The Samurai's Daughter (4 page)

I finally understood what my father was saying—and it made me uncomfortable.

Just after three, my mother interrupted me in a half-doze at my desk.

“Hugh's on the line.”

I picked up the cordless phone she'd brought, mentally preparing myself for bad news. He'd be delayed, probably; that was the life of a corporate lawyer.

Instead, he said that he was through with his meeting and was calling to see if I was game to run an errand with him, then head out for a drink with his colleagues at the Mark Hopkins.

“This is weird,” I said. “You've never included me in so many things before.”

“Well, after we broke up the last time, I went through the twelve-step program for bad boyfriends, and I learned a lot of clever strategies—”

“Don't joke about that.” Somehow, I didn't like the word
strategy
connected to our relationship.

“Why not? I think it pays off to become reformed.” His voice softened. “By the way, can you pick me up outside Sharp, Witter and Rowe? It'll make things easier than if I return to Pacific Heights again.”

“I'll ask my mother if the car's free.”

My mother agreed to lend me the Infiniti, as long as I was care
ful on the hills. She knew I was deathly afraid of slipping backward, because I'd practically burned up the transmission on the Camry they'd let me drive when I was in grad school. My mother also asked if I would pick up a special order of votive candles at Williams-Sonoma, and recommended that I change out of my jeans, since I would be going to one of the most glamorous spots in the city for cocktails.

“There are going to be tourists there,” I protested. “Tourists can wear anything!”

“But we are longtime residents, not tourists, dear.”

Honestly, American mothers were as bossy as the Japanese, I thought as I stared at my closet a few minutes later. Most of my career-girl clothes were at the cleaner's, so what I had to choose from were leftovers from college and high school days: things like off-the-shoulder
Flashdance
T-shirts, straight-leg Calvin Klein jeans, and various miniskirts.

The micro-mini and jeans didn't fit anymore, but I was able to squeeze into a Commander Salamander black velour dress that ended at mid-thigh. All my old shoes were gone, so I went into my mother's closet and came up with a pair of soft black suede boots that reached the knee. Now I was hardly exposed at all.

I thought I looked rather presentable when I pulled up outside the handsome old brick building where Hugh was waiting. But when he tumbled into the seat before me, he seemed too stressed to notice. The joking ease he'd had on the phone was gone.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “It turned into a rather difficult afternoon.”

“How so?”

“After a brief meeting with everyone here, the translator and I went over to interview a potential plaintiff. I felt so bad about the whole thing that I wanted to stop in somewhere to get her a Christmas gift. Do you think we have time?”

I looked at my watch. “Sure. But you should have booked my mother to help you. She's the only one who loves shopping as much as you.”

“Well, one of the stops is the opera house, for tickets I ordered for her and your father, so I'm glad she's not along. After that,
we'll get the goods for my client. I need to get her one of those things that boils water for tea and soup—”

“An electric kettle,” I said, heading toward Sutter. Williams-Sonoma would sell one, and I could get my mother's candles there, too.

“Right. I'll buy something for Manami there, too. And after that's all accomplished, I need to buy food.”

“Food? Our fridge is packed to exploding.”

“Not food for the Shimuras, food for…my client.”

I rolled my eyes, knowing this trip was going to be a lot longer than I'd first thought. It took the better part of an hour and a half to hit the opera house, Williams-Sonoma, and the Real Food Company. This San Francisco independent gourmet-to-go shop was seemingly packed with last-minute shoppers wanting complete Christmas dinners for ten. As we waited for service, Hugh and I argued the merits of everything: green beans almondine, wheat-berry salad or pasta salad, and whether or not to get her a cranberry-stuffed Cornish game hen.

“Californians are fifty percent more likely to be vegetarian than other people,” I said. “In my high school class, I'd say the majority of girls lived on yogurt.”

“She's not that privileged,” Hugh said.

“Oh, really? I think this lady is pretty darn privileged to have us running all over town like this.” I wished I could bite the words back after I'd said them, because his expression tightened. “I'm sorry, Hugh. It's just that you rode into town a few hours ago hell bent on romance with me, and now we're going to be late for drinks with your friends at six, and shepherd's pie with my parents at seven, all because of an errand for your important woman client that can't wait till after December twenty-sixth.”

“I'm sorry, Rei, but I've simply got to go there tonight. I wanted to bring you with me, but if you don't want to come, maybe you should go back.”

I threw my hands up in the air. “Seeing that I'm your chauffeur, I have no choice. But hey, you can place your order now. Your number's come up.”

In the car twenty minutes later, Hugh took my hand. “I could
ask one of the others to run me by after the drinks, but then I'd probably be late for dinner with your family.”

“I said I'd take you to all your appointments.” I grumpily put the car in gear. “What's the address?”

“Sixth Street, the four-hundred block. It's an old hotel called the Blanchard.”

“Sixth Street is close to the Tenderloin.” I shot him a curious glance. “Who exactly is this woman?”

“You'll see.”

I shook my head and kept my thoughts to myself. I knew the Tenderloin in passing—specifically, when I was trying to get from the city out of town on California 101. Now I was driving through it with the intention of stopping, something my parents wouldn't approve of in the dusk. At least there were plenty of small businesses around. In addition to the adult video and film houses, I saw fleabag hotels, Cambodian and Vietnamese restaurants. And of course there were the SRO hotels—the single-room-occupancy places built in the nineteenth century to house Chinese workers. Over the years these buildings had fallen into slum conditions, and whole families were now living in rooms really intended for one person. With San Francisco rents as high as they were, though, this was all that many immigrants and working poor could afford.

I reached Sixth and made a right turn, passing a liquor store, pawnshop, and adult video emporium.

“It's the white building just up on the left side,” Hugh said.

“Sorry, but it's a no-parking zone. Let me go around the corner.” I passed the building, which was really more a patchwork of gray and white, given all the flaking paint, and made a right into the narrow lane I'd noticed.

I found a small spot and squeezed the behemoth SUV into a small spot between a beat-up Oldsmobile and a taxi.

“Great area,” I said, turning off the car. “Can I go in with you? I don't want to stay here alone.”

“I'm glad you want to come in,” Hugh said. “I didn't know what to expect, given your mood.”

“I'll be on my best behavior,” I said sarcastically, before he kissed me.

“Mmm. That's better,” Hugh said, and it was. My anger had slowly evaporated since I'd seen the client's neighborhood. She was obviously needy, and I felt ashamed of being so grumpy.

Hugh lugged two shopping bags of take-out food, while I carried the gift-wrapped teakettle around the corner and into the vestibule of the building. I paused, looking for a place to buzz for entry upstairs, but Hugh said, “Don't bother. It's unlocked.”

We trudged over the old linoleum, passing the various levels. I curiously looked down each of the corridors, the walls scrawled with graffiti and punctuated with doors decorated with scuff marks and many locks. I imagined the long-dead Chinese workers crammed behind each doorway and shuddered.

On the third floor, from behind the first apartment door we passed, came the sound of people arguing in a language that sounded Asian and tonal: Thai? Vietnamese? I had no idea. Coming from the next apartment were the stereo-enhanced moans of a pornographic movie. At least, I hoped it was a movie. Then there was Rosa's door. I could hear the faint strains of a Chinese opera song being played on the radio.

Hugh knocked loudly. No response. He knocked again, and again, and then, faintly, there was the sound of shuffling feet coming toward us. The door creaked open, though the chain remained in place. A section of a small face, as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, appeared. The eyes were bloodshot but sharp.

“What is it?” she asked.

“My name is Hugh Glendinning. Remember, I was here earlier today, Madam, the interview for the case—”

“I know who you are. I thought you got what you needed.”

“We did, thank you very much. We…ah…brought you a gift—nothing big, but something to mark the holiday and my…ah…appreciation of the time you gave us.” Hugh was talking rapidly, which made his accent more pronounced, more difficult to understand.

The woman snorted but her expression softened. “I don't need gifts. All I really need is food, since those meals people do not come on holiday—”

“Well, food is what we brought.” I spoke up firmly, bringing myself into the conversation. “My name is Rei. I'm Hugh's friend.”

The woman looked me up and down, nodded, then slid the chain off the door and opened it. I followed Hugh, taking a minute to murmur my thanks to this slight figure wearing a faded pink cotton housedress that stretched almost to her ankles. Her bare arms were little more than skin and bones; I imagined that a strong gust of wind coming through the drafty window by her television could topple her. She appeared to be somewhere between eighty and one hundred. I couldn't tell, because I was used to well-kept, healthy Asian women who usually looked a decade or two younger than their age.

“I am lucky you came. The meals people will not come to help me tomorrow,” she said, looking at all the plastic containers Hugh was unloading onto her table. There wasn't much else on it, just a Pacific Gas and Electric bill that said Rosa Munoz, which I guessed was her name. Munoz…It sounded Spanish. I could have sworn she was Asian, from the shape of her eyelids, and the straight silver and black hair pulled back into a knot. I wondered how she was going to pay it. I couldn't recall if the government still allowed non-citizens to receive Medicare. So much had changed in the United States since I'd moved to Japan.

“It's our pleasure,” Hugh said. “I remembered you said your stove was broken. Now you can at least have something good to eat for Christmas, and maybe even make yourself a cup of tea.”

“Ah, yes. I can have a tea party.”

From the way she raised her eyebrows, I could tell she was being sarcastic, but it seemed lost on Hugh.

“Do you have relatives in the area, Mrs. Munoz?” Hugh asked.

“Oh, no. Never married, never had children. Like I say to you this afternoon, I'm the only one of my family who got out of the P.I. I could never marry, after what happened to my body.”

The Philippines. Ah, I was beginning to put things together. A large number of Filipinos had helped the United States during World War II, and had been given the chance to emigrate after
ward. Her name, Munoz, must trace back to the history of Spanish colonialism in the Philippines. What didn't make sense to me was the connection between Hugh and Japanese companies.

“May I show you how to use this electric teakettle? You can fill it from the tap, but remember not to let water hit the electric plug.” Hugh took the kettle out of its box and handed it to Rosa. She held it awkwardly with her gnarled fingers, and now I was glad we'd gotten her the smaller model.

I glanced out the window, through which I couldn't miss a movie house marquee whose letters were in purple and red neon—all except for the
T
in
ADULT
, which had burned out. I kept fixedly looking outside because I didn't want Rosa to see the tears welling in my eyes. This was Christmas Eve. A broken-down old lady shouldn't be alone in a miserable rented room. Now I knew why Hugh had brought me here, and I felt embarrassed by how irritated I'd been to run around for gifts. We should have brought her much more. At the very least we should have given her blankets to stave off the chill, and a new wastebasket to replace the overflowing plastic shopping bag.

I turned back at last to look at the two of them. She and Hugh were sitting on an old, sunken love seat together, talking in low voices. I drew closer and leaned against the wall, since there was no other seating.

“It was kind of you,” Rosa said, the stiffness and reserve that had initially been in her voice fading. “I begin to think you might really be able to help.”

“I'll find that old friend of yours in Japan, I promise,” Hugh said softly. “That is, if he's still alive.”

“Buried alive,” Rosa said. “Buried alive. They said it was because she was sick, and we could all catch it. But I knew it was because she saw.”

“She?” Hugh whipped a small device out of his pocket, and turned it on. A mini tape recorder. He was always at work. “I must have misunderstood, because I thought your friend was a man. The name was Espinosa, right?”

“No, no. Ramon Espinosa is different. This was Hiroko. The girls all had to use Japanese names. I don't know her real name.
Does she understand Tagalog?” Rosa suddenly turned to me.

“No,” I said hastily. “I'm not Filipina. Actually, my heritage is half Japanese.”

Rosa nodded. “Yes, that's the way, isn't it? You couldn't help it. They just came and took what they wanted. Hurt everybody.”

I flushed, realizing that she believed my mother had been raped. Oh, God. She'd lost her grasp on time if she thought I'd been conceived during the war. I nervously looked at Hugh. I was starting to put things together. She'd been hurt. I wanted to know more.