Zen Attitude

by Sujata Massey

  “Where else could you have gone?” Mohsen asked wryly. “That street had no exit. Everyone who comes and goes must pass the park.”

  “Do you recall seeing anyone walking that way before I did?”

  “Sure. But no one who looked dangerous.”

  “Would you tell me what they looked like, anyway? This is worth a lot to me.” I lowered my voice, although there was no escaping the attention of the men at the table.

  “What are you going to give? Five thousand yen, what I earn washing coffee cups twelve hours a day?” He laughed bitterly.

  “I don’t mean to offend you—”

  “There is no secret! I had nothing to do with it!” Mohsen sounded exasperated.

  “My friend is in trouble. I need to know who you saw for his sake.”

  He hesitated, then said, “I saw an older man I recognized from the neighborhood because he spits at me. There were three children, all in school uniform. There was also a Japanese woman. She was odd—she wore a bright kimono and an old-fashioned hairstyle like the performers in the music groups that walk around sometimes.”

  “Chindonya,” I said, thinking of the traveling band I’d seen on Thursday. “Did the woman have a mole?”

  “There was no pet with her.”

  “I mean a black birthmark. On the lady’s nose.” I pointed to mine for emphasis.

  “Who could tell? Her face was covered with white makeup. That’s why I could not tell the age.”

  The costume made complete sense; in this old section of Tokyo, whoever had worn it could pass as someone working in a tourist shop or restaurant or even, as Mohsen suggested, a musician.

  “That’s interesting information. I wish I could do something for you,” I said to Mohsen.

  “Why? You have returned my card. Your mission is complete.”

  Something about his excellent English and his manners made me hesitate. “You are from Iran? What kind of job did you have there?”

  “I studied accounting. After university I had hoped to work for a firm in Tehran, but our economy was very bad. There were no jobs, so I came here.”

  He came to sweat through life as a 3K worker, enduring insults and spitting from locals. It wasn’t fair. “Mohsen, how late do you work tonight?”

  “The café closes at seven. Why?”

  “I’m having a party. There will be a number of businessmen, Japanese and foreign. Maybe . . .”

  “You think they may decide they like me and offer to sponsor me for the work visa? You really are a crazy girl.”

  I shrugged. “There are no guarantees. If worse comes to worst, you’ll have a nice sashimi dinner.”

  We were teetering on the edge of something, our roles as legal and illegal foreigners transcended. Having talked with Mohsen and his group, I would never again automatically use my hands to give the X of refusal when approached. I would listen to them, as they had listened to me.

  “Sashimi. I’ve never had it.” Mohsen sounded thoughtful.

  “You either love it or hate it!” I said, knowing now that he’d come.

  Chapter 11

  There are only so many ways to carve an ice fish. I said as much to Miss Wada, who was still tinkering with the tail of the frosty centerpiece at six o’clock. The concierge had telephoned that the first wave of guests was on its way up, and I was on the sofa, drinking my first glass of wine and trying to forget an argument with Hugh.

  “Where’s your new dress?” he had asked when I’d come out of the bedroom in a little black crocheted cocktail dress I’d worn a million times before.

  “Sorry. There wasn’t time to have it made.” The truth was I had forgotten about the luminous red silk he’d brought me from Thailand.

  “I gave you Winnie’s seamstress’s number. Did you even call her?” Hugh leaned against the counter in gray flannel trousers and a starched Turnbull and Asser shirt with one button undone, his only concession to the supposedly relaxed nature of the evening ahead.

  “You know I love the idea of a new dress,” I soothed. “I’ll go to the seamstress when life isn’t so crazy.”

  “What is that thing you’re wearing, vintage?” His lip curled.

  “It’s from Joseph Magnin, and my mother paid a small fortune for it in 1968! She wore it to some big parties.”

  “Don’t tell my colleagues, okay?” Hugh snapped before going to open the door to the first guests, a group of Sendai executives—salarymen, as they were called in Japan—and a few wives. It turned out that a number of couples had fibbed to their baby-sitters that they were going to a wedding, as it was considered terrible for a wife to abandon care of her children for any other kind of social engagement.

  “I don’t know how you’ll like the food, but please try something,” I said, urging them toward the buffet. In addition to sashimi, the table was loaded with ginger-marinated shrimp, a salad made from rice noodles and slivered vegetables, and various pickled vegetables arranged on perfect bamboo leaves. As I’d expected, the item the women liked most was a trompe l’oeil country landscape—a bed of vinegar-flavored rice garnished with grilled eel and lotus root mountains, and cherry trees made from pink ginger slices and black seaweed. Later, Miss Wada and her assistants would serve coffee, tea, and honeydew melons stuffed with strawberries, kiwi, and mango, as well a tray of cream puffs my aunt had dropped off earlier in the day, and some brownies that Angus had spontaneously baked during the afternoon.

  “No meat? The Japanese expect you to spend some money.” Winnie Clancy delivered her opinion over my shoulder. I turned around and took in her tasteful but boring blue silk sheath, feeling glad I hadn’t gone to her seamstress after all.

  “You fixed roast beef for Hugh while I was out of town, didn’t you? There’s plenty left in the fridge, but I was afraid it wasn’t fresh enough to serve.” I stared her down, giving as good as I got.

  “I’m surprised any of the roast is left! Hugh and I ate supper together—just the two of us, such a shame that Piers was in London—and he asked for a second helping. If I were you, darling, I wouldn’t deny him.”

  I had a good escape when I saw Mohsen, the Iranian immigrant from the coffee shop. He must have borrowed a business suit from someone. The sleeves were slightly too long, but it was immaculately pressed. He looked every bit the southern European professional.

  “You look different, Miss Shimura.” He smiled when I greeted him. “I think you should wear dresses instead of gym shorts.”

  “I agree with you.” Hugh had come up behind me. “I’m Hugh Glendinning, Rei’s partner and a lawyer representing Sendai Limited, where most of the Japanese chaps standing around here work. You must be Mohsen.”

  “My full name is Mohsen Zavar.” He looked startled at Hugh’s outstretched hand, but took it, adding, “I am currently looking for meaningful employment.”

  “Rei told me you’re an accountant—with your excellent language abilities, I don’t see why you couldn’t be hired by one of the multinational oil companies. Piers Clancy, the pale fellow arguing with his wife by the window, knows the managing director of every British company in Tokyo, at least. Let’s go over for a chat.”

  Hugh liked getting people together, redefining lives. It often worked. He bore off Mohsen as his latest offering to international commerce, and I got another glass of wine, breathing easily for the first time that night. Then I realized something had changed: the subdued Holly Cole jazz ballads I had slipped into the tape deck had given way to the gritty, anguished growling of Nine Inch Nails. Angus was slumped against the balcony railing, smoking a cigarette and talking with a group of young people in dark clothing and hairstyles ranging from a green crewcut to long orange dreadlocks. As I moved toward them I recognized a few European faces from Club Isn’t It, including a pale, drugged-out-looking girl from New Zealand who often stood outside a strip club trying to recruit customers.

  Hugh’s corporate guests weren’t mingling with these ragged newcomers, but they definitely had noticed the change
in music. Masuhiro Sendai, the company chairman, was tapping his foot, and a few of the Sendai wives had started to dance. I had been planning to tell Angus to put the jazz back on, but I changed my mind, deciding the edgy music wasn’t all bad. It was waking up the party. Akemi Mihori, who had just walked in, waved at me with a delighted expression. I headed for her but stopped dead when I saw Nana Mihori standing beside her. One of the Sendai executives approached Nana, who smiled and greeted him. Old friends. In the instant that she began a conversation with the man, Akemi slipped away and joined me.

  “Sorry about coming late, and with my mother.” She tugged a bit nervously at her body-hugging red jersey dress. It suited her, revealing every muscle in her body. “She found out where I was going and insisted she come along. I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll survive.” I wiped a hand over my damp brow. “What do you want to drink, green tea or lemonade?”

  “I want something stronger. Oh, super! You have Guinness stout.”

  “You drink beer?” I had thought Akemi was a health food freak. I poured the Guinness, which Hugh had taken pains to serve cool but not icy cold, into a tall glass. I started my third glass of wine.

  “Stout is rich in iron, did you know that? Very healthy for women.” Akemi said. “Hey, is that your boyfriend on the balcony, the long-haired one?”

  I laughed shakily. “No, that’s the younger brother. Angus.”

  “A woman living with two men . . . it’s almost like a fantasy, isn’t it? Your Angus resembles the lead singer of Simply Red. Still, he doesn’t look strong enough to please me.” Akemi took a generous sip of her beer.

  “I thought you hated men!” It flew out of me before I could think.

  “I might sleep with a man, but I wouldn’t be kept by him. There’s a difference.”

  A clutch of Sendai salarymen came up to ask for autographs. Akemi signed dutifully, a mask falling over her strong features as she answered their giddy questions in polite Japanese. Yes, she was a friend of mine. No, she wasn’t competing again. It was time to let the younger generation have a chance.

  The caterer sidled up to ask if I wanted her to send someone for more alcohol; it was just seven, and three quarters of the wine was gone.

  “More wine, definitely,” I said, thinking I needed another glass. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Akemi had walked away from the salarymen and was talking to Angus. She seemed to be taking the offensive; I was amused to see him backed up against a wall, trying to explain something with a lot of hand movements. What was she trying to get out of him?

  I shook myself. What I needed to do was make some kind of peace with Nana Mihori, who, after all, had gone to the effort of coming to the party. I watched her talking with people and sprang in when she was briefly alone, standing by the glass wall in the living room that had a view of Tokyo Tower’s steel fretwork lit up brightly against the night sky.

  “It’s funny to think that Tokyo Tower is a copy of the Eiffel Tower,” she said to me when I joined her. “When my husband and I were in France on our honeymoon, I was shocked to find the original.”

  “Tokyo Tower is an excellent copy. Just as the tansu I bought for you was,” I added.

  “My daughter has explained how badly that purchase has turned out for you. Perhaps I should have taken it.”

  I shook my head. “Every dealer has to face up to her mistakes. It’s part of the learning process.”

  “That’s mature of you.” Mrs. Mihori smiled, and I sensed that she was relaxing. “It’s like Zen. Our novices make many, many mistakes on the path to enlightenment. But along the way they come upon small blessings, such as your friendship with Akemi.”

  “Really?” I had the thought our running together was secret, but maybe it wasn’t anymore.

  “My daughter does not have many appropriate social contacts. It is refreshing for her to have a young woman friend.”

  “Is that so,” I said, mind racing.

  “I want you to know you are welcome inside the house as well as on the grounds. Next time, I insist that you bathe after running! The water in Akemi’s shower and bath is piped in from a hot spring—”

  The sound of breaking glass interrupted Nana Mihori’s speech.

  “Please excuse me,” I said, putting down my drink.

  “Rei-san, you have caterers to handle those things!” Mrs. Mihori said. “As a hostess, you must learn to delegate responsibility to others.”

  “I’m not very experienced.” I jumped at the sound of a slamming door. The guests stopped talking, and I pushed through them toward the study. As I stepped through the doorway, I saw two beer glasses lying smashed on the parquet floor.

  “A simple cleanup job. Ask a servant to bring a towel,” Mrs. Mihori advised.

  Hugh was there, too, trying unsuccessfully to shoo people back into the living and dining rooms. As a few bodies parted, I saw Akemi Mihori lying on Angus’s futon. She was fully dressed but looked dead. The horror of Nao Sakai’s corpse came back, and I felt myself grow dizzy.

  “What did you do?” Hugh asked Angus, who was picking up the broken glass.

  “Nothing. How was I to know she’d react like this?”

  Somehow I got to Akemi’s side. I touched her wrist. It was warm, and the pulse drummed against my searching fingertip, relieving me greatly.

  “What’s happened to you? Can you hear me?” I asked softly in Japanese.

  “Mmm.” Akemi’s eyelids fluttered.

  “Is she diabetic, like her cousin?” I asked Nana Mihori, who was trying to shove me aside.

  “Absolutely not.” Nana Mihori gathered her daughter in her arms.

  “She just passed out,” Angus said, nevertheless sounding nervous.

  “The colors . . . get these colors out,” Akemi croaked in Japanese.

  Nana Mihori said tearfully, “My daughter has become very ill. I apologize for upsetting your party.”

  “Take me away from here,” Akemi moaned. “The colors, they are inside my head. Please . . .”

  “I’m calling the doctor who lives on the tenth floor,” Hugh said in his most authoritative voice. “In the meantime, it would be really considerate if everyone could leave Akemi in peace.”

  Still shaking, I helped him usher the gawking guests past the catering assistant who was sweeping up the shards of glass and mopping the puddle of beer. There were a number of backward glances, but finally people were out, and the door closed. Already the rumors were starting. A salaryman’s wife was reprising what I’d said about diabetes. One man suggested that Akemi had been training hard for a comeback but was obviously too old and weak. Somebody else blamed alcohol—why else would she have dropped the beer glass?

  When the doctor arrived, I showed him into the study and then went to the living and dining areas to see what had happened to the party. People were talking in lower voices, and the ragged group of Angus’s friends had gone. I saw Hugh talking to Angus on the balcony, so I stepped out to join them.

  “All she had were two brownies. I had no clue she’d freak out!” Angus was laughing uncontrollably, a sign of his own deterioration.

  “Those brownies . . . you baked pot brownies?” I tried to keep my voice from screeching.

  “Hashish, actually. It wasn’t going to be for the masses, but Rei asked me to put them on the dessert tray!” Angus was in stitches.

  “Did you import it from Thailand or buy it from your creepy new friends?” I asked, thinking back to Club Isn’t It, where he had suddenly run out of cash.

  “Hush, Rei,” Hugh said. “I’m trying to find out from him whether the brownies are still accessible to others.”

  “I was going to yank them from the tray, but Akemi had just eaten two and I couldn’t very well do that in front of her,” Angus said.

  “You’ve got to stop those caterers,” Hugh directed me. “Mr. Sendai is keen on chocolate. God knows who else is!”

  Everyone, I thought, sprinting to the dessert table and grabbing the brownie tray awa
y from outstretched hands. The Japanese had a strong fear of food poisoning, given a wave of deaths from mercury-tainted fish in the 1960s. Foreign foods were widely believed to be contaminated, so if anyone got sick at our party, accusations would be quickly made.

  “The brownies are bad,” I told Miss Wada when I started dumping them in the kitchen trash bin. “Please send your staff around to take any that might be on people’s plates.”

  “That’s a bit unusual, as we did not prepare those cakes. We only prepared Japanese food,” Miss Wada insisted.

  “That’s not what people will think,” I warned her. “If anyone else takes ill the way Akemi Mihori did, your business could be ruined.”

  Leaving Miss Wada sputtering, I hurried to the living room with an extra tray of Aunt Norie’s cream puffs. Unfortunately, Hugh’s worst nightmare had come true. Masuhiro Sendai had a brownie on his plate with a bite taken out of it.

  “Sendai-sama!” I greeted him with a supremely polite honorific. “Please excuse me, I need to replace your brownie.”

  “Whatever do you mean? This is quite tasty!” Mr. Sendai, whose rotund shape suggested he loved desserts, lifted the brownie to his mouth. I bumped his hand so the soft dessert fell to the floor.

  “I’m so clumsy!” I apologized, scooping it up with a napkin. “I will have Hugh bring some extra brownies in his lunch box next week, so you will have a custom order. Until then, you must try a cream puff made by my aunt.”

  Miss Wada instructed her catering assistants to tell people that the tray of brownies had been inside the room where the accident had taken place, and therefore might have been sprinkled with glass shards. Winnie Clancy popped over to her apartment to fetch a few packs of Cadbury’s Chocolate Fingers as a substitute dessert, and for once I was grateful.

  “A hostess is always prepared for emergencies,” she lectured me. “One should keep a generous supply of nonperishable foods. Remember that for your next party.”

  Mrs. Mihori remained closeted with Akemi, but the doctor eventually emerged for a cup of coffee. “Miss Mihori fainted,” he announced to the guests who had crowded around us. “A common occurrence when going from the hot city streets to a very cold place such as this apartment.”