Plum Rains

by Andromeda Romano-Lax

  When she was sure she’d finally read every one of his old messages she typed: I’m not coming to Alaska. You know that. Oh, Datu . . .

  And she started explaining what had happened over the last days, from the robot to Bagasao, but then she stopped. It was too much for a text message. She wanted to reassure him that she was fine; she’d only had a technological glitch. The colony was so restrictive about scheduling live calls, which were harder to censor, that it was barely worth the bother. Recorded, time-delayed videos and audios were easier.

  Let’s exchange videos this week, she texted and she immediately saw that he was typing—the middle of the night in Alaska but he was typing—

  The delay was maddening. Monitored communications meant that every text or message of any kind was filtered—quickly if by a bot, slowly if by a human—

  You’re there, his message read after a full minute. Where were you? What happened?

  My phone crashed. Why didn’t she say it was hacked? She was always protecting him from bad news. Will explain when I see you.

  This reply took even longer than the last one. Can’t do video this week.

  OK. Audio?

  He deflected the question, which took another minute to arrive: Why do you think I want you to come to Alaska? I know you can’t.

  She wrote back, I know there are lots of jobs and that you’d get a referral bonus if I came. I know the pay is good.

  After another long delay: It is good. But not for you.

  She was so absorbed in their conversation and so confused by it that she almost missed her stop.

  I thought you wanted . . . she typed, then deleted it.

  His next text came before she’d gathered her own thoughts: I miss you Nena but no.

  She wrote, I thought you always wanted me to come.

  Delay. Wrong. I wanted you to not worry.

  Should I worry?

  She hated the waiting. Hated where he had decided to work. Hated the feeling that there was always someone reading his messages, deciding what he could say and what he couldn’t. But the biggest censor was Datu himself. She knew that about him.

  It’s OK for us here. It’s good. That’s all.

  She was still typing as she stood, joining the crowd to exit, finishing up her message as the doors slid open: You’re OK? Don’t lie.

  Which was ironic, of course, considering she had always let him lie in the past—encouraged him to, even, so that neither of them would ever have to admit the times he had let her down. They never had to admit how much they had both lost and how absent he’d been in her life for so long, until his foster family had rejected him, and loss brought them together again in the orphanage. She had not wanted the hardest truths before. Why should he provide them now?

  But it was one thing for them to tell lies together. This was a new tale he was weaving, without her.

  It’s OK for us here. Was she reading too much into that line?

  Just before her Ueno Park stop, Angelica’s phone vibrated.

  Basu Shio Nanji desuka. Translation: Bus. Salt. What time is it?

  She knew to simply wait. Junichi was texting retinally, eyes flicking toward the words he used most often, algorithmic projections matched to this location and person being addressed and most common topics at this hour all turning his simple message into gibberish.

  Start over. Kon-nichiwa Anji-chan.

  That’s better. More was coming.

  Let’s meet.

  She was so happy just to receive unimpeded communications that she didn’t feel her normal anxiety over how to respond to him, whether to sound friendly or distant. She figured he was trying to set up the next love hotel meeting, or if not that, a drink or meal somewhere.

  Almost home. In hurry to get back to S, she texted, not bothering to remind him that he’d stood her up the last time. She was too busy for all that now, and besides, that teary episode in the subway car, when the stranger brushed up against her, made her uncomfortably aware of how much she did need physical contact, even imperfect contact, even in an imperfect relationship. She was too vulnerable to see him just now and too vulnerable to never see him again.

  His text read: JR U?

  He meant JR Ueno Station. He knew her route, the door she’d exit, the route she’d walk home. She didn’t reply.

  His next text read, I need to see you, one moment.

  No time, she replied.

  Just to talk. Leaving Kiyomizu Kannon-do.

  Why was he there? Angelica had walked past the small Buddhist temple, with its typical upturned roof and massive doors, but never gone inside. Women who wished to conceive often went there. What was he doing in a temple on a workday afternoon?

  Where is Yuki? Angelica rarely said his wife’s name and had never typed it in any form. It made the other woman too real. It reminded her that what they were doing was wrong.

  On her way home.

  So he had been with his wife, just minutes earlier, and yet he had the nerve to text Angelica now and to insist on meeting.

  Still, it wasn’t enough to put a damper on Angelica’s mood. She’d made it to Chiba Prefecture and back, twice. The money was wired and received. She was in touch with the world. She’d used a dumbbot to babysit a smartbot and she still had her job, her health, her sanity. Things were back to normal, and maybe better than normal. Since moving to Japan, she had never let herself think about those kind Dutch and Aussie doctors. She had never let herself hang up pictures of Manila. And now suddenly, she had done these things. Perhaps it was possible to allow in some memories and to wake up to photos of sampaguita blossoms, after all.

  “Angelica,” Junichi called out just as she reached the top of the stairs. He was wearing a slim-fit business suit, dark blue, traditional except for the playful manga socks barely visible above his Italian loafers. He always managed to look a decade or two younger than his fifty years and she knew that just seeing him in person was dangerous, because it weakened her resolve to end things, a plan she had made and broken, month after month.

  But her resolve today had been weak to begin with; her tearfulness on the subway had demonstrated that. Her desperate need to be held—simply held—was embarrassing, but also human. If Yanna were still alive, she would have needled Angelica: But you have nothing in common. He’s really sort of a jerk. And he was, at times. But his needs were always clear. He liked her; he liked sex and was affectionate, if only when no one was looking. He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. He was easy.

  Junichi fell into pace alongside her, waiting for the crowd to thin out as the stream of exiting subway users headed off in various directions. He reached for her hand, low, discreetly tugging her back from the crowd gathering at the crosswalk. She could feel it in the weight of his anchoring hand. He wanted to hug, to kiss. But he wasn’t going to do it. Even at his own wedding, he’d told Angelica, he and Yuki hadn’t kissed publicly. It wasn’t considered proper.

  “I think you missed me,” she said in a low whisper, teasing him. Such a feeling of isolation today, and perhaps this was at least something: one real person, in the flesh, in the present, even if they weren’t compatible, even if he was married, even if he did put his own needs first. Perhaps she’d even tell him everything that had happened in the last four days. Perhaps she’d even mention—carefully, light-heartedly—the silly worry that had prompted her to buy the test from the pharmacy. “It’s good to see you, Junichi.”

  He leaned down into her neck, whispering. “Angelica. We did it.”

  She turned to look him fully in the face. “We?”

  He was different. Less haughty.

  “Yuki and I,” he whispered. Around them, the crowd swelled again as more commuters arrived at the crosswalk, the tweeting sound overhead quickening to let them know the light was about to change. An eighty-something woman dressed like a teenager in pla
tform heels and pink dress tottered into them, forcing Angelica to dodge the bottom of her open parasol, one sharp strut tangling in Angelica’s hair before the dolled-up lady swept onward. Junichi barely noticed.

  “Angelica,” he said.

  “Did you see that?”

  “Angelica. We’re having a baby.”

  “What?”

  Junichi had just been at Kiyomizu Kannon-do. They’d been at the temple to pray, to ask. Yuki went often to pray. Angelica knew that. No, she was getting it now. They’d both been at the temple to give thanks. And to pray for one thing more: not to lose it.

  “How far along?” she asked.

  “Seven weeks.”

  His joy was perceptible, but not contagious.

  “That isn’t long. You know that, right?”

  “It’s long enough to her. She told her mother a week ago. And me, only today.”

  He pulled Angelica closer to him—never mind the onlookers—squeezing her in a sideways embrace. “It’ll be different now.”

  When he let go, she took a breath. “Different for you and me?”

  “No.” He didn’t have to say the rest: different for him and Yuki.

  “But why are you telling me?”

  His face registered complete innocence. “Because, Angelica, you’re my friend.”

  The light changed. Pedestrians streamed ahead.

  He stayed back, not crossing. It was really all he’d wanted: the chance to tell her in person. “I have to get back.”

  “Okay,” she said, still absorbing the news. She had questions; he knew that. There were things she wanted to tell him. He could not possibly know that. The urge to confide had gone out of her.

  “Nothing’s changed between us,” he said in a rushed whisper.

  “Okay,” she said without thinking.

  The pedestrian symbol was flashing.

  “Talk later,” he shouted.

  Two blocks away, her phone rang. Nearly everyone texted or sent short audio messages, no one called, and she didn’t recognize the number, but thinking of Sayoko and how many minutes had passed since she checked the Gina cam, she picked up.

  “Hello?” English, with a Tagalog accent. “Magandang hapon.”

  “Can I help you?” Angelica asked, refusing to follow the Tagalog switch, sticking with English, the lingua franca of more educated foreign workers—as if distancing herself from the tongue of her home country could protect her.

  “Don’t worry,” the man said, sounding genuinely friendly. “I don’t bite. You’re Angelica, yes?”

  “You are?”

  “Danny.”

  “I don’t know any Danny.”

  “Mr. Bagasao’s nephew.”

  So it went: the little dance. Just a friendly chat. No, he was not calling from Manila. He lived there sometimes, but he also lived in Singapore and Los Angeles.

  “You know how it is, every place is home, and no place is home.” He lowered his voice, so she had to press the phone harder to her cheek to hear him. “To tell you the truth, I’d be happier in a little hut on an island north of Cebu than in a skyscraper in Singapore. How do we get to these places, Angelica?”

  It was the third or fourth time he’d said her name. He seemed to make a practice of inserting it into the conversation every twenty seconds.

  She’d been walking slower and slower, concentrating, trying to put off the turn up ahead, near the Italian-style gelato shop, always popular among younger Japanese couples, where she’d turn left and continue two blocks to the Itou residence.

  “I guess I should get down to business,” he apologized. “But wait, I should ask, are things going all right there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “We noticed,” he paused, as if it were hard for him to say it, “that you fell behind on your payments.”

  She wanted to ask why he was being so nice, but that would’ve been rude. “Actually, I was confused about the balance, after my payment went through. Because I don’t really owe that much. It seemed too high.”

  “Oh sure, I can look at that. But first—do you still have your job? Are you healthy?”

  She hesitated.

  “You didn’t answer.”

  “Of course I’m healthy,” she said quickly.

  “I know Tokyo isn’t an easy place to live. So many people, so many rules, so expensive. Everything going okay?”

  The entrance to the gelato shop was crowded. Now she wished they were speaking in Tagalog, if only to avoid being overheard. “Do you mind that we’re speaking English?” she asked, ignoring his prior question.

  “Can I be honest? I prefer it. I spent most of my childhood in California. San Diego was my favorite. Have you been there?”

  He made it easy to pass the time. The Itou family condo was within view and Angelica still didn’t fully understand why he was calling.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “The balance.” As if it were as much an annoyance to him as it were to her.

  He recited the total.

  She thought she had misheard and made him say it again, which he did without pause, as if he’d expected her to need to hear it again.

  “You heard me that time?” he asked sympathetically.

  “Yes. I heard you.”

  It was nearly ten times the total she expected.

  “Oh,” he said, as if relieved by some new discovery that would please them both. “I see why you’re confused. It’s true that your share is a very small part of that. The remainder—more than eighty percent—is your brother’s. I see his name is . . . Datu? And he lives—well, that’s tough.”

  “Did you say, eighty?”

  “But I suppose he knew what he was getting into. If he took the loan when he moved there, you must have signed for him, because we don’t loan to anyone going to the BZ without a cosigner.”

  She did not recall cosigning anything, but maybe she had. The particulars wouldn’t matter anyway with a man like Bagasao. Blood was blood. She stopped outside the condo building and then backed up, into a darker spot under the eaves, away from the entrance.

  “How much do you know about Datu?” she whispered.

  “I know a lot. I’m here to help you both. Let’s talk about this, Angelica. Let’s see what you might be able to do—what we might be able to come up with, together—to prevent further problems with my uncle.”

  So this was the new way. Not cuts and bruises. And not simply what she had expected: cutting off bank accounts and phone service. But all of it matched the latest trends in the psychology of debt collection. After you’d paid everything you possibly could, after they could verify your accounts were truly empty, they contacted you not in order to sound more threatening, but to sound falsely kind, in order to make you try harder, and tell them more, to search for something else to have you do or sell—legal, illegal, it hardly mattered—and to make the next payments even more likely.

  The door of the building swung open and a neighbor she recognized, Akiyama-san, looked up to check the weather, fastened the top button of his trench coat and continued up the street, toward the nearest bar.

  “Why can’t Datu pay?” she asked, trying not to sound desperate. “If you know so much, why don’t you know that?”

  “Well,” he said, apologetic again, “I do know that. We have full access to his accounts, his employment records, his work attendance records—”

  “Attendance?”

  “He’s been missing days. A lot of them.”

  Was Datu running around, sowing his oats, going on road trips? Were there even roads in northern Alaska? Not many.

  “And then of course—it isn’t fair really—they dock his pay. They’re even charging him for some of his care, which seems unacceptable.”

 
“What do you mean, care? What care does he need? Why is he missing work?”

  The collector paused, his delivery effortlessly natural. “I don’t feel right divulging too much information.”

  “You’re a debt collector. You threaten people—” The rest of the words caught in her throat.

  “Well, we do discuss payment plans, and we encourage responsibility. But we still believe in privacy. I’m surprised you’re asking me about Datu. Angelica, don’t you know?”

  He had almost convinced her. And then she realized: of course he would say those things, of course he would lie to her and make her feel like Datu had no way to pay his debts—not now, not ever. She had suspected that Datu owed something. But four times as much as she owed? And sick?

  “You’re lying,” she said.

  “Lying?”

  “Datu isn’t sick or missing work. He would tell me.”

  “Angelica. You understand what the BZ can do to people.”

  “Not him,” she said. “Not everyone. Not yet.”

  “Well, this is uncomfortable. But not unexpected. Whether you believe it or not, there’s the matter of the money—”

  “Fine. I owe his share, if that’s what you want to hear.”

  “Which brings us to your plan for payment. I can give you two weeks—”

  “You’ll get your money. Never call me again. Never.”

  She stood outside the door to the condo, feeling nauseated and breathless from the confrontation. Tea. She needed a cup of tea. A moment to think.

  She pushed the key into the lock, leaned in, and was startled when the door opened quickly inward. Hiro’s face was level with her own.

  “Hello, Anji-san.”

  He was . . . full-sized. Complete.

  “You have legs,” she said, still catching her breath.

  “Yes,” he said. His voice was liquid with excitement. Breathy. Strange. “And . . . hands.”

  He held them up to her for inspection, moving the fingers, not segmented like Gina’s, but smooth, more mannequin-like, ivory-skinned.

  “How?” she asked.

  “Gina opened the boxes and helped with the tools. We told her to. Gina has good hands. But not as good as mine.”