“It would have been nice if you had asked me whether I’d be willing to testify.”
“Darling, that’s not the way lawyers work. They don’t ask, they subpoena. And if I had asked and you’d agreed, the prosecutor would have asked all about what we’d concocted together. It was the best thing, really.”
He was bluffing. Searching the Nakamura house and spending the night together had compromised my credibility beyond repair. We both knew it.
“We’re not going to talk about defense or trials at all. Starting now, for your good and mine.” Hugh flashed me the look that had led to my last meltdown. “I have enough on my mind with the bastards who beat me up.”
“That attack was my fault. I am so sorry I provoked Keiko—”
Hugh flicked my apology away. “Actually, it could serve me rather well. If I have to show up in court in a wheelchair, Mr. Ota has a powerful visual argument that evil forces are trying to hush up the truth about Setsuko’s death.”
“But we still aren’t sure Keiko was behind Setsuko’s death. Mariko said she was in Tokyo on New Year’s Eve, too far from Shiroyama to do anything,” I reminded him.
“The gangsters could have followed Setsuko’s car north to Shiroyama, just as they followed me yesterday. I saw their Cadillac near my building and then outside the travel agency when I stopped to make that call to you. They jumped me after I left the phone booth.”
“If you collapsed so publicly, why is it that nobody knows you went to the hospital? The press aren’t here and there’s nothing about it in the papers or on TV.”
“Everyone scattered before the police pulled up. Nobody wanted to be a witness.”
“I’d tell about what happened between Keiko and me.” I put my hand over his. “You know I’ll defend you.”
“We won’t talk about it.” Hugh squeezed my hand. “Anyway, I was glad I had the sense to say I hadn’t seen the guys’ faces. Your cousin—rather a helpful guy, that Tom—confirmed that. He’s also told me all kinds of startling things about you, things I’d never have guessed.”
“Like what?” I felt my stomach lurch, and I started worrying whether Tom had described just how ungainly I was at fifteen.
“That your poverty is self-chosen. Your father’s a psychiatry chief or some such thing in the States—”
“Does that make me more appealing to you?” I froze.
“It makes me think that there’s absolutely no reason for you to be camping out in that wretched neighborhood.”
“At the moment, I’m staying with Tom and my Aunt Norie.”
“Why don’t you sleep in my flat? The building has doormen and a concierge and loads of police, now that I’m so notorious. In a hurricane, the safest place is in the eye of the storm.”
“You haven’t met my aunt Norie, a most formidable guardian.” I smiled, remembering how she hadn’t allowed me to leave without a freshly ironed handkerchief and nutritious box lunch.
“I worry she might guard you from me.” Hugh pulled me close and began toying with the buttons on my blouse. I pried his hands off as the curtain slid open and a young nurse holding a bedpan gasped.
“Let me give you some time to yourself.” I jumped up to leave.
“I’ve nothing to give you.” Hugh shook his head at the nurse.
“Shampoo and shave, sir?” She sounded anxious to serve him in any possible way.
“Mm, maybe.” He rubbed a hand across his stubbly jaw.
It was a good time to go. I placed two video-cassettes I’d picked up on the way to the hospital between the flower arrangements.
“What are you leaving me, one of Richard’s sexy videos?”
“Sorry. I brought Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai and Yojimbo.” I explained about Japan’s founding father of film, adding, “These are a couple of black-and-white classics about the samurai era, and they’ve even got subtitles! So you can work on your Japanese.”
“I’d rather work on you.” His voice sent a suggestion through my body that I didn’t need to hear, not with nurses bouncing into the room like balls in a pachinko machine.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Can I bring you anything?”
“How about my mail, my laptop, and all the Nakamura discs? The concierge will let you in.” His face brightened. “Wait. Get Yamamoto’s copy of the key.”
“My life’s complicated enough,” I protested.
“We haven’t seen sight nor sound of him since he went home. Why don’t you corner him and ask some of your infamous questions? If your work with Keiko was any indicator, you’ll probably get something worthwhile out of him.”
Perhaps I’d get someone else’s legs broken. I took the telephone number and waved good-bye from the door, afraid to get near again.
28
Kenji Yamamoto lived with his parents in Sunshine Mansions, a white-tiled apartment tower surrounded by a sea of shining parked cars in the upper-middle-class suburb of Setagaya. I had telephoned ahead of time and convinced his mother to let me speak to him. When I arrived, he popped his head out the door before I even had time to ring the bell. He had Hugh’s key in hand and was stretching it out to me. Things were going too fast.
“Here you go—see you later, Miss Shimura—”
“It’s so good to come in from the cold!” I exclaimed, starting to take off my coat and smoothing down my silky wig. Yamamoto’s mother, who had been standing behind her son, moved as if programmed to take my coat and hang it in a faux French armoire.
“Please come in, Shimura-san. My son tells me you met on holiday, before his terrible accident,” Mrs. Yamamoto gushed.
“So desu neh,” I agreed. “Isn’t this a nice apartment!”
“Oh, it’s terribly small,” She waved a dismissive hand around the living room, its fussy set of matched green velvet furniture and walls were covered with framed vistas of European landscapes.
“Are these all originals? They’re enchanting.” I stepped close enough to discern two were paint-by-the-numbers.
“We bought them on last year’s holiday to Europe,” Mrs. Yamamoto said. “My husband’s and my lifelong dream was to see Venice. So many talented artists on the street, selling their work for very little! I said to my husband, you never know who will be the next Da Vinci!”
“Very true. How I love the Italian painters!” I settled myself on the end of a small sofa and coughed into my hand. “Oh, excuse me. My throat is a little dry from the cold winds outside.”
“I will make tea!” Mrs. Yamamoto announced.
“Please don’t go to the trouble,” I demurred, playing my part to perfection.
“Kenji-kun, it was terrible of you not to tell me your nice friend was coming. Now, I will just be a few moments—enjoy visiting together—” As Mrs. Yamamoto floated off to the kitchen, I realized she might be harboring hopes for her bachelor son.
I smiled cozily at Yamamoto and patted the seat next to me.
“May I call you Kenji-kun?” It literally meant “Kenji-boy.”
“Okay.” He didn’t look happy as he sat down with me.
“What have you told your mother?” I asked in English.
“She thinks I had a ski accident and some kind of nervous problem where I cannot work. Hugh-san helped me figure it out,” he whispered back.
“What’s the latest from the police?”
“The National Police Agency is conducting a covert investigation. I’m sure nothing will come of it.” He leaned forward to pick up the television’s remote control from the rosewood coffee table.
I grabbed the remote away. “How do you now that?”
“Ichiro Fukujima has many friends in high places.”
“Are you sure you aren’t jumping to conclusions about this blackmail thing?” I asked. “Could Mr. Nakamura have needed the design for another purpose?”
“No! Nakamura is a horrible person, and only I see it!”
“That’s not true,” I would have gone on, but Mrs. Yamamoto came in heating green tea. I acc
epted an earthenware cup, not taking a sip until her son had.
“You must speak as much as possible to my son, to help retrieve his memory, The doctors believe it will come back, given time,” she said. From the way she was smiling at me, it was obvious she hadn’t connected me to the girl in the newspapers.
“What doctors? I asked Yamamoto when his mother had departed.
“The police arranged something.” He shrugged.
“Everyone arranges things for you, don’t they?” I decided he was the most passive young man I’d met.
“How did your problem with Nakamura start, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Maybe when our section had after-work drinking.”
“How often did you have to go?” At Nichiyu, it was the custom for workers to spend time drinking with colleagues at least twice weekly. Things that couldn’t be said within the confines of the office were expressed here, often with a great deal of vulgarity. Drinking myself under the table with people who already bore some hostility toward me wasn’t my idea of fun, so I declined all but the holiday affairs.
“In Mr. Nakamura’s section, we went about three times a week.” Yamamoto paused. “The problem is that alcohol makes me sick. I get dizzy and can’t control my breathing. So I always pretended to be drunk, hoping people wouldn’t give me more.”
“And Mr. Nakamura noticed?” Now I remembered Yamamoto’s untouched whiskey at Hugh’s and how he’d hardly drunk any beer on New Year’s Eve.
“Unfortunately. One time he saw me pouring Scotch into a potted plant behind the table and told me I was a baby.” Yamamoto stared at me morosely.
“You should have ignored him.”
“You don’t understand.” Yamamoto’s voice rose. “He thought I wasn’t part of the team and was starting to tell people. He would insult me in front of Mr. Sendai, saying I was more interested in myself than the company. So when I went to Nakamura’s desk, I was searching for my employment file. I was very worried.”
“And you found it?”
“Yes. It said that I was lazy, morally lax, at the bottom of my class…”
“He is horrible,” I agreed. “But what happens to you now? Surely it’s stupid to throw away a job thousands of young people would die for.” I stopped, aware of my bad choice of words.
“I can’t go back to Sendai unless Mr. Nakamura leaves. I don’t like the atmosphere he creates. Drinking at lunchtime, or going out at five for a few hours’ pleasure in Kabuki-cho…”
I recalled the black teddy in his bedroom closet and decided to ask Yamamoto if he thought Nakamura had been seeing a prostitute.
“Who knows? Guys like him go after office ladies, too.”
“He’s a pervert, all right,” I agreed. “He really seemed to enjoy telling me about the man who touched me on the train.”
“Maybe now I should apologize.” Yamamoto sighed heavily.
“Huh?” He must have misunderstood my English.
“I had no idea how you’d react. I’ve been sick about doing it since New Year’s Eve.”
“Doing what?” I still couldn’t follow.
“I went to the temple and prayed for forgiveness. Please do not tell Hugh. Just let me go on—”
As Yamamoto carried on, the truth finally hit me like a sack of nonburnable garbage. He had been on the same train as me New Year’s Eve. I recalled the figures I’d seen in the window’s reflection, including that of the young salaryman half-obscured by a newspaper. It had to have been him, moving his hand underneath the pages.
“You’re sick,” I whispered. He was young, educated, good-looking. He could date a nice-looking girl like Hikari Yasui if he wanted.
“I would never have done it if I knew you were a foreigner” Yamamoto’s face flushed red, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“It was okay because you thought I was Japanese?” Each apology outraged me a little more.
“Look, a lot of guys do it,” he said defiantly. “Some women don’t mind. And I know you like to be touched. I’ve heard with my own cars.”
Hugh would go crazy if he knew what his assistant had done, but Kenji Yamamoto needed to learn that women could fight their own battles. I gave the young salaryman a forgiving smile as I refilled my cup with lukewarm green tea, not bothering to strain it. His mother was walking in when I threw it in his face.
Before going to work, I removed the long haired wig I’d been wearing so the security guard at Nichiyu would recognize me. I shouldn’t have worried. Employees who’d never shown the slightest interest deluged me with greetings. I made my way into the language-teaching section and nervously waited Mr. Katoh.
“It’s all very simple, really,” I said, jumping to my feet when he came through the door. “Sometimes one gets caught up in circumstances beyond one’s control—in this case, a death. I apologize for leaving early the other day, and you probably have heard I may need time to testify in court. For the trouble I’ve caused you and the company, I am so very sorry.” I ended it all with a bow deep enough to contemplate that my navy flats really needed a polish.
“I appreciate your courtesy, Miss Shimura.” Mr. Katoh looked unnaturally calm as he ushered me into the small conference room and closed the door. “I have good news for you.”
“To be forgiven is enough,” I stammered.
“You can get away from all your troubles in Osaka. Dormitory accommodation will be assured at no cost to you. You can go next week!”
“Osaka?” I repeated dumbly.
“Remember, we talked about it. They need you there, and will not know much about your reputation…”
“Mr. Katoh, I said I wanted to think about it.” I stared at the buffed surface of the teak table where he, Richard, and I had spent many long hours going over student progress reports.
“I see.” From his dour expression, I could tell he didn’t. “Miss Shimura, if you wish to remain with Nichiyu…”
Spell it out, I wanted to say. Although part of me knew that if he were any more blunt, I’d be faced with no other option than giving my notice.
“I tried very hard to lobby for you,” he continued. “At the emergency public relations meeting, I spoke against the wisdom of several other executives because of my gratitude for your steadfast service. Our sales force knows more English, can speak in the conversational style, even.”
“Please don’t say any more,” I begged. “My class starts in five minutes and I must not be late.”
“Don’t you understand this is already decided?” His smile was completely gone.
Without answering, I bolted.
I taught in a sort of vacuum that afternoon, shocked enough over Osaka that the undercurrents of my students’ curiosity didn’t hurt me anymore. I corrected grammar and syntax to the most minute levels, wanting no time left over for free conversation or for their thoughts. My own were trouble enough.
I collared Richard in the employee lounge at eight. When I told him about my transfer, he didn’t look surprised.
“They asked me if I wanted to transfer, but I said no thanks. I’d shrivel up and die if I had to sleep in a dorm with a curfew. I should have figured they’d force you.”
“Well, I’m not going to do it.’ I said. “I’m saying no tomorrow, and if that means I’m fired, so be it. I’ll find something else.”
“You could live with Hugh.”
“Without his job at Sendai, he’ll be out of the glamour-pad soon enough.” I made a face at Richard, “I’m coming home. I think it’s safe. You’ve been there for days and the only thing that’s died, probably, is my ficus plant.”
“Actually, I’m sleeping in your room now.” He folded his arms across his chest. “We’ll have to share it.”
“What?”
“It’s a necessity. I talked Mariko into coming back but she demanded her own room. Besides, I always liked your room better.”
“For its view of the sandal factory?” I asked, unbelieving.
“Look, you’re hardly around any
more. You’re driving me crazy with your indecision. And your phone calls! The people you blew off keep calling back.”
Reluctantly, I took the scrawled list he handed me. I still wasn’t ready to speak with reporters, nor my mother. I did call Joe Roncolotta. When he picked up, I was distracted by a hollow, banging sound on the line. I asked whether construction was going on, and Joe chuckled.
“I’m applauding you, doll, over the speaker-phone. You are becoming the most notorious young woman since Rie Miyazawa—come to think of it, your names are mighty similar—”
“If you’re trying to flatter me, she’s not the one.” Rie Miyazawa was an actress/model who had once been the toast of Tokyo for her starring role in a book of artistic nude photos. Now she allegedly battled anorexia and declining public opinion.
“Oh, everybody knows you’re really a nice little English teacher. In fact, one of my friends wants you to leave Nichiyu and open a new language school for him.”
“I hope you told him I wasn’t interested.” I never wanted to teach again.
“Yeah, I did. I’ve already started managing you.”
“Managing me?” I was incredulous. “I’m trying to keep a low profile, Joe. I’m wearing a wig and hiding out with my relatives because the yakuza put Hugh in the hospital—”
“Don’t say that word on the telephone,” he snapped.
“Where were you the Wednesday evening before New Year’s Eve, by the way?” I asked.
“Don’t tell me someone else got murdered?” he asked sarcastically.
“Assaulted. At Club Marimba.”
“Check my alibi with my secretary, hon, and can you keep safe until Friday night? I’ve got someone meeting me at TAC with information that may relate to your situation. It’s the black-and-white party. Meet me there at eight.”
“Should I pick up Mrs. Chapman on the way?”
“This should be just us. Given that the information’s confidential.”
“Okay,” I said, thinking it over.
“Plan on a long night and wear your slinkiest black or white dress. And leave the wig at home. I want Rei Shimura to appear as herself.”
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