Zen Attitude

by Sujata Massey

  “I was here first!” the lady in green snapped.

  “One point five million. Was tax already included?” I started counting off ten-thousand-yen notes, wishing I didn’t have such a big audience.

  “I’ll pay more than her! Fifty thousand yen more”, the woman said.

  She couldn’t do that. It wasn’t ethical. I gave Mr. Sakai a beseeching look.

  “I must work in my client’s best interest,” he said in a low voice.

  “I’ll pay one million, five hundred and sixty, then.” I was sweating despite the air-conditioning, feeling myself on the edge of a calamity.

  “One million, seven hundred thousand yen.” The woman gave me a scathing look.

  “One million, eight hundred.” If this was an auction, I was hanging in.

  As Mr. Sakai muttered nervously, the woman raised me again, offering 1.9 million. Would she go higher? I couldn’t tell from her face. I was at the end of my money and couldn’t afford to risk any more rounds of this sick game.

  “I’ll give you two million, one hundred thousand.” With a steeper jump in price, I might scare her off.

  The woman paused as if aware that things had gone too far. But she spoke again.

  “Two million and two hundred thousand yen.”

  At that, I shook my head. I was giving up. I stuffed my cash back in the Pocky boxes and zipped up my backpack with shaking fingers. It was wrong to pay so much over the original price; I knew it in my bones. In any case, I shouldn’t do it without Mrs. Mihori’s permission.

  As I stormed through the fishbowl display on my way out the door, I felt a tug on my backpack. Someone had seen my money and was trying to grab it. Reaching back blindly, I connected with soft flesh. When I turned, I found I’d knocked over a young saleswoman who had been upstairs.

  “Miss!” she panted. “You can still buy the tansu, I came to tell you—”

  “Gomen nasai,” I apologized, helping her up. Why hadn’t I looked before lashing out? Thank God she hadn’t hit her head on one of the massive fish-bowls.

  “The other customer did not have enough money. Mr. Sakai sent me to say you can have it for two million one hundred thousand, like you offered.” The girl’s lip quivered, as if she was about to cry.

  I felt like crying myself. If this was an auction house, the overzealous woman would have been forced to pay. I thought about that as I climbed the stairs and approached Mr. Sakai’s section.

  “Two million is actually what I have in my bag this minute. However, I could go to the bank.” The woman was digging through her handbag, tossing out yen notes like used tissues.

  Mr. Sakai looked past her at me. “Banking hours are over. I apologize for the confusion, Shimura-san.”

  Now that I knew my competition’s finances, I had a bargaining chip. “I’ll buy it for two million, total, and that includes free delivery, as we agreed before.”

  “Final sale, neh?” Sakai was already writing the receipt.

  “Final sale,” I repeated, and the tansu was mine.

  Chapter 2

  Outside the shop, my exultation was tempered when I saw the same young man who’d been lurking earlier perched on the car’s trunk.

  “You’ll need to get that fixed, Onēsan,” he drawled, pointing to the taillight. “Your bulb is broken.”

  I frowned. He was calling me “big sister,” a slightly flirtatious form of address. It was par for the course coming from vendors in the vegetable market, but I didn’t like it coming from a well-dressed stranger. Although he wasn’t entirely strange; he reminded me of someone I couldn’t place.

  “I’ll do it in Tokyo,” I said, glancing up at the sky darkening with the onset of evening, and then at the taillight, which was in worse shape than I’d realized. The truck driver’s aplogy had been too distracting.

  “Heh? You can’t drive cockeyed all the way to Tokyo. Which neighborhood are you going to?”

  “Roppongi.” The land of foreigners and gourmet pizza. I had lived somewhere more modest and authentically Japanese before Hugh Glendinning had entered my life.

  He whistled and ran his hand over his glossy pompadour. “Fantastic place. I used to hang out in Yoyogi Park, which isn’t too far—”

  “With the Elvis dancers?” I relaxed slightly. On Sundays a giant tribe of young men dressed in pegged jeans and black leather jackets danced to recorded 1950s music in the park. Now I knew who he reminded me of—a Japanese Elvis.

  “Tokyo city government shut down the outdoor dance parties. Now I don’t go there anymore.” He pulled a business card out of his wide-lapel jacket. “I’m Jun Kuroi. I work for the Toyota dealership in Hita. I stopped when I saw your car and was wondering if it was ours.”

  “It’s not,” I said, examining the card.

  “Too bad. I would have given you a loan car. That’s part of our service plan.”

  The card looked genuine—it had the official, whirly Toyota emblem—so I admitted, “I do need to get my light fixed. How expensive will that be? I’ve never had to take the car for servicing.”

  “Those Windoms never break down, do they? I drive one myself.” He gestured toward a shiny silver model with a dealership name over the license plate. “I think we’re talking about four thousand yen. You can charge it, of course—”

  He’d said the magic word given my finances. I got into the car and followed him along the road to the dealership, a small glass and chrome showplace filled with highly polished cars.

  “Hita’s a great little town,” Jun said, bringing me a glass of iced coffee while I waited in the customer lounge. “As long as you’re here, you should make use of your time. Why don’t you drop in for a soak at the hot-spring baths before you go back to the city? I’d join you if I could, ha-ha.”

  “I’m really here to work,” I said, and explained about the tansu.

  “Wow, I’m into antiques. Fifties record albums, nothing that Hita Fine Arts would carry. What did you spend there?” he asked, leaning forward from the leather chair across from me.

  When I told him, he whistled. “Two million yen’s a lot of money! But you obviously know the best. Come to think, you’re still in a ninety-six. The new models are almost out, and I could give you a nice bargain on a trade-up.”

  “No, thanks, it’s not even my car,” I said. Car salesmen were the same the world over. Only the accents were different.

  I was glad for the new taillight, because the sun had gone down by the time I arrived at Roppongi Hills, the monster white skyscraper Hugh Glendinning called home. An opened suitcase told me my lover had returned from Thailand, but he was not in the apartment. The only thing waiting for me was the new tansu, bound in protective bubble wrap and cardboard. While I’d listened to Jun Kuroi’s ramblings and waited for the car to be repaired, the delivery company had made it to Tokyo. There was a message on the answering machine from the building concierge, who apologized for letting the delivery crew into the apartment without my prior approval. They had not been wearing uniforms; that, and the fact they hadn’t asked him to sign a receipt, had made him slightly upset.

  The tansu had arrived; that was the important thing. I pulled off the wrappings, marveling at it. I wasn’t used to buying antiques in such beautiful condition. My strategy was to rescue beat-up, unloved pieces at country auctions and city flea markets. A scrubbing with steel wool and linseed oil was usually all a tansu needed, and it was a good excuse for me to buy a lot of them. Since I’d moved in with Hugh six months ago, his sterile bachelor flat had been transformed by my various collections of antique Japanese furniture, wood-block prints, and textiles. Every few months we threw a whopping party for my clients and his business acquaintances, selling most of the pieces so I could shop again.

  The Sado Island tansu looked splendid. I knew Mrs. Mihori would be pleased. When I’d finally reached her on the telephone, she had reassured me about my decision.

  “Thank heavens you didn’t let that terrible woman take it,” she said. “And from yo
ur description, I know it is going to be perfect. Your aunt is right—you are a human miracle.”

  I hadn’t seen my mother and father for three years, so my aunt and uncle in Yokohama had become substitute parents. Not that much was different about the way the two families lived; my psychiatrist father and interior designer mother had an expansive Victorian town house in San Francisco, while my Japanese relatives had a smaller, modern place that was worth three times as much, given that it rested on land in Yokohama. When I moved to Japan, I’d wanted to be financially independent, so I’d refused to live with my relatives and spent three years in a small, slummy apartment. Then Hugh had come along. I was uncomfortable living off his expense account, but I had to admit that at times like this, a marble bathroom was a most welcome place.

  I spent twenty minutes luxuriating and scrubbing in the shower, then slipped into my yukata, a Japanese cotton robe, and went into the kitchen to finish repairing Hugh’s gift, an interesting wood-framed lantern with tattered paper covering its sides. I already knew what I was going to use as replacement paper.

  Shortly after I’d finished the repairs, I heard a key turning in the front door and went out to investigate.

  “Tadaima!” Hugh dropped his squash bag and bellowed his arrival in the Glasgow accent that could not be tamed no matter how much I tutored him. I laughed and went straight into his arms.

  “Don’t bother welcoming me,” he murmured when we broke apart. “Do you realize I’ve been back for two days, wondering and waiting and completely without a car? I actually had to take the subway to work.”

  “But that’s so good for you,” I teased. “I don’t understand why you like driving so much—I’d be happy if I never saw the interior of your car again.”

  “Ah, but the Windom is my sanctuary. The only way I can travel from A to B without being stared at by Tokyo’s millions.”

  It must be irritating to be stared at, but I suspected Hugh’s problem was compounded by the fact that he looked like a young Harrison Ford. After all, I was half white and received scanty attention. Wanting to change the topic, I offered him a glass of wine.

  “What about a nice glass of single malt? Have you been away so long you’ve forgotten all my rituals?”

  “It’s too warm for Scotch. How was Thailand?” I opened a container of sesame noodles I’d bought at the building’s downstairs delicatessen and handed Hugh chopsticks. We dug into the same container, exhibiting the kind of behavior my genteel Japanese relatives would have died over.

  “A good working vacation. The new Sendai plant will open on time, I’m sure of that. The Thais are easy to work with and they speak much better English than anyone around here.”

  “Better than yours, you mean?”

  “Certainly! And as for the girls on the beach—they didn’t need to speak for me to understand their designs.” He winked at me and said, “Hey, you should have come along.”

  “What did you do with your free time, exactly?” Even though it had ostensibly been a working vacation, I didn’t like the thought of all his empty hours.

  “Let me show you.” He began unbuttoning his oxford shirt to reveal that the ridges and planes of his well-muscled chest and stomach were amazingly red.

  “You fell asleep on the beach!”

  “Reading my law journals. I also drank too much Singha beer and did a little shopping for you.” He pushed away the empty noodle container and handed me a large paper bag.

  I drew out a bolt of shimmering raw silk in the same shade of scarlet Japanese artists used for ceremonial lacquer pieces. It would fit in beautifully with the apartment. I kissed him and said, “You remembered my favorite color. Now I can make the most beautiful pillows for the sofa!”

  “Pillows? It’s for a cocktail dress. Something lean and mean and cut down to there.”

  “I’m not that good at sewing. I can’t make a dress.”

  “Ask a seamstress. If you hurry, you can have it made up for our party.”

  I’d almost forgotten about the big bash scheduled for the upcoming weekend. The RSVPs were in and the caterer had her orders, but I hadn’t done much more to prepare. Suddenly I didn’t want a big party; I wanted time alone with him.

  “I have something small for you,” I said, leading him to his gift in the living room. I had covered the lamp’s boxy frame with tissue-thin orange newspaper, so the candle I’d placed in the middle gave off a rosy glow.

  Hugh said nothing for a few moments. Then he exploded in wild, honking laughter. “You papered it with my Financial Times! My God, Rei, it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen!”

  “I thought it so appropriate for your office, a perfect blending of East and West. I can get it electrified for you next week.”

  “Stop. You electrify me already.” He started to pull closed the window blinds.

  I couldn’t believe he had overlooked the new tansu. I gestured toward it, and his eyes widened.

  “Where did you find it?”

  I launched into a tale of my high-stress day, starting with the smashed taillight. He waved off the accident immediately but stayed fixed on the tansu.

  “It’s absolutely stunning. Can we keep it for a while? How much did it cost?” He moved his lamp over to the coffee table and came back to slide his hands appreciatively over the wooden frame.

  “I’m glad you like it, but it’s going to Mrs. Mihori tomorrow. It was two million, far too rich for our tastes.”

  “Speak for yourself, love. I like it better than anything else you’ve ever bought. How much weight do you think it can bear?”

  “Maybe a few hundred pounds, since the frame was made from one of the most durable woods around. It’s held up since the early nineteenth century.”

  “Good.” He swung me up so that I was sitting on the edge. “The thought of enjoying ourselves on top of all that money is pretty arousing. Don’t you think?”

  “But Mrs. Mihori owns it,” I protested halfheartedly.

  “It’s yours until she’s reimbursed you, paid your travel costs, and the finder’s fee.” Hugh peeled off my robe and spread it like a sheet over the chest’s surface. “Besides, I’m superstitious. Everything that comes to this apartment must be broken in.”

  He didn’t have to say more to convince me. Just six months into the relationship, we were insatiable. Hugh was a spontaneous and inventive lover, driven to passion in places as various as the bath, the Chinese carpet in the dining room, and the Roppongi Hills elevator. Things were too good to last, I thought, lying back and melting like the candle in the lantern.

  “Watch my sunburn,” he murmured when I reached for him.

  “Not everything’s burned, is it?” I asked.

  “Not quite. Oh, God! Do that again.”

  I felt as though I were soaring straight toward the ceiling as Hugh pulled my hips to the edge of the chest. “Don’t forget,” I panted.

  “Don’t forget that I love you?” he whispered back.

  “You know—”

  “Come on, let’s have a baby. It would be gorgeous.”

  “Don’t be insane!”

  “It’s just one more barrier between us, the condom,” he grumbled, pulling out. “If you’re so worried about what we might spawn, start taking the Pill.”

  “I don’t like chemicals.” I was losing my sexy mood, too.

  “I know, I know, you’re a health food freak. I’ll go look for something.”

  He was rummaging around in the bathroom when the telephone rang.

  “Just ignore it,” I advised, listening to my recorded voice request in English and Japanese that callers leave a message with date and time. After the beep a voice that sounded exactly like Hugh’s began speaking. I looked at him, and he yelped.

  “It’s got to be Angus. God, what a day!” He sprinted into the kitchen to get the phone.

  This was interesting enough to make me sit up and listen. Hugh had three sisters and just one brother, Angus, whom he worried about most. The baby of t
he family—now twenty—had been expelled from several of Britain’s best boarding schools before heading off for three years of unstructured travel in Europe and Asia. Hugh mailed letters to poste restante addresses around the planet but never received so much as a postcard in return. Angus had probably moved on, I had suggested. Hugh had said nothing, just seemed sad.

  Now I heard Hugh speaking excitedly, his brogue getting deeper than I’d ever heard. I got up, pressing my hand against a spot on my right buttock where the tansu had chafed me. I put on my robe and went into the kitchen.

  “You’re welcome for as long as you like, little brother,” Hugh was saying, then put a hand over the receiver. “Rei, are you free this Wednesday afternoon? Could you make a quick run to the airport to meet Angus?”

  There was no such thing as a quick run to Narita Airport. Door to door, the trip took several hours, depending on the Japanese traffic gods.

  “Sure. Ask what he looks like,” I whispered, thinking he might have shaved his head. After all, his last known address was a Buddhist temple in India.

  “What he looks like?” Hugh repeated. “A younger version of me, of course.”

  Unlikely. Hugh Glendinning was the epitome of the clean-cut, corporate lawyer, even sitting naked at the kitchen table. Angus might have Hugh’s tall, well-built frame, thick red-blond hair, and green eyes, but I doubted he would bear himself like the crown prince of Tokyo’s international legal community.

  “Did you hear I’m living with someone?” Hugh was saying to the telephone. Brief silence. “Actually, from America. But she’s different . . . she’s, um, vegetarian.”

  Hugh swore he loved the Asian fish-and-vegetable dishes I made for our candlelit dinners. What would I need to do for Angus, start making steaks and chops? I couldn’t buy meat. The thought of it made me shudder.

  When Hugh hung up, he practically floated to the living room. “I can’t believe he’s coming. I haven’t seen the lad in five years.”