“You waited on her when she came in, didn’t you? I know she used to spend a lot.”
“I don’t know about that.” Miss Yokoyama’s answer came before I’d stopped talking.
“This is confidential, so please don’t worry about anything.” I fingered a sweater, marveling at the price of one hundred percent acrylic. Antique silk kimonos went for less at the shrine sales.
“I’m sorry, but I really don’t think I have anything to say.”
“Can I meet you in the ladies’ room or somewhere like that?”
“No breaks allowed until one o’clock.”
“I’ll wait for you!”
“Will you buy something from me?” she asked suddenly. “If anyone asks what we’re doing so long together, I can explain you had a problem deciding.”
“Okay.” I’d have a horrendous Visa bill this month, but so be it.
“Get a T-shirt,” she advised. “It’s cheaper, and I think I can find something that will fit you. You’re small enough.”
“What do you mean?” I wasn’t that flat.
“It’s a style! Tiny, tiny T-shirts show off the bosom. You’re a foreigner, aren’t you?” Miss Yokoyama beckoned me to follow her into the pre-teen department. “No wonder Setsuko-san was friends with you. She liked foreigners.”
“You met Mr. Glendinning?”
She nodded, blushing a little.
“What did they buy?” I asked.
“Oh, anything. A dress if she had a party to attend. Spanish porcelain figures. She liked English china, too.”
“But I don’t understand. If you sell only children’s clothes—”
“I worked in customer service before.”
“Ah. Mariko didn’t say that.”
“You know Mariko-san?” Miss Yokoyama smiled briefly. “That crazy girl. So different from Setsuko-san.”
“Did Mrs. Nakamura try to get her into Chanel?”
“Oh, yes. But Mariko-san always preferred bodikon. You know, the clothes that fit like a glove.”
“So who won?” I shook my head at the preppy-looking Elle T-shirt she held out.
“Mariko-san,” Miss Yokoyama smiled, showing her teeth. “Those clothes were never returned.”
“Not returned?” I was confused.
“Setsuko-san often changed her mind.” A veil seemed to drop over Miss Yokoyama’s face.
Setsuko often changed her mind. Even if you paid for something with a credit card at a Japanese department store, you could usually get a cash refund without question. If Setsuko returned most of what Hugh bought her, she could have profited.
“I’ve got to get back to work. Just take this one, it’s on sale.” Miss Yokoyama held out a white top decorated with two kissing cats and the slogan LOVE CATS FRIENDSHIP, QUALITY CLOTHING SINCE 1981 WE MAKE FOR YOU.
“You made sure she was able to return everything she bought, didn’t you?” I smiled as I spoke, hoping not to frighten her.
“I knew it was a bad idea, but now it’s all over. Please don’t say anything.” Miss Yokoyama looked ready to jump out of her skin.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve told you all that I know.” The salesclerk hurried off to the register near her colleague with the T-shirt and my credit card in her hands. Walking downstairs a few minutes later, I realized the price of information had worked out to a whopping 3,200 yen plus tax. But, I could return it. Just like Setsuko.
The next people on my list were Taro and Yuki Ikeda. I arrived at our meeting point in Omotesand a little early and decided to look around. Just like Roppongi, the stores were packed with luxury imported goods, and this was reflected in a residential mix of wealthy Japanese and company-funded foreigners.
Outside Tokyo Union Church, I watched foreigners arrive for the multidenominational English language service. My attention was caught by a silver-haired man in a long overcoat, with a flashy-looking older woman at his side. Joe Roncolotta and Mrs. Chapman. Joe had seemed mildly courteous to Mrs. Chapman during the Trader Vic’s dinner. I was stunned they were dating. I hurried toward them.
Joe did a mock double-take and Mrs. Chapman turned and giggled, hoisting a plastic bag aloft. “Rei, you should have been with us this morning! There was an antiques flea market just up the street.”
“The Togo Shrine! It’s great, isn’t it?” I said.
“I got a call from the police about you the other night.” Joe scrutinized me. “We should talk about it. Where are you headed?”
“Actually, I’m on my way to meet some friends. Taro and Yuki, you’ll remember them, Mrs. Chapman.” I would have loved for Yuki Ikeda, with her interest in matchmaking, to see Mrs. Chapman’s escort.
“The last thing I need is cake,” Mrs. Chapman cooed. So she was dieting now. It was incredible what love had done to the woman who had once opined to me that all men were bastards.
“How about joining us tomorrow?” Joe persisted. “I was going to show Marcelle the Tokyo Stock Exchange in the afternoon, and then we were going to TAC for an early happy hour.”
I glanced at Mrs. Chapman, and I saw her face was rather oddly screwed up. Probably she was signaling for me to decline.
“Monday’s my busiest teaching day, I’m sorry,” I said. “I do want to see you again—both of you—how much longer are you staying?”
“Oh, I’m wait-listed for a flight later this week. Can you believe how badly organized the airport is?”
“Call me if you have any more trouble with the airline,” I said, imagining that as long as things were humming along with Joe, her plans might be delayed. “If you phone during the afternoon when I’m out, you might get Mariko. She understands English, but you have to speak slowly.”
“Another roommate? Dear, I thought you just lived with the fruit loop in your apartment. Remember, there was no room for me?” There was an injured undertone to her voice, and I cursed myself for being so careless.
“It’s temporary. She’s just a girlfriend in trouble who had to leave her home…I’m helping her find something.”
“That’s kind of you. Let me know if I can help—is she bilingual?” Joe asked.
“Sort of.” Unfortunately, what came out of Mariko’s mouth these days was mostly the obscene English Richard had been teaching her. I wasn’t going to mention that.
I got to the Hanae Mori Building about nine minutes late. Yuki was watching through the window and gave me a big wave when I jogged up.
“I’m sorry you had to wait,” I panted. “You’ll never guess who I met.”
“You should have brought them along! I think it is beautiful, this second chance at life and love,” Yuki said when I had told them about Mrs. Chapman.
“Next time. Where’s the menu?” I was weak from having skipped lunch, so I ordered the biggest cake in the glass showcase: apple strudel. Taro cheered my choice; he was going for the Black Forest cherry cake himself. Yuki, true to her New Year’s diet, stuck to black coffee.
After the waitress set up our dainty meal, Taro placed my antique box on the table. I opened it and found the newsprint that had lined the interior had been removed. Small strips of paper and glue remained.
“What happened here?” I didn’t hide my dismay.
“Oh, I already read the paper and could tell it was from the early sixties because there was some article with mention of the crown prince Naruhito. See, I made you a translation.” Taro handed me a typed piece of paper. “You seem sad. Look inside the box again.”
I peered at the box’s interior, running my finger over the scarred wood. The original lacquer finish was rubbed off and I saw, suddenly, what he wanted me to: letters carved in hiragana, Japan’s phonetic alphabet. The easiest alphabet, the one I’d known since I was nine.
“Shiroyama,” I spelled out. “So maybe the box comes from there, after all.”
“There’s more writing,” Yuki said.
I looked closely again and read “Uchida Miyo,” the name of the lost princess of the Shiroyama
legend Taro had retold on New Year’s Eve.
“We don’t know that it’s real,” I said, trying to control my excitement. Anyone could have done it as a joke. Still, the grooves of the letters were worn smoothly, as if they’d been cut long ago.
“We could have it appraised at one of the antique stores around here,” Taro suggested.
“All those people know is how to mark things up for tourists. I’d rather take it to Mr. Ishida.” Yasushi Ishida was the man who had sold me the marvelous tansu chest a year ago. I could visit his shop on my way home.
“In any case, it’s a nice thing to take your mind off the trouble,” Yuki offered.
“Trouble?” I repeated.
“Hugh-san is in prison, to be tried for the murder. You didn’t know?” Yuki’s eyes were big.
“He’s been released,” I said shortly.
“Oh, really?” Taro asked.
“Rei-san, you surely haven’t seen him?” Yuki wailed.
The coffee went down the wrong way, and I began coughing into my napkin.
“This is not a good idea. Hugh-san may be free at the moment, but most people believe he is a criminal!” Taro’s voice was sharp enough that the two grandmothers dining quietly at the next table turned their heads.
“I thought you liked him,” I said.
“He was very kind and funny, but the police do not hold prisoners unless they have a very strong case.” Taro said. “His true character must be different than our first impression!”
If he is indicted, just remember the judge convicts in ninety-nine percent of all cases. It’s the Japanese system,” Yuki said soberly.
“This Japanese system, I guess I don’t understand it, Yuki. I wonder why, for instance, you and your husband found it so crucial to share my sex life with Captain Okuhara.” The fury that had simmered in me for a week spilled over.
“I told you not to tell!” Yuki shrieked at her husband.
“When a policeman asks, you must tell the truth,” Taro argued back. “Rei-san needs to be protected! She’s a girl who knows nothing about men’s nature.”
“Excuse me,” I said, waving a hand in his face. “If you’re going to insult me, do it directly, please.”
“Rei-san, I am not your relative, so I cannot tell you what to do. But please, you must not see him again. You must be careful,” Taro said.
“I always am.” I whisked the check out of the tiny silver holder where the waitress had placed it, trying to quash the anger rising in me. I owed a lot to the Ikedas. They had shown me around Shiroyama, uncovered the box’s carving and even handcarried it into the city to return to me. But they had also brought me something that I didn’t want: the old nagging doubts.
Ishida Antiques had closed by the time I arrived at the dingy 1930s house where Mr. Ishida worked and slept among his Japanese treasures. I figured he was probably home and knocked until he craned his head out of an upstairs window.
“Shimura-san! Wait shortly, please!” A smile creased the face of the man who looked as devout as a monk whenever I spied on him at the shrine sales.
I waited for him to unbolt the door that creaked like something out of a horror movie but led to a paradise crowded with dusty furniture: table standing atop table, ceramic urns stacked in precarious towers that leaned but never fell. Today the shop smelled like oranges. I finally spotted an offering of tangerines at the base of a beautifully carved miniature shrine hanging over the entrance.
“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.
21
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.”
The Salaryman's Wife Page 20
