Girl in a Box (11 page)

“So, you're the English-speaking one. Welcome, Shimoda-san. I am glad to have you with the K Team. I will be your supervisor. My name is Okuma.”

Mrs. Okuma bowed slightly, more of a shoulder shrug than anything else, her silver-streaked bouffant hairstyle remaining in place. Lots of hair spray, I guessed; she was heavily made up, and she wore the same black pantsuit as the other women employees. She wore a wedding ring and appeared to be somewhere in her fifties, but didn't look like a typical woman of that age in Japan. She was too thin—thin like Miss Aoki—and she didn't seem relaxed and happy; I could imagine that when a woman worked sixty-hour weeks in a high-pressure environment for over three decades, the situation could wear one out.

However, there was no time for a psychological analysis of my boss. I was faced with my first crisis, whether I should correct her about the mistake she'd made with my name.

Miyo Han—I'd ascertained her identity from the name tag on her uniform—seemed to be watching me for a reaction. I made an extra low bow and said, “I'm honored to meet you, Kakaricho.” I was using the word for section head, which I had gathered, after listening to Mr. Fujiwara, was the correct honorific to use. “And please pardon me, my family name is actually Shimura. Shimura Rei.”

“Shimura? Are you in the correct department?” Mrs. Okuma's smile remained fixed in place.

“I believe so. I was hired because I can speak English and Spanish.” It had seemed strange to me that the boss of the K Team hadn't been the one to interview applicants—everything had been done by the personnel department. So now, here I was, and she was hesitant to accept me.

“Did you bring your paperwork?” Miyo asked in a fake-helpful voice.

“Paperwork?” I repeated.

“Your temporary service contract,” Miyo said.

“I'm sorry, I have that at home. I didn't know I needed to bring it today.”

“She doesn't need it, Han-san,” Mrs. Okuma said. “If she has those language abilities, she must be our employee. Let's not fuss anymore, because some customers are coming.”

I couldn't see a customer, but I could see a movement of bows slowly rippling through all the employees stationed in different departments. It was like a more subtle version of the body wave of American sports fans, though the event spurring on the movement was significantly less exciting than a home run. It was the arrival of a trio of Japanese women in their fifties, dressed in good wool coats and holding status handbags. They walked forward, smiling vaguely like royalty at the commoners, and disappeared down the aisle, in search of something other than language assistance from the K Team.

I snapped down into my bow a half second after Miyo Han and Mrs. Okuma. I paused for a fraction longer before coming up, because I wanted to assure Mrs. Okuma that I had the proper humility to work in her department. When I came up, I saw that she was looking troubled.

“There's a lot to learn today.” She paused. “You really do speak English,
neh
?”

“Hai, ossharu tori desu.”
Yes, I answered her as politely as I know how.

“Then why don't you speak it?” Miyo interjected in stilted English.

“What do you want me to say?” I asked her back in English, rapid-fire. “I enjoy speaking English.”

The girl's eyes flared, and Mrs. Okuma nodded. “Well, it sounds as if your conversational skills are adequate. I hope you also can use the computer?”

“I learned some basic skills during the training, although I understand K Team work is somewhat different. Mr. Fujiwara said that I would do best if I learned it directly from you.”

“I apologize that I cannot teach you much this morning, but Han-san will show you what to do this morning. I need to prepare the agenda for the expansion conference.”

“What kind of expansion?” I asked, switching back to Japanese.

“We're opening a new store in Osaka. Both our chairman and our general manager have invited the top-producing departments to the retreat, where we'll talk about how to translate the success of this store to Osaka.”

“Oh, that's very impressive. Which other departments are participating in the conference?” I asked.

“Young Fashion and Ladies' Accessories.”

I nodded. That sounded right, on the basis of what I'd researched. And if the K Team was truly one of the most profitable—and therefore most suspicious—segments of Mitsutan's business, it was a blessing to be right in the center of it.

“I have a question,” I said. “Those departments you mention have a lot of consigners, don't they? Are those vendors treated like part of the Mitsutan team?”

“We all work together for the greater good of the company,” Miss Okuma said piously. “And about the consigners, our K Team customers aren't particularly interested. Because these customers are international, they usually already own Vuitton or Fendi bought overseas at a lower price. When they come here, they are looking for Japanese luxuries they cannot find elsewhere. So you will do well to familiarize yourself with store brands, especially traditional goods, first.”

“Yes, you may need to work on your Japanese a bit,” Miyo said softly as Mrs. Okuma's attention was distracted by a male manager who had appeared in the department. I looked back at Miyo steadily, reminding myself that I was registered as a Japanese employee, not a foreigner. There was no way she could know I was American.

Our tense tête-à-tête was broken up by the arrival of a customer—an Australian woman in her fifties who was looking for a suit for a formal luncheon. I remained silent, watching Miyo handle the transaction, because the cheery hello I'd offered right away in English had been rebuked by Mrs. Okuma, who reminded me that for the time being, I was to shadow them in their work with the customers, not take it on myself.

So I remained quiet as Miyo tripped through a conversation with Mrs. Robinson, asking both her height and her weight. I watched Mrs. Robinson's face flush with embarrassment as Miyo politely explained that foreign-size people often found a perfect fit in the Rose section. Of course, I thought, but why rub salt into the wound? It was tough enough for me to be identified as size large—I could imagine how a woman six sizes larger than I would feel.

I walked behind Miyo and Mrs. Robinson as we trekked to the Rose section, and Miyo continued her awkward patter of questions about Mrs. Robinson's taste in colors. Mrs. Robinson asked a question about the fiber content of a suit Miyo held up to her, and I could tell Miyo hadn't understood the question, because she didn't answer it. She just talked about the softness of the fabric and its appropriateness for the coming spring months.

As Mrs. Robinson disappeared behind the curtain of the changing room, Miyo said to me in Japanese, “Shimura, did you notice what I'm doing?”

“You're helping guide her choice,” I answered, holding myself back from commenting on the fact she was neither speaking to me in
keigo
nor using the honorific that was supposed to come naturally to the Japanese.

“This is a Hanae Mori suit. If you look at the label”—she picked up another suit and showed me a number code—“you'll see that this came in a month ago. It's part of a spring group that needs to sell out. The Rose department manager let me know.”

“Really?” I had seen the department manager, a woman who was appropriately stout and of a certain age, wave her hand in a curious way when Miyo had entered the department. It was not a hand motion I'd learned in the Mitsutan etiquette class, where we had been told never to point with an index finger—just to hold out the hand, thumb tucked in, to gesture politely.

“If I sell this suit, the manager will be pleased,” Miyo said.

“But what if the customer doesn't”—I broke off as Mrs. Robinson peeked out from the curtain.

“Does this come in a larger size?” Mrs. Robinson asked.

“Get one,” Miyo said, and I did.

Fortunately, the size 2 worked, and perhaps the low number made Mrs. Robinson psychologically comfortable, because she decided that yes, the Hanae Mori suit—which cost a whopping 70,000 yen, or $700, would do. Even though, I thought darkly to myself, the flower print did nothing to flatter Mrs. Robinson, who I could have more easily envisioned in something tailored from Eileen Fisher or Liz Claiborne. It was all so new to me—who was I to suggest anything? I felt insecure as Miyo performed a series of bows and thank-yous as gracefully as the etiquette teacher had done in class earlier that week.

Miyo proffered the suit like a papal robe for a salesclerk in the Rose department to wrap, and then she led Mrs. Robinson to a cashier's station, where she took the customer's Mitsutan charge card on a small lacquered tray, bowing profusely again, then handed it to the cashier, who waved the card in front of an electronic reader. This was something I'd noticed earlier about my combination ID and credit card; it had no magnetic strip like the cards I was used to in the United States. Newfangled technology, Mr. Fujiwara had told us; it was more secure for the customer, because she was the only one who received a printed receipt showing the purchase and account number. The reader captured the data and sent it directly into the computer, bypassing the clerk completely.

Miyo sent me back to the Rose department to pick up the shopping bag with the suit, which had been placed in a gift-wrapped box, telling me to meet them back at the K Team, where she'd be issuing Mrs. Robinson's tax refund—a perk available to nonresident foreigners that gave them five percent back on all purchases over 10,000 yen. Mrs. Robinson was a former longtime resident of Japan—that was why she had the Mitsutan charge card—but she was currently based in the United States again and was back visiting, so she was entitled to the refund. The proof she needed was the disembarkation card in her passport, which I saw had several tax rebate slips from other Japanese department stores stapled within.

Miyo placed the rebate—three crisp 1,000-yen notes and a 500-yen coin—on the tray. She bowed as she handed the tray to Mrs. Robinson. “It has truly been a pleasure to serve you.”

“The pleasure's been all mine! Really, I adore shopping in Japan.” Mrs. Robinson beamed back. She stood up to go, and following Miyo's lead, I bowed and smiled until she was out of sight.

The whole transaction had taken an hour, I realized, looking at my watch. And there were other customers at the K Team desk—a German woman, for whom Mrs. Okuma was issuing a rebate; and an Asian husband and wife who I deduced were Korean, from the language the Mitsutan brochure they were studying was printed in.

“I need a little bit of help,” Mrs. Okuma said to us in Japanese. “Can you assist this couple? They want to look for some gifts for colleagues. I suggest the gift department or maybe items from the Tohoku wood products fair.”

“Of course,” Miyo said, bobbing her head. I smiled at the waiting couple, who I could clearly see had been bored by their wait. As Miyo walked around the desk where they were waiting, the door pushed open and a tall, blue-eyed businessman walked in. “Is this the place where someone can help me?” he asked in Midwestern English.

“Certainly,” Miyo answered. “Please make yourself comfortable. I'm delighted to help you.”

Mrs. Okuma nodded at me and said in Japanese, “All right, Shimura, we're extremely busy, so this is your chance. Get started with the Koreans, and once Miyo has finished with this new customer, she will join you to finish the transaction.”

“I don't speak Korean, I'm sorry—” I was stunned that Miyo, who was half-Korean and reputedly fluent, hadn't taken on the couple, but was turning instead to the person who spoke my native language.

“Do it in English or Japanese, it doesn't matter! It will be all right,” Mrs. Okuma assured me.

I took a deep breath and said in slow Japanese to the couple, whose expressions had changed from bored to angry, “I'm sorry for your wait.
Irrashaimase
!”

No reaction. I switched to English. “Welcome to Mitsutan.”

A glimmer of recognition. We were off.

 

It was like the blind leading the blind. My trip to the gift department with Mr. and Mrs. Lee had been a trial by fire, Daniel in the lion's den, and every other cliché you could think of for the situation. A new employee had to find the needle in the haystack that would be just the right present for the Lees to take home to their friends in Seoul. Mrs. Okuma had told me they wouldn't spend much, but on gentle questioning from me, it turned out they were not penny-pinchers. And they didn't want a tea set or bath salts or any of the customary smaller items that were popular with the Japanese as gifts. Eventually, they found themselves enthralled by the linens department, where soft towels were available in a myriad of colors and details. I actually found myself getting excited about the weaves and cotton content of the different towels; ultimately, the Lees selected fifteen thick towels in a rainbow of hues, then followed me to the eighth floor, to buy a suitcase to hold their purchases.

Mrs. Okuma handled the rebate for the Lees, once we'd returned; I hung over her shoulder, trying to learn, and was astonished to see her make a mistake, listing their purchase as 69,000 rather than 60,000. I hesitated a moment before whispering in her ear that the receipt said something different. She just had butterfingers, not criminal intentions, I decided when I saw her fumble over her keyboard a minute later. All in all, my boss struck me as rather confused and disorganized; though that, in itself, was not going to hurt my own purposes.

I couldn't watch Mrs. Okuma any longer after the next customer came in, this time from South Africa. Then there were two separate groups of Germans, who wanted, of all things, to find the Escada collection—as if the selection would be better here than at home. Mrs. Okuma stayed in the K Team office, so it was never left unattended; and Miyo remained as busy as I did circling the store with foreign customers. I noticed she spent a longer time with the customers if they were male and western.