The Salaryman's Wife (24 page)

“Drop me off near the train, will you? I’ll get home on my own.” The style in which he was driving was bound to lead to arrest, and I didn’t want to be involved.

“What about me? I won’t be able to go home for hours and I’m not in the mood to drink in Roppongi. There’s nowhere I can go that people don’t know my sorry foreign face.” His desolation reminded me of the way he’d appeared on New Year’s Day drinking by himself.

“You could try a really crummy neighborhood like mine,” I suggested, expecting him to complain about its shabbiness.

“There’s an idea. We could kill time by going through the telephone books.” Hugh sounded thoughtful.

“That sounds like fun.” I yawned, thinking of the huge task ahead.

“Darling, are you saying you’d rather do something else?”

“I’m not, and you’re only conditionally invited,” I warned.

“And what are these conditions?” There was laughter in his voice.

“First, you’ve got to start driving like a law-abiding man. And second, the only one who gets called darling is Richard, okay?”

As if anticipating good times to come, Richard’s head poked out the apartment door as I helped Hugh upstairs. He held out his arm for my parka and, upon seeing the maid’s uniform I was still wearing, yelped.

“Nothing like acting out one’s fantasies, eh?”

“Where’s Mariko?” I slipped off my shoes and motioned for Hugh to do the same.

“She left a note saying she had to hurry to work.”

“Back to work! Do you believe it?” I asked.

“Well, she had plenty of time to go through the bathroom to take my Super Hard gel and your favorite MAC lipstick.”

“Just great.” Mariko hadn’t done much to prove her innocence, but I still was going to worry about her. I slumped against a wall, knocking a kimono askew.

Hugh had moved in from the doorway and was evaluating the apartment. I followed his eyes over the
brick-and-plank bookcases holding my art books and Richard’s Japanese comics, my laundry drying near the heaters and finally, the rumpled futon I’d neglected to roll up in the morning.

“This reminds me of my younger brother’s room,” Hugh said, smiling. “Not the antiques, mind you, but the mess.”

“It’s all Rei,” Richard said. “My section of the apartment begins beyond those doors. I don’t suppose you’d want to see my adult video collection?”

I hadn’t been so embarrassed in ages. I ran around, stuffing stray clothing into the closet while Richard showed Hugh around—a five-second tour, given the size of the place.

“Do you own a telephone?” Hugh asked cautiously.

“Of course. But no long distance!” Richard ordered.

“Just calling my answering machine, I promise.” Hugh’s shoulders were shaking with laughter as he started punching his number in. I frowned at Richard—I didn’t like how swiftly he had appropriated Hugh—and pulled the photo album from one of the garbage bags. I settled down near the heater to look at it while Richard hung over my shoulder.

“Which one is Setsuko?”

“The pretty one on the left.” A nine- or ten-year-old Setsuko stared out of the page at us in a navy blue sailor suit. A slightly older, stout girl stood with her in front of a small, crumbling house with a tiled roof, the kind that didn’t get built much anymore.

“Is the plain Jane with her the sister?” Richard asked.

“Maybe.” I squinted at the faded picture. “No.
It’s got to be Kiki, Mariko’s guardian.” There was something hard about Kiki’s mouth, even then, and I recognized her flat nose. Kiki was wearing her uniform as provocatively as she could given the circumstances, her skirt hitched up a bit, which only did the unfortunate thing of accenting her thick legs.

“Come on, it has to be Setsuko’s sister,” Richard insisted, flipping back through the album. “Even though they don’t look exactly like each other, they’re together in all these pictures.” There they were, dressed in flowery kimonos for the children’s coming-of-age holiday. I slowly paged through more pictures showing them in later childhood and adolescence. The last picture was most telling: teen-aged Setsuko and Kiki wearing tight mini-dresses, posing in a smoky nightclub with Japanese businessmen more than twice their age. So they had been hostesses together.

“What do we know about Mariko’s mother?” Hugh hung up the telephone and joined us, stretching out on the floor so he could rest his ankle.

“Setsuko’s sister Keiko died after giving birth to Mariko,” I said. “That’s what the aunt told me. I meant to research it at Yokosuka City Hall but haven’t had the time yet.”

“Mr. Ota did.” Hugh sounded smug. “I just received a message saying there’s no death record for Keiko Ozawa. He did locate a 1954 birth record for Keiko, and one showing Setsuko born in 1956. Keiko had the Japanese father and was listed as a legitimate, first-born daughter. Because Setsuko was illegitimate, her listing was something different—”

“
Onna
,” I said. It was a blunt term for woman
that was rarely spoken. “This is completely different from what Mrs. Ozawa, the great aunt, said. She told me Setsuko was the older, legitimate one!”

“Not by any Japanese government records. Either Auntie was lying or we can be generous and say she might have Alzheimer’s.”

The heater had caused steam to condense on my window, and I rubbed a finger on the glass to see out into the street. And suddenly the truth was as clear as the neon sign flashing
SAPPORO
in stylized letters over the liquor store.

“If Setsuko was the younger sister, the American was
her
father. What Mariko told us was true,” I said.

“And Kiki is Mariko’s mother?” Richard quizzed me.

“Maybe not. Setsuko’s autopsy showed she had a baby,” I remembered. “Let’s see, Mariko is twenty-four. If she was born in 1973, Setsuko would have been only seventeen. I can understand why she gave up her own daughter.”

“To a sister just three years older?” Richard objected.

“But not as pretty. With fewer chances,” I said.

“I think it’s time for drinks at the Marimba, don’t you? Drinks and conversation with Mariko and Kiki.” Hugh looked at his watch.

“You’ll need me there, because I’m the one Mariko’s closest to,” Richard offered.

Hugh stiffened, but I glared at him until he said, “Men do usually attend these places in groups.”

“Naturally!” Richard was acting like he went to hostess bars on a regular basis.

“And they’re dressed well because they’ve come from the office,” Hugh challenged him.

“You want to be my fashion advisor?” Rambling about the merits of Hugo Boss versus Junko Shimada for Men, Richard led Hugh into his room.

I went into the bathroom where I had a fast shower, shaving my legs so fast I nicked both knees. Mindful of what Kiki had said about my looks last time, I wore Karen’s black cocktail suit the way I had for dinner with Joe, a black bra underneath but no blouse and sheer black stockings. I fiddled around with my arsenal of Shiseido makeup samples and the one lipstick Mariko had left me.

“You look like an extremely bad dream,” Hugh said when I emerged from the bathroom.

“I wore this to dinner at Trader Vic’s and it was acceptable.” I began searching around in my shoe boxes for the solitary pair of spike heels I owned.

“It’s quite appropriate, but don’t be surprised if someone asks you to sit on his lap.”

“Mariko says that kind of thing usually goes on with foreigners. You are going to control yourself, aren’t you?” I carefully slid the photo album into my backpack. It was not an evening bag, but at least it was black.

“I’ll be better than Richard. It was hell trying to talk him out of his tongue and ear jewelry.”

“Now you see what I have to live with.”

“I like him, although when you showed him the photo album I wanted to strangle you.” Hugh held his arm out for me to balance as I stepped into my
highest heels. The three extra inches made me feel tough.

“He knows everything about Mariko. Like he said, they’re close. That’s why he should come with us.”

“You must understand the more people we involve, the riskier things get. I can picture young Richard called to my burglary trial.”

“He’d lie for you. He lies for me all the time,” I assured him.

“But you’re not supposed to lie in court!” Hugh protested.

“You and your honesty.” I parroted back what he’d said derisively to me in the English Pub. This time, we both laughed.

Hugh handled the admissions at the door—a whopping 7,500 yen per person, which included a bottle of rail whiskey. As we handed our coats to a bouncer with a bruised-looking face, I muttered to Hugh that I hoped the European Union was paying. He nodded and put a finger to his lips.

The club was busier now than it had been the afternoon I’d visited before, almost every table filled. I was the only woman present who wasn’t in the business. I had no illusions about why I’d been allowed in; the men with me were simply so dishy they couldn’t be turned away.

“We want to see Mariko-san,” Hugh said to Esmerelda, the Filipina in a burgundy lace slip dress who led us to a table with much swishing of the hips.

“There’s no Mariko here,” she said uneasily. “Do you mean Mimi-chan?”

“Yeah, yeah. The girls all have bar names,” Richard said.

“What’s wrong with me?” Esmerelda pouted.

“Absolutely nothing, darling,” Hugh assured her. “It’s just that the wee man fancies Mimi.” He gestured toward Richard, who gave a brilliant smile.

“Ah, you want doubles. Double pay?” Esmerelda appraised Hugh’s suit before looking deep into his eyes.

“No problem,” Richard said as if he were the one holding the credit card.

“I think I see her,” I said, gazing a few tables away at the back of a slender girl with a head of springy curls.

“She’ll be glad we asked for her by name,” Richard said. “It means a two thousand yen bonus.”

A couple of salarymen who had followed us in took the next table. Country bumpkins, I guessed from their cheap suits and the way one of them whipped out a camera and trained it on his hostess’s low neckline. Richard craned his head to see better, and I kicked him back into place.

Within minutes, Esmerelda brought Mariko. The two hostesses approached us arm-in arm with big smiles. When Mariko was close enough to distinguish our faces, she swore and hustled back to where she’d come from.

“Mimi-chan…” Esmerelda’s voice trailed off, and she slid into the banquette next to Hugh. “I think she’s not feeling well. Cramps, or something.”

Hugh winked at me and there was a blinding flash of light from somewhere. I shut my eyes fast.

“Let me pour for everyone.” Esmerelda leaned so her dress fell away from her bosom. She brushed her fingers against Hugh’s when handing him his drink, but filled my glass only halfway and set it down squarely on the table.

“How about some games?” Esmerelda whipped a deck of cards out of a tiny black handbag containing a wad of money and a Chanel compact.

“I’m good at games, how about you?” Hugh smiled at her.

“Is the Mama-san here tonight?” I interrupted.

“Yes, but if you’re asking for a job, I’m sorry. Mama likes younger girls.” Esmerelda began distributing the cards with a practiced hand. “What shall we play? Strip poker? For that we need a privacy booth.”

“A private booth?” Richard sniffed. “I’m not shy, baby.”

“I’m feeling nauseated. I’d better go to the bathroom.” I swung my backpack over my shoulder and got up, unable to watch the two men I was closest to dissolve into a molten pool of testosterone. Hugh I could understand, but Richard?

“In the back.” Esmerelda didn’t look away from her conquests.

As I sauntered past the table where Mariko had rejoined her customers, one of them said something and gestured to me. I smiled, angling to join them. Mariko shook her head.

“Hey, I like your lipstick. Meet you in the ladies’ room?” I said to her in English.

I never made it there. In the unlit hallway that sprung off from the main room, I was grabbed. I struggled briefly against the arm that cut in below the rib cage and knocked the wind out of me.
They’ll never know what happened
, I thought as a large, sweaty hand clamped over my mouth and a knee shot into the back of my thigh.

My moan was absorbed by the attacker’s hand, and I was propelled into a dark, overheated room that stank of fuel. I flashed back to my nightmare with the gas heater in Shiroyama and realized this time I might really die. Hugh and Richard would be consumed for at least an hour with the tantalizing Esmerelda.

A fluorescent light came on overhead, revealing I was with Mariko’s Mama-san in the dressing room. A kerosene heater burned, smelly but not lethal.

“We have a lot to talk about, Keiko.” I swayed a little as I took the stool in front of the mirror, the room’s only seat, a power play she couldn’t miss. I looked at her leaning against the door as if to revalidate her authority. Now I saw past the grape-colored velvet dress stretched too tightly around the abdomen and the unflattering feathered haircut to hard, cool eyes that were very much like Setsuko’s.

“My name is Kiki.” Her voice remained calm.
“Being a foreigner, Japanese is a little hard for you, maybe.”

“Kiki is a nickname for a hostess who wants to disguise who she really is. And the blood that runs through me is Japanese and American, like your sister’s.”

“Setsuko wasn’t my sister,” Her eyes darted to the door. Who did she think might enter?

“I didn’t say she was Setsuko, but I thank you for confirming it.” I unzipped my backpack and pulled out the photo album, flipping to the picture of the two teen-aged girls in the arms of the businessmen.

“This was back in Yokosuka, wasn’t it? In the nightclub that’s now a bank.”

As Keiko glanced at the picture, her expression changed. I let her take the album in her hands, go through the pages herself.

“I want to know why the daughter with pure blood wound up working in a bar while the
konketsujin
got the salaryman and house in the suburbs,” I said, my fear starting to subside.

“There’s nothing wrong with what I do. I pay my rent and taxes and employ twelve people—how many women in this country can say they do that?” Keiko pushed the album back at me.

“But you can’t tell me the bar has been a good environment for Mariko. Where will she be in ten years? She has no security, must rely completely on men.”

“Men rule the world, don’t they?” Keiko stared at her sagging face in the mirror.

“Tell me about Mariko’s father,” I said, pushing my luck.

“He was an American soldier here on R&R.” She spoke in a monotone. “When he went back to Vietnam, he stepped on a mine. Setsuko heard about it just before Mariko was born.”

“Really?” If this was true, it would mean Mariko was more American than me—three-quarter’s worth.

“Look here.” Keiko took the album back and showed me a group shot I’d glanced at without much interest before. A young Setsuko sat cozily on the lap of a good-looking, light-skinned black man who looked around twenty, clearly military from the cropped hair and the dog tags he wore around his neck. I judged the time period to be the early 1970s based on her short, flared dress. I had the same reaction as I did to the picture of her with the Japanese businessmen—she was too young for this. Her open, excited expression reminded me of uniformed schoolgirls I saw giggling on the subway.

“Setsuko was stupid to get pregnant just as she was starting in the business. Stupider still to go ahead and have the baby, someone you could never pass off.”

“Because she’s half-black?”

“Yes. It’s girls like her who fill the strip bars and soaplands—exotics, they’re considered. She could never be hired at a high-class company. It was a miracle Setsuko even found her that bank job,” Keiko said.

“Mariko might be okay in the United States. After all, her American grandfather has some money—”

“Forget about the American,” she said tightly.

“You knew him when you were little. What was he like?”

“I remember a man who gave me chocolate. He was around for a few years and left. He married someone suitable, my mother told me.” Keiko moved to the clothing rack and began fiddling with a cocktail dress.

“Surely you remember his name,” I wheedled.

“Listen, I brought you back here to warn you that I’ve had enough. Tonight two customers asked to have you sent to them! I had to say you weren’t my girl.”

“If you give me the name of Setsuko’s father, I won’t ever come back.”

She knew the name. It was clear from the way she paused before exhaling, her boozy breath hitting my face. “I’ve had enough! You and your friends finish the whiskey and get out.”

“If I go, I want to be assured of Mariko’s security. Did your
yakuza
friends—”

“Don’t say that word. The walls have ears!”

“Okay, did
they
find who attacked her?” She did not answer me, so I asked, “What makes you think she’ll be safe here?”

“I don’t believe anyone was after Mariko in particular. Esmerelda was also mugged, but she kept her head and didn’t run away to foreigners for shelter,” Keiko blazed. “And I have a question for you—why do you even care? You have your own life.”

“I’m fond of Mariko,” I said. It was true, despite my nagging worries about her intentions. I liked her straightforward style and thought she deserved a better life. Maybe she could be steered into taking her bank job more seriously, or even a better career.

“That’s American bullshit. People from your
country say they are in love after one night. I’ve heard it before.”

“I do like her! We aren’t soul mates, but we get along. I also know she’s truly attached to my roommate Richard.”

“Infatuated,” Keiko spat. “It’s older than the war but still goes on, the Japanese girl falling for the foreign man. He thinks she’s a geisha to serve his every need, and she thinks he’s stronger than her own people. You too. It’s like that opera, what do they call it?”

“
Madame Butterfly
. What do you mean?”

“Why are you with Big Red instead of a Japanese man?”

Hugh and I weren’t together, and the hard truth was most Japanese men were not interested in someone as mixed-up as I was.

“You want the foreign man, they want him all over Asia. My girls from Thailand and Philippines and Singapore are all the same. It’s like one hundred years ago, still.”

And with that, Keiko threw me out.

Hugh and Esmerelda were playing patty-cake when I limped back to the opposing banquette.

“How was the card game?” I took a small sip of whiskey and put it down. I preferred the Scotch version.

“I taught Esmerelda rummy and she won quite handily.” Hugh raised an eyebrow at me.

“I’ll bet. Where’s Richard?”

“He went to chat up Mariko. Didn’t you see him in back?”

Catching Esmerelda’s eye, I said, “I was in the dressing room. I had a long talk with your Mama-san. She mentioned that you were recently attacked.”

“What happened, Esmerelda? Tell me,” Hugh entreated.

Esmerelda’s face blossomed into radiance. “Oh, that is not a happy story! You should not hear—”

“On the contrary.” Hugh slid an arm around her. “I want to know everything about you.”

“I’d gone out to buy cigarettes.” She paused. “I know you do not smoke, but I do. The life of a hostess is high stress.”

“Talk about stress!” Richard rejoined us, and I made space for him beside me.

“Go on, sweetheart. What day was it?” Hugh toyed idly with Esmerelda’s spaghetti strap.

“The Wednesday before New Year’s Eve. At night it was very cold weather. I am not used to it, coming from Manila.” Esmerelda shivered, which made me wonder why she hadn’t worn a sweater over her skimpy silk dress. “I had just stepped outside when I felt someone grab me from behind. A pillowcase went over my head, two hands around my throat. And a voice. English.”

“A British accent?” I asked, remembering that Hugh had been in Tokyo prior to the New Year.

“I do not know. She said it funny. Mary-ko. I said to her in English, no, no! I am Esmerelda! I threw out my purse with the alien worker’s card on the ground. Then she kicked me so I fell. While I lay there I heard her pick it up. She kicked me again and told me to count to one hundred or she’d kill me. Then she left.”

“Do you think it was a woman?” I asked carefully. Japanese people speaking English sometimes mixed up “she” and “he”; I didn’t know whether the same was true for people from the Philippines.

“I cannot say for sure. The hands were rough, rough like a man, but the voice was maybe a woman. I am not sure. I just say it because…” she batted her eyes.

“Yes?” Richard breathed.

“When I was pulled against this person’s body, I felt—” Esmerelda gave a coy smile and gestured to her breasts. “How do you call them politely in English?”

Hugh choked. I refused to look at him, but noted that Richard’s eyes were sparkling.

“Breasts,” I said in a no-nonsense voice. “What happened to the pillowcase?”

“I left it there.” Esmerelda shrugged. “I think the garbage man removed it later.”

I threw up my hands. “You lost important evidence.”

“I could not return it! It would only cause questions.”

“Where would you return it?” Hugh asked.

“A hotel,” Esmerelda replied shyly.

“What makes you think of hotels?” His voice was casual.

“It was foreign size, big enough to go over my head and shoulders. And good white cotton, like they have at the New Otani. I once spent an afternoon there. So know.”

I thought of Joe Roncolotta and his familiarity with the hotel. He could have padded his chest to
resemble a woman’s, and his Southern accent could have confused someone not fluent in English. “What happened to your purse?” I asked.

“The person did not take it. I still have it here.” She patted the expensive little bag.

As Hugh asked Esmerelda to describe the scene once more for him, I turned my attention on Richard.

“I tried to talk to Mariko in the back alley,” Richard whispered. “I apologized for…some awkwardness that happened. Then the bouncer came out and told me to get going. Mariko had to beg him to let me back in the club.”

“What do you mean, awkwardness that happened? Did you make Mariko leave the apartment?”

“That’s not it.” Richard looked nervously toward Hugh and Esmerelda, who were paying us no attention.

“I tell you everything!” I hissed in my roommate’s ear.

“Okay.” Richard sounded miserable. “When you were gone this afternoon, she tried to convert me.”

“Oh, no!”

“She couldn’t comprehend I wasn’t interested, so she split.”

Keiko passed our table, slapping the check in front of Hugh. “If you go now, you won’t miss the last train.”

“No worries. I drove.” He looked up and smiled.

“Really? Is your car the black Windom I called the towing company about?” Keiko said in a mock-concerned voice.

“Will you give me your card?” Esmerelda looked forlorn as Hugh started counting out cash for the bill.

“With pleasure.” Hugh handed her his card and a five thousand yen note. “Please keep Mariko safe. And yourself, of course.”

“You shouldn’t be so kind. It’s really not necessary,” she beamed, tucking the tip into her little bag.

“Oh, it’s just a token of a Scot’s gratitude. Remember, I’m not English.” He laughed as if that were an old joke they shared.

“Not English,” she repeated, as if trying to memorize that. “Come back soon!”