The Salaryman's Wife (26 page)

Hugh kissed my shoulder and floated the sheet off my body.

“Wakey, wakey, darling. Time to get up.”

“Why?” I moaned, covered my head with a down pillow.

“You’re going to sub for Richard’s class in two hours, and we can’t miss breakfast.”

“What are you, a morning person?” I lifted the pillow to squint at him.

He laughed. “It’s a very good morning because we’re going to change history, aren’t we?”

“I can’t tolerate lectures this early in the morning.”

“In our past, whenever you’ve left my arms, we’ve had a terrible row. You’re coming back to me tonight in a good mood, aren’t you?”

“Who can predict the future?” I asked.

Easing out of bed wearing nothing but the bandage around his ankle, Hugh looked pretty divine. Rolling on my side to watch him, I smiled like the Cheshire cat.

“How about a shower? There’s room for two.”
He went into the bathroom, turned on the water, and began singing what vaguely sounded like the Eurythmics’ “Obsession.”

“I never knew a man without a job or future could he so cheerful,” I chided, following him under the spray.

“I have a tremendous future: burglar, spy, or assassin…I can’t imagine you’ve had the pleasure of shagging someone like me before?”

I hesitated just long enough to make him wonder. After all, I was from the USA, crime capital of the world. “I haven’t.” I wrapped my arms around him.

“Prosecution rests, then.”

Our combined laughter splashed across the tiled room as if there were nothing to worry about at all.

As we ate breakfast, we kept looking at each other. Hugh was wearing a white terry cloth robe and I was in one of his Thomas Pink shirts, cuffs turned over twice. He had fiddled with the buttons down the front. “It shouldn’t be too low because you’re teaching salesmen, and I know what they’re like. But open enough that it shows your lovely collarbone.”

“I’ve never spent this much time worrying about what I wear to work. Do you do this every morning when you go off to Sendai?” I grumbled.

“Never, When I’m employed again, maybe you’ll worry for me?” He smiled, handing me a cup of Darjeeling with the milk and sugar already mixed in.

I shrugged, thinking he needed no help in the clothes department. He could probably tell the skirt
I was wearing for work was a polyester-wool blend, and my evening shoes were from Washington Shoes’ bargain section. It was a pretty odd combination, but there was no way I dared repeat the outfit I’d worn to work the previous day.

Breakfast was simple, Hugh fix himself a soggy English cereal called Weetabix, which I declined. He made me toast and went back to the
Asian Wall Street Journal
. As I sipped the pleasantly sweet tea, my eyes strayed to the robe falling slightly open around his thighs and I wished I were staying in. As it was, I spent a good half hour on the telephone talking to my landlord about the urgent repairs needed, and after that, explaining to poor hungover Richard why he couldn’t go home yet.

“What’s on your schedule today?” I asked when finally readying myself to leave.

“I’ll start out with a massage at TAC and then have lunch with Mr. Ota. This afternoon, I’m going to see Setsuko’s travel agent. Ota got the name and number, but I told him I wanted to go myself. I thought I’d try to work a little harder at integrating in the culture.” He tied my belt and kissed me deeply, smelling of toothpaste and shaving cream. “Are you satisfied?”

“Temporarily,” I said, tearing myself away before I was lost. I rode down in the elevator with two businessmen and shot through the lobby, my evening shoes clicking against the marble floor. I walked outside into blinding sun and half-tripped when I heard my name.

“Shimura-san Shimura-san!”

I turned around like a fool into the face of two cameras.

“Aren’t you a friend of the accused murderer Glendinning-san?”

“Are you hoping to become a hostess at Club Marimba?”

‘
Chigai-masu
,” I said. The expression translating as “it’s different” was the polite way to deny something. But the questions kept coming and if I’d understood correctly, the last one was about whether I’d enjoyed a night in Glendinning’s bed. I cast about desperately for escape and spotted a taxi, its passenger door already swung open in welcome.

I jumped in and locked both doors, ignoring the elderly salaryman with a cane who had been making painstaking progress toward the vehicle.

“
Bakayaro!
” The salaryman swore and waved his fist as the taxi drove off. But the driver was twinkling at me in the rearview mirror, and I realized that for the first time in Tokyo, I was behaving like I was somebody.

At Nichiyu, Mr. Katoh was waiting by my desk, anxious for an update on my health. I assured him that aspirin and sleep had brought me to a near-perfect recover.

“Maybe you came back too early.” My boss studied me with concern. “Your face is flushed and your mouth is swollen, perhaps you should take you temperature…”

In other words, my night showed. I hoped I would be strong enough to handle the salesmen, a particularly noxious all-male assortment of junior executives. We had a history of bad blood since last summer’s company retreat, when the men had asked me to stand atop a table for a casual photograph. Before I realized what was going on, somebody had darted the camera under my skirt and snapped a picture. I’d reported it to Mr. Katoh as an incident of
seku hara
—sexual harassment—but all that happened
was I received a mysterious extra two weeks’ pay and Richard took over the salesmen’s instruction.

At nine o’clock I strode into their classroom carrying the new espresso maker like armor before my body. According to Richard’s plan, today’s task was teaching all parts of the machine in English plus some fancy coffee talk in French and Italian. There was giggling at first, but I ignored it and got down to business, asking two students to role-play an encounter between customer and salesclerk.

“What is caffe rat-te?” Mr. Takeuchi asked his partner, Mr. So.

“Caffe rat-te is a delicious beverage made from milks and exsu-presso—”

“Espresso!” Mr. Nara, the know-it-all, shouted from the back row.

“Espresso,” continued Mr. Takeuchi. “For added delicious taste, please try a sprinkle of cinnamon or nutmeg or cocoa.”

“Beautifully said. Now, can Mr. So explain the perfect formula for caffe latte?”

“One half milks, one hall
kohi
,” said Mr. So.

“No, two parts milk, one part
kohi
,” corrected Mr. Takeuchi.

“Mr. Takeuchi is right, but please remember we must not call it coffee or
kohi
. We need to use the Italian word espresso to show how special the product is.” It wasn’t my favorite machine. I’d burned my hand trying to steam milk with it two weeks ago. This wasn’t the time or place for my opinions, though. The men ran through the lesson in a remarkably ordered format, leaving the last fifteen minutes free.

“Miss Shimura, please may we have conversation time?” Mr. So begged. I was surprised; usually, the students didn’t like exercises where they couldn’t crib from the book. I readily agreed.

“What shall we talk about today, then? Any suggestions from the floor?” I asked.

“Current event!” shouted Mr. Nara.

“Sure. What’s in the news?” I’d seen only the
Asian Wall Street Journal
that morning and had no idea about anything beyond a brief surge in the U.S. dollar.

“Mr. Nara, did you watch television this morning?” Mr. So asked so stiffly I wondered if he had rehearsed.

“Why, yes! I watched
News to You
. There was some very interesting news on that program.” Mr. Nara grinned and rubbed his hands together.

“So, what’s up?” I asked, trying to teach a colloquialism but making half the class squirm with laughter.

“The program say Miss Shimura is friends with a
satsujin-han
.”

“The word in English is murderer,” I said, feeling cold.

“This murderer is
gaijin
from Scotland. Scotland is a part of Great Britain, you know.” Mr. Nara smirked, playing to his crowd.

“Selfridges,” said someone from the back, mentioning our biggest British vendor.

“Does your murderer know about Selfridges?” Mr. So turned an innocent face toward me.

“It’s interesting that you choose to call this person
a murderer,” I replied. “In Japan, as in the United States, a person cannot be called a murderer unless he or she is convicted. And as you may have heard, Mr. Glendinning was questioned and released.”

“Convicted?” Someone in the class asked for a translation.

“Miss Shimura, is he your boyfriend?” Mr. Nara advanced on my desk, crossing both physical and emotional boundaries.

Talking about personal life was so off-limits that when Mr. Katoh’s wife was expecting a baby, nobody knew until the day after it happened. If pregnancy within the bonds of marriage was taboo, what was an affair between single people? I hesitated a moment too long before saying, “I’m not sure.”

“No
commento
!” some wit said.

“This class is for conversation about you, not me.” I turned my back and started to write on the blackboard. “Here’s a conversation topic: quickly, I want everyone to tell me how they plan to attain their sales goals in a new and interesting way.”

“But Miss Shimura, you are more new and interesting!” Mr. So whined.

How could a good thing turn bad so fast? I pushed Hugh to the back of my mind and willed myself to get through the rest of the class. When the electronic melody finally chimed, the answer came to me. Things had been bad all along. I’d just forgotten.

Strangely, Richard didn’t come in to teach his evening class. He had left a message with the office
that an emergency had arisen; I prayed he hadn’t returned to the apartment and encountered some new menace. I wound up having to take his night students with mine, suffering double the questions and snickering.

After work, I stayed at my desk. Now that I’d been on television, I needed a disguise. I called Oi Beauty Salon. Mrs. Oi had seen the noon news and offered to send a wig by courier—her grandson, who she assured me was entirely trustworthy.

It was dark by the time the courier showed up. I transformed myself into Japanese Barbie and threw Richard’s old raincoat over me and left Nichiyu through the service entrance.

At the apartment building, the light was working and the stairs had been repaired with brand new, tough-looking boards. I trod up carefully. Opening the apartment door was a little scary, but once I stepped inside I felt the rush of comfort that I always did upon arriving home.

Richard had evidently come and gone. A trail of water told me he must have run from bathroom to telephone fairly recently. I looked at the answering machine and saw eleven calls had come in.

The first message had been recorded at twelve-thirty and was from Hugh.

“Darling, Winnie told me you were on the morning and lunchtime news. If anyone calls, stay mellow and just refer them to Mr. Ota. And don’t worry.”

“Hello, Miss Shimura? This is Manami Tsureta.” A confident woman’s voice. “I am a reporter from the
Japan Times
working on a story about the Sendai
murder. I would like a comment on your relationship with Hugh Glendinning. Please call me back.”

I had previously been a fan of Ms. Tsureta’s investigative journalism, but there was no way I wanted to be her fodder. I fast-forwarded through her number to the next call, which was from a man with a rasping, uncultured voice.

“This is Nao from
News to You
. We’re doing a story called the murderer’s mistresses and need you to respond to various charges. It’s in your interest, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“It’s Karen. I see you’re still wearing my Junko Shimada suit about town, huh? I liked the shot they got of you in the evening without a blouse underneath. I’d try it but with my size, I’d probably get arrested. What were you doing wearing stilettos to work this morning, though? Totally tacky!”

“It’s Okuhara, from the Shiroyama Police. I need to speak to you again.”

“This is Ishida, calling about your antique box. I have some news from the museum. Please call me very soon, if you have time.”

“Hi, Rei, it’s Joe Roncolotta. It’s about noon on Wednesday. Listen, you had fabulous exposure on the news this morning. I want you to know that now would be the optimum time to open your antique shopping service. Call me, ya hear?”

“Rei, it’s your mother. Where were you last weekend and why haven’t you called me back? We’d like to know if you’re alive.”

“This is Wakajima from the
Yomiuri Shibum
. We’re going to press with a story about Hugh
Glendinning and need your comment. I’ll try you at your office.”

“It’s your lover again. I’ve finished up with Setsuko’s travel agent…who told me something strange. When are you getting home from work, anyway? Call before you come over so I can draw the bath. And Richard, this message is not intended for you.”

“Rei, this is your cousin Tom. An Englishman came to the hospital with a black eye and broken ankle. He may be a lunatic, I think. Anyway, he asked me to contact you—”

Tom’s message was cut off. Richard must have intercepted at that point, and now I knew why he hadn’t gone to work. I tore off my stockings and work clothes, slipping gym socks over my feet blistered from the pumps and sliding into jeans and the Love Cats Friendship T-shirt. I pulled my wig into a ponytail, grabbed my parka, and ran.

I found Richard at St. Luke’s Emergency waiting room an hour later, Mariko at his side.

“If it wasn’t for that hideous parka I wouldn’t recognize you,” he said, touching my artificial hair and wincing. “What do you think, Mariko?”

“I should have made you leave the bar last night because I knew the reporters were there. But I didn’t. I screwed up,” Mariko mumbled.

The scene came together. The salarymen flashing a camera around at the next table must have been a journalist team. They had probably followed Hugh and me from Club Marimba back to Roppongi Hills. Thank God the living room blinds had been drawn. Still, they nabbed me bright and early the next morning.

“Kiki was scared. She couldn’t have you coming back upsetting things—” Mariko’s voice broke.

“Keiko sent a couple of thugs to break Hugh’s legs,” Richard added. “Luckily, they just got the weak ankle.”

A nurse at the main desk had put down her clipboard to stare at us. Perhaps I was so notorious from television that she could recognize me, wig and all. Then I heard someone next to her whisper “Shimura-
sensei
” and I realized my connection to the hospital heartthrob was the overriding interest.

“Is my cousin taking care of Mr. Glendinning?” I marched up to the desk and didn’t bother with the usual conversational softeners.

“Not at the moment. Endo-
sensei
is looking after him now, but Shimura-
sensei
said to page him when you arrived.”

“Will you?”

“We already have.” She gave me a comforting look. I thanked her and shuffled back to Richard and Mariko.

“Have the attackers been caught?” I asked.

“Your cousin advised Hugh not to give a description or press charges, given that it was
ya-san
,” Richard whispered.

“Brilliant. The one chance we had to get Keiko arrested and tied to Setsuko’s murder is gone.” I put my head in my hands.

“Why do you and Richard keep calling Kiki by the name Keiko?” Mariko interrupted, sounding cross. Richard and I exchanged glances.

“Because they’re the same woman.” I had no
time for soft words. I was furious with Mariko for leaving us and causing the resulting chaos.

“No. My mother was a gorgeous person, not a Mama-san!” Mariko shook her head so violently that one of her dreadlocks hit Richard in the mouth.

“You’re right that she was gorgeous,” Richard assured her. “You inherited that part.”

Mariko looked skeptical. I took a deep breath and said, “Setsuko was your mother.”

“That’s not a funny joke, with my aunt dead and everything.”

Feeling sorry about my earlier bluntness, I told her, “Setsuko was very young when you were born—just seventeen. Keiko offered to take care of you, and Setsuko never forgot you. Look at the way she stayed part of your life.”

“But I don’t look like her. I’m so dark…”

“You are beautiful,” I said, and Richard put his arms around her.

“What about my father, then? That story about him going off to work in Australia…”

“We think he was an American war hero who died in Vietnam. We have a photograph, and perhaps a lawyer could help you trace his relatives…”

“I don’t believe in tracing people who don’t want you. And I don’t believe this crap.” A tear slid out of Mariko’s eye, leaving a dark line. She broke out of Richard’s hold and stumbled away, her small, black leather clad frame cutting a crooked path down the glossy gray hallway. A small black starling fallen from her nest, maybe forever.

“Go,” I told Richard, and he did.

Ten minutes later, Tom brought me back to see Hugh, eliminating all rules about relatives-only with a wave of his white-jacketed arm.

“Have the reporters arrived yet?” I whispered.

“No, and they won’t be allowed inside. We’ll protect him using every rule about patient confidentiality. And I’ve alerted security about the possibility of, uh,
ya-san
.”

Hugh was resting on a gurney that looked a half-foot too short. Tom brought me to the side and drew a privacy curtain around, separating us from the room at large. Together, we watched Hugh breathing easily in sleep. He was nowhere near death, it was clear, although his left leg was elevated in a sling.

“He’ll be here for at least a week,” Tom said.

“For a broken ankle?” I was incredulous.

“It’s the Japanese way,” Tom shrugged. “Believe me, one week is a modest estimate. I’ll try to get him out earlier, but he’s probably safer relaxing here than anywhere.”

“He might still be indicted, so he needs time to prepare with his lawyer. He doesn’t have any time to relax!” I was irritated by Tom’s cheery bedside manner.

“Yes, he was complaining about that before surgery. This is the guy who wanted you to translate the autopsy, I suppose?”

When I nodded, my cousin’s face turned into something resembling Aunt Norie’s when she was unhappy with the quality of vegetables at the farmers
market. “So this is the man who was jailed in Shiroyama for a while, returned to Tokyo, and was seen with you in a filthy hostess bar?”

“You watch tabloid television?” I wouldn’t have thought my brainy cousin had the time.

“My mother does.” Tom scowled. “Don’t worry, she won’t call your father. Frankly, she’s ashamed this kind of thing happened when she had responsibility for you.”