The Salaryman's Wife (21 page)

The elevator doors opened with an electronic chirp on the twenty-second floor to a hall carpeted in cream wool. I glanced in the mirrored wall and frowned at my windblown, exhausted appearance.

“I know it’s ridiculously seventies,” Hugh said, as if my unhappy face was a reaction to the decor. “Inside the flat it’s the same. Almost everything’s rented, so don’t slag me off.”

That relaxed me enough to anticipate something truly wretched. The door opened to a tiled entryway hung with a large, expensively framed print of rugby players locked in a mud-covered embrace.

“You’re such a guy!” I was blown away.

“I thought I turned the lights off when I went off for the holiday. My electric bill’s going to be a nightmare,” Hugh moaned as I slipped off my shoes and followed beige wall-to-wall carpeting into a giant living room where a solid glass wall revealed Tokyo Tower and Hotel Okura lit up gorgeously against the dark sky.

The view was the best thing in the huge room furnished with sterile leather furniture in a shade that matched the carpet. The dining room was hardly
better, dominated by a glossy rosewood table and six rigid-looking chairs. One wall was mirrored and the other held a pair of reproduction screens depicting a flowing river banked by plum trees. I’d studied it as an undergraduate, so the identification came easily:
Red and White Plum Blossoms
by Ogata K
rin, an early eighteenth-century artist.

“Setsuko chose that.” Hugh sensed my unasked question about the only Japanese thing in sight.

“No wonder. From you, I would have expected Sumo wrestlers or something more akin to your rugby players.”

“The wrestlers are in the bedroom,” he said with a ghost of his old smile.

“You have more room than you need, don’t you?” I was trying hard to keep my cool. In the two rooms I’d seen so far, I could fit my apartment five times over. I had a fleeting thought of how my art and textile collections could warm the environment but pushed it away.

“Excuse me,” I said, noticing a half-opened door to what looked like a powder room. Walking in, I caught a quick movement in the mirror. I yelped and started to step back, but my hand had already hit the light switch. In a millisecond, track lights shone down on the man slammed up against the linen closet: Kenji Yamamoto, looking frightened but very much alive.

“The exterminators were here scarcely a month ago, so please don’t tell me—” Hugh stopped short.

“
Sumimasen
, I’m so sorry!” Yamamoto, wearing what looked like one of Hugh’s expensive Scottish sweaters over his ski pants, dropped to the ground and began the kind of bowing appropriate for temples.

“Sorry? I damn near broke my ankle because of you!” Hugh waved a crutch at him.

“Please forgive me. Please understand!” Yamamoto cried.

“Do you mind?” I looked at the two of them significantly. Yamamoto got to his feet and Hugh limped out after him.

When I emerged a few minutes later, the two were sitting at the dining table with a bottle of Scotch between them.

“This is Cadenhead’s, one of my favorite single
malt whiskeys. You haven’t tried it yet.” Hugh held out a glass to me.

“You’re drinking with someone who might have killed Setsuko and was willing to let you take the fall. Why not lie down and hand him a knife to finish you off!” I stormed away from them and into the kitchen, where I was hit with multiple shocks at the sight of the full-sized stove and oven, the dishwasher, the small center island with a butcher-block top. It was unbelievable. I hadn’t seen a kitchen this luxurious since I’d left America.

“While you’re in there, could you pull some shepherd’s pies from the freezer? I think everyone could use a bite,” Hugh called after me.

What did he think this was, a dinner party? I rummaged around the freezer, setting aside packages of ice cream, fish fingers, and lamb curry until I came up with a two-pack of shepherd’s pie. I slid it into a spotless microwave mounted on the wall and began looking for something for myself. I wound up with French crackers—it seemed none of his food was Japanese—spread with Patak’s Original Lime Pickle and some thin slices of a wan tomato.

“Do you have place mats?” I asked when I came out.

“Second drawer in the sideboard. Thanks. But you’re not eating a pie?”

“You know I don’t touch meat.” I watched him cut through mashed potatoes to dead-looking green peas and oily ground meat before turning my attention to Yamamoto. “So, how did you break in?”

“A long time ago Hugh-san gave me a key. He said when I needed some privacy, I could come.”

“That was to be negotiated beforehand—remember?” Hugh said.

“There was no time. I had to leave Shiroyama. I couldn’t continue with Sendai, so the practical thing was to disappear.”

“What about resigning?” I asked.

“You cannot resign from the
yakuza
.”

I felt like my stomach was falling out of me, straight down to the soft Chinese rug under the table. I stared at Hugh. “You’re part of the Japanese mob? I didn’t know they took…foreigners.”

“I wish I had a camera to freeze the greatest look of indignation yet.” Hugh was laughing outright.

“So you could send our snapshots around the country and put a contract out on us?” I stretched out a hand to his colleague. “Yamamoto-san, if you’re telling the truth, you shouldn’t have come to
him
.”

“But this
yakuza
business does not concern Hugh-san! It is about Nakamura-san and the Eterna.” Yamamoto shrunk from me.

“The Eterna?” I was confused.

“The long-life battery we’re developing for our laptops. I told you about it,” Hugh said.

“It was my special project. The week before we went to Shiroyama, I worked late every night—later than you and Nakamura-san,” Yamamoto said pointedly. “I went into his office to drop off the plans for expansion into Singapore. On his desk, I saw a floppy disc labeled Taipei.”

“Taipei? We’re not doing anything there.” Hugh stopped eating.

“Exactly! I was curious, so I read the disc. I am not
an engineer, but I noticed that it mentioned lithium ion, an important element in the battery design.”

“The formula’s still classified because the patents aren’t in order yet. Why would Nakamura have it?” Hugh asked.

“He intends to sell the plans outside the company through the
yakuza
, like I have been saying.”

“I’d have to see a copy of the disc to believe it,” Hugh said.

“I made one and brought it to give you at the
minshuku
.” It disappeared from my suitcase. I noticed on New Year’s Day.”

“I suppose you left a hard copy on your computer at work?” Hugh asked.

“If I did that, I could be accused! I could not risk leaving it anywhere.”

“I want to hear more about the
yakuza
.” I interrupted.

“There is a man Mr. Nakamura sometimes has drinks with on Thursday afternoons at the café across the street.” Yamamoto paused. “Ichiro Fukujima, who is said to be a member of the Saito family.”

“Nakamura may have a gangster pal, but Sendai is not a
yakuza
company. Masuhiro Sendai would never tolerate anything that might bring a whiff of scandal. Look at how quickly I was suspended from work!” Hugh said.

“Gangsters make many secret movements,” Yamamoto insisted. “At the
minshuku
on January third, someone entered my room again, leaving some very expensive jewelry. Pearls I recognized from Mrs. Nakamura’s neck.”

I gasped as Hugh asked calmly, “So, what did you do with the jewelry?”

“I threw it in the back of my closet. I meant to talk to you that night, but you went to dinner with Rei. When you came back you stayed together.” He gave me a resentful look. “All night long, I think, because it was not quiet.”

“Tea, anyone?” I scooted into the kitchen. As I searched for a kettle, I thought about how the jewelry had been hidden. Yamamoto and Hugh had side-by-side rooms. The closet in the middle could be accessed by either man. I’d misjudged the situation, and so had the police.

I emerged with a tray bearing a teapot, sugar, and a small pitcher of soured milk I found in the fridge. As I poured for the two of them, I asked Yamamoto the question that still burned for me—why he believed the necklace had been placed in his suitcase.

“I thought if Mr. Nakamura was a
yakuza
member, maybe he was not afraid to kill. When I found the necklace, I thought he was giving me a warning,” Yamamoto said.

“So that’s why you ran,” Hugh said, grimacing when he tasted his milky tea.

“I didn’t know what trouble it would cause,” Yamamoto sounded tearful. “When I finished the first ski run ahead of you, I dropped my skis in a ravine and caught a taxi back into Shiroyama. I traveled by train to Yokohama and stayed for a few days with an old friend. But his parents were coming back from their New Year’s holiday, so I had to leave.”

“Why didn’t you stay with your parents?” Hugh
pushed his tea cup aside and poured himself more whiskey. “They could have helped you come up with a more realistic exit.”

“They know nothing. How could I say I was running from Sendai? Such a famous, excellent employer? They would never understand!”

“Do you realize they’re probably in the process of planning your funeral? You must ring them,” Hugh insisted.

“But Sendai can’t find out—I could die!”

“Could you call the National Police Agency?” I asked. “They oversee all of Japan’s police departments and are trying hard to make inroads against organized crime.”

Hugh creaked to his feet. “In exchange for another night here, will you please telephone home?”

“I’d like to, but Yokohama is long distance.”

“Call them now! Please!” Hugh barked.

“You should call the National Police Agency yourself,” I muttered when Yamamoto had gone into Hugh’s study to use the telephone. “I don’t trust him. Besides, the police need to know the truth about the pearls.”

“I’m not calling anybody,” Hugh said. “The pearls are no worry—I’m out of prison, aren’t I? And I’d like to figure out this mess regarding the Eterna battery.”

“Why, so you can get your job back? Forget Sendai. You could work anywhere else in the world. I thought you were a man on the move, a new job every eighteen months—”

“I want to stay
here
.” His voice was obstinate.

I looked at the brass captain’s clock on the sideboard.
It was after midnight, which meant the subway had stopped running. I would have to find a taxi.

“I’m out of here.” I carried the plates and glasses into the kitchen, noticing Yamamoto hadn’t touched his Scotch. I deliberated whether to load the dishwasher but decided against it, in the interest of giving them something to do.

Hugh swung up behind me on his crutches as I was gathering together my parka and shoes.

“I’ll give you a run back in the car. Your lousy tea sobered me up.”

“No chance. You need to keep an eye on Yamamoto, and it’s easier for me to take a taxi.”

“It’s just a few hours until the morning trains start up. Don’t go.” Hugh was studying me in a way that reminded me of the last night we’d spent together, the night before everything went to hell.

“I’ve had enough. Good-bye, Shug.” I peeked over my shoulder to catch his reaction and was annoyed to see he wasn’t even watching. He was talking into his hallway intercom, already with something new.

Outside the building, a taxi had just pulled up. Lucky for me. I smiled gratefully at the Roppongi Hills doorman who handed me in, but did a double-take when he gave the driver my address and a crisp 5,000 yen note.

“Glendinning-san requested,” the doorman said to me in explanation.

Hugh must have organized this subversive act of charity using the intercom.

I should have been humiliated, but the hard fact was that a crosstown taxi ride would have been catastrophic for my personal finances. So as dirty as Hugh Glendinning’s money might be, I’d take it.

I dressed in the bathroom the next morning to avoid waking Mariko snoring gently on the spare futon. I would have also liked to sleep in, but Sunday was the busiest shopping day of the week. It would be an advantage to show up at Mitsutan before Setsuko’s favorite salesclerk, the one Mariko had told me about, got too busy.

As I rode the subway to Shinjuku, I pictured the mysterious Miss Yokoyama folding Chanel scarves or arranging Prada handbags in glass display cases. I was pretty disappointed when the information desk clerk sent me to the children’s department. What interest did Setsuko have in children’s clothes, besides the occasional present for her friends’ offspring? Maybe it had something to do with her secret baby. Wondering, I rode the escalator up to the land of infant Moschino and headed to a pair of female salesclerks folding the smallest sweaters I had ever seen.

“Does a Miss Yokoyama work here?” I looked at them without hope.

“I am Yokoyama. How can I help you?” The smaller one wearing her hair in a neat braid smiled at me with slightly buck teeth, wholly too unglamorous to be a friend of Setsuko’s.

“I’m looking for something…a nice sweatshirt,” I said, hoping to draw her away from her colleague to the other side of the department. “Something for an older girl.”

“Do you know her size?” Miss Yokoyama began leading me deep into racks of pink and red outfits.

“Actually, I came to ask you about Setsuko Nakamura. I’m not sure if you know she passed away?”

“Oh, yes. It was tragic.” Miss Yokoyama looked over her shoulder at the other salesclerk, then back at me. “Did you go to the
tsuya
? What was she wearing?”

“The casket was closed because of the autopsy.” I was surprised at her question before remembering she was in the business of selling clothes. “I’m here because I had a few questions about her shopping. I’m putting the family finances in order.”

“Oh?” Miss Yokoyama sucked air between her teeth. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You waited on her when she came in, didn’t you? I know she used to spend a lot.”

“I don’t know about that.” Miss Yokoyama’s answer came before I’d stopped talking.

“This is confidential, so please don’t worry about anything.” I fingered a sweater, marveling at the price
of one hundred percent acrylic. Antique silk kimonos went for less at the shrine sales.

“I’m sorry, but I really don’t think I have anything to say.”

“Can I meet you in the ladies’ room or somewhere like that?”

“No breaks allowed until one o’clock.”

“I’ll wait for you!”

“Will you buy something from me?” she asked suddenly. “If anyone asks what we’re doing so long together, I can explain you had a problem deciding.”

“Okay.” I’d have a horrendous Visa bill this month, but so be it.

“Get a T-shirt,” she advised. “It’s cheaper, and I think I can find something that will fit you. You’re small enough.”

“What do you mean?” I wasn’t
that
flat.

“It’s a style! Tiny, tiny T-shirts show off the bosom. You’re a foreigner, aren’t you?” Miss Yokoyama beckoned me to follow her into the pre-teen department. “No wonder Setsuko-san was friends with you. She liked foreigners.”

“You met Mr. Glendinning?”

She nodded, blushing a little.

“What did they buy?” I asked.

“Oh, anything. A dress if she had a party to attend. Spanish porcelain figures. She liked English china, too.”

“But I don’t understand. If you sell only children’s clothes—”

“I worked in customer service before.”

“Ah. Mariko didn’t say that.”

“You know Mariko-san?” Miss Yokoyama smiled briefly. “That crazy girl. So different from Setsuko-san.”

“Did Mrs. Nakamura try to get her into Chanel?”

“Oh, yes. But Mariko-san always preferred
bodikon
. You know, the clothes that fit like a glove.”

“So who won?” I shook my head at the preppy-looking Elle T-shirt she held out.

“Mariko-san,” Miss Yokoyama smiled, showing her teeth. “Those clothes were never returned.”

“Not returned?” I was confused.

“Setsuko-san often changed her mind.” A veil seemed to drop over Miss Yokoyama’s face.

Setsuko often changed her mind
. Even if you paid for something with a credit card at a Japanese department store, you could usually get a cash refund without question. If Setsuko returned most of what Hugh bought her, she could have profited.

“I’ve got to get back to work. Just take this one, it’s on sale.” Miss Yokoyama held out a white top decorated with two kissing cats and the slogan
LOVE CATS FRIENDSHIP, QUALITY CLOTHING SINCE
1981
WE MAKE FOR YOU
.

“You made sure she was able to return everything she bought, didn’t you?” I smiled as I spoke, hoping not to frighten her.

“I knew it was a bad idea, but now it’s all over. Please don’t say anything.” Miss Yokoyama looked ready to jump out of her skin.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve told you all that I know.” The salesclerk hurried off to the register near her colleague with the T-shirt and my credit card in her hands. Walking
downstairs a few minutes later, I realized the price of information had worked out to a whopping 3,200 yen plus tax. But, I could return it. Just like Setsuko.

The next people on my list were Taro and Yuki Ikeda. I arrived at our meeting point in Omotesand
a little early and decided to look around. Just like Roppongi, the stores were packed with luxury imported goods, and this was reflected in a residential mix of wealthy Japanese and company-funded foreigners.

Outside Tokyo Union Church, I watched foreigners arrive for the multidenominational English language service. My attention was caught by a silver-haired man in a long overcoat, with a flashy-looking older woman at his side. Joe Roncolotta and Mrs. Chapman. Joe had seemed mildly courteous to Mrs. Chapman during the Trader Vic’s dinner. I was stunned they were dating. I hurried toward them.

Joe did a mock double-take and Mrs. Chapman turned and giggled, hoisting a plastic bag aloft. “Rei, you should have been with us this morning! There was an antiques flea market just up the street.”

“The Togo Shrine! It’s great, isn’t it?” I said.

“I got a call from the police about you the other night.” Joe scrutinized me. “We should talk about it. Where are you headed?”

“Actually, I’m on my way to meet some friends. Taro and Yuki, you’ll remember them, Mrs. Chapman.” I would have loved for Yuki Ikeda, with her interest in matchmaking, to see Mrs. Chapman’s escort.

“The last thing I need is cake,” Mrs. Chapman
cooed. So she was dieting now. It was incredible what love had done to the woman who had once opined to me that all men were bastards.

“How about joining us tomorrow?” Joe persisted. “I was going to show Marcelle the Tokyo Stock Exchange in the afternoon, and then we were going to TAC for an early happy hour.”

I glanced at Mrs. Chapman, and I saw her face was rather oddly screwed up. Probably she was signaling for me to decline.

“Monday’s my busiest teaching day, I’m sorry,” I said. “I do want to see you again—both of you—how much longer are you staying?”

“Oh, I’m wait-listed for a flight later this week. Can you believe how badly organized the airport is?”

“Call me if you have any more trouble with the airline,” I said, imagining that as long as things were humming along with Joe, her plans might be delayed. “If you phone during the afternoon when I’m out, you might get Mariko. She understands English, but you have to speak slowly.”

“Another roommate? Dear, I thought you just lived with the fruit loop in your apartment. Remember, there was no room for me?” There was an injured undertone to her voice, and I cursed myself for being so careless.

“It’s temporary. She’s just a girlfriend in trouble who had to leave her home…I’m helping her find something.”

“That’s kind of you. Let me know if I can help—is she bilingual?” Joe asked.

“Sort of.” Unfortunately, what came out of
Mariko’s mouth these days was mostly the obscene English Richard had been teaching her. I wasn’t going to mention that.

I got to the Hanae Mori Building about nine minutes late. Yuki was watching through the window and gave me a big wave when I jogged up.

“I’m sorry you had to wait,” I panted. “You’ll never guess who I met.”

“You should have brought them along! I think it is beautiful, this second chance at life and love,” Yuki said when I had told them about Mrs. Chapman.

“Next time. Where’s the menu?” I was weak from having skipped lunch, so I ordered the biggest cake in the glass showcase: apple strudel. Taro cheered my choice; he was going for the Black Forest cherry cake himself. Yuki, true to her New Year’s diet, stuck to black coffee.

After the waitress set up our dainty meal, Taro placed my antique box on the table. I opened it and found the newsprint that had lined the interior had been removed. Small strips of paper and glue remained.

“What happened here?” I didn’t hide my dismay.

“Oh, I already read the paper and could tell it was from the early sixties because there was some article with mention of the crown prince Naruhito. See, I made you a translation.” Taro handed me a typed piece of paper. “You seem sad. Look inside the box again.”

I peered at the box’s interior, running my finger over the scarred wood. The original lacquer finish
was rubbed off and I saw, suddenly, what he wanted me to: letters carved in
hiragana
, Japan’s phonetic alphabet. The easiest alphabet, the one I’d known since I was nine.

“Shiroyama,” I spelled out. “So maybe the box comes from there, after all.”

“There’s more writing,” Yuki said.

I looked closely again and read “Uchida Miyo,” the name of the lost princess of the Shiroyama legend Taro had retold on New Year’s Eve.

“We don’t know that it’s real,” I said, trying to control my excitement. Anyone could have done it as a joke. Still, the grooves of the letters were worn smoothly, as if they’d been cut long ago.

“We could have it appraised at one of the antique stores around here,” Taro suggested.

“All those people know is how to mark things up for tourists. I’d rather take it to Mr. Ishida.” Yasushi Ishida was the man who had sold me the marvelous
tansu
chest a year ago. I could visit his shop on my way home.

“In any case, it’s a nice thing to take your mind off the trouble,” Yuki offered.

“Trouble?” I repeated.

“Hugh-san is in prison, to be tried for the murder. You didn’t know?” Yuki’s eyes were big.

“He’s been released,” I said shortly.

“Oh, really?” Taro asked.

“Rei-san, you surely haven’t seen him?” Yuki wailed.

The coffee went down the wrong way, and I began coughing into my napkin.

“This is not a good idea. Hugh-san may be free at the moment, but most people believe he is a criminal!” Taro’s voice was sharp enough that the two grandmothers dining quietly at the next table turned their heads.

“I thought you liked him,” I said.

“He was very kind and funny, but the police do not hold prisoners unless they have a very strong case.” Taro said. “His true character must be different than our first impression!”

If he is indicted, just remember the judge convicts in ninety-nine percent of all cases. It’s the Japanese system,” Yuki said soberly.

“This Japanese system, I guess I don’t understand it, Yuki. I wonder why, for instance, you and your husband found it so crucial to share my sex life with Captain Okuhara.” The fury that had simmered in me for a week spilled over.

“I told you not to tell!” Yuki shrieked at her husband.

“When a policeman asks, you must tell the truth,” Taro argued back. “Rei-san needs to be protected! She’s a girl who knows nothing about men’s nature.”

“Excuse me,” I said, waving a hand in his face. “If you’re going to insult me, do it directly, please.”

“Rei-san, I am not your relative, so I cannot tell you what to do. But please, you must not see him again. You must be careful,” Taro said.

“I always am.” I whisked the check out of the tiny silver holder where the waitress had placed it, trying to quash the anger rising in me. I owed a lot to the Ikedas. They had shown me around Shiroyama,
uncovered the box’s carving and even handcarried it into the city to return to me. But they had also brought me something that I didn’t want: the old nagging doubts.

Ishida Antiques had closed by the time I arrived at the dingy 1930s house where Mr. Ishida worked and slept among his Japanese treasures. I figured he was probably home and knocked until he craned his head out of an upstairs window.

“Shimura-san! Wait shortly, please!” A smile creased the face of the man who looked as devout as a monk whenever I spied on him at the shrine sales.

I waited for him to unbolt the door that creaked like something out of a horror movie but led to a paradise crowded with dusty furniture: table standing atop table, ceramic urns stacked in precarious towers that leaned but never fell. Today the shop smelled like oranges. I finally spotted an offering of tangerines at the base of a beautifully carved miniature shrine hanging over the entrance.