Country of Origin

by Don Lee

  “Oh, that would be very inconvenient.”

  “You did, after all, employ two gaijin without the proper visas.”

  “I’m afraid they misrepresented themselves to me. But you see, I fired Harper Boyd the moment I realized.”

  “You said it was because she went on dohan.”

  “That, also.”

  “It appears to me that you are deliberately trying to hinder my investigation,” Kenzo said.

  “Oh, am I giving you that impression? I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.”

  “So you will give me your client list?”

  “It’s not a formal list, per se.”

  “You keep monthly tabs for company expense accounts. You send them bills.”

  “I’m actually a very disorganized person,” Midori said. “It’s a miracle I’m still in business. But I will accommodate you the best I can. Could you give me until next Friday to gather the information?”

  “I’ll give you until tomorrow.”

  “My records are really such a mess. It’s quite embarrassing. Would you allow me until Tuesday, perhaps? I would so appreciate the extra time, Inspector Ota.”

  She was truly an elegant woman, Kenzo thought. “You’ll give everything to me on Tuesday?” he asked her.

  She patted his hand. “You’re a sweetheart.”

  BECAUSE HE had worked a shift on Sunday, Kenzo had Thursday off, and he decided it was time, finally, to make contact with his son. Simon was now attending the American School in Japan, a private, coed, international school in Chofu, near the ICU campus. Kenzo had figured out his train schedule, and on several occasions had watched him at Shinjuku Station.

  This morning, he waited for him on platform 10. Simon was late, as usual. In order to get to ASIJ for the opening bell at 8:30, he had to catch the 7:46 limited express on the Chuo Line, which would get him to Musashi-Sakai just before the Seibu Tanagawa train across the platform took off at 8:06. It was the last possible train he could take to go the two final stops to Tamabochi-mae and hoof it—eight minutes, if he was quick—to school. But it was all predicated on making the 7:46 limited express, and here it was, coming into Shinjuku Station just as the Yamanote Line train on which Simon was riding was pulling into platform 13.

  Several ASIJ kids scrambled off the train and leapt up the stairs and raced across the overpass and sped down the stairs to the limited express on platform 10, and they held the doors for stragglers from the Yamanote train, the last of whom was Simon, trundling and jiggling down the stairs, trying his best to hurry, slowed by a massive rucksack on his back. “Come on, Simon,” the boys yelled, pinning the doors open. The conductor was blowing his whistle, pointing at them to let go. “Come on, Simon!” the boys yelled, and Simon jumped down and wheeled his arms and treadmilled his feet toward the train. The boys, as Kenzo knew they would, released the doors just as Simon reached them. The boys laughed and pressed their noses against the glass and made pig noises as the train rolled out of the station. Oh, his poor boy.

  Kenzo waited on the platform behind Simon for the next train, which arrived within minutes, and then took a seat next to him on the bench. The car was uncrowded. They were going against traffic. Kenzo thumbed through a manga he had bought from a platform kiosk, then closed it. “Boku no manga hoshii? Mou yomi owattanda,” he said to Simon, offering him the magazine of cartoons.

  “What?” Simon said in English. There was no recognition on his part. It seemed Yumiko had not described Kenzo to Simon or shown him a photograph. It was very conceivable that she had yet to tell him about Kenzo at all, waiting for the proper moment.

  Kenzo repeated the question, speaking slower.

  Simon looked at him irritably. “I’m an American,” he said.

  “Nihongo ga wakaranaino?” Kenzo asked.

  “What?”

  It had never occurred to Kenzo that he might not speak Japanese at all. It was a travesty. “Do you want my manga?” he said. “I am finish.”

  Without enthusiasm, Simon accepted the magazine and idly began flipping pages. This manga had a typical plot—a young schoolgirl being violated by an alien invader from another planet—and only after Kenzo had handed it over did he think it might not be appropriate for a boy Simon’s age. He had much to learn about parenting.

  “You like Japan?” Kenzo asked him.

  “It’s all right,” Simon said, staring at the manga.

  “You interest in culture?”

  “What?”

  “Japanese culture.”

  “It’s all right. Except I’m tired of everybody thinking I’m Japanese.”

  Kenzo detected a Southern twang, not dissimilar to Susan Countryman’s, in his voice, which was deep and contemptuous. He was going through puberty early. He had an ugly peach fuzz above his lip. And his smell. Slightly putrid. A definite butter stink.

  “Then when you find out I’m American,” Simon said, “y’all want to practice your English on me. ‘This is a pen,’ ” he added in a high-pitched nasal wail.

  “This is a pen” was the sentence Japanese schoolboys were most apt to scream at gaijin to demonstrate their proficiency with the language.

  “But this is a new one on me,” Simon said, tapping on the manga. “This is porn. What are you? A perv? You trying to lure me to a ‘party’? You like little boys?”

  Kenzo was aghast. “No. No perv.”

  “You come near me again, I’ll call a cop,” Simon said. He picked up his rucksack and moved to the next car, taking the manga with him.

  A bad start, Kenzo thought. This might be more difficult than he had anticipated.

  HE LEFT her gifts. A candy dish, followed the next day by bonbons. A vase, followed the next day by flowers. George Benson’s Masquerade album, followed the next day by two tickets to Benson’s concert at the Nakano Sun Plaza. With each gift left at her door, Kenzo included a card: “Miss Saotome, I am deeply, deeply, deeply sorry for offending you.” “I sincerely wish I could eradicate all memory of my abominable, inexcusable behavior.” “I truly did not intend to impugn your honor.” “I am, as you said, an idiot.” “I wonder if there is any possible way that you could come to forgive me.” Then: “It is completely up to you, of course, how you use the other ticket, but I would be most pleased if I were allowed to accompany you to the George Benson concert.”

  The last card was quite a gamble, he knew. Quite bold. Outrageous, really. Yet the instructor had emphasized at every turn that women wanted men to be in charge, to take action, to show some—“Please excuse my vulgarity,” the female instructor had said, blushing and tittering—konjo! Balls!

  It had been perplexing, this intensive weekend class at the bunka center. They called it the “Love Academy,” and it was designed to teach men how to be romantic, which was generally a foreign concept to the typical Japanese male. For instance, redi fasuto. Kenzo and the other men in the class had been baffled at first. Redi fasuto? But apparently women in Japan now preferred this odd Western custom—ladies first—and expected other gestures of chivalry and romance, although most Japanese men were too shy, or too chauvinistic, or too indifferent to make eye contact or engage in spontaneous conversation, much less touch or participate in anything that might pass as a public display of affection.

  His reservations notwithstanding, Kenzo had carried out his instructor’s prescriptions to the letter, and wondrously they seemed to have worked. He returned from lunch on Friday and saw Miss Saotome sitting at his desk in Azabu Police Station.

  For a second, elation turning to panic, he had a terrible thought—that she was here to file a complaint against him, a harassment complaint—but he was reassured when, as she saw him enter the room, she brightened.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hello!” he said back, almost shouting. “It’s delightful to see you again!” Be enthusiastic, his instructor had told him.

  She hesitated, staring at him. Too enthusiastic? he wondered.

  “So this is where you work,” she said. />
  “Yes,” he said, lowering the volume.

  “You have a nice window view,” she said.

  Was she mocking him? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t correct her, and neither did the only other detective in the room, old Obushi, who was reading the newspaper and ignoring them, practically deaf, anyway.

  “Thank you for your presents and cards,” she said.

  “Please do not mention it,” he said. “It is I who should thank you for even speaking to me again. I am so sorry for my reprehensible behavior.” This response had been carefully prepared for him by the class in a group exercise.

  “I was on my way to do some shopping, and I thought I would drop by personally and accept your invitation.”

  “I’m delighted. Thank you,” he told her, maintaining a fixed, frozen smile on his face. Smile and laugh, his instructor had said.

  “The concert is tomorrow night at seven-thirty?” Miss Saotome asked.

  “Yes,” he said, and laughed for no reason. “May I pick you up at six-thirty?” Be decisive about what, when, where, and how, the instructor had said. Don’t be wishy-washy about making plans.

  “That sounds fine.”

  “Perhaps we could go eat something after the concert?” Always go to the show or movie before dinner, so afterward you’ll have something to talk about during the meal.

  “I would like that.”

  It couldn’t have been going any better. This instructor is a genius, Kenzo was thinking, as Assistant Inspector Iso Yamada walked into the room, holding a wet paper towel.

  “Ah, you’re back from lunch, Ota,” he said. “Too bad. I was having fun entertaining your friend. I was just telling her how much you remind me of my brother.”

  Miss Saotome covered her mouth and giggled.

  Yamada dabbed the paper towel on the lapel of his suit jacket. “Actually, she was entertaining me. She was making me laugh so hard, I spilled my tea. What a doofus, eh?”

  Immediately Kenzo feared that he had been the subject of their amusement. Had she told Yamada about their night in Kabukicho?

  “Is the stain coming out?” Miss Saotome asked. “Such a shame. That’s a beautiful Armani.”

  “Ack, I’ve got a dozen of them.”

  “You do not.”

  “Okay, only two.”

  Again, Miss Saotome giggled. This was funny why? Kenzo asked himself.

  She looked at her watch. “If I visit again,” she said to Yamada, “you must finish that story about Oxford.”

  “Oxford?” Kenzo asked.

  “Didn’t you know?” Yamada said. “I had a fellowship to Oxford for a year.”

  Bullshit, Kenzo thought.

  Miss Saotome rose to leave, and the three of them bowed and said goodbye. As she got to the door, Yamada blurted out, “Oh, hey? If you guys go out, be sure not to let Ota drink. I hear there’s real trouble if he drinks.”

  Miss Saotome laughed and waved and headed down the stairs.

  Yamada lifted an eyebrow and punched Kenzo on the arm. “You devil. Who would have thought?”

  IN THE morning, it was raining to beat the band. Typhoon No. 19, which was packing winds over 165 kph, was hammering Kyushu and was expected to run up Honshu toward Osaka and then hit Tokyo in the morning. Already, numerous flights and express trains had been canceled, and Kenzo worried that the concert might be canceled, too. He called the ticket office every half hour.

  He had his usual weekend breakfast of miso, a fried egg, and a banana. He cleaned his apartment, listened to NHK radio for updates on the typhoon, made a lunch of zaru soba, and watched a gaman show on TV. This particular repeat had two endurance games, the first with the university contestants eating curry rice spiked with one hundred twenty times the normal amount of spice, the second with the students doing handstands on sun-baked aluminum foil while the staff held magnifying glasses to their nipples.

  Then Kenzo tried to nap. He had hardly slept the night before, not because of any noise, but because of his nervousness about the date. There was so much to remember. During the night, he had kept getting up and looking at his tip sheet. Now, as tired as he was, he couldn’t nap. He was afraid he might fall asleep during the date, so he ran across the street to the outdoor vending machines and bought cans of Pocari Sweat, Calpis, and Dark Plussy, a new stamina drink made with caffeine and nicotine. One of the drinks had a deleterious effect. His dermatitis suddenly flared up on his neck, and he frantically rubbed cortisone cream on his skin, which only inflamed it further. He was a wired, itchy, crimson basket case by the time he knocked on Miss Saotome’s door.

  She looked beautiful. She was already in her raincoat, as if she had been waiting by the door for him. He had been so concerned that she would change her mind about going out with him, that she would use the typhoon as an excuse to bow out, but here she was, ready for their date, happy to see him.

  He offered to pay for a cab to the concert hall, but she insisted on taking the train. It was muggy and windy out, the rain flying horizontally, rendering their umbrellas useless. They were soaked from the short walks to and from the train stations, but the torrential weather did give them something to talk about—continually exclaiming, “Can you believe this wind? This rain?”—until the concert was over and they were seated in Lemongrass, one of the restaurants near Nakano Sun Plaza that Kenzo had scouted out the past few nights. Then they talked about George Benson, his guitar playing and voice, his band, the acoustics in the hall, their fantastic seats, front and center, then about the interesting menu at Lemongrass, a fusion of Thai and sashimi from Odawara. Finally they exhausted the topics at hand, and Kenzo had to mentally refer to his tip sheet, dipping into his reserves. He asked about her hobbies, and she told him about her fondness for museums and dancing (the flamenco!), and about her obsession with golf.

  “Oh, really? That’s fascinating. Tell me more,” Kenzo said. Listen. Be attentive. Ask questions, the instructor had said.

  She had the best golf clubs money could buy, as well as half a dozen matching ensembles of clothes, and she had taken many private lessons and could now hit her driver straight and true, but she had never been on a golf course, and, what’s more, she had absolutely no desire to go on one. She enjoyed going to Pop Swinger in Mitaka, one of the many multitiered, fully-net-enclosed driving ranges in Tokyo. She was very content just whacking one ball after another there, and she couldn’t understand why she was expected to “progress” to a real golf course. Why did the driving range have to be a means to an end? Why couldn’t it be the end itself?

  “Yes, exactly,” Kenzo said. “I’ve never thought of it that way, but you are exactly correct. You are very smart and independent-minded. A maverick, I think.” Be complimentary and admiring, the instructor had said.

  “Are you all right?” Miss Saotome asked.

  “Yes, I’m having a tremendous time.” Project a sunny, optimistic disposition. Be someone who is inherently happy. Accentuate your fun qualities.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, spreading his arms and leaning forward. Avoid crossing your arms and legs, and don’t fidget. Indicate with your body language that you are open and receptive.

  “Because you seem a bit nervous. You’re acting a little creepy, in fact.”

  Whatever you do, do not panic.

  “Do you realize you’re making little humming noises?”

  If you begin to panic, think of your happiest memory. Hang on to that memory for five seconds, and then face her again, happy.

  “Can I ask,” she said, “what’s wrong with your neck? It’s so red.”

  Breathe. Remember to breathe.

  And as he breathed, Kenzo looked at Miss Saotome’s face, really looked at it for the first time, and things began to slow down, to fall away. He began to relax. It was a simple face—true, not very pretty, but soft, and solicitous, and merciful. “I’m not well-respected at the police station,” he told her. “I am madogiwazoku.” The window tribe.

&nb
sp; Miss Saotome did not blanch, and she did not scoff, and she did not snicker. What she did was say, “I know,” and reach across the table and pat his hand like Midori Atsuta had done. But not really at all like Midori, whose pat had been a manipulation, a deflection, a lie. Miss Saotome’s pat was a gesture of humanity, a signal of shelter, a promise that they were akin, and it was as warm and welcoming as an embrace.

  Over the next couple of hours—at Lemongrass, and on the train back to Musashi-Koganei, and at the coffeehouse around the corner from their apartment building—they talked. He told her about the investigation, his feeling that he was close to something big, that he was a step away from uncovering some sort of conspiracy. He told her about his marriage, and his childhood, and the sad withdrawal of his parents after they had returned from the United States.

  She told him about her marriage to a stockbroker (she was batsu-ichi as well), her childhood in Oiso, a beach town seventy minutes from Tokyo, her alcoholic mother, her absentee father, a real estate mogul who had left Miss Saotome three apartment buildings in Tokyo. She had an older brother and sister, but she did not see them much. They were married with children, and she felt excluded from their cozy lives. She felt they judged her as a failure, that they pitied her.

  “It’s terrible to be a woman alone in this society,” she said. “A Christmas cake.”

  That was why she was continually moving to different apartments in her three buildings, trying to keep stasis athwart, and that was why she was a romance consultant, to help others avoid her unmei, her fate, and that was why she was forever acquiring new hobbies—preoccupations like hitting golf balls at driving ranges—that didn’t necessitate a group or a lover.

  “I golf,” Kenzo said as they walked out of the coffeehouse into the torrential wind and rain.

  “You do?” Miss Saotome said, turning back to him.

  He heard a distant whine, a sputtering din, an approaching buzzing sound not unlike a compressor or a condenser, and he gently grabbed Miss Saotome’s arm and pulled her back a step just as a delivery boy on a motorcycle with a rack of udon whizzed past the doorway.