Zen Attitude

by Sujata Massey

“We were looking for a new place to live,” Mrs. Sakai said, brushing harder. “Anyway, my husband sent the tansu to your home in Tokyo. You have no reason to complain. Now, I must excuse myself—”

  “What condition was the tansu in when it came to your shop? Did your husband make any alterations? Is there a shed or workshop where he kept spare pieces of metalwork?”

  “Of course not. He was a top salesman, not a carpenter!”

  “Where did he get the tansu?”

  “Why are you bothering me with this now? My husband is dead!” Mrs. Sakai fumbled with her hairbrush, which clattered on the tiled floor.

  I retrieved the brush. Handing it to her, I asked, “Do you think your husband’s stress over his shady business dealings might have triggered the heart attack or stroke or whatever killed him?”

  “I have no idea—”

  “The police may want to question me again. So far, I haven’t mentioned our prior acquaintance.”

  She shut her eyes. I was offering her an obvious deal. At last she said, “The consignor’s name is Ideta. Ideta-san of Denen-Chofu.”

  She was talking about an old-money enclave in southwest Tokyo, an excellent area to solicit antiques. My instinct was to believe her, so I asked for Mr. Ideta’s first name and address.

  “I don’t have that. I’m telling you all that I know.”

  A last name might be enough; it was likely I could find him by asking around the neighborhood.

  “Thank you, Sakai-san. I’m sorry to have bothered you in your time of grief.”

  “You won’t say anything, then?”

  I would have reassured her, but two policewomen entered the bathroom. Mrs. Sakai walked ahead of me as if we weren’t acquainted. I went out a few beats later, heading to the information counter.

  “I’ve brought Mr. Kuroi some lunch. May I see him?” I held up a bento-box lunch I’d bought at a nearby Family Mart convenience store.

  “It’s early for lunch. Are you a relative?” The sergeant looked at me. He hadn’t been there the afternoon before and obviously didn’t know who I was.

  I shook my head. “Just a friend.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t see him, then. He’s very busy with the police.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait.”

  “You cannot see him,” the sergeant said more insistently. I made my lip tremble a bit and he relented. “I can deliver the lunch. You may put a note inside.”

  I beamed at him and started scribbling on the memo pad he gave me. I wrote using the phonetic hiragana alphabet, which I figured would clue in Jun to my identity: “I did not mean to leave you. Please ask this man for help and remain brave.” I signed the note “Your true friend” and added the name and phone number of Junichi Ota, the lawyer who had helped me at the station the day before.

  It would probably be wise to let Hugh’s lawyer know that I’d made a referral. I went outside and, still using the telephone card the man in the park had given me, punched in Mr. Ota’s phone number.

  “Miss Shimura?” Mr. Ota’s secretary-daughter answered in a sweet, high-pitched voice. “How funny that you’re calling at this moment. My father is in conference with Mr. Glendinning! Do you want me to put you on the speakerphone?”

  I wanted to talk to Mr. Ota without Hugh’s interference. “I’m at a phone booth and people are waiting,” I said. “I’ll telephone later.”

  If Hugh was in conference with Mr. Ota, it might mean my legal situation had become more perilous. On the other hand, he might have beaten me to the punch and was urging his lawyer to help Jun Kuroi. I hoped for the latter, but an ominous, low drumroll throbbed in me like some kind of warning. When I heard cymbals crashing, I realized the music was real.

  Across the street, a traditional chindonya band was parading. A ragtag group of five musicians with ornate nineteenth-century hairstyles and kimono moved slowly while crooning an old-fashioned song. A sign on the drummer’s back advertised the grand opening of a karaoke bar. Chindonya was a tradition that had almost died out in modern Japan, but this band was a success, judging from the small crowd of elementary-school-age boys trailing it.

  How far would I follow Hugh? Would I accept his paying not only for my shopping mistakes but also my legal defense? I didn’t like the way I was feeling. I needed to get out of the hot Tokyo sun and do something that would steady my nerves. I headed for the open-air food market in Ameyoko Alley, and then back to Roppongi Hills.

  I had almost finished preparing spinach-sesame rolls when I heard Hugh talking to someone in the apartment’s entry hall. It was seven-thirty; maybe Hugh had caught up with Angus, who had left no note as to his whereabouts. When I went to the door, I saw Hugh’s companion was Mr. Ota. I regretted the shrunken polo shirt and shorts I was wearing, as well as the fact I’d bought only three trout for the main course at dinner. I wondered how I could stretch it for four people as I offered our guest a pair of slippers.

  “I’m sorry to disturb your cooking preparations,” Mr. Ota began, apologetic as any Japanese person entering another person’s household was supposed to be.

  “We heard that you called Mr. Ota’s office but refused to stay on the line. Where’s Angus?” Not pausing to hear my answer, Hugh strode to the huge kitchen tansu, where he kept his magnificent Scotch collection. “I’ll pour for all of us if you’ll dig up some nibbles—do we have any more of the rice crackers?”

  Good, he was signaling that Ota wasn’t staying for dinner. I pulled a fresh bag of sembei down from the kitchen cupboard, delaying a little as I looked for a pretty Imari platter to arrange them on. The bad feeling I had while hearing the chindonya band’s drumroll had returned.

  When I brought in the snacks, Hugh patted the sofa beside him for me to sit down.

  “Mr. Ota came at my invitation,” he said. “The findings about Mr. Sakai’s death are so odd, I thought he’d better be present in order to answer any questions you might have.”

  “The coroner released the autopsy results,” Mr. Ota said briskly. “Mr. Sakai died of trauma to his trachea. It was, how do you say?” He made a crushing gesture with his hands. “To close the throat . . .”

  “Strangulation,” Hugh finished.

  I shut my eyes, bringing back the picture of Sakai’s head lolling on the car seat like a marionette with no one controlling the strings. The air-conditioning suddenly felt very cold; I felt the hairs on my arms prickling. I said, “It couldn’t be Jun.”

  “You were very lucky,” Hugh said.

  “Please, Miss Shimura. I tend to agree with Mr. Glendinning, although the police have not yet indicted him. They will probably investigate a number of suspicious aliens, the foreign men who were in the park—”

  “That’s racist! The man was kind enough to lend me his telephone card.”

  “You took a telephone card?” Mr. Ota exclaimed. “Don’t you know that is contraband? Those men take old cards and remagnetize them so they can be used indefinitely. People go to prison for such actions!”

  “Great. Just pack my overnight bag, and I’ll join Jun Kuroi!”

  “You won’t have to.” Hugh put an arm around me. “Mr. Ota spent last night and much of today clearing you.”

  “But I’m not under indictment—”

  “There’s no chance of it happening, because I have given the notes from my investigation to the police.” Mr. Ota opened a notebook. “First I interviewed an employee at Ueno Station who remembers you passing through his wicket after the twelve-sixteen train arrived. At twelve-twenty you refused a promotional coupon from a hawker working the crosswalk by Ueno Park. A jewelry vendor observed you waiting on a bench, then saw Mr. Kuroi emerge a few minutes later from the bushes. An elderly housewife looking out her window saw you approach the illegally parked car five minutes later. The woman saw your startled reaction after Kuroi opened the car door. Then she reported you ran back toward the park. After you were gone, Mr. Kuroi went into the car and made contact with the body. A big mistake.”

  “He was
trying CPR,” I said. “He learned it as a Boy Scout!”

  “Who knows? The police are troubled that he moved the body. And the old woman who was watching—the neighborhood busybody, apparently—said that when Mr. Kuroi first drove into the neighborhood and parked the car, he didn’t get out quickly. He spent a few minutes inside doing something she couldn’t see.”

  Jun could have killed Sakai sometime during the car trip, parked, and come to get me. But he had no motive. Why didn’t Mr. Ota see that?

  “If I paid you, would you represent Jun Kuroi?” I asked.

  Mr. Ota seemed to shrink in his chair. “I’m afraid I have a particularly high client load. . . .”

  “Better to stay out of it,” Hugh seconded. “Jun Kuroi’s father owns the car dealership, so he can certainly afford a good lawyer.”

  “But I’m the one who dragged Jun into this. I have enough money left to pay Mr. Ota’s retainer. Don’t I?” I added when neither of them replied.

  “Please, let’s not talk about money.” Mr. Ota clapped his hands together. “Actually, I must leave. My wife and daughter are expecting me for the evening meal.”

  After saying good-bye to Mr. Ota, Hugh attempted to draw me into his arms. “I’m paying for your representation, Rei. Don’t worry, it’s not going to amount to much more than the cost of an aeroplane ticket to Thailand.”

  “A bargain!”

  “You know I’d pay anything to keep you near me.” Hugh’s voice dropped to a husky whisper.

  “I can’t be bought.” I pulled away and headed back to the kitchen, where I took the trout out of the fridge and resumed dinner preparations.

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” Hugh followed me into the kitchen, carrying the dirty glasses. “And what if the situation was reversed? If you had an executive salary and I was living on waiter’s tips or something, wouldn’t you support me?”

  “I’ve always thought people should try to support themselves,” I said, imaging Hugh tricked up in a red polo shirt and tight black bell bottoms like the waiters at our favorite Mexican restaurant. “I want to keep living with you, but I feel badly about not paying for the apartment. I just fell into this life, and it’s too expensive for me.”

  “You fell in love with me.” Hugh played with my untouched glass of whiskey. “Or so you used to say.”

  I’d only said it once, during an incredible night when my body was breaking into a million pieces. My words had been unexpected, and Hugh had been overjoyed. Now he was whipping me with what I’d said.

  Angus Glendinning chose this awkward moment to breeze in, dropping his backpack in the midst of the dinner preparations.

  “What kind of fish is that? Are you going to fry it up with chips?” He tweaked a fishtail.

  “It’s trout, and it’s going to be roasted with salt and ginger. I’ll serve rice, no chips this time. If you want to speed things up, you could mince the ginger. Please wash Your hands first.” I tried to smile.

  Angus trooped off, surprising me by not arguing.

  “Talk to me, Rei,” Hugh continued. “If you don’t think your friend Jun killed Sakai, who else could have?”

  “Ueno is rough turf, I noticed when we were driving through,” Angus called from the powder room. “One of those manky-looking foreigners might have tried to steal the car when the antiques dealer was sleeping in it. The two fought, and Sakai lost.”

  It would have been nice to talk in private, but that was an impossibility, so when Angus came back, I told them both how I’d met Mrs. Sakai at the police station and learned the name of the tansu’s original owner.

  “The wife could have done him! Where was she yesterday afternoon?” Angus asked, grating the ginger in rough strokes.

  “Mr. Ota heard that she was at her in-laws’,” Hugh said. “Rei, if there’s a trial, you’re going to have to testify about your catfight in the shop with Mrs. Sakai. There’s no point in keeping the relationship hidden.”

  “I want to know when and where the tansu was altered. If I can find the original metal lock plates, I can restore the chest and send a note out to my other clients saying I have a genuine Meiji piece for sale.” The idea had come to me while I was cooking.

  “You’re still trying to get your money back. Even after there’s been a death!” Hugh sounded disgusted.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to look into it. Angus, I’m ready for the ginger.” I concentrated on strewing the fish with its trimmings.

  “If you hit the tansu’s original owner with accusations of fraud, he’ll throw you out on your bum,” Hugh warned. “How do you plan to handle it?”

  “The right way. I have good Japanese manners,” I snapped. Opening the oven, I was blasted with hot air. How appropriate, I thought, but kept it to myself.

  Chapter 8

  “Who are you?” The distorted voice squawked through the intercom box on the high wall surrounding the Idetas’ house. It was hard to tell if I was speaking to a man or a woman, which made me squirm a little. I knew nothing more than this was the residence of Nomu Ideta, according to the postman I’d asked a few streets over.

  “An antiques dealer based in Roppongi,” I answered.

  “We have plenty of antiques, thank you.”

  I needed to sound more tempting. “I actually buy antiques on consignment and resell them for very handsome prices. If I could have a minute of your time, I would be happy to tell you more.”

  The voice did not reply. I was about to turn away when I heard the door creak open. A woman in her sixties with a sensible short haircut streaked with silver surveyed first my face, then my still-impeccable linen dress. I had stood all the way on the train to keep it that way and suffered a too-tight pair of Bally spectator pumps. I bowed deeply, and when I came up she had opened the door a little more.

  “Just for a minute.”

  “Ojama shimasu,” I chirped happily, asking her to forgive my disturbance as I stepped over the threshold into the house’s cool flagstone entryway. Here I hesitated, wondering if I should make a move to remove my shoes; perhaps she wanted me to remain in the genkan like a typical tradesperson. I ducked my head again and offered my card to her.

  “You live in Roppongi,” she said, nodding as if to reconfirm my worth.

  “I have a very strong business there. Foreign diplomats, businesspeople,” I said, eyeing the house-wife’s fancy apron emblazoned with the designer Hanae Mori’s name. “Are you Mr. Ideta’s wife?”

  She shook her head. “No, I am the younger sister who takes care of him. The doctors recommended a nursing home, but in our case, it is not an option.” The woman led me through the hall, past a room that looked empty save for a Buddhist ancestor altar containing black-and-white photographs of an old man and woman similar to the ones I’d seen at Nana Mihori’s. Then we entered the living room.

  Given the limits of space in most Japanese homes, I expected some clutter, but not anything like this. The ten-by-fourteen-foot room was literally packed with the past; hulking old tansu chests, tall ceramic vases, gilded screens. Miss Ideta wove through the obstacles to a group of low chairs by a sliding glass door overlooking the garden. “The entire house is crowded like this. Our father was a lifelong collector.”

  “It’s wonderful, though, to leave such good investments for one’s family.”

  Miss Ideta pressed together her thin lips. “It’s been small relief. My brother is in very poor health. We had to move all the furniture out of his room to make room for the doctor’s machines.”

  This was the second time she’d mentioned her brother’s illness; clearly it was the central focus of her life. I asked, “So you’ve sold some pieces already?”

  She nodded. “We found a wonderful man to help us. The only reason I’m talking to you, really, is we are curious to have a few more things appraised.”

  “How long were you working with this man?” I asked.

  “Let’s see, it was three months ago. A woman who sells antiques wrote me a nice letter offering her ser
vices, and I suggested to my brother—who has inherited everything, of course—that it would be worth knowing the value of his estate, given that his medical expenses could become even higher than they are now. The woman came to our house and liked many of our things, but she did not offer us the high prices that a second dealer I talked to promised. We decided to give our consignments to him. He took two tansu, a set of bowls, some lacquer . . . things we hadn’t used for years.”

  “How did the dealer perform for you?”

  “Everything sold at the prices he promised us! The only thing he had some trouble selling was our Edo-period tansu.”

  “He did sell it, though?”

  “Of course,” she said proudly. “Just this week. A customer had expressed interest but not commitment, so Mr. Sakai telephoned to ask whether we’d offer a slight discount. I told him yes, because he had done so well for us before, and sure enough, the chest sold.”

  “How much did you get for the tansu?” I asked in a businesslike manner.

  “Seven hundred thousand yen.”

  I struggled to keep my face blank. So Sakai had kept 1.3 million yen for himself! In the future, I would not feel guilty about charging my clients a twenty percent finder’s fee.

  My next step was uncertain. I could continue to let her think I was an impartial dealer, or I could be honest. The latter seemed as though it had the potential to get me further, so I unzipped my handbag and took out an envelope. I said, “In the course of my business, I occasionally buy from stores. I was Mr. Sakai’s customer, and he charged me two million for your tansu. Here’s the receipt.”

  A range of expressions chased across her face; first incredulity, then dismay, and finally anger.

  “We can’t do much about it because he died last night. It was in the newspaper,” I added, not wanting to be pressed on how close my involvement had been.

  “The shop where he was working, Hita Fine Arts—aren’t they liable for his actions?” she asked.

  “They aren’t, according to the general manager. Sakai was leasing the space and had full responsibility for his business dealings.”