She could be trouble herself. As I flicked on the gas burner, I thought about how Mrs. Yogetsu had been killed at Minami-Senju station at eleven o’clock, after Mariko had left Club Marimba. If she’d gone straight from the bar to Narita, she could have called me around eleven. Instead she had waited till two-thirty.
“This guy in the picture, he’s been in the bar!” Mariko interrupted my uneasy digression by waving a newspaper at me.
“How can you be sure? Foreigners all look alike.” I didn’t want to hear her rip into Hugh Glendinning. I threw mushrooms in the pan and concentrated on sautéing.
“She’s talking about Mr. Nakamura,” Richard said sharply.
“This was old Seiji? Disgusting!” Mariko’s long white fingernail jabbed through the paper.
“Easy, it’s my only copy,” I begged. “When did you see Mr. Nakamura?”
“Let me think.” Mariko paused. “The first time was about two weeks before New Year’s. He came back last Friday. Both times he spent about an hour talking with Kiki. I was ticked off because if he didn’t go to anyone’s table, none of us could earn a commission. I went up to him and flirted a little, to see if I could encourage him to join me. Kiki yelled at me to mind my own business”
“Kiki’s the Mama-san, right? What was he saying to her?” Richard asked.
“I couldn’t tell. She made me sit in the back.”
“She probably wanted to keep you from getting in a situation where he might grope you—or do you think he knew you were his niece?”
“He paid no attention to me. He seemed nervous.” Mariko sounded thoughtful.
“Did you ever hear anything about Setsuko having a child?” I went back to the stove.
“Are you crazy? She doesn’t like children at all! When I was little, I never saw her. She only became interested in me when I was around fifteen. All of a sudden she wanted to dress me, fix my hair, teach me the right way to talk. I was annoyed at first, but then she started bringing me stuff and I figured she was pretty cool.”
Pretty cool. By no stretch was that a declaration of love. How far would she go to avenge Setsuko’s death? I lowered the flame and put a lid on the pan.
“Mariko, I need to ask you to do something with me.”
“I’ll wash the dishes, okay?”
“Please don’t worry about housework.” I would treat Mariko like a queen if she’d do what I wanted. “Would you take a look at Setsuko’s address book? I’m hoping you can tell me if there are names you recognize.”
“Okay. That’s easy.” Mariko pondered the book while I made toast. At the table, munching away, she told me what I’d already figured out—that most of the names and addresses were stores. It was more a shopaholic’s record than anything.
“At Mitsutan, let’s see, she was super-friendly with one of the clerks, Yumiko Yokoyama. They talked all the time.”
“Is there a number or address for your grandfather I could have missed?” I didn’t want to let go of the idea of Setsuko’s phantom parent.
“I told you that she never gave me as much as his name. I looked in the F’s for father and O’s for Otsan. Under O there is something strange: an address in Kawasaki City and a long number. It’s too long to be a phone number and the area code would be wrong, anyway.”
She passed the open book to me. This entry, the first on the page, was different from the others, which generally were a name, phone number, and address. Here the address was simply followed by the number 63992 and the code 62–22–3. Didn’t soldiers and sailors have serial numbers? Here was more evidence I could bring to Yokosuka.
“You’re right, it really is weird,” I said. “We can stop in at the address and see who’s there. It will fit in nicely on the way back from Yokosuka.”
“What are you talking about?” She sounded unenthusiastic.
“I need to run down to Yokosuka for a couple of hours today and thought you might want to come. You want to find out who your grandfather is, don’t you?”
“As the bodyguard, I ought to have a word in this,” Richard interjected. “Yakuza are everywhere. Personally, I think Mariko should stay home to redo her nails and watch videos with me.”
“Mariko’s got her dreads on, and it will just be for a little while. I need to talk to a retired sailor in Yokosuka who may remember your grandfather. If she introduces herself, I’m sure he’d be compelled to help.”
“Talk to me straight, not to him!” Mariko complained.
“Okay, Mariko, it’s only an hour away,” I entreated.
“I know,” she said impatiently. “It’s my birth-place. I lived there with Kiki when I was small.”
“You can guide me, then!” I was thrilled.
“I’ll come. Given one condition,” Mariko said.
“Anything,” I said rashly.
“Richard comes with us, too.”
17
At first glance, Yokosuka seemed a fusion of small-city Japan and big-city America. Young men in oversized jeans tripped to a break-dance beat that blared from a boom box held on someone’s shoulders. Billboards advertised corn dogs and American-sized Levi’s jeans. Beyond a traffic circle filled with taxis and Japanese buses lay the sparkling blue bay and ruins of an old military watch tower and broken-down cement wall.
“That part was Imperial Navy ground before Americans came,” Mariko told me. “See the old rail-way treads in the grass? They brought weapons and supplies in that way. Now it’s all a community park. I learned to swim in the pool over there.”
“You must have been adorable!” Richard had flirted with her steadily, making me wonder if it was possible for a leopard to develop stripes.
“So adorable half the mothers wanted me out of the pool.” Mariko chewed her lower lip. “After we got out of the water, they used to warn the girls to dry off in the shade so they wouldn’t get tan like me.”
“You know a lot about Japanese history,” I said to change the subject and make her feel better.
“All I know is my stupid, lousy life!”
We walked about ten minutes, passing a gleaming hotel tower and a giant shopping mall Mariko said were new. At the base entrance, an actual yellow line was drawn on the road, a border between U.S. and Japanese territories. I hadn’t expected to see that, nor the dark gray police bus parked on the sidewalk.
Something was up, I judged from the line of tense-looking officers wearing riot gear. I followed their line of unblinking observation across the street to a cluster of twenty or so middle-aged Japanese people dressed in business suits. They stood silently, holding signs in Japanese and English reading REMEMBER HIROSHIMA AND NAGASAKI and STOP NUCLEAR WAR FOREVER.
I watched Americans and Japanese enter the base through separate passages, opening wallets to show identification and holding open shopping bags for inspection. Taking a deep breath, I started off for the entrance marked AMERICAN.
A polite Marine who looked barely eighteen sent me into a small office where a different guard sat underneath a sign reading A MARINE ON DUTY HAS NO FRIEND.
Accordingly, I used my warmest voice to ask him the whereabouts of the veterans’ club.
“You’re not a military service member, ma’am?” His voice was startlingly deep for such a young man.
“I’m an American citizen.” I took out my California driver’s license, which he looked at briefly and dismissed.
“I can’t do anything with this. Not without a military sponsor.”
“I’m not trying to get on base,” I insisted. “I’m just trying to get some information.”
When a second guard moved in, I realized I appeared as potentially dangerous as the protesters outside. Paranoia had infused everyone. I gave up, feeling them watch me as I walked out to rejoin Richard and Mariko.
Somebody in town had to know about the club. I started with the protesters, who unfortunately had little more than pamphlets to offer. Then I surveyed the string of businesses along the road, dusty little places that looked as if they’d
been around for many decades before the new mall.
A shop advertising military embroidery and patches seemed perfect. Inside, an elderly Japanese grandmother type was bent over a sewing machine. I was shaken when she looked up, scowled, and crossed her hands into an X of refusal.
“No more Jesus stuff, OK? I already buy Watchtower.”
“Excuse me?” I asked in Japanese.
“Baptist or Jehovah? You born-again, from that church, neh?” Annoyingly, she persisted in English.
“Because of the base there are all kinds of weirdos running around with pamphlets, Americans and converted Japanese,” Mariko muttered. “It was like this when I was a kid.”
I looked down at the sensible navy suit with the skirt that ended a proper yen note’s width above my knee and resolved to tell my mother to cancel my subscription to the Talbots catalog.
“I don’t practice any religion,” I said firmly. “What I’m really looking for is the club for retired chief petty officers. Do you know it?”
“A bar so early on Saturday morning? What kind girl are you?” the woman exclaimed.
“A complete naughty-bones!” Richard was delighted.
“It’s for research purposes only,” I said, trying to preserve my dignity.
“I don’t know nobody no more.” The seamstress opened a drawer, took out a small pipe and lit it.
“Surely lots of military come in here, given that you take dollars,” I prodded.
“The old men have retired back to States. They say Japan too expensive now. Even the young sailors don’t buy so many patches.” She gestured toward a counter displaying hundreds of patches with appliquéd motorcycle, ship, and heavy metal music motifs. “I had to put away the skeleton patch because of missionaries.”
“You mean you bow to censorship? Look at your countrymen outside, standing up to the invader!” Richard cried.
The woman smiled at him and pulled a Grateful Dead patch out of a drawer. “You like? For you, a special price. Because not missionary.”
This was exactly his and Mariko’s cup of tea. The two began debating the virtues of skulls versus the Harley Davidson eagle and I kept my eyes on the window, watching the flow of Americans amongst the Japanese. A gray-haired man in uniform had stopped to frown at the protesters. He appeared to be the right age. I told Richard and Mariko to stay put.
As I approached the man, he made a dismissive motion with his hand. “I go to mass every Sunday, all right?”
“I’m not a fundamentalist, I’m just looking for directions to an off-base club for retired chief petty officers.” I gave him my most engaging smile.
“Young lady, you’re talking to a captain, not a chief,” he barked, placing his hand on the gold monstrosity that decorated his hat.
“Congratulations, then,” I said. “But have you heard of this club?”
“I don’t fraternize with the enlisted.” He moved off, superbly dignified.
I made a face at his back and slumped back to Richard and Mariko, who had been joined at the store counter by two American sailors wearing jackets so covered by patches it was difficult for me to see why they were in the market for anymore.
“It’s not the kind of place that rocks much, you know?” The tall one with a bandanna stylishly wrapped around his head was slouched against the counter talking to Richard.
“You say it’s the next right, go two blocks, and then left again?” Richard asked, shooting me a victorious look.
“Does the club even have a name?” I asked the bandanna-wearing man.
“The unofficial name is Old Salts. I call it Old Farts. But it’s got cheap beer, and you can pay in dollars.” The sailor appeared to be evaluating me. “So what rate’s your friend that he’s got two babes in arms?”
When Richard looked blank, I nudged him and said, “I think he’s asking about your military rank.”
“Do I look like an American squid?” Richard grinned and ran his fingers through his short gelled hair with a flourish.
Richard had spoken the wrong body language.
“You a fag or something?” The tall sailor gaped, and his friend made a rumbling sound in the back of his throat.
“Let’s go,” I said in Japanese, fearing Richard might make a guns-of-pride response. We were down the block within seconds. I turned back to see the old woman looking after us anxiously while the two sailors hooted disparagingly.
“What if they come after us?” I panicked as we headed deep into a district of tiny bars and snack shops.
“Then we fight,” Richard said. “You two will defend wimpy little me.”
Old Salts was exactly where the sailors had told us. Richard opened the door to a smoky cavern decorated with the famous mid-seventies poster of Farrah Fawcett in an athletic swimsuit.
“Son, take your gals back to the A Club. This club is chiefs-only.” Our greeter was a balding man with a belly that strained at the confines of his Pepsi T-shirt. Still, his voice wasn’t as harsh as the captain who’d brushed me off.
“I know this is unorthodox, but Joe Roncolotta sent me.” I spoke up before Richard had a chance to inflict any damage.
“Joe’s doing all right for a guy who never made it past second class.” There was a scraping sound, and a second man spoke up from the darkness. “You’re from Tokyo?”
“Yes. I came all the way down to see Jimmy O’Donnell.” My eyes searched through the gloom and found a snowy-haired man with dark blue eyes fixed on me.
“Have a seat,” the man said with authority in his voice.
“I brought two friends,” I said, indicating Richard and Mariko.
“Okay. But you’ll have to pay for your drinks at nonmember prices.”
“Two Buds and a canned coffee for Rei,” Richard said, affecting a super-masculine octave. “My treat.”
“A gal named Ray? Your Mom and Dad must have really wanted a son,” the man who had let me enter said.
“It’s a Japanese name,” I said, handing him my business card. “Is Mr. O’Donnell around?”
Pepsi started to say something but the leader cut him off.
“The master chief is fairly hard to get hold of these days. Living the quiet life in the mountains.”
“Which mountain?” I didn’t believe him.
“A very distant one. We could give Jimmy a message. What’s the problem, exactly?” the leader asked.
As I hesitated, wondering how much was safe to offer, Mariko spoke up in accented but surprisingly good English. “The problem is me.”
“Not another one of them.” Pepsi, upset at having been left out too long, sat down next to her. “Looking for your husband, right? Shipped out on you?”
“Are you crazy? I’m too young to be married!”
“We’re looking for her grandfather. While he was stationed here in the early fifties, he fell in love with a woman named Harumi Ozawa. He had a daughter with her, then went back to America,” I said.
“Poor little cherry blossom,” Pepsi smirked.
“Give her some respect,” the leader snapped. “The girl could be yours, for all you know.”
“No way. My grandfather had money, and wouldn’t have ended his life in a run-down bar,” Mariko said nastily.
“What we know is he went back to the States and married there, although he continued to support Harumi and, even after she passed away, he kept sending money to Japan.”
“So where’s the problem?” The white-haired man sounded reasonable.
“The problem is Mariko’s aunt was the only living member of the family who was corresponding with him. She died recently, of unnatural causes. Her name after marriage was Setsuko Nakamura.”
“I saw that,” Pepsi said. “I’m surprised they didn’t say a sailor did it, we get blamed for every damn thing.”
“Okinawa, yeah, that was the damnedest thing,” Richard said with irony, referring to the horrific gang rape of a young schoolgirl committed in 1995 by three U.S. servicemen.
“Hey,
watch it!” said Pepsi. “They were Marines anyway, at least two of ’em.”
“If you haven’t talked to your grandfather before, why start now?” The white-haired leader addressed Mariko directly. “Even if you are his granddaughter, there’s no guarantee he’d leave you anything.”
“I don’t care,” Mariko shot back.
“Tell me something more about your grandfather.” He was staying remarkably patient.
“Why? As rude as you are to us?” Mariko closed her hand over Richard’s arm.
It was time for me to step in. “I think we may have something that relates to the father, perhaps a military serial number.”
The two men crowded around the address book, shutting us out. When they broke apart, the white-haired man spoke.
“This isn’t a serial number. There are too many digits.”
“Are you positive?” I felt deflated.
“Serial numbers are social security numbers, right? Nine digits. You’ve got ten if you count the long number and the code.”
“You’ve been very helpful, but couldn’t we just telephone Mr. O’Donnell?”
“He’d know nothing more than us.”
“But don’t master chiefs take care of their sailors?” I tried catering to their egos. “If a sailor loved his Japanese girlfriend but had to go back, wouldn’t he have asked the master chief for advice?”
“It’s not that big a deal, really. You’re talking about a situation that literally thousands of sailors were involved in. We ain’t proud of them. After all, I stayed here and married my girl.” Pepsi told me.
“Did you, now? How caring.” Richard’s voice had a dangerous level of sarcasm and from his smile, appeared ready to start some kind of confrontation.
“Births and deaths are registered with city hall,” the white-haired man offered.
The Salaryman's Wife Page 17
