The Salaryman's Wife (10 page)

“But the holiday week isn’t over yet. You have not visited the ghost museum.” Taro Ikeda pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose as if examining me for my true intent. We were eating our last breakfast together, and he and Yuki had vehemently protested my early departure. Mrs. Yogetsu remained silent as she moved between us, scooping hot rice into the breakfast bowls.

“
Boyfriendo
trouble.” Yuki’s Jinglish didn’t make me smile. How had they picked up on things?

“Yes, Rei, don’t you want to wait to say bye to Hugh and Mr. Yamamoto?” Mrs. Chapman asked. “I think they’ll be back from skiing by mid-afternoon.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. The death—I’ve never been exposed to anything like that. And I booked myself on the morning train. I’ll beat the U-turn rush of travelers going back to the city.”

You’re going back to Tokyo, then?” Mrs. Chapman’s voice was all business.

“That’s right.” Back to my crummy flat and my best friend Richard Randall and a job that, on the best days, could only be called tolerable. Back to life and not death.

“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll tag along with you. I’ve seen all these mountains. What I need is to experience a world class Japanese city. I’ll stay with you until I find a hotel.”

How to best discourage her? “Mrs. Chapman, I live in a fourth floor walk-up. One and a half rooms with no heat. Also, the neighborhood is a magnet for the homeless.”

“That sounds interesting!”

Taro grunted and Yuki put her hand over her mouth, hiding her giggle.

Remembering Mrs. Chapman’s conservative nature, I brought out the artillery. “My roommate is gay or bisexual, he’s not sure which. We’d have to all sleep together….”

“Well, I could just as easily find a hotel. With heat.” She blinked rapidly. “Mr. Ikeda, would you be kind enough to set something up with your reservations person? So it’s ready when we arrive?”

We had seats on the train and slept half the way to Tokyo. Once there, we went straight to the touristy southwestern part. Taro’s agent had found a single room with private bath and central heat in Roppongi for $150; the only explanation for the deal was that
everyone was out of town for the holidays. Mrs. Chapman was pleased with the price and the sight of all the Western restaurants in the area.

“We’ll talk first thing tomorrow morning,” she said, writing down my telephone number and address in the hotel lobby. “You’ll take me to Tokyo Tower and the Meiji Shrine and maybe Disneyland.”

“Why don’t you try another bus tour? There are organized excursions to all those places…” I had escaped my holiday in hell only to find it wouldn’t let me go.

She got my message, because her voice came more slowly. “Gosh, I’m chattering on, when you probably left Shiroyama to get away from me! My husband always said I was pushy. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” I said. “It is hard to be a stranger in a foreign city. I’m sure we’ll be able to meet some time…maybe for lunch early next week?”

“You’ve got a deal. Rei Shimura.” She sighed happily, looking around the cozy lobby decorated in pink and teal. “Hey, do you think there’s a bellhop in this place?”

I could have used assistance by the time I finally got home, humping my heavy bag up the stairwell into a dark and freezing apartment. Richard should have been home, but then again, I hadn’t called ahead to tell him about my premature arrival.

Saturday morning, the kitchen was so cold I had to turn the broiler on for warmth while I made toast and coffee. Going through the stack of newspapers
that had piled up, I began looking for mention of Setsuko Nakamura’s death.

I was midway through the first article when Richard opened his bedroom door. He was wearing a set of long underwear like mine topped with a droopy Norwegian sweater that hung past his narrow hips. He must have tiptoed in after I was asleep.

“Telephone, baby. Long-distance.” He handed me the cordless and settled down across from me.

It was Yuki Ikeda. “Rei-san! I was worried you were not safe.”

I had promised to call, but was so exhausted and depressed when I’d finally gotten in that I couldn’t bring myself to do it. “
Sumimasen
. Sorry. I came in so late, I didn’t want to wake you with a phone call.”

“We’re leaving today, so I had to call you. Things here are…strange. Mr. Yamamoto got lost.”

“What do you mean?” I stared out the window into the grayness of my neighborhood. I couldn’t imagine a tourist getting lost in tiny Shiroyama, where every corner had a sign directing you to this or that temple.

“There was a skiing accident, they think. Yamamoto-san vanished yesterday morning. Hugh-san searched many hours at the ski park. Then it started snowing heavily, which made vision impossible.”

It was terrible to think of Mr. Yamamoto’s body buried by mounds of snow. I’d been mad at him for gossiping about me, but now I remembered the humor and compassion he’d shown at New Year’s Eve dinner. He was a young man full of energy and dreams that were probably over.

“I have another thing to mention. We still have your antique box. Taro hasn’t finished reading the newspaper lining, but he’s sure he can date it,” Yuki said earnestly.

“That really doesn’t matter anymore…How can you think about it now?” I was amazed at her digression, given the seriousness of Yamamoto’s disappearance.

“We will return it, I promise. It was so irresponsible, you must think we are thieves!”

“Please take as long as you like. I have no real use for it.” I liked Yuki, but I hadn’t really thought we’d see each other again. Making friends while traveling was one thing, keeping them was another. Now she was chattering on, making me open my calendar and set up a coffee date for the following Sunday.

“Very good, we will take care of your box. And Rei-san, maybe it is better that you left. Because of how Hugh-san behaves now.”

“Oh?” I tried to sound uninterested.

“When he came in yesterday he was very angry, especially when Taro mentioned you were gone. Such a frightening personality! No, you would not like him anymore.”

“What’s going on, sugarplum?” Richard pounced when I got off.

“Don’t you read the papers?” I would have thought he’d kept abreast of the fact that I’d landed smack-dab in the middle of a scandal.

“Only for Ann Landers and the Canadian hockey scores. You know that.”

I handed him the
Japan Times
January 3rd edition with a front page photograph of Hugh Glendinning and the Nakamuras snapped at a cherry blossom viewing festival last spring. Setsuko, wearing a stunning gold-embroidered kimono, stared straight into the camera’s eye with the slightest hint of a smile; her husband looked appropriately sober. Hugh was laughing at something off-camera.

Richard read the story, then went back to the picture on the front. “This
gaijin
was involved? He looks yummy.”

“He was,” I said without thinking.

Richard yelped. “Asian girl goes on sex holiday! Tell me or else.” He brandished my dull vegetable knife.

I gave in quickly, as we both knew I would. Partly because Richard was a good amateur therapist, given his years reading Landers; also because he was my best friend, probably the only person willing to share the rent on a tin-roofed hovel miles from the plush neighborhoods where most foreigners congregated.

“That’s a lot more interesting than what was in the paper,” he said when I was through. And then, irrelevantly, “So, how does this affect your feelings for Shin?”

“Shin Hatsuda?” I had almost forgotten about the last heartbreaker in my life. “There’s nothing I feel for him. Not an ounce of emotion.”

“Then why has there been nobody since? You should trust again, realize not all boys are going to paint third-rate nudes with your face on them.”

“Now Shin seems so young, so fledgling.” I paused. “No offense.”

“Hey, I’m glad I’m under twenty five, and I
wouldn’t recommend anyone over thirty. They’ve got expense accounts but none of the crucial drives.” Richard waved his coffee cup at me, sloshing a bit of the dark brown liquid over the art deco ice cream parlor table we’d carried home from the ‘logo shrine sale a year ago.

“Our drives were equal. It was a shame.” I said glumly, wiping up the spill.

I’d picked the wrong words; they set Richard off on his favorite Lemonheads song, the one that misappropriated my name.

Hugh Glendinning’s name would be engraved on my lower body for the rest of the year, if not the rest of my life. As Richard quieted down, I tried to explain how depressing that was. “The problem is he paid attention to me for the wrong reason, to get something—”

“Absolutely! If he had you in rapture, he knew you wouldn’t give a flying leap what he’d done. Do you really think he killed her?”

“I don’t know.” I shut my eyes, wishing none of
it had happened. “There was something he wanted to tell me, but I wasn’t going to wait around for it.”

“Smart, Rei, very smart. And to think you have a Phi Beta Kappa certificate rolled up somewhere behind your bookcase!”

The morning paper ran a short follow-up on the tragic, accidental death of Setsuko Nakamura. Speaking for Sendai, Hugh Glendinning relayed the fact Mr. Nakamura was grieving the loss of his wife and, after a short absence, would return to his position overseeing strategic planning at Sendai.

Richard drifted into the bathroom to shower, and I pulled out the Nakamura autopsy. If I understood it, I might be able to believe that I had overreacted to Setsuka’s death. After studying it for twenty minutes, I found I could only make out a few
kanji
. I could fax it to my father and have him explain the medical parts. Then again, I didn’t know how I’d present it without getting him riled up about the dangers of my life in Japan.

While I was looking through a stack of New Year’s postcards half an hour later, a name leaped out at me. Here was someone who knew even more than my father. Not pausing to read the card’s greeting, I went to the phone.

The switchboard operator at St. Luke’s International Hospital was unexcited that Dr. Tsutomu Shimura had a female cousin. I got the feeling that young women called on a regular basis for the thirty-three-year-old, still-unmarried
oisha-san
, as physicians were fawningly
called. The operator informed me that Tom had gone to an emergency medicine conference and would get my message upon return.

“Tell him it’s Rei, his cousin in Tokyo who’s home for the holidays,” I begged. The fact was I’d met him just a couple of times, first when he’d stayed with my family in California, and years later at my aunt’s house in Yokohama. He’d been pretty friendly, saying he admired me for living where I did. I had a strong feeling he’d come through for me.

I went out with a load of clothing for the dry-cleaner, and on the way back, stopped at the Family Mart convenience store. I needed to pick up a few groceries and see Mr. Waka.

I made my way through the aisles of toiletries and snacks to where the fifty-something man of my dreams was ringing up some candy for a junior high student. He’d lost most of his hair and had a small soccer ball for a stomach, but we had lots in common: chiefly, a passion for society gossip. Mr. Waka was a big fan of Japan’s imperial family. When business was slow, he translated for me all the best tabloid stories about its younger members.

“
Irasshaimase
, Shimura-san,” he sang out in welcome when I placed milk and a small box of sushi on the counter in front of him. “What an honor to see you again! I thought you had given up eating.”

“Waka-san, I can’t believe you forgot about my vacation. Don’t I mean anything to you?” I made a long face.

“Such money you throw around traveling. It must be very nice.” Mr. Waka began to bag the food.
“Where did you go? I can’t remember. So many nice young misses come in and talk to me that I cannot keep their lives apart.”

“I went to Shiroyama—”

“Oh, yes! I believe you saw many TV crews up there!” An excited look crept across his face. Within seconds, I was seated behind the counter with him, a complimentary box of Almond Pocky pretzels between us. As I munched one of the salty-sweet sticks, I described the scene and people involved.

Mr. Waka, as I could have expected, promptly decided Setsuko’s accidental death was murder. “
Wah!
It must be one of the foreigners. The
Scotlandjin
, or the old lady, or you!”

“Don’t be like everyone else in this country, assuming the worst of foreigners! What about Mr. Nakamura, Mrs. Yogetsu, or the Ikedas?”

“But you didn’t like the Nakamura woman,” Mr. Waka pointed out. “You were jealous because of the
Scotlandjin
. If anyone has motive, it’s you.”

“It’s not like that.” The police had no problem with me. I mean, the chief gave me back my passport.”

“Just wait for them to come. They come often enough in this neighborhood. But don’t worry.” He gave me an angelic smile. “I will offer you a personal reference.”

It was pitch black when I turned the corner to my apartment. I stumbled over something on the pavement by my house, and when I heard a groan I knew
I’d bumped one of my homeless neighbors. They usually stretched out on newspapers and blankets under the awning of a permanently-closed factory farther down on the block.

“
Gomennasai
,” I apologized. “I didn’t mean to step on you.”

The man flicked his cigarette lighter. In its flame, his craggy face appeared baffled. I had done something weird again. One wasn’t supposed to talk to vagrants.

“Please take this.” A sudden impulse made me thrust the dinner I’d bought at Family Mart into his hands. The homeless never begged; what I was doing was radical and might be unwelcome. Nervous about his reaction, I sidestepped him and quickly ran into my building.

I had forgotten it was
kanji
study night. Richard, Simone, and Karen were clustered around my low
kotatsu
table, their toes pressed against the electric heater underneath. A neat stack of flash cards waited on the low table’s center, ready for the contest.