Zen Attitude

by Sujata Massey

  I made a quick circuit of all the antiques shops in the central district. Dealers did not usually enjoy showing old scrolls, given that the delicate paper rolls had to be removed from their snug wooden boxes, unrolled, and displayed without creating tears or wrinkles, and then rolled up again. I was primarily trying to gauge the price of early-twentieth-century scrolls.

  I confessed my situation to the owner of Maeda Antiques, a small shop lying farther to the north where I’d bought wood-block prints before. Instead of unrolling her inventory, Mrs. Maeda let me page through an orderly photo portfolio of the scrolls she owned. This way neither of us would waste time.

  “Who knows, I might find the perfect thing here. And I have other clients, I’m always on the lookout.”

  “At least you’re honest about what you’re doing,” Mrs. Maeda said. “Not like some of them.”

  “Really?” I stopped flipping through the pictures.

  “Oh, there are some temple families who come in and claim our Zen scrolls and relics are their property.”

  “Lots of religious relics come from temples. What do they want you to do, give it back?”

  “Some store owners have, out of fear. No one wants to offend Buddha.” She made a face. “Or a particular abbot’s wife. When that lady came and claimed one of my scrolls was stolen property, I asked her to show me insurance papers or some proof her husband’s family had it stolen. Of course, she had nothing.”

  A picture came to me of Nana Mihori’s vast home, where the artwork rotated weekly. “This woman . . . she’s very well known? She’s in the Green and Pristine Society?”

  “That’s right. And immediately after I refused to give her my scroll for free, No STOPPING signs were placed on both sides of the street. With no place to park a car, you can imagine how my customers have disappeared.”

  “What a shame,” I mourned, feeling especially bad that I, one of her few walk-ins, wasn’t able to buy something.

  “Sometimes I wonder if I was foolish to have with-held what she wanted. If I’d given her the scroll, I’d have lost one hundred thousand yen. I’ve lost far more in sales, and I’ve even lost my assistant, Sato-san, who used to drive over each afternoon to cover for me. Now she can’t come because there’s no parking place!”

  “She was a salesclerk?” I was getting an idea.

  “That’s right. The afternoons are when I must pick my granddaughter up from kindergarten, so I have to close the shop. It’s just awful.”

  “I’ll work afternoons for you,” I offered. I had expected Mrs. Maeda to look either ecstatic or horrified. Instead, she looked confused. “I need a job. And a place to make and receive some business phone calls,” I continued, determined to be honest.

  “But I don’t know you,” she faltered.

  “You mean I’ve come in here a half dozen times, but you don’t know my family, my blood type, whatever!” I was getting upset. “Being foreign, I don’t have an extensive résumé, but I have some references in the antiques community—my friend Mr. Ishida in Tokyo, for example.”

  “How are you a foreigner? Your name is Shimura.”

  “I’m from California,” I said, pleased that she’d accepted me as Japanese.

  “So you speak English!” Her eyes were huge.

  “A little Spanish, too.”

  “You’ll be wonderful for the tourists! There have been several occasions that gaijin have come, and I did not understand what they wanted.”

  “Foreigners do need special handling,” I agreed. “They respond very well to discounts.”

  “I can pay you just twelve hundred yen an hour, but I could offer you a trade discount . . . maybe forty percent off?”

  “Really?” With a rate like that, maybe I could afford something for Mrs. Kita.

  “It’s the least I can do, and it will bring me some business, don’t you think?”

  Yoko-san, as I could now address her, had shown me around the whole shop by lunchtime. I rescued a cache of obi—brocade kimono sashes—she had jammed in a back storeroom. I also convinced her to help me hang out a colorful carp banner to fly in the wind.

  “That’s for the boys’ day celebration. I cannot hang it in late summer.”

  “It’s eye-catching and lets people know we’re open,” I told her. After she left, I walked around the small shop, taking stock of it and my situation. Once I would have thought it a step down to work as a store saleswoman, but what Yoko was paying me would cover my daily expenses, and I could start saving for the deposit on the next apartment I rented.

  She was right that business was slow. I had just two customers that afternoon—one of whom paid eight thousand yen for an obi. I had time to telephone Mrs. Kita about the preliminary scroll selections I’d made. She promised to come in and choose something the following afternoon.

  Closing time, five o’clock, came soon. I lingered but at last locked up and dropped the key back through the shop mailbox. Instead of taking the train, I walked back to Horin-ji. My feet dragged, and I realized how much I didn’t want to get there. Wajin knew too much about me, and the things I was learning about Nana Mihori were terrifying.

  I approached the Mihori residence, thinking my pocket phone would be fully charged by now. I lurked in the bushes, watching Miss Tanaka take down the family’s dry laundry. My black cotton panties, plain T-shirt, and shorts were also drying on the laundry rack. She frowned at them, and I resolved to do any further washing with my own two hands in the forest stream.

  A gardener snipping the hedge came to ask permission for something. Miss Tanaka put down the laundry she was holding and followed him around to the rock garden.

  My chance! I squeezed through the hedge and sprinted to the half-open window. There was no time to remove my shoes; I brushed them off as best I could and hustled in to find my telephone still firmly attached to the wall. I snatched it up along with its electrical cord and was safely behind the hedge when Miss Tanaka returned. I crawled under it and out to the main temple grounds.

  “What are you doing?” a male voice inquired. Straight ahead of me were a pair of rough straw sandals. I looked up and saw a monk dressed in a work robe glaring down at me. “This area is off-limits to visitors.”

  I thought frantically. “Sorry. A wind came, and I, um, lost a contact lens!” What else could a girl on her hands and knees be worrying about?

  The monk got to his knees and began looking. Feeling desperate, I pretended to find the lens. I got clumsily to my feet, professing thanks for his help.

  “Isn’t it torn by all the rough stones?” A new voice, more modulated and polite than the first man’s. Wajin had joined us. This time he was wearing a fresh blue robe, not the soil-stained gray one. He put his hands together in a prayerful greeting. I bobbed my head, because my hands were full with the telephone and my imaginary contact lens.

  “I think the lens is fine. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “You’ll need to clean your lens with saline back at the teahouse.” Wajin followed me.

  “I know what to do, thanks.” The phone rang, and I answered it, cradling it against my left shoulder.

  “Rei-san?” The voice was instantly familiar to me from his various answering machine messages. Jun Kuroi.

  “I’m so glad you called,” I said, waving good-bye to Wajin, who still wouldn’t leave.

  “I need to talk,” Jun whispered. “But do not call me again. My father heard some of your messages and wants me to keep away from you.”

  “Where do you want to see me? And why?” I added belatedly.

  “Tomorrow afternoon I can come to Tokyo. I could meet you in Yoyogi Park at two.”

  “But Jun-san, I have a new job. I can’t take off in the afternoon. The best I could do is meet you in midmorning or the evening.”

  “Eleven o’clock, then. It will take me a while to get in from Hakone, but I have something to tell you.”

  “Has anything happened to you since you got out? Are you in danger?”

&
nbsp; “I’ll explain tomorrow.”

  “Are you working again?” I couldn’t say much more with Wajin around.

  “As a night janitor in my father’s dealership. My face is so well known that no one thinks I can work with customers anymore.”

  “I’m sorry. For everything,” I said.

  “It was my own stupidity to take Sakai in my car. I must go. I hear my father.” He hung up.

  “Boyfriend?” Wajin asked when I clicked off the talk button and resumed walking.

  “No, and I’m not in the mood to talk. I came here to be alone.”

  “With the convenience of your pocket phone, neh?”

  Exasperated, I stopped and faced him. “You know an awful lot about the luxuries of modern life. For a monk, you’re extremely odd.”

  A gong sounded from the temple.

  “Evening prayers. I must leave.” Wajin sounded almost irritated, making me wonder how devout he really was.

  “Go ahead, do your duty,” I urged, glad to see him leave.

  I ate pears and oranges for dinner, washing the meal down with water from a bottle I’d filled at the public lavatory. If I kept up this diet, my stomach would become smaller and I might have fewer cravings. In Buddhism, sensory deprivation was supposed to lead to emotional peace. Maybe so, but my stomach rumbled in disagreement all night long.

  Chapter 19

  Someone was standing over me when I awoke the next morning. The crackling of footsteps on the old tatami had alerted me, along with the aroma of something delicious. I opened my eyes to the familiar sight of Akemi Mihori, dressed in her running gear and already covered with a faint sheen of sweat.

  “You’re so lazy. Get up!”

  “When did you come home? How nice to see you!” I tried desperately to cloak my feelings of unease.

  “Why weren’t you on the track? You completely stopped running, didn’t you?” Akemi demanded, yanking the sheet off me. I’d been sleeping in a long T-shirt, which I quickly pulled over my exposed lower parts.

  “I was planning on doing it tonight—that’s when I thought you were coming back.”

  “I thought we could run and then eat.” She showed me a thermos of green tea and a tiered basket filled with pickled vegetables and onigiri, fresh rice balls stuffed with pickled plums that I loved. I must have smelled them when she walked in and woke me up.

  “We could just eat?” I said hopefully. She laid out my first big meal in twenty-four hours, and I dug in.

  “How was your demonstration?” I asked after I’d devoured two rice balls.

  “Demonstration?” She looked blank for a moment. “Oh, that. It was fine. I won three matches and signed some autographs. The usual.”

  “Where was your demonstration held?” Her vagueness made me suddenly wary.

  “Osaka.”

  “I mean at which sports arena?”

  “A junior high school. Does it make you happy to know how far I’ve fallen?” She jumped up from where she’d been lounging on the futon’s edge.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything. I—I also have come down a bit. Yesterday I took a part-time job as a salesclerk.”

  “Now that’s awful!” Akemi grimaced.

  “Actually, I like feeling useful. It’s a small shop near the temple with the famous Kannon statue. Maeda Antiques.” I paused. “Your mother’s shopped there, hasn’t she?”

  “I don’t know.” Akemi sounded uncomfortable. “I came in to ask if you wanted to use my shower. I accidentally left the dojo locked when I went away. Sorry.”

  “A shower would be great.” I squinted at my watch. “But it’s already eight. Your housekeeper will be awake.”

  “Tanaka-san went into town with my mother for a Tanabata festival inspection. They won’t be back until noon.”

  “Akemi, you know I only meant to stay here temporarily. If your mother’s away, this morning might be a good time for me to make a discreet escape.”

  “Don’t do that!” Akemi’s voice was shrill.

  I couldn’t let on that I was scared. Forcing my face into a normal expression, I told her, “I’m trying to say that I’ve worn out your hospitality. There’s an expression in English that’s something like, after two days, fish and guests start to stink. Besides, I’ve got a regular job, so now I can afford a little room somewhere.”

  “There’s no need to rush off,” Akemi said firmly. “The Tanabata festival will keep my mother busy in town over the next four days. Besides, nobody outside myself knows you’re here. And you’re not cooking fish.”

  Thinking of my next move, I poured a little tea in the bowl where I’d eaten pickles, and sloshed it around a bit before drying it with a paper towel. Trying to give Akemi the impression I was staying put, I asked, “Is it okay if I keep this bowl for future use?”

  “You’ve got Zen table manners!” Akemi smiled, relaxed again. “So what’s your plan for today, now that you don’t have to worry about moving out?”

  “Well, this afternoon I work, of course. And this morning I have a business appointment in town.” I was going to meet Jun, but that was my affair.

  “I see.” She looked at me hard. “I won’t keep you, then.”

  “I am so grateful for all you’ve done, Akemi. I’d be living on the street if it weren’t for you.”

  “You can stay as long as you like. I mean it.” Akemi seemed as if she wanted to say more. I was glad she couldn’t find the words. I’d had enough surprise declarations for a while.

  I had some extra time before I was scheduled to meet Jun, so I made my way to the Old Tehian coffee shop in the hopes of finding out why Mohsen had called.

  “He doesn’t work here anymore.” A tired-looking Japanese man peered out of the oil-spotted kitchen.

  “Really! Where is he working now?” Could Hugh really have helped him get a job with an oil company?

  “I don’t know. He’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “He disappeared.” The cook shrugged. “His other friends came around asking, so I don’t think they know where he is, either.”

  I felt as if I’d been slammed to the ground. Had Mohsen remembered something about the murder in Ueno Park? Everyone I brought into my problems was winding up dead.

  “Did he tell you he was in danger? Was he afraid of someone?” I asked.

  “They’re all afraid of the Tokyo police, neh?” the man said shortly. “I think most likely he ran into visa trouble. Chances are he was thrown out of the country.”

  There was one way to find out. I left Ueno and got back on the Hibiya Line to Roppongi.

  “Is Lieutenant Hata in?” I asked the desk sergeant at the Roppongi police station.

  “He’s in a staff meeting. And after that he’s very busy.”

  “I’m connected to one of his unsolved cases. It’s urgent that I speak to him.” I handed the woman my business card.

  She looked at the card, and then back at me. “The Roppongi Hills burglary!”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sit there,” she said, pointing to a chair. “Don’t go away.” Then she did, to retrieve Hata, I thought. I was feeling almost cocky about being famous enough to get a police meeting interrupted, but I wound up waiting anyway. Half an hour passed before Lieutenant Hata came out to meet me.

  “Sorry you had to wait,” he said. I murmured my own apology for disturbing him, all the while thinking he looked extremely exhausted. There were dark shadows under his eyes and a sweaty pallor to his skin. When he ran his hand through his hair, it stuck up crazily.

  “This case is killing me,” he said. “I haven’t seen light for a few days. Want to go for a walk?”

  “You mean you haven’t gone home?” I asked as we left the building and began walking east on Roppongi-dori. It wasn’t too scenic underneath the Shuto Expressway, but Lieutenant Hata lifted his face to where the sun should have been.

  “I’ve been here past midnight for the last four nights, and I have to be back by
6 A.M. The word’s come down that this case has to be solved fast. People are beginning to worry a killer is targeting the antiques world.” He paused. “At least you’re still alive, but running off to who knows where!”

  “There might be another death.” I paused, watching the policeman’s expression tighten.

  “Might be? What are you trying to say?”

  “Someone I know is missing. He was in the park at the time of the death. I did not mention him to you before. Angus told me that he called the apartment a few days ago looking for me. I went to the restaurant where he worked to talk to him, and the cook there told me he disappeared. No one knows where he is.”

  “You didn’t give me the name of a witness? Now I know why this case is so impossible. So, what’s the name?” Hata sighed heavily.

  “His name is Mohsen Zavar.”

  “That name sounds Middle Eastern.”

  “He’s from Iran. But I’m sure he’s legal—he was working in a little restaurant—”

  “When I look up his visa status, I can know for certain. Are you interested in filing a missing-person report?” He stopped at a vending machine and looked at the offerings.

  I nodded. “I just don’t think it would be like him to disappear. Hugh was trying to get him a position with a multinational oil company. Someone as smart as Mohsen wouldn’t just walk away from the promise of a better life.”

  Lieutenant Hata put some yen in the machine and selected a can of Georgia coffee. “Do you want anything? I’m getting recharged.”

  “No, thanks. I have more to tell you—there’s a connection between the Ideta and Mihori families. Nana Mihori is undoubtedly Nomu Ideta’s relative, because I saw the same ancestor portraits at both their family altars.”

  “Are you sure? Old Japanese people look remarkably similar.”

  “If you don’t believe me, go there and look at the pictures. Or check the family register. Or just ask Nana Mihori where she comes from!”

  “Miss Shimura, we in the Japanese police try to be very sensitive to human rights. I cannot storm the Mihori household without a warrant, and they are not linked to your burglary case.”

  “Nana and Akemi Mihori were at our cocktail party. They could have easily taken Angus’s house key and returned to burglarize the apartment.”