Girl in a Box (19 page)

“Rei Shimura,” she repeated. “I know that name, somehow. Are you famous?”

“If only.”

“Your English is great. So colloquial. Where did you study?”

“California. But, Mrs. Kravitz—”

“Melanie, please! Mrs. Kravitz sounds like my mother-in-law.” She rolled her beautiful gem-like eyes.

“Melanie, then. I know that you're a very special customer to the store and I'm delighted to have the opportunity to work with you. Would you care to take a cup of tea while I handle—”

“Shimura-san, no! Kravitz-san takes precedence!” Mrs. Okuma was speaking Japanese, but her tone was so vehement that the Germans practically jumped in their seats.

“I'm sorry, I've been called away,” I said to the Germans, who were already standing up, getting ready to go. “I'm really sorry—”

“The Japanese, they're just—two-faced!” one of them said to the other, in English, not German, so I'd be sure to understand.

“Touchy,” Melanie Kravitz said, opening up her Kelly bag—authentic, I was sure—to remove a hot-pink telephone. I hadn't heard it ring before, but now I heard its chirp.

“Hi, honey, what is it?” she asked, totally focused on the receiver.

I watched her listen to whatever was coming over the line, her red-brown brows drawing together for a minute, then relaxing. “Okay. I promise. And the red, yes, I understand about the red being crucial.” She made a kissing noise and then closed the phone. “My dear husband. He just returned from a three-day business trip and was checking in.”

“Oh, really? You mean a trip outside Japan?” I asked, steering her out of the office.

“No, just Osaka. Winston Brothers has a branch office there.”

“That's nice,” I said, thinking that this meant Warren Kravitz hadn't been under anyone's surveillance on Monday, the night when Mr. Fujiwara had died. “So, what are you in the mood to shop for today?”

“Well, I need to pick up a few things for my husband—he's put on a few pounds and he could use a few new sweaters.”

“There are some sales on sweaters in men's, this being February.”

“Price isn't an issue.” Melanie winked at me. “Why would I cheap out on him when I plan to treat myself to a really great dress?”

“What's the event?”

“The Tokyo Children's Relief Ball; I'm chairing it. And while I'm at it, I want to pick up some undies, casual stuff, and some makeup. It's time to stock up.”

I knew from the K Team records that the last time Melanie had stocked up was thirteen days earlier, to the tune of $1,500.

“You need to—shop for a lot of different items,” I said.

She nodded happily. “The way I normally do it—when Miyo or Yuki takes me around—is just from floor one, accessories, right up to the top.”

I didn't realize who Yuki was at first, until I realized she meant Mrs. Okuma. The fact that Melanie had called my boss by her first name made me almost shudder at the impropriety. But what seemed more significant, when I thought about it, was what Melanie Kravitz was apparently doing: going floor by floor, as if she were casing the place.

Was Melanie Kravitz spying on behalf of her husband, just as I was doing for Michael and his bosses? I thought about how she'd said my name easily and acted as if she'd heard it before. Did she know my name from last year's tabloids, or was it because Warren Kravitz knew exactly who from OCI was involved in researching Mitsutan? My missing personnel file might not really have been taken by someone in Mitsutan's management. It could have been taken by one of Warren's own people.

As my doubts grew, I realized that my smile had frozen. Frantically I worked to make myself look normal and happy again. “What a delightful idea! I can't imagine anything more wonderful than going through every single department of the store looking at every single thing.”

“Are you kidding me, Rei? Not everyone likes to shop. That other girl in the office, Miyo, I think she runs at the sight of me,” Melanie said, handing me the heavy Kelly bag to carry.

“This is my job, and I love it,” I said, gripping her bag tightly between my hands, knowing I was on the verge of a really good idea.

I had never met a woman like Melanie Kravitz before. My mother loved to shop—and looked it—but she never would have run through the equivalent of $3,000 in two hours, just on clothes. But then, my mother was old money, which often came with a bit of frugality; Melanie Kravitz's money had to be almost as new as her Miyake jacket.

“Your husband must be the greatest. Wish I could get one like that myself,” I said after we'd spent half an hour in lingerie looking for a bra to fit under the red satin Carmen Marc Valvo gown she'd chosen for Saturday night. Melanie was thin enough to fit easily into standard Japanese sizes, but she was too big for most of the bras, which came in European sizes designed for Japanese bodies. I wore size 75, which, judging from the chatter in the women's locker room, was the most popular bra size in Japan. Melanie wore size 90, and it took three lingerie salesclerks to help me locate a pretty strapless bra in that size.

“You know, you really should try on some things. I'd love to see how they look,” I said when we'd finished in lingerie and were passing by a series of designer denim boutiques, ranging from special-issue Levis to the new power brands: Lucky, Citizens for Humanity, Earl, and Evisu.

“Oh, I prefer to try things on at home, where I have more room and a really good mirror. If it doesn't fit, I'll bring it back.”

“Of course,” I said, suddenly thinking about that. Maybe Melanie spent thousands but returned thousands. Customers' returns weren't tracked in the K Team registry—just their initial spending.

“Don't worry, I'm not like those women who buy an evening gown, wear it once, and then dump it on the store again. Haven't done that since I was a teenager.” She laughed lightly. “I choose very carefully. My closet is large by Japanese standards, but not by mine.”

“Where do you live?”

“We have a condo in Roppongi Hills. It's a cliché, I know, but the firm really is close by. Not to mention the Iron Grill for my husband, and all the other restaurants he and his cronies seem to live in.” She shuddered. “I send him out to dinner by himself. If I ate the way he did, I wouldn't fit into my clothes.”

“So you were saying your husband works at Winston Brothers' Tokyo office?”

“Yes. He's head of the Japan investment banking division.”

“Wow,” I said admiringly. “That happened fast. I mean, you're so young, I wouldn't expect it.”

“Warren's just forty-two, a couple of years younger than me. But sssh.” Melanie winked. “He worked hard for it, though. He's had a lot of success bringing in foreign investors.”

“Really,” I said, thinking back to the paperwork I'd seen on Kravitz. It had mentioned that he'd overseen the acquisition of many distressed properties in Japan, but it hadn't said anything about foreign investors.

“Yes, actually, if you're in the market for something…I mean, someone,” she winked at me, “maybe I could facilitate an introduction.”

“That would be super,” I said, though after suffering the indignities of life with an expat lawyer, the last thing I wanted was an expat banker.

“Yes, well, that girl you work with is always asking me to fix her up, but she just doesn't have the language skills. Can you imagine how hard it would be for her to fit in?”

I nodded as if this were a very serious issue indeed.

“Well, back to work!” Melanie said cheerfully. “I'd better not forget to buy something for Warren.”

“That's right. You said something about sweaters. Do you know if he tends to like things from Papa's Pocket or the other men's departments?” I was trying to be discreet about seeing whether he needed a plus size.

“He's not that bad off. I like him in Paul Smith.” She sighed, trailing her hand along a row of jeans. “God, I hate to leave this department. Those jeans are really cute, though I'm not sure if they're the right length—”

“It's the new Evisu jean,” said a salesgirl, who'd been hanging at the edge of the conversation. “We have only one in each size. That pair will be gone by tonight, after the office ladies come to shop.”

“That's the only size six, though you look, to me, like you should also try the four,” I said, translating and adding on a compliment that I hoped would lead her toward the changing room. “Both of them might be worth trying on, since the clerk said when the young girls come in tonight, after getting off work, she's sure they'll be gone.”

Melanie licked her full lower lip, as if considering the point. “You're right. I could bring back the jeans, but I might not be able to get the right size.”

“You're lucky that you can even wear Japanese sizes,” I said.

“Don't I know it. Half my friends are going to Korea next week, just hoping to find spring wardrobes that fit. And the clothes here are great, exactly the same labels you'd get in New York or L.A.”

I thought the clothing sold in Japan was a lot better, but I wasn't going to correct a customer. Instead I said, “There's a dressing room right here, and I'll stay right outside in case you need anything.”

“Great.” She plopped her bag into my lap.

“By the way, I've got a favor to ask.” I smiled at her. “May I make a quick call on your phone to my boss? I want to tell her that we'll be a while.”

This was great, I thought, as I seated myself on the velvet bench just outside the booths, the place where husbands usually sat. Under the cover of a pair of size-2 jeans folded over my lap, I used one of the tools from inside my jacket to pry off the hard plastic plate that covered the exterior of the phone. I slipped one of the last few bugs I had inside the phone, and fit the plate back on. I nestled the phone in Melanie's Kelly bag, next to an envelope labeled “Warren,” which I would have loved to look into, had it not been closed with a red wax seal.

“I think these are going to work.” Melanie stepped out of the booth and slowly revolved, showing off how snugly the jeans hugged her perfect butt. If this was what forty-four could look like, I thought to myself, bring it on!

“I like them with your pumps. I was wondering where you got those shoes?”

“Fendi. The boutique on Omote-Sando.”

Hmm. We had a Fendi department in the store, but I hadn't seen the shoes. Maybe they were from last season. I asked, “Are you sure you don't want to try the four? You're so slender that, well, I can't help thinking those might suit you, too.” I'd picked up a few of Miyo's tricks of flattery by now.

“Don't need to. But I'm not thrilled about the length.” I followed her gaze to the bottom of her jeans, which barely grazed her ankles.

“I see what you mean.” I paused. “You could take a pass on them, or we could see whether Alterations could actually take out the hem. But that would be if you were really interested, you know, not planning on returning them—”

“Do you mean, leave the bottoms unfinished and frayed?”

“Exactly. It's kind of trendy; it might not be what you want.” I could never, in my mind, imagine a banker's wife dressing like this.

“My Seven for Mankind jeans are like that.” Melanie nodded. “It's a good look. Might work. Tell me, what's the cost of a typical alteration?”

“Alterations are free,” I said, although Mrs. Ono might never let me off the hook for forcing her to do something as sacrilegious as pull out the hem of 70,000-yen jeans.

“One of the few deals around here, huh?” She laughed lightly, but I sensed, all of a sudden, that she was storing the detail. Something for her husband to chew over with her after he came back from dinner at the Iron Grill. Or maybe she'd call him directly on the phone. I was eager to hear what she was up to, once I got home and checked in with my listening station.

Melanie Kravitz left the store three hours later, loaded down with beige-and-black shopping bags that contained merchandise worth 300,000 yen. Because she was a resident foreigner, she didn't qualify for the tax rebate. At the cashier's station, she paid for everything in 5,000-and 10,000-yen bills that she pulled from the “Warren” envelope. It was an unconventional way to shop—using small, worn bills instead of antiseptic new ones, especially when the worn bills came out of a sealed envelope. I picked up the halves of the broken seal, which had fallen onto the cashing counter, and tucked them in my pocket with a look of apology at the cashier. The cashier, though, was counting the money intently. There was more risk of a mistake with small bills, and if it turned out that she had done something wrong, it would be her nightmare—and, Melanie being such a valued K Team customer, in turn, mine.

 

Riding home that evening on the subway, I wondered why I hadn't heard from Michael. Maybe he was having trouble getting in from the airport. I hoped that he'd had the foresight to exchange dollars for yen in advance, rather than arrive broke, as I did.

It wasn't the middle of the night; the currency exchange booth would be open. I reminded myself, as I opened the apartment door, that Michael Hendricks was experienced enough to handle these things.

I moved around the apartment, doing the security checks, and then scrubbed off my stage makeup and packed my aunt's kimono to return to her. I also packed another bag containing different clothes to wear to and from work the next day. I'd decided not to go overboard dressing up for Mr. Kitagawa. I'd chosen an asymmetrical black cowl-neck—Comme des Garçons, on sale—and a below-the-knee straight gray skirt, which I would wear with matching tights. I wanted as much of me covered as possible, this time.

It seemed crazy to be heading out for a nine-thirty dinner, but that was actually the reality in many Japanese households. People didn't think of Japanese as having hard lives, but it was things like this—working all day long, mostly on my feet, and having a very late dinner at the end of an hour's commute—that made me think this wasn't the promised land.

Good smells of steaming rice and simmering soy and garlic wafted up the stone walk from the house as I approached its sliding doors, which glowed welcomingly behind translucent glass.

“Tadaima!”
I dutifully called out the news of my arrival after I slid the door open. Until my aunt went to bed, the door stayed unlocked, no matter how many warnings I had given her about the changing nature of Japan.

“
Okaeri
, Rei-chan.” My aunt emerged from the direction of the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron she wore over her silk sweater and tweed pants. “You're the last one to arrive tonight.”

I could hear male voices in the dining room—Uncle Hiroshi and my cousin Tom. I wondered about my youngest cousin. “Is Chika around?”

“Hi, Anego!” Chika called out from the dining room, where she was at the computer, doing something or other. Chika had recently graduated from Kyoto University, and had managed to find a non-office lady job: a traveling sales position for a cell phone company that took her from Kansai to Hokkaido practically every week. I missed my cousin, but I couldn't help thinking that this kind of travel was a big improvement over her recent involvement as a camp follower to a British rock band.

“What did you call your cousin?” Norie came between the two of us. She was frowning at Chika.

“Anego,” I repeated. “It's a way of saying big sister, and you'd use it for the oldest, leader kind of woman in the group—”

“It's gangster talk,” Norie said. “It's a word for a
yakuza
mistress or wife. How can you call your cousin such a terrible thing?”

I gulped because I hadn't known that the cute salutation came out of organized crime.

“Obasan, you're so—unfashionable. But if it means that much to you, I'll call her onee-san.” Chika bowed, giving a false show of humility.

“Rei's fine,” I said, giving her shoulders a light hug.

“You and Chika will share her room tonight,” my aunt continued. “But first, let's eat.”

The food my aunt had selected from Mitsutan's Yokohama store was identical to what I knew from the food basement at the flagship store in Tokyo. There were tiny, plump
gyoza
dumplings filled with garlicky pork; nobody batted an eye when the self-proclaimed vegetarian quietly took a few. There was a bowl of spinach steeped in rice wine and ginger, and a plate of smoky grilled eels. On the side were a carrot-sesame salad and shrimp and cheese croquettes. The rice Norie had prepared herself in the trusty old Zojirushi rice cooker, and the warm soy-garlic smell turned out to belong to a heated noodle dish.

Everyone ate heartily, though Uncle Hiroshi made some sexist protests about wives who were too busy with outside activities to do their real job. And buying food like this cost a fortune! What had Norie spent, he wanted to know?

“Not in front of the children,” Aunt Norie said, smiling at us. I felt a stab of guilt because if I had bought the food, it would have been ten percent off. But my aunt hadn't wanted to buy food from the store where the murdered man had been found.

Everywhere I went, I couldn't escape the impact of Mr. Fujiwara's death. I hadn't taken his call on Monday—his last day of life—because I wanted to avoid speaking to a man I was certain just wanted to proposition me. But, as Michael could have told me himself, I hadn't known his intentions for sure. I thought back to my job interview in Mitsutan, when I'd told Ms. Aoki that my greatest skill was listening; but when the time had come for me to listen, I hadn't been there at all.