The Salaryman's Wife (14 page)

“He didn’t go with her. I know it because his hair was wet before dinner. His and Mr. Yamamoto’s.”

“I appreciate your memories, but as Yamamoto is missing and presumed dead, we’re not too well off.”

Piers Clancy clearly didn’t want to work with me. I was going to have to fall on his mercy for the slightest morsel. I asked, “Will you talk to Hugh again today? Can you tell him that I’m sorry?”

“Miss Shimura, please. I’ll let you know when, or if, he is allowed out.” The diplomat’s voice was fading as if he were already onto some new order of business. “Until then, be a good girl and stay away from the journalists, will you?”

The next person on my list, Hikari Yasui, was considerably kinder.

“The problem will be straightened out soon, Miss Shimura. Everyone is helping,” she said in good English with the high-pitched, eager-to-please intonation that told me she was close to my age and probably very pretty. The office lady voice; I sounded like a bear in comparison.

“What exactly is a
tsuya
? Is it the funeral?” I asked.

“No. The cremation ceremony is for relatives only. The
tsuya
comes first, so friends and neighbors can say good-bye to the deceased. There will be an altar in the home where people will offer prayers and
discuss with each other their remembrance of the loved one.”

“I don’t know the etiquette.” With my face, I couldn’t get away with social blunders.

“You must wear black, and the only acceptable jewelry is pearls, which of course represent tears. Also, if you can bring a
k
den
, it would look right.”

She was talking about a gift of money—Japan’s favorite, all-purpose present—tied up in a ceremonial envelope with black and silver cords. I could find it at any stationer. I started worrying about the proper amount to enclose and whether I’d need to present a name card or some evidence of my identity.

“I’ve thought about this. You will be a new O.L.—an office lady—from Sendai. Mr. Ota said you are young, so—” she gave a wistful laugh—“what else could you be but an O.L.?”

“I don’t look right. My hair…”

“Yes, I heard. I am reserving a wig at the beauty salon so you will be more normal.”

My day had become very complicated. I needed to borrow a black suit from Karen, get fitted for the wig, and keep the lunch date I’d set up with Mrs. Chapman. After that I had to show up at Nichiyu, where I’d concoct an excuse to leave two hours early. Then I would take a long ride in a packed commuter train to Setsuko’s
tsuya
in the suburbs. I became tired just thinking about it.

I decided to combine Mrs. Chapman and the beauty parlor. When I called, she said she was due for
a styling anyway. We met at Hibiya Station and followed the directions to one of Tokyo’s few surviving art deco buildings in a cluster of pricey real estate near Hibiya Park.

“It’s like my beauty operator’s back home!” Mrs. Chapman said as I held open the Oi Beauty Salon’s frosted-glass door. Inside my eye was caught by a deserted row of old-fashioned bubble hairdryers, and a wall full of foam heads topped by horrible fluffy wigs. The place was a postwar treasure. I could imagine General MacArthur’s wife sauntering in for a comb-out prior to lunching at the Imperial Hotel a few blocks away.

Mrs. Oi, a tiny wrinkled woman who looked like she’d been working since the Occupation, bowed deeply to Mrs. Chapman and shouted for the shampoo girl to bring coffee. When Mrs. Oi turned to me, I tried not to flinch as she stroked through my hair, commenting on its barbaric shortness. Yes, a wig would be just the thing to make me over until I grew my hair out to a proper womanly length.

“Are you going to a wedding or something? Would madam like a traditional hairstyle?” She scrutinized me closely.

“Actually, a party,” I said. Mrs. Oi looked surprised; maybe people didn’t rent wigs for parties. I improvised, “My in-laws will be there, and they cannot know I cut my hair last month.”

“We always have to please the husband’s family,
neh
? It’s the woman’s way,” Mrs. Oi trilled, leading me to a selection of dark Japanese wigs. There were two basic styles: either long, straight and modern, or
ornately upswept in the manner of a nineteenth-century geisha.

She placed a half-dozen wigs over my head until we were both satisfied with a silky, synthetic mane that hung straight to the middle of my back. For the first time in my life, I looked totally Japanese.

“This is your look,” Mrs. Oi said firmly. “You should not have cut your hair. If you are serious about having long hair, maybe you should buy the wig and wear it until your short hair grows out.”

“No, a rental is perfect. To tell the truth, I’d like to go back and forth between short and long. I’m sort of impulsive that way.”

“Not so many ladies rent wigs these days. It is a shame. It’s a good way to change your look, put a little spice back in the marriage.” She began laboriously writing a receipt with gnarled fingers decorated with heavy jade and pearl rings.

After finishing my business, I poured my own cup of coffee and sat down to wait for Mrs. Chapman. She’d been shampooed and was now sitting under one of the large bubble dryers with a
Tokyo Weekender
on her lap. She shouted something at me which I couldn’t hear over the whine of the dryer.

“What’s that?” I came closer.

“I was wondering what you were doing with that wig! I thought you were coming here for a shampoo and set just like me.”

I had been vague and just asked her meet me at the salon so we could go to lunch at a little Italian restaurant nearby. Now I lied, “I’ve been invited to a party and need a new look.”

“If you wear that, you don’t look at all American. You might as well put on a kimono.” Her voice was teasing, but I had the feeling the sentiment behind it wasn’t.

“The only kimonos I have are antique. They’re not exactly wearable.” I didn’t like the conversation’s turn, so I put the wig in my backpack and made an excuse about going off to find the ladies room.

She was finished and raring to go when I came back. It was such a pleasantly balmy day that I suggested we forget Italian and simply get takeout food to take into Hibiya Park. At the Sogo department store’s massive food market, I found delicious Chinese noodles and she chose fried chicken. Both of us were content.

“So how much longer are you staying?” I asked as we settled down on a bench facing the duck pond.

“It’s indefinite.” Mrs. Chapman sighed heavily. “The travel agent promised I’d be able to fly out tomorrow, but when I showed up at her agency, she told me the New Year’s travelers had booked up everything. I called the airline and they said the same thing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s what she said. Very, very sorry. So much for my open-return ticket.” She pressed tangerine-frosted lips together.

“So what have you seen of Tokyo?” I dug into my spicy noodles, wondering whether I would have to entertain Mrs. Chapman forever.

“I went to that shrine you told me about and Disneyland by bus, like you suggested. I’ve also done
quite a bit of shopping for my granddaughter on the Ginza, the big shopping street.”

“Just like Setsuko. Shopping, I mean.”

“I can’t stop thinking about her, either.” Mrs. Chapman sighed again. “It’s on the English language news every night. I heard Hugh Glendinning was arrested.”

“The police are just questioning him.” I couldn’t bear to say he was the main suspect.

“Really? It sounds like you’re still involved. Do tell!” She leaned in so close one of her chicken legs dropped on my noodles.

“Not exactly.” I gave her back the chicken leg and picked up my can of hot green tea. “I think all of us might have some information that could help the police. I just don’t know what it is.”

“Maybe we should brainstorm. If you could just give me a timeline of the events again—the news had it all muddled.”

I supposed it wouldn’t hurt to go over the scene again. “The autopsy suggested Setsuko died between eleven
P.M
. and one
A.M
. We were all there until about ten minutes to midnight. Then the Ikedas and I took a walk to the temple. Mr. Nakamura and Yamamoto caught up with us halfway. Hugh arrived a half-hour later.”

“What about the innkeepers and the family?” Mrs. Chapman asked. “Where were they?”

“With us. It seems like you were the only person at the inn the whole time. You and Setsuko, I mean. Can you remember hearing her moving around the inn? Going up or down the back staircase, maybe?”

Mrs. Chapman chewed thoroughly before answering, “Like I said before, it was hard to hear over the TV. Then I fell asleep.”

“Yes, that’s what you told me before.” I was disappointed all over again.

“Can I give you a piece of advice, honey? Keep your emotions in check, just in case the police have the right man. Hugh Glendinning was straight out of the movies, so good-looking and all, but you never know.” She paused, studying my face. “You think the situation’s different. I’ve hurt your tender young feelings.”

“You haven’t. It’s nice to have a friend with the insights of age.” Unlike Richard, who thought the whole situation was a joke. At least Mrs. Chapman, in her own bossy way, was trying to help.

At work, I decided to offer Mr. Katoh the truth—that someone I knew had unexpectedly died, and my presence was requested at her farewell ceremony. I’d done right; he took death ceremonies very seriously. Of course I could attend. My boss assured me Richard would gladly take my evening students.

Hikari and I met at six o’clock in front of a fast food stall in Shinagawa. Because we were the only women under thirty dressed head to toe in black and carrying
k
den
, identification was a cinch. She enthused about the long, phony hair and the ladylike Junko Shimada suit I’d borrowed from Karen. You could hardly tell I’d hitched the waist around with safety pins. I felt like a Japanese Barbie doll; the only
thing subverting the look was a pair of black-rimmed glasses I’d borrowed from Richard.

My vision was slightly blurred, but I nevertheless checked out Hikari. She was tall, like all the best-looking girls in the Roppongi clubs. Her naturally-black hair swung all the way to her waist, and she had a tiny frizzed set of bangs. The conservative black suit she wore could be kindly described as Chanel-inspired, the double-C imperfectly stamped on gold buttons. She had a powdery smell I recognized as my deodorant; there, our similarities ended.

We stood the first half hour on the train but squeezed into seats after a big exodus at Yokohama Station. I pulled from my backpack three English language dailies with articles about Hugh’s detainment. The one in the
Japan Times
was headlined
RAKE’S PROGRESS
and narrated how Hugh had ripped apart the Nakamura’s idyllic marriage. The writer noted that Hugh had worked for short stretches at six different companies, lived in a Roppongi apartment with a monthly rent of 600,000 yen and had been charged with several parking violations since his arrival in Japan. An investment banker in London was the last girlfriend before Setsuko Nakamura, according to anonymous sources within the expatriate community. The article had a quote from Piers Clancy urging the public to remember Mr. Glendinning had not been indicted, much less convicted, and had a stellar reputation in the international legal community. Not surprisingly, Sendai’s public relations office had no comment.

Hikari was looking over my shoulder, so I handed
her each paper as I finished. After looking at the
Japan Times
, she asked if the word “rake” meant something other than a garden tool.

“In this case, it means a playboy,” I said. “Do you know about playboys?”

“I know.” She shot me a pained look and read on silently until we got to the final stop, Zushi. Taxis were lined up at the curb, and she ushered me in ahead of her. We were transported along a rocky seashore to Hayama, the nearby town where Mr. Nakamura lived.

“So what do you think about my hair? Does it look as fake as it feels?” I was beginning to worry I wouldn’t be able to pull something over a man who already knew me.

“I think you look very Japanese. Like my sister, maybe.” Hikari flipped open a glow-in-the-dark compact and repowdered her perfect face.