Girl in a Box (17 page)

“Where were you? What happened? I was worried!” Mrs. Okuma descended on me upon my arrival in the K Team's office Monday morning, and immediately, half my worries were gone. She was alive and well, and now I owed her an explanation of why I'd vanished from Okamura Onsen.

“I was so embarrassed,” I said, and went on to explain that in the dressing room, I'd been questioned about my status by a staff member and told I was not allowed to be in the bath because I wasn't a registered guest—a rule I'd gleaned from the website. “I wish I could have told you, but I was so ashamed of my behavior that I left immediately. I'm so sorry for any inconvenience I caused.”

“But there is no need to apologize. You did a great service to bring the information I'd forgotten—I'm sorry I wasn't there to smooth things for you with the inn staff. The fact is, I was a little late arriving to the bath because the store's general manager noticed me and wanted to discuss a business matter.”

“Mitsuyama Enobu-san? The
kencho
?”

As she nodded, my stomach sank. Could she have been the person the senior Mitsuyama had been threatening? It had seemed as if Enobu was supposed to be a go-between for his father and someone else.

Miyo Han was listening with a half frown on her face. She was too smart to say anything while Mrs. Okuma was present. But when our boss went off with a Chinese delegation, the cat unsheathed her claws.

“So, you went to the
ryokan
where they were meeting? You actually crashed the meeting?”

“Yes,” I said mildly, “I had to take papers that Okuma-san forgot.”

“And she asked you to go there? On your day off?”

“No, it was my idea. I just wanted to help—”

“Sesame seed grinder!” Miyo slung the Japanese equivalent of brownnose at me.

“You would have done the same if you found the papers, I'm sure.” I tried to keep my voice mild and even. “And how was your free Sunday?”

“Super,” she said between her perfectly straight, white, gritted teeth. “Went out with my boyfriend shopping all day long.”

“I didn't know you had a boyfriend,” I said, thinking about her propensity to troll for gaijin men on the customer list. This reminded me that I needed to know more about Melanie Kravitz; to figure out why, if she spent so much at Mitsutan, her husband had gone to the effort of creating a lot of trouble for the store. Surely there were easier ways to curtail a spendthrift spouse than by shutting down the operation.

“Yeah, he's English. Investment banker,” Miyo added.

He had to be a moneyman, if he took someone like Miyo for an all-day shopping trip. Seizing an opportunity, I said, “Lucky you. Speaking of banking, I notice quite a few of the people on the call list have connections to banks. I was thinking about calling an American woman customer, Melanie Kravitz, whose husband, the list says, works at Winston Brothers. Or do you or Mrs. Okuma prefer to work with her?”

She looked at me, that familiar look of suspicion mixed with distaste. “You want to work with her because you noticed she spent the most.”

I exhaled, feeling relieved that she hadn't noticed the serious gaffe. “It couldn't be bad to work with someone who likes to spend, could it? But if she's your favorite client, I'll defer to you, of course.”

Miyo breathed deeply. “Often it's the two of them together, and there's nothing I can bear less than a shopping couple. I mean, the guys tell their wives they look bad in their clothes, and the women wind up saying things like the guy's suit costs too much money. Couples should shop separately, whenever possible. No matter how much they spend, ultimately—it's just a headache for me.”

“So it's okay if I make the call?” I held my breath.

“There's no need. She comes in every two weeks, at least.”

In that case, I'd wait.

 

It was a busy morning. A group of Ecuadorian embassy wives kept me in the food basement most of the morning. I cringed inwardly when I saw Masahiro Mitsuyama making his rounds, this time tasting an apple tart and making clearly audible comments about pastry that was too crumbly. When Masahiro Mitsuyama glanced in my direction, he frowned. He recognized me, I thought in a panic, and attempted to hide myself behind the largest of the Ecuadorians, but he didn't push the issue—he just moved on, an underling scurrying behind him carrying various wrapped boxes of food.

I wondered where Mr. Mitsuyama ate his lunch. Was it with the other executives, in some special room? Or by himself, in the chauffeured car that must have taken him away from the retreat in the dead of night? I hadn't seen Enobu, his son, that day, I realized suddenly. And that was strange. Enobu was always at the morning pep talk, whether he spoke or not.

After the Ecuadorians had learned the name of each of the eighty-nine pastries for sale in the basement, I wearily made my way back to the K Team's office. I could have used some food myself, but store protocol was not to shop alongside your customers.

As I reached the K Team counter, Mrs. Okuma was issuing a cash rebate for an Englishwoman. She didn't acknowledge me until the customer was gone.

“Before you do anything, you need to return some phone calls.”

“I'm so sorry! I never told anyone they could make—a personal call to me here.”

“The calls aren't from the outside. The first one was Mr. Yoshino of Accessories, and he said it was urgent. And there was a second call from Mr. Kitagawa, from Young Fashion.” She looked searchingly at me, and I dropped my gaze. I couldn't possibly confess what had happened.

“I'm sorry,” I said, tucking the paper into my pocket.

“Don't delay! When you get requests from other departments, you must answer them immediately. You know how to dial numbers in the annex, don't you? You may use the desk phone.”

With a growing sense of dread, I punched in the numbers for Mr. Yoshino's extension. The call, I knew, was being recorded on the equipment at my apartment, so I would have to explain the situation to Michael and Mrs. Taki.

“Excuse me for disturbing you, Bucho-san, it's Shimura Rei,” I said, using the honorific title reserved for upper managers. Mr. Yoshino, Mr. Kitagawa, and Mr. Fujiwara were all called
bucho
.

“Ah, Shimura-san, let's see, ah, thank you for returning the call. You must be very busy.” Mr. Yoshino was mumbling, and I realized that he was as nervous as I. “The fact of the matter is, I have a matter to discuss with you.”

“Oh?”

“Well, why don't you come see me about it? How about this evening? Or if that's not good, lunch?”

Suddenly, I got it. I was not in trouble; I was being asked out. And for a single Japanese woman to date a married man was, unfortunately, a growing trend. There was even a slang word for this type of infidelity—
furin
.

“I'm so sorry, but my responsibilities today are all-consuming.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“My day off, and I won't even be in town.”

“Ah, but what about the evening? I know a wonderful little restaurant in Shinjuku, a very quiet, peaceful place.”

I swallowed hard. I couldn't slam down the phone or say anything rash, not with Mrs. Okuma sitting next to me. And Mr. Yoshino had the goods on me, which meant he could get me fired if he wanted. “Perhaps later in the week is more convenient. Would that suit Shacho-san?”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “How about Thursday?”

After I hung up, I noticed that Mrs. Okuma was looking at me curiously. “What did Yoshino-san ask of you?”

“It seems like he wants to talk to me about encouraging my customers to buy a new accessories line. He thought I should stop by during my break hour, but I know we always get a lot of customers on Mondays.”

Mrs. Okuma looked at me thoughtfully. “You are a hard worker.”

I blushed. If only she knew that my sole achievement, in his eyes, was walking naked.

“Yes,” Mrs. Okuma continued. “In your short time here, I have noticed all the extra effort you have made. I have no choice in the employees I get for my department…but this time, I feel quite lucky.”

Thank God Mrs. Okuma wasn't around when I returned the second call, to Mr. Kitagawa. This time I was tougher—because Mrs. Okuma wasn't listening, and because I suspected that he'd been the one who'd touched my thigh.

“I'm sorry, I don't think my boyfriend would be comfortable with my meeting you outside the office,” I said in response to his invitation for a drink that evening at a wine bar located near Hiroo Station.

“Surely, if a senior executive just wished to…talk over your employment situation with you…he wouldn't object.”

What was he suggesting, blackmail? Would he ruin everything, when I was so close to getting the last few bugs planted?

“I can meet you, but it can't be until later on in the week.” I didn't want Mr. Yoshino to catch wind that I'd gone out with Mr. Fujiwara during a time I'd said I was busy.

I hung up, with the date set for Wednesday, wondering which evening was going to be worse. If only there was a way I could channel back the power I'd felt when I'd left the
rotenburo
bath and use the situation to my advantage.

Mrs. Okuma was back. “What did Mr. Kitagawa want?”

I thought quickly because, out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Miyo was heading into the office, purse in hand. She'd come back from lunch. “The fact is,” I improvised, “it turned out he'd actually spotted me at the retreat on Saturday, and he wanted to know why I was there.”

“Ah so, desu ka.”
Mrs. Okuma's face was grave. “And did you tell him about how you'd traveled so far, at your own expense, because I forgot a document?”

“Not exactly. I did say I was there helping you, but I made it seem like a planned thing, not a crisis.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Mrs. Okuma said. “You have a good head,
neh
?”

“Rather a lot of strange coincidences,” Miyo said when Mrs. Okuma had picked up the telephone and was deep in conversation with a client. “And a lot of sesame seeds ground, as well.”

I looked straight at Miyo and said, “Well, the fact is, I like to cook.”

I was busy all day, but not too busy to notice, by day's end, the new message sitting squarely in the center of my desk, written in neat kanji by Miyo, who, Mrs. Okuma said, was out on a run around the store with an energy trader from Houston.

Mr. Fujiwara had called and wanted to hear back from me, as soon as possible.

“Oh. I'm sorry I missed that call,” I said to Mrs. Okuma, who was looking at me curiously.

“What do you think it's about? I mean, for so many of them to call you today.”

“I'm sure it's the same thing the others wanted,” I said, before realizing my mistake. I'd made up separate lies for Kitagawa and Yoshino; I would have to remember to keep those stories straight. “Actually, I have no idea. Is it common for store managers to check up on K Team members like this? If so, our department must be awfully valuable—I'll really do my best to make everyone happy—”

“Fujiwara-san usually communicates his orders through me.” Mrs. Okuma looked at me thoughtfully. “This certainly is a policy shift, for executives so high to work with a K Team clerk.”

Now her approval of me was turning to suspicion. Damn those men for calling me on the K Team phone! I'd have expected them to be more discreet, because that was how Japanese men hoping to engage in
furin
were said to operate, at least if they wanted their liaisons to be successful.

“I'll make the calls back to them on my lunch hour, I think. I don't want to take time away from my work,” I said piously.

“But you never had lunch. And it's almost four.” Mrs. Okuma still kept her eyes on me. “You should have reminded me.”

I took my lunch then, without calling anyone. I went to the annex and tucked myself into a corner table, with a limp iceberg, corn, and cucumber salad in front of me and a can of hot green tea at my side. Smoke from a table nearby drifted over, surrounding me in a stinky fog that exacerbated my misery.

I left the store at seven without returning Mr. Fujiwara's phone call. I told Mrs. Okuma I'd do it on my way home. The truth was that I was sick of answering to male bosses—at this point, I didn't even want to call Michael.

I had to call him, though. He was going to know about the inappropriate interest of the Mitsutan executives as soon as he heard the recordings of the bugged K Team phone. It was my duty to give him advance warning about the trouble I'd inadvertently created for myself, although I couldn't imagine what he could suggest I do to save myself.

No, I thought, he wouldn't tell me to save myself. He didn't think of me as a girl in a box who needed protection from wolfish older men; he thought of me simply as an agent.

I was no longer in the store, so I didn't have to worry about camouflaging my feelings. I boarded the subway slowly, despite the pushing crowd around me. I didn't care; I had finally given in to my painful pinched toes, and the even more painful realization that the first men I'd be dating, after Hugh, were not of my choosing at all.

Tuesday morning—my first genuinely free day since starting at Mitsutan—didn't dawn auspiciously. It was dark and rainy. In this weather, I was going to have venture out to borrow a kimono and all the trappings from my aunt in Yokohama, and make it by eleven o'clock to the Broken Needle Memorial Service.

I decided to make my own coffee that morning rather than have it at Giulia's so I'd be able to check in by phone with Michael.

After we'd exchanged greetings, he got down to business. He said that Mrs. Taki had reviewed the tape of what I'd said in Japanese, and the context of “erasing” was not what I'd thought.

“But the general manager wasn't at the store yesterday,” I said, after listening to Michael's explanation.

“Did you ask anyone where he might be?”

“No. I didn't want to arouse any suspicions.”

“Hmm. I suppose he's likely to be meeting with the staff at another one of Mitsutan's stores. You haven't heard any sound from his bug?”

“That's right. I'm not sure why.” I hoped it wasn't because he was dead.

“I'd like to know if he has anything to say about Jimmy DeLone. You know the guy's still in Tokyo?”

“I—I guess so. I haven't been reading the papers.” Now I felt embarrassed. Here I was, the agent on foreign soil, and my boss was telling me about a development I should be informing him about.

“Rei, you need to keep up with the news, and fax or e-mail me things of importance. All right?”

“I'm sorry. I will get back on track. But first, there's something I've got to tell you.” In as neutral a language as I could muster, given the situation, I told my boss that three of the executives who had been at the retreat were attempting to meet me privately.

“What the hell? What did you do, internationally expose yourself?”

“Well, there was exposure of a sort, but not the kind that you're thinking of.” Rather shakily, I explained about following Mrs. Okuma's directions to meet her in the women's section of the
rotenburo
, and the mix-up I'd made by going into an open section, where I was unfortunately joined by Masahiro Mitsuyama, plus Kitagawa, Yoshino, and Fujiwara. I'd been recognized, and I'd beaten a fairly hasty retreat, but not before they'd gotten a glimpse.

“I understand,” Michael had answered after a pause. “These are older guys away from home, perhaps already half sloshed. They get a glimpse of you, an attractive junior employee, in a bikini, and they start to fantasize—”

“But I wasn't wearing a bikini. A
rotenburo
is an outdoor bath, not a swimming pool.”

“You mean to say…” Michael's voice trailed off. “Oh, my God.”

“I was naked! They were naked! That's why I got out of the water. If I'd stayed a moment longer, I might have been raped.”

Michael had been silent.

“Are you there? Please understand that I did the best I could, under the circumstances.”

“I've got to go.” Michael's voice was curt.

“What would you suggest that—” But I never finished my sentence. He had hung up, leaving me to stew.

It was eight-thirty, and I really had to get out of the apartment, if I was going to retrieve the kimono from Norie in time. There was a Japanese expression for the way I was feeling:
hari-no-mushiro,
sitting on needles, anxious and uncomfortable.

I picked up the bedside phone and punched in a number I knew by heart, that of my relatives in Yokohama. My aunt Norie was in the process of serving her husband and son their breakfast, but she sounded delighted to hear from me. She promised that after breakfast, she'd open up the
tansu
chest where she kept four dozen kimono neatly stored, and pick a good one for me to wear to the temple. Of course she asked me with whom I was going; I said a few friends, because I couldn't figure out how to mention my connection to Mrs. Ono. Fortunately, my aunt believed the story; she knew I loved folk festivals and temples. She only asked me to pick up some incense for her while I was there.

Hearing my aunt's voice, so normal and warm, made me feel human again. I rolled out of bed; took a shower; and dressed in a warm sweater, jeans, and my favorite black rain shoes. I decided not to do the elaborate eye makeup until later, because it would startle my aunt. She knew nothing about my cover, my job at Mitsutan, or my fancy apartment in Hiroo; she thought I was staying with my old roommate Richard while I was job hunting.

My feet felt great in the flat-bottomed rain shoes, I thought an hour later as I splashed up the hill to my aunt's house in the Minami Makigahara section of Yokohama. If only I could get away with wearing the rain shoes with the kimono, rather than the high-heeled wooden sandals that were de rigueur. My aunt always kept a pair in my size handy, because during my visits one of her favorite things was to take me, properly dressed, to events hosted by her cultured women friends.

“Welcome home, Rei-chan! Won't you please stay for a while?” she said when I'd called my greeting and stepped in through the front door.

“I'm so sorry, but not today, Obasan. I'm meeting someone at Asakusa at eleven.” I was already taking off my wet coat and shoes. “What do you think I should wear?”

“Well, I'm sorry to say you can't wear pink anymore—because of your age, you need something
shibui
.”
Shibui
expressed a kind of subtle elegance, which until this point, she'd always said was too old for me. “I was thinking of this lavender and olive silk—it's not too bright, but look at the pattern of wisteria, how delicate it is.” She smiled nostalgically. “I wore this to the birth ceremony for Chika.”

“Vintage kimono like this are becoming very trendy among young women,” I said, fingering the silk moiré with appreciation. It was thick, yet incredibly supple—much better quality than any of the sexy but flimsy silk blouses that I'd been thinking about buying in Young Fashion. Nobody wove silk like this anymore—it was too expensive.

“Well, popular or not, I'm not giving them up to any kimono salesman. Can you imagine, a dealer came through the neighborhood last week, knocking on doors and asking housewives if they had any old kimono to sell? I told him no, thank you. I'm sure the price he'd offer would be even less than what my parents paid thirty years ago.”

My aunt took me into a side room, where she drew closed the
shoji
screens and I undressed down to my underwear. The first step was putting on the thin silk socks known as
tabi
, which have a separated big toe, because once I was dressed, with a thick, stiff sash around my middle, I'd be physically unable to lean over and pull the socks on. So I put on the
tabi
first, then a half-slip, then the light cotton under-kimono, then a succession of cotton sashes designed to make my middle as flat as possible, and finally the kimono itself. I knew how to dress myself in a kimono—I'd taken a six-month course—and I could even tie the thirteen-foot obi sash in a fancy bow; but it was much nicer—and quicker—to be helped by my aunt. As she worked, she chatted about whether we should tie a double butterfly bow or something else.

“If it's a date with a man, you should definitely have an extravagant bow,” she said leadingly.

Irately, I asked, “What kind of a man goes to a memorial service for sewing needles?”

“A tailor, or perhaps even a fashion designer. I know you enjoy fashion. I noticed that you were wearing a lovely new cardigan today. What's the label?”

“Agnes B,” I said.

“You're spending more on your clothes, since I've last seen you.” My aunt sounded approving but curious.

“Well, I earned some decent money in the United States before I came over, so I guess I'm treating myself.” It was hard to resist clothing at Mitsutan, especially when I had no expenses for food or housing, plus a generous salary paid by the government. I was spending more on clothes than my weekly pay from Mitsutan, that was for certain, but it was part of the character I was supposed to be. It was like a little party, a party that would come to end in a few weeks; I might as well enjoy it, before I returned to my secondhand lifestyle.

And secondhand clothes could be very elegant, if you kept them nicely, as my aunt had preserved the kimono I was wearing. I felt fresh when I set off, holding my uncle's golf umbrella over me. I was wearing a special mauve brocade kimono raincoat—a bag-shaped garment that would protect most of the kimono from the rain, and I'd let Aunt Norie apply light makeup to my face, although she did nothing around the eyes except for covering my under-eye circles and applying light mascara. The goal was to look very natural, to harmonize with the traditional garment. If I had time, I told myself, I'd do the eye makeup on the train. I'd seen lots of women doing things like makeup and eyebrow plucking on the train; it was a strange exhibition of private behavior, given that people were too embarrassed to speak on their cell phones in public places. Perhaps it was because exposure of a person's inner life was considered more dangerous than taming one's eyebrows or cleaning one's teeth.

Ultimately, I decided against redoing the eye makeup on the train. Wearing a kimono was a form of exhibitionism; I saw everyone looking me over, the way people in the West can't help stopping to look at a bride. Women looked because they were interested in the fabric design and the intricacy of the bow; men looked to figure out whether you were a respectable housewife going to a tea ceremony, or a less respectable but more exciting woman working in “hospitality.” Elders looked because they were nostalgic; children looked because they were seeing their fairy tales come to life. No matter who you were in Japan, a kimono turned you into a cultural icon, and I wasn't going to ruin my image by fussing with my eyes. I could do it in the women's restroom at Asakusa Station.

 

I got out at Asakusa, and in the wet, smelly restroom did my eye makeup as quickly as I could; took off the rain shoes; and put on the high, tricky geta. Then I carefully made my way up the stairs and out to the street, where the rain had lessened slightly. Every tenth woman I saw was wearing a kimono—a high proportion, no doubt because of the festival.

Mrs. Ono was already waiting underneath Kaminarimon, the famous bright red gate with a 100-kilogram lantern hanging in its center. To the left were old carved wooden statues of the gods of wind and thunder, who had done a bang-up job with the day so far. As usual, people were taking shelter under the gate's tiled roof, while young tourists relentlessly photographed the gate and each other with digital cameras. I spotted a news crew with a camera, first photographing the scene at the gate and then heading in the direction of Sensoji Temple. The needle memorial service was a feel-good story that might lead off the night's broadcast, if it turned out to be a slow news day. I made my way to Mrs. Ono, trying to stay away from the camera crew.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” I said, though by my watch it was one minute to eleven. “You must be very inconvenienced and tired, waiting here for me all this time.”

“It was just a minute. And look how pretty you are in that purple, like a real orchid.”

I flushed at the unexpected compliment, which I knew I'd better deflect fast, to show her that I wasn't arrogant. “Oh, it's very old and out of style. But it's a rainy day, so my mother didn't want me to ruin anything of hers that was nice.”

Mrs. Ono smiled at that. “I arrived early to make a lunch reservation for us at the pork cutlet place, but unfortunately they are full.”

I made a sorrowful face but was inwardly relieved. There was a very famous
katsu-don
restaurant in the area, but I didn't eat meat. “Perhaps we can find another traditional restaurant after the ceremony. There are so many in this area. I know a wonderful place for sushi—”

“Yes, yes, but we are in kimono. We must be careful with the fabric; shoyu stains are almost impossible to remove. By the way, that's an attractive raincoat. Few young women possess the right cover garment.” She nodded in approval at the traditional garment Aunt Norie had tied over me.

“Oh, it's quite old. From my mother's closet,” I said.

“The old silks are the best. How I'd love to work with those instead of cheap Chinese fabric.”

“You could. I mean, I noticed that there are all these little boutiques springing up around the city, where young women are buying old kimono to wear themselves.”

“Really?” Her eyes widened with interest.

“Yes,” I said. “And since Mitsutan sells some antique furniture and china, it would make sense for the store to get in on this trend. I'd be happy to put together a proposal, if you could put the idea upward in the company.”

“I'll think about it,” Mrs. Ono said, in a voice that told me she thought the idea would never fly. “Come, it's wet. Let us visit Sensoji, and then we shall have time to talk.”

We hurried through Nakamise-dori, the 300-year-old shopping street, where vendors still sold Japanese goods, and on to Tokyo's oldest temple, founded in the seventh century. The temple's copper tiled roof had been replaced many times, but nevertheless, the current tiles were oxidized to a gorgeous green. A delicious smell of incense wafted out as Mrs. Ono and I managed to find a place on the ground to leave our sandals, and then stepped up on the rain-spotted wooden steps that led to the tatami-floored house of worship.

The floor was heated. That was the only source of warmth in the open-air space packed with women dressed like us, either standing in front of an image of Buddha or kneeling in prayer. There were two large pans of plain white tofu lying in state, studded with what looked like hundreds of pins and needles: sewing pins with colorful ball tops, regular needles with thin eyes, and even hospital syringes, which I fervently hoped weren't used.