Girl in a Box (12 page)

I was given my lunch break after Miyo had taken hers. In the chilly, dank annex building, I took my long-awaited toilet break and then dashed into a side street for a baked sweet potato, which I ate hastily, before running back inside Mitsutan to prowl the store. I had so much to learn about merchandise, not knowing who would wind up at my desk after the break.

I was happy when I landed two Frenchwomen looking for gifts for men; they pooh-poohed the men's handbag collection, because their husbands already carried nice bags, but were very interested in the idea of traditional Japanese game sets. I started them off with a tour of an exhibition of antique Japanese games in Musée Mitsutan on the sixth floor. Despite the slight language gap, I was able to communicate a lot about the games, because I'd studied old Japanese games when I was in the antiques business. We looked at fabulous old wood and stone game sets of
go
and
ban sugoroku
and then examined memory and matching games similar to a modern card game called snap. In old Japan the pieces for these games were exquisite shells painted underneath with the famous sayings that needed to be finished, or verses of haiku poems. By the end of the tour, the women were thrilled to buy handmade lacquered go sets when I led them into the sales area just past all the genuine antiques. Because they had convinced me that they were interested in antiques as well, I gave them directions to a Sunday flea market where I knew that vintage dolls could be bought for a fraction of the usual price. They thanked me profusely and asked me to join them for coffee in one of the restaurants on the eighth floor; regretfully, I declined. Somehow, I had the feeling that socializing with customers during work hours would be frowned on. But back at the K Team office, I was stunned when Mrs. Okuma said that I should have taken them to whichever restaurant they liked.

“You should have gone and put the charge on the house,” Mrs. Okuma said. “We have a special fund for cultivating customers. If you had cultivated those customers, they would have certainly returned to this store, and no other.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't hear about house charges in the training class—”

“You wouldn't have heard it there; I'm sorry I didn't mention it to you myself. You and Miyo are among the very few salesclerks in the store with that privilege. It's because you deal with foreigners, not regular people.”

 

Many hours later, I had a chance to tell Michael about the customer entertainment fund. He'd gotten excited. “I want you to put it in writing,” he said. “Because you didn't get it on tape, I bet.”

“No, it was my first day, and I didn't want to attempt anything that could cause notice. But surely—customer entertainment would be a way of draining store finances, not enriching them. Right?”

“Don't know yet. There are many parts to the picture. This employee discount thing you mention—that's interesting, too.”

“It gives me a good reason to lurk around the various departments, doesn't it? A zealous interest in shopping.”

“Your day starts at nine. When are you through, five or six?”

“Actually, I work till seven. Then there's only an hour or two until closing, depending on what day of the week it is. I stayed until closing tonight, trying to learn more about the different departments.”

“If it's not too draining for you, that's a good idea—staying late a few nights per week.”

“Okay. The store's really crowded then, so there actually is more cover,” I admitted.

“Really? I'd think people would want to go home after a long day in an exhausting Japanese office environment.”

“Not if they're female. Office ladies start coming in around six, and they like to meet their friends to get makeovers, eat in the food basement, and get in a bit of shopping before going out that night.”

“And you're the same age, which makes things perfect. You'll blend right in.” He paused. “You are always prepared, right?”

“Like the proverbial Boy Scout. I'm wearing the full Mata Hari eye makeup, and my tools of destruction are sewn into my two work suits.”

“Are you taking the suits home every night?”

“I have to keep them in the locker room,” I admitted. “I already got into trouble for taking the suits home. I can't do it again.”

“But you've got to keep the bugs with you, not leave them where they could be discovered.” Michael paused. “Here's an idea. Bring them in and out of the store not in your jacket, but in another garment that stays on the whole time.”

“You mean—my underwear?”

“Yes. I was a little hesitant to spell it out, but that's what I was thinking.”

I would have to spend a long time in the ladies' locker room toilet after work, doing a transfer from my suit pocket to the lining of my bra. And I hated the idea of tearing apart my relatively new wardrobe of Japanese lingerie, which really could not be replaced.

“Brooks, will I be reimbursed for these clothing expenses, I mean, if I have to cut up my new Japanese bras, which cost about fifty dollars each?”

Michael had a coughing fit, and I imagined I'd embarrassed him. At the end he said, “You can buy new ones at the store. Save the receipts. And remember, don't under any circumstances leave these garments lying around in the wrong place.”

Was there a double entendre in that comment? I wondered as I was drifting off to sleep. Did he think I was likely to jump out of my clothes, now that I was back in my beloved Tokyo?

With my work schedule, flirting with handsome strangers at Salsa Salsa was nothing I had the energy for. And as unhappy as I was about the aridity of my sex life, I couldn't imagine who was going to help me change the situation.

By Thursday morning, I couldn't remember why I had ever thought it would be fun to work in a department store. My toes were blistered and my lower back ached. I walked around a lot, trying to concentrate on maintaining the correct posture: tummy sucked in and buttocks clenched. How I longed to run or cycle or lie down—activities my life as a dilettante antiques dealer had permitted throughout the day—and in clothes more comfortable than a poly-cotton pantsuit.

My suit had been worth its weight in gold, though. Early Thursday morning, while I was waiting for a Spanish ballet dancer to try on ten different Comme des Garçons skirts and tops, the area salesclerk had wandered off with another customer to the cashier's station, and I'd had a chance to pull out and plant a listening device right in the mouthpiece of the boutique's central telephone. I was delighted that I'd been able to pull it off.

Michael would also be pleased, because I was getting the first bug in much earlier than we'd expected. I resolved that I would plant devices this way when I was certain that no other employees were around to catch me; and as I became more comfortable with the computer system, I'd be able to work from the K Team desk, planting the spyware that was most likely to collect the information needed. Already, I'd noticed that the three of us were not always in the office at the same time; and with Mrs. Okuma's somewhat scattered attention, I would certainly get my chance.

I still thought, from time to time, about Mrs. Okuma's error the first time I'd watched her: miscalculating the amount of a purchase. The mistake surely would have been caught by the customers, I thought—almost all of them were aware of the five percent tax rebate. In fact, I couldn't recall that a customer had ever come to us without the passport necessary to obtain this little bonanza. So, I decided, Mrs. Okuma wasn't intentionally cheating anyone. I saw her make plenty of mistakes, of all kinds.

Miyo knew that our boss was an airhead, and clearly took advantage of this. For instance, although both of us were supposed to work a fifty-hour schedule that included most weekend days, Miyo had ensured that she had either a Saturday or a Sunday off for the next month. My weekly days off were to be Tuesday and the half day, Monday—although I did have the forthcoming Saturday free, because if I didn't get the break, I'd be scheduled to work eight days in a row, in violation of the store's labor laws. Already, I had plans for the day; I'd put in my hours listening to audio recordings, then go for a long run through Ueno Park. I could hardly wait.

Miyo had actually complained to Mrs. Okuma about the fact I was working a shorter week; Mrs. Okuma told me privately that in the future, I was to negotiate the schedule with Miyo to find times mutually convenient to both of us. She herself would be spending the weekend at the famous old Okamura Onsen on the Izu Peninsula; it was not for pleasure, but the Mitsutan retreat for top-producing departments she'd mentioned. Mrs. Okuma fretted to us that everything would have to be perfect because the Mitsuyamas would be there—Masahiro, the picky old chairman of the board; and his son, Enobu, the store's general manager.

“I wish I could help you there, be your assistant.”

“
Ara,
that wouldn't be a bad idea, to have someone hold my graphs and distribute papers—but Saturday is your time off, and you are scheduled to be here on Sunday,
neh
?”

I nodded. I knew I couldn't switch my days around, not when the person I had to deal with was Miyo Han.

“So, that's our problem. We don't have enough staff,” Mrs. Okuma continued. “We had a full group of six employees in the K Team three years ago, but now it looks like three is what we must manage with. So we work together, a little harder.”

Reduced staff. I thought about whether this might be a reason Mitsutan's profits were higher these days. If staffing was cut fifty percent in many of the store's departments, the savings would be significant. And from what I'd noticed walking around the other department stores in the Ginza during the day and evening, Mitsutan was no busier than any other place. And while the store dazzled the eye with a seemingly endless array of cosmetics, jewelry, accessories, and clothes, it didn't offer a greater amount of these goods than what I saw at the other stores while walking around on my lunch break.

Despite Mrs. Okuma's talk of teamwork on Thursday morning, she soon left us to go to an administrative meeting in Shinagawa. Shinagawa, a decidedly unglamorous section of town, was where the Mitsutan boardroom was, in a privately owned building that also held offices for the planning department—the group that planned new investments and expansion. It would have been great to bug both the boardroom and the planning department, but I knew I had no credible reason whatsoever to be as far away from the Ginza as Shinagawa. The only way I could get there would be if Mrs. Okuma became attached to me and saw me as a kind of errand girl—something I'd have to cultivate, but it would be difficult with competitive Miyo nearby.

“Han-san, you must be looking forward to your weekend. What are you planning to do?” I asked in
keigo
Japanese after Mrs. Okuma had departed.

“Oh, enjoy some late nights dancing.” She looked at me loftily, as if she saw me as the kind of girl who stayed home on weekend evenings.

“Where do you like to go?”

“Gas Panic. Why?”

“Just curious.” That was the place where Tyler Farraday had been last seen alive. I wondered if Miyo, with her penchant for English-speaking males, would have known him.

“You're curious about a lot of things, aren't you?” Miyo retorted.

“Isn't it the place where that cute
gaijin
model died?”

“What are you talking about?” Miyo blinked.

“A cute male model. His first name was Tyler. I think he did some work for the store.”

“Oh, yes. Tyler Farraday was American, and he was in a photo portfolio of fall men's bags. They pulled it, because he died.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

“Well, I saw him a lot around here. He used to come up and try to get shopping help sometimes. But he was
okama,
you know?” She wiggled her hand.

She was using the Japanese word for the rice that has scorched on the bottom of the pot. For reasons that were not obvious to me, it was also a slang expression meaning a gay man. It was a silly word, and belittling—but also mysterious.

“How did you know him?” Miyo looked at me.

“Well, there was a time I was considering modeling as a career, and he gave me a few words of wisdom—“

Miyo interrupted me, sputtering with laughter. “You? Modeling?”

“Of course he discouraged me—I'm simply too short. I decided that since I love clothing, I should try to work inside a department store, though unfortunately I haven't had the advantage of all the experience you've had here. How many years is it again, Miyo-san, eight or ten?” I could dig back just as hard.

“Five,” she said crisply. “I would be in retail management by now, if the job wasn't just a year-by-year contract position.”

I shot a sideways glance at her. She was frowning. Carefully I said, “Do you believe we're discriminated against?”

“Of course! This is Japan, and you're a half, and I'm a full-blooded Korean, no matter that I'm the second generation in my family born here.”

“But there are other contract workers here, one hundred percent Japanese, who are in the same economic situation.”

“I understand that, but they don't care.” Miyo's voice had an edge to it that went even beyond her usual nastiness.

“Why?”

She looked at me as if I were incredibly stupid. “This is something you do for a little while, and then you get married. Some girls work here entirely because of the discount.”

“So do you think the rise in discount percentage is going to be really popular?” I was skillfully, slowly drawing Miyo out, so that when a tall westerner with limpid brown eyes and dark curly hair approached our desks, I was annoyed.

“Irrashaimase!”
In one smooth movement, we jumped to our feet and bowed. It was the first time Miyo and I had ever done anything in harmony.

“I'll take him,” Miyo murmured, her lips already curving into a smile.

“I'm searching for a present for my daughter,” the man announced in a lovely burr. “Do you reckon you could help me find the right size kimono for a six-year-old?”

My gaze shot to his right hand, because that was where the Irish were supposed to wear their wedding rings. There was a silver band there. I saw Miyo looking at it, too.

Miyo said in her stiff English, “What a nice gift. Rei-san knows a lot about kimono.” In Japanese she added to me, “Okuma-san asked me to go through a list of all our past customers and telephone the ones who haven't come in lately. I'll work on that here, and why don't you assist our honorable customer.”

 

Miyo had no interest in married men with children, I thought as I led the attractive father up to the seventh floor, where traditional Japanese goods were sold. Miyo was out for someone unattached, someone who could become more than a boyfriend. Figuring out Miyo's psyche cheered me; it made me feel that I had something to use sometime, though I wasn't sure how.

My time looking at kimono with Mr. O'Connell, as he turned out to be called, started off quite well. I learned all about his daughter, a fairy princess of a girl who lived with his wife in Dublin. Together, we chose a lavender kimono patterned with cherry blossoms, because he'd said her favorite colors were purple and pink. Mrs. Ono, the lady who'd been in charge of outfitting the new hires, came out of the nearby alterations department and unsmilingly watched me attempt to choose the correct size.

“Is she about this tall?” I put my hand at my waist.

“No, here.” He laid his hand flat in the air, but close enough to my body that it accidentally brushed my breasts. “Sorry.” He grinned, and I caught my breath in shock. The touch apparently wasn't accidental; I had my own ideas about what I would have done to the guy if we were outside the department store, but I needed to keep my job.

Mrs. Ono, who was suddenly between us, said, “The average Japanese six-year-old is about as tall as that girl in the corner, looking at the dolls' dresses. Is your daughter about that size?”

I was surprised at the facility of Mrs. Ono's English, and also at the way she'd stepped in to help. When Mr. O'Connell was gone, I thanked her profusely.

“He was trouble,
neh
.” Mrs. Ono's disapproving mouth was pinched as tightly as the pickled plum on the rice Mr. Mitsuyama had decided to spot-check a few days earlier.

“Thank you for taking over with him. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been close by.”

She nodded. “The other morning, your coworker Han-san mentioned that you have many troubles.”

“How so?” I asked apprehensively.

“You found trouble with your uniform and took it home to mend.” Her pursed lips dropped into a grievous frown.

How bitchy of Miyo to tattle on me to the alterations czar! “I know it's not supposed to be done, ordinarily, but I know a little about sewing—”

“
Ah so, desu ka
,” Ono said. “That's good. Not many young women know how to sew anymore.”

“Well, I need to because I collect vintage—” I'd been about to say kimono, but I remembered that Mrs. Taki had said they were considered dirty and déclassé. “I collect vintage textiles and often must make small repairs by hand.”

“Hand sewing. Very good, fine work.” Mrs. Ono nodded. “Tell me, what are your plans next Tuesday?”

“It's my day off, actually. I have nothing planned.”

“Why don't you come with me to Asakusa for
harikuyo
.” Her words sounded more like an order than an invitation; the only problem was that I had no idea what I was being invited to.

“I'm sorry, but I'm so new here I'm not yet familiar with
harikuyo
.” How I hoped this was not a simple thing every Japanese woman should know!

“It's got nothing to do with Mitsutan, exactly—it's the broken needle festival, celebrated all over the country.” She shook her head. “Of course, the younger generation doesn't necessarily know about it. But if you sew, you should. During this day, all seamstresses bring their worn-out needles to rest peacefully at the temple. There, we will show respect to our needles for their hard work of the last year, and pray for the power and energy to persevere in this new year.”

“It sounds remarkable. Yes, I'd love to go.” Even though I wasn't a real seamstress, I would take all the spiritual help possible to get through the next few weeks. And I was touched that this prickly older woman had invited me out—she was my first colleague at Mitsutan to do so.

Mrs. Ono nodded, looking satisfied. “Let's meet at the Asakusa Kannon bell at eleven. I recommend that you wear kimono. I'll be wearing mine.”