The Samurai's Daughter (28 page)

On my final night in Tokyo, Richard Randall threw a long good-bye party at Salsa Salsa. I was too depressed to even finish my first
caipirinha
. I sat, sober and grimacing, as everyone around me told tales of my past. The insane things: the time I'd sneaked into a hostess bar, the time I'd been tied up in a mountain cave, the time I'd almost drowned in the Hayama Bay, but for the last-minute rescue by a gangster. They ran through all the good old, bad old, times. They gave me good-bye presents: a rape whistle, to use for the mean streets of San Francisco, and a Hello Kitty mobile phone, with a month's worth of international calling. And I had to come back, everyone said. The furor over my misdeeds at the Imperial Hotel would die down, and Mr. Ishida's employment of me would cinch the reentry visa.

Everyone believed it but me, and after a round of hugs and long good-byes, I left early with Hugh. I was practical enough to want to make the last train and have time to lay out my clothes for the next day. I decided to wear the black Ultrasuede suit I'd worn to the hotel the day I'd found out the truth about Eric and everything fell apart. It seemed fitting, and I'd arrive unwrinkled. As I smoothed my hands over the jacket, my fingers felt a bump in a pocket. I pulled out its contents: the MAC lipstick I'd hurriedly smoothed over my lips that morning, a rose-colored shade called
Desire; an old subway ticket; and a note folded in two. I unfolded it and read the name, “Murano,” followed by a phone number with a Kawasaki area code. Oh, yes. Charles's telephone message; I'd jotted it down when I'd listened to his voice mail.

“Murano,” I said. The name haunted me. I remembered that Mr. Ishida had told me that a Japanese buyer called Murano had purchased the staircase chest.

“What's that?” Hugh said from the bathroom, where he was brushing his teeth.

“This is weird,” I said. “Remember the staircase chest that Charles Sharp considered buying from Mr. Ishida? A man named Murano bought it. And here I have his name and phone number, because he tried to get in touch with Charles Sharp—he left a message on Charles's voice mail at the Imperial Hotel the day I was there.”

“Murano? That rings a bell for me, too.” Hugh came into the bedroom and took the little paper in his hands. “This is a number at Morita Incorporated. I can tell by the prefix.”

“Really? Who is Mr. Murano?”

“He's a section head at Morita,” Hugh said, still staring at the paper. How expensive was this
tansu
?”

“Thirty thousand U.S. I hear he paid full price.”

Hugh whistled. “That's a lot of money for someone making around 100K a year. I wonder how he swings it.”

“Well, Mr. Ishida's glad for the sale. It netted him enough profit to not have to worry about his rent for the next few months. He'll have more funds to use for the new overseas expenses.”

“It can't be enough on its own to cover the storage and retail space you were talking about finding in San Francisco, though.”

“You're right. Actually, I was going to sell some of my mutual funds to cover that myself. After all, Mr. Ishida is doing me a favor in coming up with this export plan. It might not work, and he's an old man. I don't want him to lose everything on a risk.”

Hugh studied me. “Well, if you decide to be the one to take the risk, you should really be partners with him. Not his employee.”

“I agree with you. However, I don't have inventory yet, and being his employee might help convince the government that I should be allowed back in.”

“I see. Just make sure you don't sell your soul for that visa, Rei.”

“Mr. Ishida wouldn't be a bad boss to have,” I said.

“Of course not. But you must ensure that you understand your role in his organization.”

I studied Hugh. “You used to trust Mr. Ishida. Now you're paranoid. I think—I think you're reading a lot of your own problems with the law firms' consortium into my life.”

Hugh sighed and sat down on the bed. “You're right that there are problems. Ever since our little publicity nightmare, both Charles and Mr. Hamazaki at Morita are seriously talking settlement. I told you about it a few days ago when it was just a discussion—now it's seeming like a reality.”

“So Ramon will get twenty thousand dollars,” I said.

“Yes, and I don't think it's enough. Some of the other participating law firms agreed with me in the past, but now they're shifting their opinion to what Charles is saying. As you know, he's got more stature than I—he's on his firm's letterhead as a managing partner, while I'm just an international consultant, a hired gun to Andrews and Cheyne. It's natural that his words are listened to more.”

“I still can't get over the fact that someone from Morita chose that exact
tansu
that Charles wanted.” I stared at the slip of paper in my hand. “What if…Morita Incorporated—the company itself—purchased the
tansu
for Charles?”

“You mean, they shielded his purchase and he's going to reimburse them?”

“No, I mean, bought it as a gift for him. A gift that he's taking in exchange for settling the class action instead of filing it.”

“It couldn't be,” Hugh murmured. “It would be against everyone's financial interest…”

“I don't want to hurt your feelings, but the chances are the class action will fail! Then the firms will really have wasted their money. Charles might see this as the most practical way out, and as for the gift—you know the Japanese are famous for gift-giving. And it's very hard to turn down a gift. I didn't want that silly mobile phone, but I accepted it tonight.”

“But they wouldn't have surprised Charles with the
tansu
,”
Hugh murmured. “He checked it out himself and then asked for it specifically. Not to mention that for a lawyer to take a payment or gift from an adversary during negotiations is completely unethical.”

“I wish I could meet this Murano-san,” I said. “I could tell you within five minutes of chatting with him whether he really knows or cares about Japanese antiques.”

“No!” Hugh's voice rose. “Please don't! You only have a few hours left in Japan. Let's make them hours we spend together loving each other, not chasing more trouble.”

 

So we did, but the next morning came too soon.

Like a coward, I placed a call to Aunt Norie's house at precisely the hour when I knew the men would be at work and she would be out at an
ikebana
class. I'd bargained on getting the answering machine, and I did; but after I started speaking, Chika picked up.

“Rei-chan, it's me.”

“Oh! I thought you'd be back at the university,” I said.

“It doesn't start for a week. Hey, you want to go downtown again? I'm not doing much today.”

“Chika-chan, I was calling because I'm leaving. I have to go back to America this afternoon.”

“Oh, really? Are things okay with your parents?”

“They're perfectly fine; thanks for asking.” At least they'd sounded that way when I talked to them a few days ago about the arrest of Eric Gan. I knew, however, that they wouldn't be fine when they heard that the government was kicking me out. They'd wanted me to come home for years—but not in disgrace.

“Then why are you going?” Chika caught her breath. “I hope Hugh-san didn't get the wrong idea about the hotel. If he did, I can explain—”

“Chika, you know nothing about the Imperial Hotel, okay? It's very, very important that you never discuss with anyone that you went there with me. Now, let me tell you that I hope to come back to Japan soon, though I'm giving up my apartment. I will be back and forth on a new business adventure with my mentor, Ishida-san.”

“I don't understand. You must have done something wrong if you want me to keep secrets about the hotel,” Chika said.

“You're right, Chika. Let's leave it at that.”

“Are you still getting married?” she asked plaintively.

“Yes, I—I think so. But obviously, it can't be here.” My fantasy about getting married under a bower of cherry blossoms would never be realized. All because of my mistake.

My stupid, stupid mistake.

 

The police had said it wouldn't be possible for Hugh to accompany me to the airport, so the next morning we had a tearful good-bye while a massive gray police bus pulled into my street, blocking everything. Two men in pale blue shirts and badges stepped out and knocked on my door.

“Time to go,” they said.

“May I ride with her?” Hugh asked, his voice cracking.

They shook their heads.

“Tell them in Japanese, Rei,” Hugh said. “I don't think they understood I just want to ride along with you to the airport…”

But of course they wouldn't allow it. And when I got on the bus with my two suitcases, I could see why. The bus was loaded with a dozen immigration police officers and about thirty foreign prisoners. I was surrounded by Filipina hostesses, Chinese restaurant workers, Thai nannies, and Iranian construction workers—all of whom had been caught overstaying tourist visas. As people chatted in our babble of various languages all the way to the airport, I learned that most people had been brought directly from an immigration jail in Kita Ward. Because they'd been convicted of immigration fraud, they were banned from returning to Japan for fifty years. I had the chance to reapply after a year—which they all considered special. Lucky, even.

I didn't feel lucky as I stared out the window at the gritty Tokyo landscape, which after an hour turned to rolling green rice fields. The green fields would be my last vision of the country that had brought me so much success—and pain. It was the land of my roots. I could only imagine what my great-grandfather would have
thought, to know his country had turned its back so decisively on his offspring. I guessed he would have been ashamed of me.

When we reached Narita Airport and stepped off the bus, an officer clamped each of our wrists with a pair of truly unusual handcuffs—steel underneath, but covered with a dark blue fabric. I imagined that the blue fabric was supposed to keep the other passengers in the terminal from realizing who we were. However, the fact that we had to carry our own luggage with this restriction on our arm movement made the cuffs quite noticeable—that and the fact the immigration police had formed a large ring around our group, as if to prevent anyone from wandering astray.

As I huffed and puffed along with my two suitcases, I worked my way to the fringe of the group so I could explain to one of the officers that I had a crate of special goods waiting with a customs broker and I'd need to check it before leaving.

“That is most unusual,” the officer said. “Everyone coming from the prison has their two-piece allowance—”

“But I didn't come from the prison! And it's not personal goods,” I said. “It's a prepaid shipment of an antique chest to a client in San Francisco. My boss wants me to be sure it gets on the plane.”

“Just how old are these antiques? Do you have clearance for them to leave Japan?”

“Of course. I have the certificate in my carry-on bag, along with the client's duty payment. Would you care to see it?”

The officer conferred with his supervisor, and it was agreed that the supervisor would take me to the proper desk and that we would then rejoin the rest of the group at the baggage check.

Mr. Ishida's crates were immediately visible at the special luggage area—they were huge, and stamped with his shop name and
FRAGILE
and
THIS SIDE UP
in both Japanese and English. The customs agent who'd brought them to the airport was already there. His eyes widened at the sight of me in handcuffs.

“You really are Shimura-san?” he asked.

“Yes, just ask the officers. I am,” I said glumly.

“Ah, I have to give you these documents to present in San Francisco,” he said. “How can I give them to you…?”

“Yes as you see, my hands are literally tied,” I said. “Can you unzip the carry-on bag on my shoulder and tuck it in?”

“Shimura-san, would you mind double-checking the address on each crate, to make sure it is correct?” the agent asked.

I got up on a chair so I could see the tops of both crates. The base of the chair wiggled as I gingerly stood on it in my stocking feet. I put my bound hands on top of one crate to steady myself and looked at the address label, which was printed in block letters and covered with clear plastic to ensure its safety.

The addressee's name was Japanese and meant nothing to me: Teshi Ikehata.

But his address did. It was on Washington Street, in San Francisco. Washington Street—where I remembered hearing that Charles Sharp lived.

As I waited in line for the luggage lying on the belt to be X-rayed, I had time to open my carry-on and double-check the paperwork. It was all coming together. Mr. Murano of Morita Incorporated had bought Mr. Ishida's chest, but was shipping it to Mr. Ikehata at an address that was close to where Charles Sharp lived. How I longed to use my new cell phone to call Hugh about the situation—but with the police breathing down my neck, I couldn't. And the truth was, when I reached San Francisco and was on my own, able to escort the crate to its final destination, I'd be able to put all the pieces together. The depression I'd felt about leaving Japan was suddenly tempered by the realization that I would be learning something new about Charles Sharp—something that could possibly quash the looming settlement that Hugh was so against.

The agents were now methodically going through everything in my suitcase with wands and special lights and X-ray devices. I handed over my carry-on bag and watched them begin to wand it. A beeping noise broke the quiet, and I jumped. Oh, no. Had I left in the metal measuring tape I carried everywhere? It might have set things off.

The inspector reached a gloved hand into the bag and handed the new cell phone to me.

“Oh, sorry, I didn't know it was on.” I clicked on the receiver and gave a low
“Moshi-moshi.”

“Rei. It's me.” I recognized Eric Gan's voice right away. The ordinariness of it sent a chill through me.

“You're out. Where are you?” Suddenly, I was glad to have so many policemen around me.

“No, I'm not out. I finally got the right to make a phone call, and I wanted to talk to you before you go.”

“If you want to talk to somebody helpful, you should call the U.S. consul,” I said. “How did you get this cell number, anyway?”

“They're already helping me, if you can call it that. And to answer your second question, I called your regular home number. You left a message on it saying you were moving and that this number would work for a while.”

“Eric, I don't know how I can help you. At this moment, my hands are literally tied—”

“But I'm in solitary confinement! Rei, you've got to do something to get me out. I only knocked the guy over. I never tried to
kill
him. It was all a big mistake; he threw a metal box at me filled with millions of tiny needles, and I lost it. I pushed him in self-defense, that was all.”

“I suppose that it was an accident that you poisoned Rosa?” I kept my eyes on the immigration officer, who was not interested at the moment in me, but in my carry-on bag. And of course I was speaking English, which he didn't understand well.

“I didn't ever go to see her on my own, let alone poison her! I know this may be the last time we ever speak, but you've got to hear me out. On Christmas Day, I was with my family. I didn't kill her.”

“That alibi means nothing. Your family would say anything to help you out,” I said, thinking about the situation with Chika. It's what I
didn't say
that had saved her, but she would never know. She'd just continue thinking I was a dishonest, sour older-girl cousin.

“I know it doesn't mean much, a family alibi. But I'm telling you, I think I know who did it. I didn't say anything when I was arrested because I didn't think anyone would actually try to charge me for it, but here, alone in solitary, I have nothing to do but think—”

“Cell phones must be turned off!” the immigration officer said to me. “They interfere with the inspector's instruments.”

I sighed. “Eric, I'm going to have to call you when I get to the U.S.”

“No, Rei, it might be too late. They're talking about transferring me to a different prison and—damn—”

I heard static, and Eric's voice was gone.

“Too bad,” I said, snapping off the phone. Eric was the one who knew Charles Sharp best. He might be able to confirm my suspicions about Sharp's acceptance of graft from Morita—and worse. Well, soon enough I'd be in the U.S. and I'd be able to put the pieces back together when I placed a telephone call on a real phone to Hugh. He'd be able to reach the consul to track down Eric in whatever prison he was staying.

 

Ten minutes later, the immigration police had my passport in their hands. They'd drawn a line through my old visa and added a stamp that said B-1. Mr. Harada had already explained to me that this meant I'd been deported and would be immediately recognized by airport officials should I ever try to come back using the same passport.

I moved on quickly with the immigration officer, making a left to go to the departure gate. It turned out we'd spent longer at the examination table than I'd realized, and the plane was almost ready for boarding.

“Hands, please.” The officer used a key to unlock my handcuffs. I rotated my wrists, which were feeling quite bruised.

The officer insisted that I be boarded first—before first class even. I saw the well-dressed businessmen noticing this affront—that I, a young woman in vintage Ultrasuede, had trumped them. But I had no desire to gloat. I just wanted to get to San Francisco and figure out what was going on with Mr. Ishida's staircase
tansu
—and then think about what I was going to do for the rest of my life.

 

The JAL flight was not crowded. I had the whole center row to myself—I was sure in part because others on the flight had seen my handcuffs and didn't particularly want to share space with me.

When the flight attendants came around offering beverages, I had a glass of white wine. And then another. As the plane floated over the Pacific, I wondered where Japanese airspace ended and other nations began. I wanted to drink for as long as I could over Japanese airspace, then stop as I left the place that I'd so passionately, and irrationally, loved for the past four years. No, six. I'd grown up here, but now I was going to the place where my passport said I belonged.

I'd resisted calling my parents to tell them about what had happened. Now I had to face up to the fact that in a little over twelve hours, I'd have to tell them, face-to-face. And then I'd have to figure out whether I would stay with them or strike out on my own. I had a strong temptation to look for an apartment. Then I could say to my parents that while I had come home, I wasn't really the prodigal daughter needing shelter.

The flight attendant came back to retrieve my empty glass.

“May I get you anything else?” she asked with a gentle—but, it almost seemed, knowing—look.

I shook my head. It would be stupid to get drunk on the flight. It would exacerbate the dehydration effect of air travel and leave me a wreck on the ground in San Francisco. I shut my eyes, and wished myself into a dream of being home at bed in Yanaka, freezing cold but happy.