The Salaryman's Wife (4 page)

Ten minutes later I was outside admiring how the snow had blanketed the cars and turned the parking lot into a dazzling white field. There was a pattern in the snow, dainty tracks that could only be made by a cat. I followed the trail around to the back of the inn and found a bamboo gate, which I unlatched.

I entered a small space where snow had edged the branches of severely pruned trees like embroidery. Gusting winds shook a flurry of flakes downward, and I pulled up the hood of my down coat and trudged on, calling in a soft voice to the cat, who had to be crouching somewhere.

The paw prints ended at a heap of dead leaves and branches, a pile of rubbish out of place in the stylized garden. I fluttered my fingers in the pile, trying to encourage the animal out of hiding. As the leaves moved, I found something else.

What had looked like bark was a frozen length of human hair. And the pale, trailing branch was a slender forearm, hair shaved off in the super-feminine manner of many Japanese women. The last thing I took in before my feet gave out were glossy scarlet fingernails, one of them broken. A condition Setsuko Nakamura would not have tolerated, had she been alive.

Japanese police are obsessed with alien registration cards. Not having one handy is cause to be held for hours or even overnight, a misery that has befallen English teachers and bracelet-sellers alike. I wasn’t surprised the Shiroyama police demanded my card when they pulled up at Minshuku Yogetsu in a salt-streaked squad car, a petite ambulance behind.

I had the card ready in my wallet and ran upstairs to get my passport. When I returned, I found Mrs. Yogetsu still hadn’t moved from her courtesy kneeling position before the police.

“There’s no reason why this should have happened here, I beg you to understand. I took that woman’s reservation through a travel agent!” Her pleas went ignored as the officer in charge dispatched a trio of juniors outside.

Captain Jiro Okuhara appeared to have been pulled straight from home, dressed as he was in a beige
V-neck and checked golf slacks. Still, he behaved as formally as if we were at headquarters, offering me his card with a grave expression. I handled it the way I was supposed to—looking it over with great interest, something that was in fact feigned. My command of Japanese was almost exclusively spoken—although I’d been studying
kanji
characters since college, I could read only about three hundred, which left me somewhere in the third grade.

Captain Okuhara whisked me from the crowd of guests and concerned neighbors spilling into the entryway. In Mr. Yogetsu’s kitchen, we faced off across a small table overloaded with a rice cooker, vegetable peelings, and other remnants of breakfast preparation. The kitchen wasn’t as clean as I’d expected, given the New Year’s scrubbing that most of the country happily took upon itself. Then again, Mr. Yogetsu hadn’t been expecting a crisis.

Okuhara studied my alien card, which contained my name, photograph, and right thumbprint along with my employment and visa information. Then he switched on a cassette recorder and asked for everything that had transpired since I opened the front door.

“How distressing for you to have such trouble on New Year’s Day,” he said when I’d finished my account.

“It was worse for her.” Setsuko had looked like she’d been packed in snow for hours.

“So, Miss Shimura, I’m wondering something.” There was a perceptible change in his tone. “Why were you walking outside the inn like that? Don’t you think it a little odd?”

I went rigid but answered vaguely about how I had planned to hike up to the castle ruins but decided to visit the garden first. “In Tokyo, there weren’t—I mean aren’t—many gardens, after all.” I was stumbling over a perfectly easy sentence construction, embarrassing myself.

“How did you even know there was a garden behind the house?” He caressed a large, expensive-looking fountain pen, not writing anything down. Still, I remained hyper-conscious of the small tape recorder on the table.

“I wasn’t sure there was a garden, but there were some animal feet and I followed them.” It was too bad I didn’t know the word for footprint.

“Was it the animal you were interested in, or the garden? You’re contradicting yourself.” He spoke slowly to make sure I caught the meaning.

“It was the cat. I like cats,” I added.

“Where did you touch the body?”

“I moved the leaves but didn’t touch the body. In the United States, civilians never interfere with police work.” I made a conscious effort to mimic his authoritarian stance.

“But how did you know who the woman was? When Mrs. Yogetsu called, she said you had made an identification.”

“I heard her husband say she was missing. She was on my mind.” I thought of saying something about recognizing her hairless arm and manicured fingernails but stayed quiet, not wanting to sound obsessive.

“Really! When did he report her absence?” The police chief started writing.

“Just before I went down to breakfast. I was walking to my room after bathing, and I was invited to join a conversation between him and Mr. Glendinning.”

“The Englishman.” Captain Okuhara nodded. “I also secured his registration card. And what was your relationship with the deceased lady?”

“I had no connection with Mrs. Nakamura.” I stared at some nicks in the wooden table. “I arrived here last night at six. She and her party came about five minutes later, because I heard her voice downstairs. We sat at the same table at dinner. I saw her walk off to her bath around nine o’clock. That’s it.”

“How long do you plan to stay in Shiroyama?”

“Through next Sunday.” I wondered if he’d try to detain me. It was his right to do so, just as it was Nichiyu’s right to find a replacement for a contract worker like me should I not be around to teach English.

“And the other foreigners, what about them?”

“Mrs. Chapman is doing some kind of self-tour, but I have no idea about Mr. Glendinning. Since he’s with Mr. Nakamura and Mr. Yamamoto, I imagine his plans are tied to theirs.”

Captain Okuhara laid his pen down and appraised me. “For an American, you speak pretty good Japanese.”

“Thank you,” I said, confused at the change of manner.

“Yes, you will be fine as a translator.”

“Me? I have no interpreter qualifications. I’m just an English teacher.”

“Our English-speaking policeman is on holiday. Unless the other foreigners wish to wait in the prison
for an interpreter to arrive, I will require your assistance. As a matter of procedure, this questioning must be done. You understand, I’m sure?”

With his eyes boring into me and his hand firmly placed over my passport, I did.

Hugh Glendinning strode in and looked at me hard. It was impossible to tell if the prospect of having me as an interpreter was worrisome or a relief. This would be almost enjoyable if the situation weren’t so black.

“Your alien registration and passport are in order. I see you’re a lawyer.” Okuhara’s voice was almost respectful.

“At Sendai. How do you like our mini-cassette recorder?” Hugh asked, and I gamely translated.

“What?” Captain Okuhara blinked a few times.

“Your recorder.” Hugh tapped the small black machine. “I hope the microphone’s got enough volume for you. We’ve had some complaints, to be frank, and are reworking the model.”

“It’s all right,” the police captain said briskly. “When did you last see Mrs. Nakamura?”

“What kind of investigation is underway?” Hugh had carried in his own diary and pen and was beginning to make notes. “Because of my relationship with Sendai, Mr. Nakamura is effectively my client. I need to know the status of this investigation.”

“I must remind the Englishman that he is under questioning, not his
client
.” The police chief drew the sides of his mouth down in exaggeration, as if he found the word ridiculous.

“I’m not English. I’m a Scot.” Hugh’s expression remained pleasant, but I sensed anger. “I last saw Mrs. Nakamura yesterday evening, going to the bath.”

“You bathed with her?” Captain Okuhara inquired.

“No, indeed. May I remind you, she is married to my colleague,” Hugh reproached. “I simply saw her walking down the hallway. Nine o’clock, I think it was. She was in a bathrobe and carrying some shampoo, so I assumed she was going to the bath.”

“Were there any other witnesses?” Okuhara asked.

I brought up my own presence, and Hugh shot me a surprised look. What had he thought, I’d leave him to the wolf?

“Tell me more about your relationship,” the captain said, stroking his pen suggestively.

“With her? We only met at dinner.” Hugh’s eyes darted nervously toward me.

“No, with Mr. Nakamura’s wife!”

“Oh.” He exhaled, obviously relieved. “We were friends.” Okuhara’s eyebrows shot up at that sharp departure from Japanese male-female norms but Hugh continued, oblivious. “We’ve been friends for ages, ever since Mr. Nakamura asked her to help me find a decorator to furnish my flat.”

“And once your residence was furnished?”

“She handled anything else I needed. Finding a maid and leasing a car…ordering groceries…the myriad things one needs to learn in a new city.”

“You’ve been here how long, Mr. Glendinning?”

“Eight or nine months.”

“And how many times did you meet with Mrs. Nakamura during this period?”

Hugh shrugged. “Often. I didn’t keep count.”

“Was her husband present during your meetings?” Okuhara prodded.

“Occasionally.”

“Do you have any idea why she might have gone outdoors without clothing in the middle of the night?”

Hugh paused. “Actually, I thought she might have had a row with her husband.”

I translated that as ‘misunderstanding’ for lack of a more exact word. But as euphemisms are used to describe a multitude of sins in Japanese, Captain Okuhara lit on it passionately. I haltingly translated his flood of questions about Setsuko Nakamura’s relationship with her husband. Hugh drew his lips into a thin line and pleaded ignorance.

The police chief seemed unsatisfied, staring at Hugh for long periods without speaking as if to incite him into more revelations. Too much time passed. I was relieved when Mrs. Yogetsu stuck her head through the door.

“A telephone call, from the Sendai company president,” she said in Japanese. I translated and Hugh bolted without apology.

“The other foreigner you mentioned, bring her to me.” Captain Okuhara’s voice was brusque, as if he needed to revalidate his authority.

“Heavens, this is exciting,” said Mrs. Chapman after I found her eavesdropping outside the kitchen door.
Now she sat with her faux Vuitton bag on her lap, smiling at Captain Okuhara. “Can I take his picture, do you think?”

I shook my head and, anticipating his first question, asked for her documents. Because Mrs. Chapman was a tourist, she had a visitor card tucked in her passport instead of the laminated ID Hugh and I carried.

“It’s in my maiden name, Marcia Smith. Marcelle is my nickname, because I never cared for Marcia.” She looked at me anxiously, and I blanched. Here was something the police officer might seize upon. He looked at the picture inside, listened to the explanation, and looked back at her.

“In Japan, we have one name. After you marry, you take the man’s name by law.”

Even though it was out of turn, I said to him, “That might change. Japanese women are beginning to sue for the right to keep their name. Some friends of mine in a feminist organization are involved.”

“It will never happen,” he snorted. “Now stop pretending this is a women’s liberation rally and ask the old woman about Mrs. Nakamura.”

Mrs. Chapman had seen even less of Setsuko Nakamura than I had, but she had plenty of emotional impressions to offer.

“She was a quiet one: unusually quiet in my opinion. Good-looking gal, but she didn’t seem very close to her husband. Not a good marriage, if you ask me.”

“Please ask her to elaborate,” Okuhara ordered after I translated her statement.

“Rei, you saw them.” Mrs. Chapman wiggled around
in the kitchen chair that was too tight for her hips. “They didn’t say a word to each other, just spoke to Glendinning and his little Japanese assistant. It was eerie, kind of like they were talking through a medium.”

I knew what she meant. But in a Japanese marriage, the best communication was supposed to take place without words. A wife was supposed to anticipate her husband’s needs and respond to them. What wasn’t normal was the way Setsuko had stiffened, her profound aura of anger mixed with pain.

Captain Okuhara kept me for a few minutes after he was finished with Mrs. Chapman.

“You seem to have a prior relationship with the Englishman. When did you first meet?”

“Around six o’clock on New Year’s Eve.” I didn’t want to go into the exact details of where.

“He said you met at dinner, which according to the sign in the entry hall, is always served at seven.” His voice was as sharp and cold as the icicles I’d seen outside.

“I don’t understand,” I said, hoping to be excused.

“You’re giving a very odd impression, Miss Shimura. It is apparent that either you or Mr. Glendinning is not telling the truth.”

“No! I mean, I had just arrived at the inn. I was in the hallway, getting ready to walk downstairs to the bath. I didn’t see him, but I heard his voice.”

He nodded at last, letting me go.

The five kilometers to the castle’s summit were tougher than I’d expected, a fitting penance for my
half-truths to Okuhara. Plenty of ice was packed beneath the snow. Even though I followed in other people’s tracks, there were some unsteady moments as I struggled to the uneven, broken-down stone wall at the summit.

This was the only remnant of the castle foundation. Yuki had warned me it was a sorry-looking ruin that didn’t do the legend justice. Still, the views were good. Around me were the soft colors of old stones and evergreens and below were snow-covered roofs and the highway winding like a dark ribbon down the mountain.

The air was sharp enough to bring tears to my eyes, tears that should have come earlier. I felt disconnected, at a point somewhere above grief and shock and horror. It was a little like sitting in the balcony watching a Kabuki drama unfold beneath me. I had trouble understanding the theatrical dialogue, just as I couldn’t understand the subtext behind Captain Okuhara’s words. Did he suspect I’d done something wrong, perhaps in collusion with Hugh?

Going down, I took the alternate route marked
DIFFUCULT
through deep snow, following a path marked only by colored rope tied on trees. As I stopped to look at a misted old plum tree that was starting to bud, I heard a crunching sound in the snow behind me. It halted abruptly and started again when I resumed walking. I spun around and saw a tall, slender figure dressed in black. Japanese eyes peered out from a woolen ski mask.

“Miss Shimura, excuse me for what I was doing. These woods are supposed to be dangerous. Bad conditions
for injury.” The man pulled the mask off his face and I recognized him as Yamamoto, the young assistant to Mr. Nakamura and Hugh Glendinning.

“You followed me all the way up the mountain?” I was starting to freak out.

“Yes, I walked behind a group, so you did not see.” As the young man moved closer, I noticed how intense his expression was, how powerful his figure seemed looming half a foot over me. He had hit the temple bell with a lot of vigor last night, more than was necessary. A dim sense of unease prickled in me, similar to the feeling I have in certain parts of San Francisco.