This letter would add a personal and political element that would be very interesting.”

  Mary raised her eyebrows, turned, and disappeared again. While I was alone, I collected my thoughts on Emperor Hirohito. The late 1920s was just before Hirohito launched Japan’s march to conquer Asia. The letter, I bet, had originally been the property of my grandfather, who was a professor of history at Tokyo University. He was born in 1902, so he would have been twenty-six at the time it was written—either finishing up graduate school or just starting his career as a teacher.

  When Mary came back, she said, “You’re in luck. I know the buyers are still alive and well in Marin County, because they came in for a sale a few months ago. We’ve got their number in our Rolodex.” I must have brightened too much, because Mary added, “I’d better be the one to call them. Otherwise, they might feel their privacy is being violated.”

  “How would I make them feel that way? I’m not angling to buy the letter.”

  “Imagine a clever thief who could go around to auction houses and gather information on who owned what, and where they lived. I know you’re not a crook—but they don’t.” She paused. “I’ll call them for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, sighing.

  I left Hopewell’s feeling frustrated about wanting something, but not knowing exactly what it was.

  10

  I was so preoccupied by the Hirohito development that I almost forgot to pick up the sushi. I had to yank the bus’s stop cord quickly and hurry back a block to my father’s favorite Japantown restaurant—the one where we’d recently eaten.

  Only in America, I ruminated while waiting for the waitress to bring the sushi out from back. Only in America would a Japanese restaurant aspire to serve so many food groups—sushi and tempura and teriyaki, not to mention the noodles I’d complained about. I doubted a chef who was good at frying tempura would be equally facile at rolling rice and fish in nori. The fact that the restaurant tried to do it all, instead of try
ing to master one cuisine, gave me a rush of homesickness for Tokyo.

  My aunt Norie Shimura—the wife of my father’s younger brother, Hiroshi—was an excellent cook. The scent of her slow-simmering stews wafted out of her house and onto the street, a pleasant invitation to me on my frequent visits. Inside, the round table in the dining room covered by a blue-and-white hand-blocked indigo print would be filled with an assortment of odd-shaped bowls and plates, all filled with things like her own pickled daikon radish and cucumbers, sweet, rich pumpkin cubes tossed in a ginger-soy sauce, and always, a saucer of tiny whole fish that would be sprinkled on top of the food for extra crunch.

  In doing oral research, I’d learned that a lot of Norie’s recipes were direct descendants of recipes from Hiroshi’s mother—my grandmother, Toshiko Shimura. Norie had to learn to cook this way because she’d married into her husband’s family household. And Toshiko’s recipes had in turn been her mother-in-law’s.

  I was yanked back to the present when the waitress bringing my order turned out to be a blue-eyed blonde with a nose ring. “Here’s your order!” As she spoke, she ticked off an order slip. “Twenty pieces each of cucumber rolls, California rolls, egg, tuna, shrimp, and filly.”

  “Filly? Do you mean horse?” My annoyance was swiftly replaced by shock. In certain regions of Japan, horse sashimi was a specialty, something I didn’t eat but knew was really indigenous, traditional food. I hadn’t dreamed that raw horse meat would catch on in California. Was it legal? Did the animal rights people know?

  “No, no! Philly rolls. As in Philadelphia. You know, cream cheese and smoked salmon? Your mother specifically requested it.”

  “Oh. Never mind.” I winced. I liked smoked salmon, but cream cheese?

  One thing I had to say about American sushi was that it was cheap. For $59.99, the blonde loaded me up with 140 pieces, all arranged in concentric circles on two huge foil trays. I’d gotten so much sushi, in fact, that it was too much for me to handle on a bus. I sprang for a taxi instead.