Girl in a Box (22 page)

“And the shoe bugs?”

“I haven't heard a peep, not since that night.”

“Maybe something's wrong with the listening station,” Michael said. “I'll check that unit, when I'm there.”

“Those shoes are at position number nine,” I said. “And Melanie Kravitz is seven.”

“What have you done with the data you've listened to so far?”

“Sent it back to Mrs. Taki, just like you requested.”

“From this point on, I want you to do the translations yourself, if you're up to it. It makes more sense for me to analyze the info as fast as it comes in.”

“Of course,” I said, not knowing whether I should feel cheerful about Michael's trusting me to do translations, or wary about the amount of work it would entail. When would I ever sleep? Blearily, I watched Michael signal for the waitress and asked him what was on his agenda for the next day.

“I'm going to report to the embassy and get settled in my temporary office. As soon as possible, I'm going to call Winston Brothers and see if I can catch up with Warren Kravitz.”

“And that's not considered spying on a citizen?” I challenged.

“It's an up-front information interview. Using my State Department cover, I'll tell him that I'm still in a pre-investigative stage. He won't know I already have someone in place at the store.”

“Maybe you'll find out what his real interests are,” I said.

“I'll try to be objective,” Michael said drily. “As for you, what's your game plan?”

“I work a full day at the store on Thursday, and that evening I'm seeing Mr. Yoshino. And the days following—Friday, Saturday, and Sunday—I have duty at the store.”

“Mr. Yoshino—are you talking about the accessories manager? One of the guys who went to the corporate retreat?”

“Yes. I don't know exactly what he wants, but I'll handle the situation just the way I did with Mr. Kitagawa tonight.”

“Be careful,” Michael said as the waitress approached with the bill.

When she'd departed with his crisp twenty, no change required, I said to Michael, “I don't think she heard anything.”

“That's not what I mean. I want you to be very careful tomorrow night. There's something I've got to tell you about what happened at the hot spring.”

“What?”

“A couple of days ago, I double-checked the English-language version of the
ryokan
map. You didn't make a mistake about entering the men's section of the bath.”

“How do you know?”

“I'm positive. I checked the map out in Japanese with Mrs. Taki, just to be sure. You were definitely in the women's section of the
rotenburo
, and they invaded it.”

I sucked in my breath. “I suppose it could be an honest mistake. In any case, I should feel vindicated, but—”

“Those guys crossed the line.” Michael's face was tight with an emotion that I couldn't place. “You were right to get the hell out of there. And if you weren't gathering such good information, I wouldn't want you anywhere near them at all.”

“Where are you going, the beatnik coffeehouse?” Miyo asked.

Thursday had been a long, exhausting haze of a day; I found myself wondering about Michael's activities, and whether Melanie Kravitz had detected her phone bug, at all kinds of inopportune times, like when I was trying to calculate rebates and actually blanked on the meaning of several kanji characters that I had studied many times. Mrs. Okuma had been nearby and said something that made the kanji snap back into context, but she'd looked at me sympathetically and asked if I was getting enough sleep.

The short answer was no. And now, as I changed clothes in the women's locker room with Miyo watching me, I decided that the workday I'd just endured seemed easy in comparison with what lay ahead that night. First would be the meeting with Mr. Yoshino. And after that, I'd have to recap it all to Michael; prove I'd done the job and had gathered useful information.

The section of the women's locker room where I was dressing was almost deserted; saleswomen tended to change their clothes quickly at night to flee for the good times. I was surprised that Miyo was still around.

“Where are you going?” she repeated.

“Just out,” I said shortly, snapping the tight low-waisted jeans closed. I'd had the foresight to remove my navel ring at home that morning, so Miyo couldn't report to anyone about it.

“It's a very
casual
look, I'd say. My boyfriend wouldn't care for it at all.” Miyo was critically examining her profile in a cherry-colored lace bra and a Stella McCartney white denim mini. It hit me that Miyo was purposely delaying putting on a blouse, to rub in that she was not only taller and prettier but bustier—at least size 85.

“If your boyfriend's so serious, why doesn't he ever stop by at lunch to say hello, like all the other gaijin?” I said as I slipped my new T-shirt over the head, pale pink cotton with the message I'M MARRIED TO THE MAHARAJA spelled out in rhinestones. I'd found it on sale in a section of Young Fashion called Park Avenue Princess, and decided it would be a subtle way to nudge Mr. Yoshino into really believing what I'd told him: that I had a boyfriend.

Miyo was glaring at me when my head emerged from the T-shirt. “At least I don't sleep with old businessmen.”

I had thought I'd kept the details of my forthcoming meeting with Mr. Yoshino private, but she'd obviously deduced that something was going on.

I sighed and said, “What's so great about an expat boyfriend? Please tell me. I really don't know.”

“You're trying to trick me with that question.” Miyo looked uncertain.

“Sometimes I wonder,” I said, sitting down on the long wooden bench and patting the space beside me. “Maybe the British investment banker boyfriend you mention needs to be traded in for a better model. What are his teeth like?”

“What?”

“His teeth, Miyo. If you want a guy with good teeth—children with good teeth,” I added, remembering her interest in marriageable customers, “go American. If you'd lighten up a little bit, I would be happy to introduce you to a few guys I know.”

“As if I'd be so stupid! You and your great English, like Kravitz-san said. You'd all have a good laugh at me—”

So I'd guessed right. She felt competitive with me because she thought I'd snag the eligible expatriate customers. And the way I'd seemed to suck in the senior male executives could only feed her belief that I was a man-hungry slut.

“Miyo, I have something very personal to tell you. Just between us.” I motioned her to sit closer.

Miyo remained in place but, from her expression, seemed warily interested.

“As you know, I've grown up around the world. Because of what my father has seen of gaijin lifestyles, he will not permit me to marry a foreign man. I'm not even allowed to date a foreigner, after…after some trouble I ran into, a few years ago.” That would cover any tabloid photographs, should Miyo stumble across one.

She blinked rapidly. “What are you, a girl in a box? I wouldn't have guessed.”

I nodded enthusiastically, then realized that I should seem depressed. “I'm in this job because they're hoping I'll meet someone respectable, totally Japanese, preferably older. For me, the assignment to the K Team, well, it's been a setback. My parents don't want me around foreigners.”

Miyo sighed, and for the first time she spoke naturally. “I know what you mean. My parents, they'd prefer for me someone Korean. But when you think about the choices you have with gaijin…I've heard they're not only good in bed, but they make beds, too.”

“Could it really be true?” I asked and forced a laugh. She laughed too, and I found that encouraging.

“Let's go out after work sometime, Miyo. I'll introduce you to that kind of guy, if you like.”

“I meet plenty of them here—”

“But it never goes anywhere. We need to go out and meet someone who's ready to have a good time. I'll teach you some casual phrases ahead of time, so your English sounds really good. I won't talk much at all.”

Miyo looked at me doubtfully. “When?”

“You're probably busy Friday, but that's a good night in Roppongi.”

“We could go out right after work.” Miyo paused. “But why would you do something like this for me? I haven't been very nice.”

Looking her straight in the eye, I told her the truth. “I can't afford to have you as an enemy.”

“But you could afford new clothes.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're not going anywhere with me looking like a beatnik. Between today and Friday, I want you to look around the store and put some new outfits on hold. I want to approve any of your future purchases before you put them on your card. Got it?”

Was this the start of friendship, or was it something else—a kind of spying of her own? I was being paranoid, maybe. I nodded, pushing down my uneasiness but resolving not to forget it.

 

Thirty minutes later, Mr. Yoshino was helping me off with my coat and goggling at my rhinestone T-shirt. The place he'd suggested, Aladdin's Cave, was a subterranean cocktail lounge overrun by long-haired young Japanese guys in vintage-looking silkscreen shirts. For the most part, their female companions wore chiffon and silk tops over low-slung jeans. It was rather like a beatnik coffeehouse; my outfit was totally appropriate.

The stereo was playing neo–Middle Eastern music—not authentic Arab music, but Sting, sounding Middle Eastern. But the cushions made from hand-knotted rugs looked authentic, as did the hookah pipes people were smoking, and the low, elaborately carved and inlaid wood tables set along the far wall and screened by heavy embroidered curtains.

This probably was Mr. Yoshino's fantasy of a den of iniquity, in every sense of the word. I gently declined the offer of a shared hookah, but felt I couldn't protest against the curtained booth to which the waitress led us, no matter how nervous it made me feel.

After our order had been taken—a bottle of Kirin for me, since they didn't have Sapporo; and a double vodka martini for Mr. Yoshino—she lit a candle in a pierced iron holder on the table between us, and closed the curtains.

“So glad you came,” he half whispered.

“Actually, I'm on a tight schedule. My boyfriend and my parents are expecting to see me in a little bit.” Don't even think of slipping a drug into my drink, was my unsaid warning.

“Your father is a banker,
neh
?”

Could he be the one who'd pulled my personnel file? “Yes. I didn't think I mentioned that.”

He looked at me unsmilingly. “You seem nervous. I'm so very sorry. I thought you were happy to come here tonight.”

“I know it's my duty to be here,” I said carefully. “You said you had something to show me.” I eyed the heavy black briefcase next to him. What could it be?

“Yes, indeed. But why rush to business? Let's have a drink first.”

The waitress rang a chain of bells hanging outside the closed curtains—as if she was afraid of interrupting something—and waited for Mr. Yoshino to tell her to come in. As she served the drinks and a plate of pita triangles, I wondered how many times Mr. Yoshino had come here before. Knowing about a place like Aladdin's Cave, so clearly out of his age demographic, gave me the feeling that he was following tips from some younger person, or maybe even a men's magazine.

When the curtains closed again, Mr. Yoshino made a gesture, trying to pour my beer into the glass the waitress had brought alongside. I said, “Please don't. I prefer the taste from the bottle. It's just so—clean.”

“Ah, drinking from a bottle is like an American.” He nodded sagely. “You must have learned that habit during your time abroad.”

He
had
read my file. “Yes. Aoki-san hired me because she thinks I'm a
kokusaijin
.”

“And are you?”

“I love Japan, but there are things about California that I miss. The weather, for one.”

“Was it in California where you had your navel pierced?” He lowered his voice.

“Yes.” It wasn't, but I didn't dare reveal that I'd spent any time near Washington, D.C.

“Your navel ring was quite a vision. I have seen many thousands of accessories and pieces of jewelry during my career at Mitsutan. But I'd not seen a thing like that before on a real woman I know.” He sipped his martini, then closed his eyes, and I imagined he was summoning up a vision of the past.

I pressed my lips together, trying not to show any reaction. So it was the navel ring that had aroused him. Not the breasts, not anything but the queer, exotic ring of gold-plated steel.

“You inspired me,” he said at last. “Your beauty, and style leadership, has inspired me with an idea that I think will bring our accessories department to the forefront of Japanese retailing.”

“Are you considering selling navel rings in the accessories department?” I was giddy with relief at the change of topic. Maybe he'd pulled my file, read it, and been impressed by my retail background in the United States. Maybe I'd been overreacting about everything the whole time.

“Sssh!” He put a finger to his lips. “We want to surprise Japan, not give our secrets away.”

“But in order to sell the navel rings you need to have customers who already have a piercing,” I explained in a lower voice as he opened the case and began laying out various pieces of gold, silver, and stone-studded body jewelry on the table. “How can we sell to the girls if they aren't already pierced?”

“An advertising campaign. We'll hire a famous foreign actress with a navel piercing, put her on some posters and TV commercials.”

“Great idea. You used a foreign male model for a men's accessories shoot recently, huh?”

“Tyler Farraday.” He shook his head. “We had to pull that ad campaign, actually. How did you hear about it?”

“Fashion gossip,” I said. “It's a shame that you had to pull those ads, because I saw Tyler, and he was pretty hot.”

“You like gaijin, then?”

I hesitated. I wanted to throw Mr. Yoshino off from thinking I wanted to sleep with him, but I didn't want to totally quash the evening. I winked and said, “Sometimes.”

He smiled, seemingly relieved. “The problem with gaijin is they have no understanding of when to hold back. Farraday was just a model, but he wanted to act like an executive—to be on the same level.”

“I feel like you're giving me a special opportunity, to give you my opinion about this new jewelry campaign. I'm very grateful,” I said demurely.

“Yes, yes, tell me more about what you think.” He leaned so far across the table that I could catch his breath, heavy with a mixture of alcohol and mints.

“Well, I wonder where girls can go to get the piercing done so they can wear the jewelry you're going to sell. From what I understand, tattoo and piercing parlors are pretty much the province of gangsters, which would make many women—me, for instance—too nervous to go.”

“I've already spoken to the director for beauty services. She is investigating getting a license to perform piercing in our store beauty salons. It'll take some trouble, and maybe even side payments to get the licenses and so on, but if we are the first
depaato
to run with this trend, we'll gather quite a bit of publicity.”

Side payments reminded me of what my aunt had said about the
yakuza
. “Won't the gangsters be upset if you try to do something that's their province? I mean, there's a good reason department stores haven't taken on the
pachinko
industry.”

“Don't worry about it. I know how to handle things.”

“Really,” I said, taking a sip of beer and studying him.

“Truly. Don't worry your lovely head about it. Now, the favor I must ask you?” He leaned over the table again until his breath ruffled the edge of my hair. “While we're here tonight, I'd be very grateful if you would examine the jewelry I've had sent to me by some of the jewelry companies.”

“Sure!” All he wanted was my good judgment. I inspected the pieces, asking him questions about the metal and pricing as I went along. It was imperative, I said, that whatever navel rings Mitsutan sold were not the kind that would sound off at airport metal detectors.

Mr. Yoshino had done a thorough canvassing of the market. He'd provided a wonderful assortment of belly jewelry, ranging from costume pieces with artificial turquoise to eighteen-karat gold. There were even some special pieces, with diamonds, that would appeal to a customer like Melanie Kravitz, if she ever decided to get pierced.

“I like these,” I said at last, laying aside eight navel rings. I explained each choice. I had selected several because the stone decorations would appeal to young women; others, in heavy silver, because they had a sexy, edgy quality; and finally, some in gold and platinum, for the girl who cared about Gucci and Prada and other high-priced labels.