Girl in a Box (26 page)

“Dumb luck. A guy makes a risky trade or purchase, and it pans out nicely—well, he gets the bonus at year's end. And then the whole gang goes to Seventh Heaven or Climax to celebrate.”

And Russian strippers would lap-dance all over them, but of course I wasn't going to give away my knowledge of the seamier side of their lifestyle. It didn't pay to sound jealous.

“I know better clubs than Seventh Heaven and Climax,” Miyo said, and the two bankers exchanged amused glances.

“We'd like to take you girls out after dinner,” Archie said. “The thing is, I have to go back to the office to make a call at nine. You two can come with us, if you wouldn't find it too boring.”

“What do you think, Miyo?” I asked.

She blinked rapidly, as if unable to believe this wasn't a dream. “I think it sounds—awesome.”

The guys smiled at her use of the phrase, and inwardly, I cheered.

I could barely keep my eyes open when I rolled into bed six hours later. We'd done the Winston Brothers office, where Miyo and I spun around on office chairs, trying to make Archie crack up while he made his serious phone call to the big boss in New York. Then we'd gone out to a rave at Cube 326, and after we'd all been thoroughly overheated, I led everyone out, pointing to a place I'd noticed in a nearby lane: an old-fashioned games parlor in Shinjuku, a place where you could sit and play go for hours, drinking sake and surrounded by a totally Japanese crowd.

It had done the boys good to get out of their element, to go to a couple of places that must have felt edgy because they were almost completely devoid of gaijin. Miyo had said a few things earlier that gave me reason to suspect she was excellent at go—in Korea, they call it
baduk
—so each of us paired with one of the men, trying to teach them the basics. But it was pointless. No matter how many times we explained the rules of how to capture the opponent by surrounding him, they missed good opportunities: Ravi because he seemed a bit distracted, and Archie because he was getting drunk.

As Ravi and Archie swayed their way into a cab, Archie declared that they'd never had such a wild evening with Japanese girls. In return, he insisted that the two of us come with them the following evening to the Tokyo Children's Aid Ball.

I couldn't have been more pleased, but I acted regretful, reminding Miyo that we both had plans. Her face fell, but then she caught on to my game. We let the boys plead long and hard, and I made a call on my cell phone, a call that I made sound like a social date I was canceling, though I was actually just talking to my answering machine.

“I thank you for this special time,” Miyo had said, doing everything but hug me when we were saying good night at Shibuya Station. The boys had long since packed off in a taxi to their apartments in Ark Hills.

“I was happy to help you meet someone, Han-san. I think Archie really likes you.”

“Oh, call me Miyo, from now on. And, Rei-san—I'm sorry about the beginning we had. I just didn't understand who you really were.”

If she did really know, what would she think? I shuddered, thinking about it as I took off my smoky clothes and jumped into the shower, because I didn't want to contaminate the bed with the aromas of everywhere I'd been that night.

When I got out, the phone was ringing, and I picked it up as I toweled off.

It was Michael, sounding anxious. “You've been out of contact for hours.”

“Sorry, I thought I told you I had plans for the evening.” Guilt flashed through me, because I hadn't messaged Michael when I'd stepped into the women's lavatory several times that evening. But I'd been eager to get back, not to miss a bit of information the boys might spill.

“Are you alone?”

“Of course I'm alone.” I struggled into my nightgown double-time and heard the ominous sound of tearing silk. “What are you insinuating?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to—thank you for what you gave me earlier today—it was quite interesting. Since you're alone, I'll be able to talk about what I learned in the interview.”

Michael recounted how Warren Kravitz had jump-started Winston Brothers' rise in Japan during the 1990s, owing to his talent at locating distressed properties and then matching them to rich American clients who needed a guiding hand overseas. The recent slight rebound in the Japanese economy had raised his antenna, Michael said; it had caused his sharp eye to focus on Japanese retail patterns, whereupon he noticed the problem with Mitsutan and duly reported it to our government.

“Why did he even complain in the first place?” I demanded. “I can't help wondering if it's because he wanted to start a bad rumor about Mitsutan, ruin the company's value, and then help Jimmy DeLone buy it cheap.”

“There's no indication, from my conversation or your tape, that Warren's association with DeLone isn't completely new business. DeLone's been having trouble with the bank he was originally talking with in Japan, which was why he switched to Winston Brothers.”

“Really. And what motivation, then, does Warren Kravitz say drove him to tell tales to the government?”

“I think the exact word he used was ‘patriotism.'”

“Excuse me?” I smoothed my nightgown over my hips with one hand, checking myself in the mirror. Yes, I'd definitely torn the side. What a shame!

“He's worried for our country. He sees Japanese companies engaged in unscrupulous business practices take over so many markets that once were ours—cars, cameras, televisions, videos. Now with China on the rise, Japan is more desperate. I have to agree with him.”

“But what's the actual threat to our nation? Mitsutan's not trying to take over Saks Fifth Avenue—or Supermart, for that matter.” I paused. “What did you make of Melanie's mentioning Tyler?”

“I was startled,” Michael said. “I brought Tyler's name up casually—one of the reasons I told Warren that I was in Japan, at the embassy, was to make sure all of Tyler's possessions had been removed from his apartments, his bills paid, and so on. Warren chimed in that he'd met Tyler a few times because Melanie had used him as an extra man at some dinner parties, and so on.”

“And?”

“Well, he said that the kid talked to him about moving out of modeling and into investment banking, and Warren gave him a lecture on the academic qualifications needed. Of course, he had no idea Tyler was actually well educated.”

“Really? Where?”

“Princeton.”

“Oh!” This did surprise me, because I'd assumed, since he was so handsome, that he wasn't very smart. I'd been guilty of prejudice. “Well, if Tyler had this conversation with Warren, and these dinner parties or whatever with Melanie, why wasn't that all in the reports?”

“Probably because it happened quite close to the time of Tyler's death. He might not have had a chance to report it—or perhaps he was embarrassed to, because he actually did want to make a switch. Civil servants don't make that much, as I'm sure you know.”

I was actually making more, per month, now than I had ever made in my life—but of course, it was not a twelve-month-a-year job, just a temporary contract. And my last, if I didn't succeed. I offered, “Perhaps Tyler thought there was something bad going on at Warren's bank, and that's why he wanted to go in. He might not have been as bad an agent as you and I have been thinking.”

“I'm doubtful of that,” Michael said. “After all, he got himself killed.”

“Because he was killed, he must have been stupid? Is that the way you think things work?”

There was a long silence. Michael finally said, “No, of course not. You're right that Tyler gave his life for this investigation. I stand corrected.”

In a gentler tone, I said, “I think it makes us feel safer about our own situation here if we say the reason he died was that he made an error. But the fact is, there are unidentified people who are suspicious of me already, and God help you if you're on their radar screen as well.”

“Don't worry so much. I'm here to watch over you, okay?”

“Well, don't do it too closely,” I said. “Tomorrow night I don't want to see you, because I'm going to be in the vicinity of Warren and Melanie and even Jimmy DeLone.”

Michael interrupted me. “Sorry, but they're not on your turf.”

“But it'll blow my cover if I change my plans for tomorrow evening.” I explained how Miyo and I had met up with two young Winston Brothers employees who had asked us to accompany them to the charity ball.

“I got the feeling it was to save face with their boss. Apparently, Melanie wants a lot of Winston Brothers employees at the event. The unmarried ones are supposed to bring dates.”

“If you go, it's purely social. Right?”

“I'm sure that I'll enjoy myself, but I'll keep my ears open.” I desperately wanted to go. If I canceled, Miyo might flounder; and besides, I was curious to meet Warren Kravitz.

“You're not on assignment. I didn't send you there. In fact, I don't really want you to be there.”

“It's just a double date. The guys think I'm a mild-mannered salesgirl.”

“Oh, really! Have they seen your navel piercing yet?”

“No, but that reminds me that there are some things I need to tell you.” I described the slashed coat in my locker and the sorry state of my bank account.

Michael sounded fairly subdued at the end of my recital. “Are you still wearing the coat?”

“No. I threw it away, just in case there was a bug in it.”

“I would have liked to examine it,” Michael said. “But never mind. I presume this means you're going shopping again?”

“I didn't mean to spend as much money as I have,” I apologized, “but I guess it goes with the territory. Fortunately coats are on sale, and Miyo lent me the money to buy one yesterday because I was short. I don't have the receipt, but I do have the price tag. Can I use that in my expense report, minus the discount, of course?”

“Are you asking me for a cash advance?” Michael asked, instead of directly answering me.

“Well, yes. I want to pay her back as soon as possible.”

“So you just need money for the coat?”

“No,” I admitted. “Other clothes purchases are bound to come up, plus transportation, and I should really pay something toward all these bar and restaurant outings with Miyo and the guys, which should continue, because I'm forging important alliances, don't you think?”

There was a long silence. Then Michael said, “I've given you the right to manage your expenses, because you've been very trustworthy to date. I never imagined how high the totals would be. I don't know how I'm going to even start to explain your ridiculous lingerie bill to our accounting head.”

“Did you forget our conversation about where I needed to be carrying the bugs? As you know, there's a closet full of disguises in the apartment, but it did not include any bras, nor the right kind of pants with lots of pockets, and—and you know the rest. Everything I've worn has a purpose,” I protested.

Michael sighed and said, “I'll have two thousand dollars wired to your bank account, but it probably won't get there till sometime tomorrow. You may use whatever's needed from that to pay for the coat. And as far as tomorrow evening goes, please understand that you are not on assignment. This means, don't even think of asking me to recoup the cost of an evening dress.”

“Hungover?” Miyo whispered when we saw each other in the K Team's office at ten o'clock sharp on Saturday morning. Mrs. Okuma was already at her desk, looking rather sourly at both of us, as if she'd figured out that something had changed in the K Team, but not for the better.

I whispered back, “A bit. You?”

“Couldn't help it. What a good time!”

“And it was so nice of you to lend me the money for a new coat. I should have the money tonight to repay you.” I didn't need to tell her that at home the previous evening, I'd run the bug-detecting equipment over every inch of the garment, just to make sure Miyo hadn't slipped anything into it. The coat was cleaner inside than out, where—as I'd predicted—I already had a small stain from an overturned Kirin beer at the go parlor.

“Don't worry about it.” In her next breath, she said, “What are you wearing tonight?”

“I have a black Azzedine Alaia bandage dress. I think I'll wear that.” Thank goodness I'd packed the trusty old friend in my luggage.

Miyo winced. “A bandage dress? But that's so old, like from the time when we were children—”

When
she
was a child. I merely shrugged and said, “American men don't read
Oggi
or
25 Ans
. It's a nice, sexy dress; they're bound to think it's cool. And even if I had the money, there'd be no time to shop with just the two of us covering the desk.”

It was true; this was a very busy day, with a Swedish tour group coming in, assorted Chinese and Koreans, and what seemed like a representative of every Eastern European country. Miyo was willing to take the Korean customers around, I was glad to see. I was getting faster on the computer; by now, I knew most of the kanji that came my way, as I oversaw sales transactions and handled tax rebates by myself.

I was just giving 2,500 yen to a jubilant Thai woman—it never failed to thrill the foreign customers that they could get a fraction of money they'd spent back from the store—when Ravi Shah walked in. He was wearing khakis, a rugby shirt and Top-Siders, looking every bit the Indian preppie. His gaze swept over Miyo and me, and he smiled.

“What are you doing here, stranger?” I smiled back at him, thinking that, except for the matter of age, Ravi would be quite appropriate for a rebound romance. I was also feeling relieved that Mrs. Okuma was at lunch and wasn't around to listen in to this particular conversation.

“Oh, just wanted to check out if you two really worked here.” His smile was ingratiating, but I felt myself cringe slightly under his alert gaze.

“Of course we work here. What do you want, shopping help?” Miyo giggled. She had been the only one to jump up and give him the mandated welcoming bow; I'd been too stunned by his appearance to remember my etiquette.

“I already bought something for tonight.” Ravi held up one of Mitsutan's to-go garment bags, which I deduced was hanging over a formal suit. “This has to be the only country in the world where I can buy a suit without needing to alter the trouser length.”

“What about India?” Miyo asked.

“Everything there's custom-sewn by tailors. You can get an exact copy of a Savile Row suit hand-stitched in less than forty-eight hours, and I can't begin to tell you at how low a price.”

“You'll make me cry.” I'd already unzipped the garment bag and examined the inky-black Christian Dior tuxedo. “I hope you bought the tux using your Mitsutan credit card.”

“I used Visa. Why?”

“Well, if you use the store card, your purchases are tracked. If you're a good customer, you get some money back at the end of the year.”

“Ah, but
good
means spending a fortune, right?” Ravi raised his eyebrows. “And I'm not big on Japanese banks.”

“Why?” I asked.

“No offense intended. I'm sure that this store's banking and credit division is fine.” He leaned forward over my desk. “Actually, Rei, I was wondering if I could stash the suit here for about an hour while you show me around the store. You mentioned last evening something about an exhibit of antique Japanese games. And would you have time for lunch after that?”

“I wish I did, but there's just two of us on the K Team desk today.”

“You can go,” Miyo said. “And why not take Ravi-san to lunch using the house charge?”

“Are you sure it would qualify?” I asked.

“Look at what he's bought so far,” Miyo replied in Japanese. “I'll enter him in the K Team book, saying you helped him with the tuxedo, and then, as far as Okuma-san goes, there will be nothing out of line.”

 

Life was so much better, now that Miyo liked me. But I felt a bit uneasy, heading off with Ravi, who I sensed had something more on his mind than the games exhibit or lunch with me.

“The store has so many restaurants that we really have a lot of choices. I can help you figure out something vegetarian,” I said to him from the back of the elevator, where we were jammed in along with many housewives, all headed up toward the restaurant floor.

“Don't worry about that. I'm actually not that hungry. But I'd like to see the games.”

We exited on five and entered Musée Mitsutan, which was twice as crowded as it had been the last time I'd stopped in. This must have been because it was Saturday. Fathers were around, holding their children's hands and explaining the intricacies of the different games. A few of the children got really excited and tried to pick up the old agate and crystal pieces; one toddler started screaming when a Mitsutan staffer tried to intervene.

I couldn't help smiling, and Ravi said to me, “That's quite a cool game. But it's really Chinese in origin, isn't it?”

I turned to him. “It's a matter of debate. Each country wants to claim to be first. I tend to believe great games can develop spontaneously in different places.”

“Games also traveled quite a bit. I know India's supposed to be the original place for a lot of games, like snakes and ladders and chess—which actually seems a bit like that game over there.” He pointed at a footed
shogi
board with eighty-one square places marked on its surface; on it were little pieces of lacquered wood inscribed with words for gold and silver generals, knight and lance. I explained the strategy of
shogi
, and its various playing pieces, to Ravi.

“Is this the most important game in Japan?” he asked.

“Probably. It's such a great game of strategy. I know it's tough to play the first time around, but I'm sure you'll get the hang of it, if you're interested.”

“You said it was a game of siege when we were talking yesterday.”

“That's right. But in order to win, you need to develop a skill we call
taikyoku-kan
.”

“Which means?”

“The ability to view the entirety of what's going on, all the time.” I looked at Ravi, who seemed befuddled, so I went on. “The way it works, I think, is by constantly surveying the progress of the game, always imagining different outcomes. A player who gets really excited by a partial victory could be defeated at the end; that's what kept happening to you and Archie last night, I think.”

“Archie didn't care,” Ravi said.

“But did you? Did it bother you that two girls were taking the lead, telling you what to do?”

Ravi's voice sounded guarded. “Are you asking me this because you think I come from a conservative culture?”

I hesitated, remembering who I was supposed to be. Quietly, I replied, “I suppose so. As an Asian woman, I know there are some things I'm not supposed to say or do in order to keep things harmonious.”

My mind on this, I picked La Mer, Mitsutan's Mediterranean restaurant, for lunch. I figured there would be some kind of pasta or salad that would meet Ravi's standards, but unfortunately, just about everything contained some form of meat or fish. The waitress shook her head when I asked if the spaghetti bolognese could be served just with olive oil. So much for catering to the customer's needs. Also, we hadn't gotten a good table up front; we were in the back, next to the kitchen door.

“I'll order the fruit cup; I'm not that hungry anyway,” Ravi said.

“I'll have the salmon salad, then, if you don't mind seeing fish on my plate.”

“It's okay. I'm used to being close to things I don't like.”

“You seem a bit stressed,” I said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“A bit stressed,” Ravi repeated. “What an interesting phrase.”

“What do you mean?” I said, laying out the napkin on my lap. It was a treat for me to eat in a Mitsutan restaurant while in uniform; the only reason that it was happening was that I had a customer, and I was determined to enjoy my meal, whether or not the customer was surly.

“Your English is very good for a Japanese store clerk,” Ravi said, and from the expression in his dark, hooded eyes, I finally understood that he knew. I couldn't play the acquiescent Asian anymore; I'd have to match his aggressive moves with a few of my own.

Lowering my voice, I said, “I wonder how many people have said the same kind of thing about your English?”

“English is the national language of India,” Ravi said stiffly. “I attended English schools until I arrived in New Jersey, at the age of ten. Yes, I speak Gujarati at home with my parents, but English is what I've always spoken, most of the time.”

“Of course. But there's the matter of how you look. And how I do, as well.”

“You're not really twenty-three years old,” Ravi said.

I shrugged. “Maybe not. I didn't say anything when Miyo was telling you my age because I didn't want to scare you young darlings off.”

“I believe you're thirty years old,” Ravi went on, “and you're not a graduate of Waseda University, but of Johns Hopkins in Baltimore.”

We were staring at each other when the waitress interrupted us with the fruit cup and my salad. She left the bill prominently at my side. It was because I worked for the K Team, of course; but Ravi didn't know. He stared at the bill as if it were dirty.

I picked it up. “I'm paying this, and I can do it right now and leave if that would make you more comfortable. Obviously you've done a Google search or something like that on me, and I'm not to your taste. That's fine—I understand it completely—”

“Don't go,” he said. “I just want to know why you're pretending to be someone else.”

I gazed into the eyes of this bright, energetic young man, knowing that what Michael feared most was happening: my cover was on the verge of being blown. The only consolation was that he didn't work at Mitsutan; but even as a friend, he was a danger to me.

“I don't know if you can possibly understand what it's like to grow up in two worlds.” I spoke slowly, formulating my words as I went along. What I was going to say was based mostly on truth, and that was what made it so difficult. “I was educated there…but I'm supposed to fit in here. That's why I'm at Mitsutan. It's the perfect place for a woman in her twenties, and, well, my twenties were a lost decade, I'm sure you already know, if you read about all the things that happened.” I paused. “Did you?”

“Well, actually, what I did was follow a hunch and go to the website for foreign alumni of Waseda. It tells what everyone did after the junior year abroad. You, I believe, went to Hopkins and Berkeley and then over here, to sell antiques? That's a far cry from what you're doing now.”

I shook my head in dismay. “There is a Japanese-language website for regular Waseda alumni, with a different Rei Shimura listed, with all the correct biographical data. I'm sure of it!” Michael and Mrs. Taki had slipped the information about me into the existing web page.

“Yeah, but because I don't read Japanese, I wound up in the foreigners' section, like I always do.” He was talking about a section I had never bothered to search, and hadn't even known had listed me.

“Well, during the last few years in Japan I've faced—some discrimination—so I've decided to go completely native. You've heard of born-again Christians? Well, I'm a born-again Japanese! That's about all I can say for myself.”

“Why do you pretend to have a Japanese accent? It kept coming and going last night; it was ridiculous. Don't even use it tonight.”

“I don't know whether I should come with you. I'm a bit anxious, now, about it. I just thought it was going to be a good time, dancing and that kind of thing—”

“Why did you hit on us last night?” Ravi asked abruptly.

“Miyo and I were just out—enjoying ourselves. We saw two cute, friendly-looking guys and sent over a couple of martinis. We didn't mean to cause you any concern.”

“Listen, I have enough phony shit going on all day long,” Ravi said. “The last thing I need is more of the same.”

I would have loved to hear what he considered phony shit, but I didn't want to press my luck. So I sliced off a wedge of salmon and chewed it instead of answering.

Ravi spoke again. “I must marry an Indian girl.”

I looked up at him, and saw how agitated he had become. This twenty-four-year-old guy, who I'd thought was happy-go-lucky the previous night, seemed on the verge of tears. I said, “Is that a big problem?”

“Sometimes I wonder if anyone will have me.”

“Of course someone will. You'll have your pick, I'm sure.”

Ravi closed his eyes for a long moment. “My parents worked so hard for this…for me to go to Penn, then to get a chance at a place like Winston Brothers…but it's just rotten. I wish I could quit.”

I nodded, not having to fake sympathy. “What's going on at work, exactly?”

“It's—the things we do, the corners we cut.” He shook his head. “Our business practices are no better than the worst stories I hear from my uncles in India. Maybe it's because we're in Asia. But then again, I'm working for a hundred-year-old American firm, supposedly perfect.”