The Samurai's Daughter (20 page)

“My fiancé surprised me.” I couldn't restrain myself from blushing a little. There was something about being in this super-feminine office that made me feel awkward and ill at ease. “Unfortunately, I can't remain engaged or even plan the wedding until my parents decide they like him. They don't know him at all, and they're quite nervous.”

“I understand. How difficult for you. By the way, are you considering elopement?” She held out a folder to me. “We offer something called the wedding escape plan. There's an all-included package with hotel, wedding ceremony, and private luau. Hawaii is very convenient, and of course it's much cheaper than Japan.”

“I—I couldn't elope. I guess I want to plan a real wedding, but I have this obstacle that my parents won't come through with money until they're satisfied I'm marrying the right man.”

“You probably will need to order an investigation, then.” I could hear the sympathy in her voice. “Why don't you talk to a detective who specializes in such matters? There's one right across the hall. Idabashi-san—he's very reliable.”

“Is he—a kind person? I'm quite nervous. Frankly, I'd prefer to talk to a woman about this kind of thing—”

“Don't be nervous,” Mrs. Sugo said. “He's easy to get along with, and he is discreet. He won't do anything to hurt the situation of whoever is paying his bill.”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

Ms. Sugo raised her eyebrows. “What I mean to say is, if your parents pay, it's his obligation to give them what they're asking for. But if you pay, he will do his utmost to come up with a report that works in your interest.”

“Does he specialize in engagement surveillance?” I asked.

“I think he does a little of everything. He does corporate work, too.”

“He's been hired by big companies?” If so, I would definitely have to worry that Morita Incorporated might have been a past client.

“Large and small, I'd think—just like my wedding service. I can deal with anything—traditional Shinto ceremonies, chapel weddings in Hawaii, you name it!”

“What kind of work does Mr. Idabashi do for the companies?”

For the first time, a flash of irritation—or was it suspicion—seemed to cross Ms. Sugo's face. “I have no idea. Weddings are my concern, not company business. But look, he's free now.”

“How do you know?” I asked. I wasn't ready for a direct confrontation yet.

“Look out the door. He's come into the hall with a client.”

I whipped around to see that two men were walking out of the office. The first was a small, gray-haired salaryman in a modest blue suit, and the second was a man about ten years younger dressed in an electric blue sharkskin suit. His hair was permed into tight curls, and his nose looked as if it had been broken more than once. His cheeks were pitted by the remnants of something awful—chicken pox? Acne? I wasn't sure, but I looked after him in awe as the two men headed down the short staircase to the street.

“Ah, I see Mr. Idabashi has gone out. Well, I guess it is lunchtime.” She looked at her watch. “He usually takes a half hour.”

“Oh, of course,” I said, realizing that I was wearing out my welcome. “Didn't you think that client of his looked a little…unusual?”

“What do you mean? The client looked like a typical father of a bride to me.”

“Do you mean to say that the older man in the blue suit was the client?”

“Was it blue? I didn't notice. Actually, I have no idea who his clients are, other than some of my brides' families.”

“Was Mr. Idabashi the man with the curly hair?”

“Yes, indeed.” She looked at me curiously. “What's wrong?”

I couldn't say that curly hair and pockmarked skin and brightly colored clothing are the marks of a gangster. Nobody even said the word
gangster
aloud. So instead I said, “I just realized I'm running late to my job. I must go now. Thank you for all the help.”

“Please take some brochures with you. And I've got some more materials on upcoming wedding specials coming back from the printer that I can mail to you next week. Let me take your name and address.” She opened a folder and picked up a pen. “Also, who referred you to my agency?”

I paused. “Um, my cousin referred me. But she wound up not going with your agency, so I don't think you would have a record of her name.”

“I see. Well, I would like a record of yours, if that's not too much trouble.”

“Ah, the problem is that I live with my parents, you see, and if they received any wedding-related mail before the inspection is over they might become angry.”

“Ah, I understand.” She pressed her lips together sympathetically. But please tell me your name for my guest log, so that when you call back I'll know you?”

“Shimada,” I lied. I was doing this so often now, I was certain not to get to heaven—Buddhist or otherwise. “My name is Reiko Shimada.”

“Very well, Miss Shimada, good luck to you and your intended groom. And please come back and see me when your parents have agreed to the union.”

 

Why would a
yakuza
become a detective?
I pondered as I walked through the streets of Shinjuku on my way back to the train station. To help other mobsters, say, collect on bad debts? If that were the case, wouldn't he have enough work to keep him from having to do general detective work, such as bridal surveillance and missing persons? He hadn't charged me very much money; in fact, he'd returned some of the deposit I'd made.

I was at my wits' end by the time I got home. I went straight to the phone to call Hugh. I explained my suspicions about Mr. Idabashi possibly working for unsavory people.

Hugh was less sympathetic than I'd expected. “Rei, that curly-hair thing is a stereotype. There's no reason to believe that Asian men with curly hair are gangsters—their hair just shows their parents might have intermarried. Anyway, how could Mr. Idabashi have been involved in what happened with Rosa in San Francisco? You hadn't contacted him until days after she died.”

“I haven't figured it out, all right?” I was irritated with Hugh for his cool reaction.

“I see. Let's agree to disagree on your gangster theory, all right? And I want to tell you what Charles said on the limo ride in from Narita Airport. We have plans to meet with people at Morita Inc. tomorrow.”

“That's what you wanted to do,” I said. “But it's too fast, isn't it?”

“Not given all that's happened to our two plaintiffs.”

“Hold on. You don't really think it was someone from the company who'd do something so…open?”

“I don't know. It makes a hell of a lot more sense than your suspicion about Mr. Idabashi. And regardless of whether they did anything to our plaintiffs, we've got to act as if we're not afraid of them. It's like a game—”

“Bullies standing up to each other on the playground,” I said softly. It was a far cry from a tower of tangerines.

“What? Darling, aren't you with me on this?”

I sighed and said, “At this point, I don't think about the future of the lawsuit; I think about the people who've already been hurt, and the fact we might be hurt, too.”

We made our good-byes and then I called over to Kanda General to check on Ramon Espinosa. He was still in the coma. I asked to speak with Dr. Nigawa, but he wasn't available.

Feeling too stressed to sit still, I pulled on sweats and went out for a run. This time my knee was better. I breathed easily as I loped along the sidewalk.

As I moved into the semi-dreamlike state of freedom that a good run can bring, I thought of the different ways in which I was lucky. I had my health, Hugh, and relatives who cared about me. Money…sure, it would be nice to have a decent bank account. I'd heard somewhere to do what you love, and that the money would follow. It seemed that only rich people said that. I'd never get rich by researching my family history and writing it up for nobody but the Shimura clan and myself. I'd probably have to shelve this project for a while and get back to the business of fixing up and selling old
tansu
.

The family history had seemed so important a week ago, with the discovery that a letter from Hirohito existed. But I was finding my great-grandfather a far less admirable character than I'd
hoped. He was a pedantic, conservative scholar: nothing to brag about.
Why did the hard things have to survive?
I wondered again.

I didn't want to know about my great-grandfather's ridiculous beliefs. If only Uncle Hiroshi's files had been filled with old menu plans and garden designs. I'd built my life around the cultural traditions that made Japan humane: the elegant, fragile, admirable things. Things like that had survived in museums, but apparently not in my family's home.

Kiku is the rare kind of restaurant that gets terrific reviews in both the Japanese and English-language press—which makes it hard getting through the door. Even though it was half-empty, when I arrived every white-clothed table in the restaurant had a
RESERVED
sign on it. Apparently spaces along the vintage-looking zinc bar were reserved, too, because when I headed for a bar stool, I was immediately questioned by an black-clad gentleman about my intentions.

“My name is Rei Shimura. I'm meeting colleagues later on—”

“What are their names?” the maître d' said as he looked over my outfit. I was wearing a trim red wool suit I'd bought a few months ago in Washington, but it suddenly felt too loud and cheap for this subdued locale.

I hesitated, now paranoid about giving too much information. “I'm not sure which one called. Perhaps the reservation is in a foreign name?”

“We have many foreigners eating here tonight. In fact, it's so busy that perhaps you'd be more comfortable next door…”

“Glendinning, party of four.” Who else was so good at making reservations?

The tightness on the man's face evaporated. “We have that
reservation, yes, so you may stay. We're still arranging the table, so please, why don't you wait for your group at the bar.”

I nodded and sat down, delighted to be able to pull myself out of the fray of exquisitely dressed couples coming and going. Sake was the specialty beverage of the restaurant, with over a hundred varieties available from different regions in Japan. After some deliberation, I ordered a crisp sake from my favorite province, Fukushima, which came to me in a small glass filled with ice. It was the perfect partner to the
otoshi,
the small, predinner nibble they served alongside it—a spicy, tangy mix of mackerel and trout chunks. I couldn't have eaten fish this strong-tasting when I was in high school, but the longer I'd lived in Japan, the more I had become able to appreciate savory and strong flavors, especially if they were spiked with things like chilies and horseradish. I ate the fish as slowly as I could, hoping Hugh and the others wouldn't be too late. I had a feeling that it would be very easy to wear out my welcome at this place.

My worries faded in a couple of minutes, when I saw a small, silver-haired Japanese man come through the door. I'd have known that stoop-shouldered gait anywhere—it was the man I'd taken into my heart to be my grandfather, Mr. Ishida. Ishida-san was a real Tokyo old-timer, and a serious gourmet—which was why the maître d' was buzzing around him and treating him far more solicitously than he had me.

I waved to my mentor, who gave me a gracious half-bow. A place was found for Mr. Ishida next to me, and the bartender brought him a glass of sake and his own plate of
otoshi
.

Mr. Ishida asked me if I'd been away in the countryside. I guessed he was angling to see if I had bought anything good that he might be interested in taking off my hands; the thought that my mentor finally had enough trust in me to express his curiosity made me very happy.

“I wish,” I said wryly. “I've been out of the country—actually, back in San Francisco, researching the Shimura family history.”

“But your family's from here. You shouldn't have to go so far.”

“Well, it was on the way back from that museum lecture trip I'd
done in Washington.” I explained. “I'd thought my father would have a lot to contribute, but I didn't get much. About the most interesting thing I discovered was that we actually once had something quite valuable—a signed letter by Emperor Hirohito. But he'd sold it.”

“That must have been disappointing.” Mr. Ishida was too cool to ask what price the letter had fetched.

“It was. Fortunately, the letter made its way to the archives at Showa College, so I did read it. But it was just a condolence letter, nothing of political or social importance. I'm afraid my history project has been a waste of time, not to mention that I'm not making a dime—or I should say ‘yen'—from it.”

Mr. Ishida regarded me through narrowed eyes. “But history is worth much more than money. It's our nation's heritage. The problem here is that nobody will speak up about his or her life. We say water washes everything away—that it's unimportant. So the stories, like pieces of old furniture, are lost.”

Water washes everything away
. Mr. Ishida had used a proverb that Manami Okada had uttered in San Francisco. Nobody wanted to talk about atrocities committed against others because that time was past; the water had washed it away. We were supposed to move forward and build strong new relationships based on a new Pan-Asian desire for peace.

I looked closely at Mr. Ishida. “I didn't know you felt that way.”

He cocked his head to the side. “You know, there actually might be a market for what you're doing. If you could put your history together in some kind of multimedia presentation, a museum might be interested.”

“Wouldn't that be nice,” I said absently, watching Eric Gan come in through the door. He gave me his familiar, oily smile again. Just great. Now I was going to have to introduce the man I admired most to the one most likely to cause me embarrassment.

“Ishida-sensei, please let me introduce you to Hugh's colleague, Eric Gan.” I did it all in Japanese, because I knew Eric was fluent. “Eric is visiting from the United States, and he is a Japanese-English interpreter.”

“Very pleased to meet you.” Mr. Ishida bowed. “I have a small antiques shop in the area. Rei and I have been colleagues ever since her arrival some years ago.”

“Actually, I'm Rei's first boyfriend, not just a translator,” Eric said, in a brash way that made me cringe.

“We're just friends these days,” I amended. “Ishida-sensei, I believe you may remember my fiancé, Hugh Glendinning. He's the tall man with reddish-blond hair who has just come in the door.”

Mr. Ishida turned and surveyed Hugh and Charles Sharp as they were pulling off their overcoats. He said, “Ah, there's a gentleman with money and taste. He was just in the shop earlier today to buy some porcelain. He also is considering a
tansu
.”

“Hugh?” I asked in surprise. I didn't think he had much money to throw around at the moment.

“Actually, I'm talking about the other gentleman. His name means something that cuts…it's escaping me at the moment.”

Feeling somewhat relieved Hugh hadn't shopped behind my back, I said, “That's Charles Sharp, but he lives in San Francisco. He's just here short-term.”

“Sharp—how could I forget?” Mr. Ishida shook his head ruefully. “I shipped some goods to an address in San Francisco for him a few years ago. This time, he bought just a little Imari porcelain, but he's considering quite an important chest—I hope he takes that, too.”

“Let's talk about it later,” I said as Charles and Hugh began to thread their way through the crowd to us.

Mr. Ishida looked at me curiously, and I quickly explained, “He's my fiancé's boss. I want to make a good impression on him—why, hello there. Mr. Sharp, you must still be exhausted. How nice of you to let me come along to this restaurant—it's one of my favorites.”

“Please call me Charles,” Sharp said, looking at me. “We'll all be family, now that you will be Hugh's bride. And hello to you, Mr. Ishida. The plates have arrived already. Is Rei one of your customers, too?”

“Yes,” I said quickly, because I didn't want to go into the depth of my complicated relationship with my mentor. My head was
buzzing with what Charles had said about my being a bride. It should have made me feel warm and fuzzy, but it just made me feel stupid.

“I am relieved the deliveryman brought the plates already,” Mr. Ishida said in his slow, precise English. “Did you open the package to certify they are in good condition?”

“Not yet, but I'm not worried. Your deliveries have always been perfect, whether to the Imperial Hotel or Pacific Heights.”

Hugh put out his hand to Mr. Ishida. “Good evening. I'm Hugh Glendinning. I don't know if you remember me from a few years ago.”

“Yes, I certainly do. I'm very happy you have returned to Japan. I apologize, but I must leave for my home now. Shimura-san, if you have a moment to visit my shop tomorrow, we shall finish that discussion about the auction.”

By the time Mr. Ishida had paid his bill—he'd insisted on picking up my sake tab, despite my protestations—Hugh, Charles, and Eric were well settled at a table in the back of the restaurant.

The seating hadn't worked out the way I'd hoped. While I'd been gone, Charles had chosen the chair next to Hugh. I took the seat next to Eric without even looking at him. I scanned the menu for the tuna carpaccio that had been my favorite; it was no longer there, so I decided to have eggplant grilled with a miso topping followed by
ganmo
, a tofu ball simmered in a soy broth with potatoes. My goal was to eat so much I wouldn't have to speak to Eric.

Menu study took a while for everyone else. Hugh chose a grilled chunk of tuna cheek, and Charles a grilled red snapper–type fish called
kinmedai
. Eric went for the only thing that made me squeamish—” hot squid,” a species of miniature squid that were electrically charged. In their afterlife, the squid were boiled and chilled with slices of mountain celery, greens, and mustard-miso sauce. I was sure Eric had chosen the electric squid to be macho, and resolved I would not taste it, no matter how aggressively he insisted.

“Did you already know Mr. Ishida?” Charles looked at me with something new in his expression after the orders had been taken.

“Sure. Everyone in Tokyo knows Mr. Ishida,” I said cagily, not
wanting to go into the extent of our close relationship. “He's the best man in town for
tansu
.”

“I've shopped there before. Years ago,” said Charles, nodding at the waiter, who brought us a platter of crunchy
daikon
atop lettuce, garnished with a cod roe mayonnaise and flakes of dried bonito fish. Mayonnaise was a Japanese passion, but not one of my favorites; I passed on the dish, which the men quickly polished off.

“Charles's house is packed with Japanese treasures—you'd love it, darling,” Hugh said between bites.

“Yes, you must come sometime for an education,” Charles said, and I bristled. Clearly he thought that what he owned was out of my league.

“Is it just Japanese antiques you own?” Eric asked Charles. “Or have you gone for fusion, like this too-trendy restaurant?”

I shot a withering glance at Eric. Kiku was going to cost the equivalent of at least eighty dollars a person; he should have been grateful he wasn't paying for his electric eels, I thought.

Charles seemed to take it in stride. “Well, Japan is my foremost specialty, but I do have some Southeast Asian items I collected from Thailand and Vietnam over the years.”

“What about the Philippines?” Eric said.

Charles smiled and said, “Not much to collect there except for rattan furniture. Or, I suppose, the shoes of a famous first lady.”

Eric's face flushed. As much as my ex–childhood flame annoyed me, all of a sudden I felt for him, at a table in a fancy restaurant with white men who made far more money in a year than he would in ten years, one of whom was dismissing his family's culture.

“Oh, there's quite a lot of value in the Philippines,” I offered. “The only dilemma is there's no way to get it out.”

“And what are you talking about, specifically?” Charles looked at me with new interest.

“Gold.” I said the word softly, so they all had to lean in to listen to me.

“The Philippines is better known for pearls,” Eric corrected me. I wanted to slug him; didn't he know I was trying to save his dignity?

“That's the small stuff,” I said. “What about all the gold Buddhas and gold ingots the Japanese looted from Asia during
World War II? A lot of it is supposed to be hidden in caves and tunnels in the Philippines.”

“How did you hear this?” Charles Sharp asked. I could tell his interest was piqued, because his nostrils flared out a little bit, as if he'd smelled something good.

I wished I could have said it had been through my own scholarship, but it wouldn't have been true. “My father told me.”

“Rei's father is a very interesting person,” Hugh said. “Of all the Japanese I've met, he's the only one who wants to talk about the war.”

“Well, maybe not the only one.” Eric snorted lightly. “Morita Inc. is about to make a big-time attitude adjustment.”

“What do you mean?” I took a sip of sake. “Oh, sorry. Don't tell me anything for which you'd have to kill me later on.”

Charles Sharp gave me a half-smile. “Actually, Rei, the last thing I'd want to do is make an associate's wife unhappy. I wanted you to be here tonight because I'm asking Hugh to consider a shift from his current employer in Washington in order to join us as an associate. It would be partner track, with a generous starting salary and a high enough cost-of-living allowance to move into a top-notch building. There's one I'm thinking of that's close to the Imperial Hotel—”

I shot a glance at Hugh. His face showed that he was as stunned as I.

“Is this like one of those public proposals?” I said in the next split second, to fill the gap. “You know, the kind of scene where you ask someone to marry you in front of their family so they have to say yes?”

“Rei,” Hugh said, turning almost as red as the pickled ginger on his plate. Then he turned to Charles. “It's, uh, quite an offer. Perhaps we can discuss specifics in private tomorrow.”

“Eric, what are you working on next?” I said, realizing I'd made an error.

“I'm following Charles to assist with the preliminary interviews with a new group of survivors that we've heard about in the Philippines. That's a top priority, now that things are lining up so nicely with Morita.”