The Salaryman's Wife (3 page)

Taro shrugged. “Everyone agrees that the new ruler saved the town. He forced the people to concentrate on lumber, work far more important to the future than
shunkei
lacquer.”

“Is that true?” I asked Mrs. Yogetsu in Japanese when she came in to refresh Setsuko and Hugh’s sake supply.

The innkeeper shrugged. “Business is good here. The runaway princess is just a story for tourists. If a daughter existed, she traveled with her family when they left the castle. As any daughter would,” she added firmly.

I thought about the story as I paged through a guide-book to the Japanese Alps after the crowd drifted away from the living room. The legend was an easy way for the town to romanticize its brutal takeover. The ghostly fate of the princess was pure propaganda, a bit of sweet bean paste smeared over the ending like dessert.

A handsome man in his fifties with a thick, some-what rakish crown of silver-and-black hair came out of the kitchen. Yuki told him how much she had enjoyed the meal, and I chimed in. The man looked exhausted, but managed a polite bow of thanks before leaving.

“That man is such a talented chef. I wish my husband cooked,” Yuki complained. Japanese husbands were notorious for not being able to boil water.

“He is talented. I ate so much it will take days to hike it off,” I exaggerated for the sake of girlish goodwill.

“Oh! Then you must come walking with us at midnight.” Yuki and Taro were going to Shiroyama’s oldest temple, where the New Year would be rung in 108 times according to the Buddhist calendar. I had planned on going alone, but the thought of navigating a strange, dark town with new friends was more attractive. At Yuki’s urging, I went upstairs to invite Mrs. Chapman.

I knocked several times on the door two down from mine and called her name. There was no response except the sound of a television blaring an English-language nature program. As I turned to start down the stairs, Hugh Glendinning opened his door.

“Wait just a minute. I want to say I’m sorry but hardly had a chance downstairs.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” It was bad enough up here, with doors as thin as paper separating us from the others.

“Now that I hear you were a victim of sexual
assault, I feel rotten. Post traumatic stress disorder and all that.” Hugh studied me like I was some strange species, the violated woman.

“Never mind. Your walking in on me may have been disgusting, but I doubt it will leave any psychic scars.” I made a movement to leave.

“I was an idiot. It’s my fault that I’m no good with those damned
kanji
. And when I saw you at first—your hair—I thought you were a lad. Of course, the minute you turned around, I realized my error.” He favored me with the same sexy, crooked smile he’d offered Setsuko Nakamura.

“Exactly how long have you been in this country?” I demanded.

“Nine months, something like that—”

“I’d suggest you learn to read bathroom signs if you plan to stay any longer. You are extremely lucky you didn’t walk in on a Japanese woman and offend her beyond belief.”

“But you
are
Japanese, more or less. Although I don’t understand the game you’re playing with your nationality.”

Steeling myself, I replied, “It doesn’t really matter where my parents come from, does it? Because I’m not bound by tradition to let you get away with things, take advantage.”

“Take advantage?” He asked, laughter flashing through his voice.

“Yes, the way you undoubtedly take advantage of people in this country who are too polite to tell you to do some things for yourself!” I ranted.

“You’re a hard woman, Rei Shimura. Here I am
apologizing, when it was just as bad for me. God knows I was ashamed to be seen bare.”

“Okay,” I said, with a superhuman attempt at patience. “I understand it was an accident. And I know Japanese doesn’t come easily. It’s got to be learned.”

“Well then, I’m asking for some help! Consider me your holiday tutorial project.”

Again I noted his grin—had he ever really been embarrassed?—and said, “You already have access to a native speaker.”

“Setsuko?”

She was the one I’d been thinking of, but he could have been decent enough to mention his male colleagues. With perfect timing, the door next to his opened. The woman in question emerged wearing just a
yukata
and her magnificent pearls.

“What is it now, Hugh?” She spoke to him as intimately as a wife.

“Ah, just practicing my English conversation skills. Bathtime, is it?”

“Yes. How about you?” Her voice was inviting.

“Done it already. Rather hot, that water. Once burned, twice shy.” Hugh winked at me.

“Excuse me, but do you mean to wear your necklace in the water?” I interrupted, my eyes on Setsuko’s mammoth pearls. As much as I disliked her, I couldn’t stand the idea of anything precious being destroyed.

“Certainly. This particular mineral bath is excellent for pearls. It refreshes them.” Setsuko caressed the pearls. “Being an American, you probably don’t know that.”

“Americans prefer diamonds, isn’t that right?” Hugh teased.

If that was an attempt to defend me, it stank. I decided both of them deserved a short lecture of the type I used with my most unruly classes of young salesmen.

“In my museum work, I’ve learned an occasional salt water bath is relatively harmless for pearls.” I watched with pleasure as Setsuko’s posture become rigid. “However, the exact saline content of the water here is unknown. The reason I’d advise against immersing your pearls is the water will weaken the knots between them and possibly lead to a break. That’s why, when you have your pearls cleaned every year, they are re-strung.” I paused. “You do have your pearls professionally cleaned?”

“At Mikimoto.” Setsuko narrowed her round eyes before swishing off.

Hugh gave me a mocking salute. “Well done, but do you know as much about the care of textiles? I have some ironing…”

“No,” I spat. “And why don’t you go bathe with her? Maybe this time you’ll burn your problem off.”

Hugh Glendinning’s annoying foreign laughter followed me downstairs, and I cursed myself for not being able to leave well enough alone. It was a problem I needed to work on seriously. Maybe in the new year.

Sun filtered through the window’s
sh
ji
screen and tilled my bedroom on New Year’s morning with pale, diffused light. I peered at my watch, which told me it was seven-thirty. I knew I’d better pry myself out of the quilts fast if I wanted the bathroom to myself.

Since I’d shut off the gas heater for safety during the night, leaving bed was painful. I flipped the heat up to high, gathered my clothing and raced downstairs.

The bathroom door already had the women’s sign on but stuck when I tried to open it. I fiddled with the doorjamb, and when the door swung open, I saw the dressing room had one basket filled with clothes. The pink turtleneck, ski pants, and lacy underwear could mean one of two women. I undressed but nevertheless wrapped a towel around myself before pecking in the bath chamber.

“The shower on the left has the best spray. Come
quickly, you are surely frozen!” Yuki Ikeda, her face flushed pink, was up to her shoulders in hot water.

“What about your husband?” I couldn’t believe they weren’t enjoying the bath together.

“Sleeping like a big pile of garbage!” She rolled her eyes, making me laugh.

The warm shower was a joy, but slipping into the steamy bath was heaven. I took the side opposite my new friend, who politely looked at the ceiling as I laid my towel aside.

“Why are you up so early?” I asked in Japanese since there was no bossy husband around to insist on English practice.

“It’s crazy! Taro and I wanted to have a romantic bath yesterday evening, but there was a
WOMEN ONLY
sign on all night. I tried to check the dressing room, but the door was locked.”

“It was jammed with a scrap of paper. I had trouble this morning, too, but it’s fixed now.”

Yuki shook her head. “To be frank, I think this place is getting a little sloppy. When I came this morning, the bathroom was very messy. The bath covers—” she pointed to the three hard plastic sections neatly stacked by the side—“were all over the floor. So the water was a bit cooler than it should be.”

The bath had reached the right temperature for me, but I made a properly downcast face.

“I hope there wasn’t any foreigner using soap in the water. I know that Americans and English use soap in baths. Maybe they don’t understand our custom of washing in the shower first.”

She was giving me uncomfortable flashbacks to
the times I’d been called upon to translate for my American mother, a process that humiliated her and made me extremely defensive. I changed the subject.

“Thanks for last night.”

“No, it was my pleasure! Did you enjoy it?”

“Very much.” It had been worth going, although the walk I’d hoped would be private had been interrupted by Mr. Nakamura and Yamamoto, who turned up halfway along the route. Judging from their breathing, I guessed they’d started out some time after us and had run to catch up.

At the temple, I had nearly dropped my camera when I saw a group of young men wearing short cotton jackets and loincloths ringing the bell. I’d seen skimpy male attire at religious festivals in the summer, but never in ten-degree weather. I turned my head away, which had sent Yuki into a giggling fit.

“This is part of the New Year’s tradition, Rei-san! To wear such light clothing shows their strength.”

“It’s too cold for that.” My feet were going numb inside two pairs of socks and hiking boots.

“Those boys are very warm from alcohol,” Taro had reassured me. “Don’t worry about them.”

When the youths were through, everyone cheered and lined up to try bell-ringing themselves. The act was more complicated than I’d expected; it involved tugging a cord that moved a dowel that in turn, knocked against the huge bronze bell. Mr. Nakamura went first and struggled, issuing an awkward half-note. Too much beer. He made a joke about it and passed the cord to young Mr. Yamamoto, who swung easily with powerful arms, then looked abashed and
said no doubt the wind had helped him. Taro and Yuki performed respectably. When it was my turn, I found the rope slightly unwieldy but surprised myself by producing a satisfyingly mellow ring. I prayed for world peace because I couldn’t think of anything personal that needed tending.

“Tremendous! You must be a baseball player.” Hugh Glendinning had showed up after all. His casual step into the orderly line caused some sniping among the others waiting their turn.

“No. I done similar things before.” I walked off.

“What’s that?” Hugh was refusing to go away.

I explained about my visits to the Sunday flea markets held on the grounds of Tokyo’s Shinto shrines. Once there, I was always drawn toward altars rich in gold leaf and bronze. Even though Buddhism and Shintoism were different religions, they both used magnificent bells.

“Interesting,” he said, but by the way he was staring over my head, I could tell he was hardly listening. “It’s a shame Setsuko didn’t come. She had a headache.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Even though she hadn’t wanted to make the climb after her long, relaxing bath, she was with us in spirit: bad spirits.

“Are you?”

“Who cares?” I sounded juvenile but couldn’t help it this time. As I stalked off to join the others, I realized Hugh had neatly crafted a love triangle in his own mind. Five days of stupid insinuation lay ahead if I didn’t separate myself from the situation fast.

It was better to stick closely to women like Mrs. Chapman and Yuki. I watched surreptitiously as my new friend climbed out of the tub. She was my height, but about fifteen pounds lighter. In America, she might have been suspected of harboring an eating disorder. In reality, she just had slim Japanese bones.

“So, I think you are an unusual girl, Rei-san. What about your parents? Why aren’t you with them for the New Year’s holiday?” Yuki asked.

“They’re the last ones I want to see.” I made a face, and when Yuki shushed disapprovingly, I confessed that I didn’t want to spend my few days of vacation listening to them urge me to move back. I was an only child; they could spend unlimited funds and energy on me. Idealism kept me in Tokyo, that and the fear that spending one night back in my cozy featherbed in San Francisco would make it impossible for me to re-emerge. I loved luxury. Forsaking it was one of the things I was proudest of.

“You are strange. Do you want to come skiing with us today?” Yuki asked, drying off.

“Actually, I’m more into temples and museums.” I got out, sucking in my stomach a little.

“Well, then, you must come with us tomorrow when we go to the old city hall. It used to be a court-house and prison for people in the late seventeenth century. There is an interrogation chamber where criminals were tortured. It’s just horrible! Naturally, my husband must take some photographs.”

After we dressed, Yuki asked me to help blow-dry
the back of her pageboy and then insisted on trying to restyle my cropped cut. She gave up quickly, saying “I like your hair! It is not typically Japanese!”

I told her about my American mother then, and she sighed. “That is romantic. I can see it in your bone structure.” She pointed at my cheeks. “Strong American character. You are not a typical
konketsujin
.”

The word which meant hall-blooded person made me flinch. Mr. Katoh, my boss at Nichiyu, had asked about my ethnic background during my job interview and, sounding sad, advised me to keep it to myself. Blue-eyed blond teachers were always flavor of the month and landed the best-paying jobs. Looking Japanese complicated things, perhaps hinted that I was
ainoko
, a child born from a short-lived, illicit union. In reality, my mother from Baltimore and father from Yokohama had met in San Francisco at an Isamu Noguchi gallery opening. They’d married fast but had me a very respectable three years later. I had brownish-black hair, a small Japanese nose, and almond-shaped eyes. Still, I was undeniably
konketsujin
. I hated the word, even spoken by somebody meaning no offense.

The two men faced each other, blocking the hallway as I returned from my bath.

“If I could find my bloody cell phone, we could ring the police.” Hugh Glendinning’s voice rasped as if he’d just been awakened. He was wearing his
yukata
over pajamas and stood barefoot on the cold wood.

“There’s no reason to go to extremes,” said Mr. Nakamura, also in a robe but at least wearing slippers.

“You’re already up and dressed, Rei.” Hugh turned his sleepy gaze on me. “Have you seen Setsuko, ah, Mrs. Nakamura?”

“The last time I saw her was before her bath last night. You were there.”

“That was around nine, wasn’t it?” Mr. Nakamura hesitated. “I remember now. I was in my room reading. Just before midnight, I came downstairs and went out with Yamamoto.”

“Hold on. Didn’t you tell me your wife had a headache and didn’t want to go to the temple? When did she say that to you?” Hugh moved closer to his colleague, who backed against me in his haste to achieve some distance.

“I did not want to inconvenience anyone in the group with my problem.” Mr. Nakamura coughed, a hacking sound that spoke of cigarette addition.

“What about after you came home from the temple? Did you see her then?” Hugh asked.

“You were so tired that I wanted you to sleep, not to worry.” He coughed again.

“You mean your wife was not in your bed and you didn’t think it odd?” Hugh’s voice rose to an unseemly level for New Year’s morning.

“In Japan, husbands and wives…they have more space between them,” Nakamura said weakly.

Hugh shot a questioning look at me, and I gave a tiny nod. My Aunt Norie had shared a futon with my cousin Tom until he was seven, and many of the mothers who worked at my company did the same. But Mrs. Nakamura didn’t have a child.

“You were booked into the same room here,
correct?” It was as if Hugh decided to turn the hall way into his courtroom.

“Certainly, but Glendinning-san, it would not have been polite for me to disturb you last night!”

Hugh looked at the floor for a few seconds. When he spoke again, his voice was flat. “We’ll ask that woman about it.”

“Mrs. Yogetsu,” I supplied.

“Yes, Mrs. Getsu. And I suppose if Mrs. Getsu hasn’t placed your wife in a separate room, we’ll start a search.”

What kind of situation would lead a woman to sleep apart from her husband on New Year’s Eve? I thought about Setsuko and her husband after I returned to my room and ran a comb through my hair, trying to undo Yuki’s ministrations. Setsuko—it was funny how I knew her first name but had no clue about her husband’s. Not that I wanted to know. The way he had spoken to his wife last night was brutal, and I recalled him at the temple, making crude jokes to Hugh about a group of junior-high school girls. No, he hadn’t worried about her at all.

It was difficult to enjoy breakfast, even though it was straight out of my Zen vegetarian dreams:
z
ni
, a special New Year’s vegetable broth, plus steaming rice and saucers filled with colorful pickled vegetables. On the side was
mochi
, a glutinous rice cake.

“I asked for toast, but I don’t think she understood.” Mrs. Chapman stared miserably at her meal.

“Just try it. It’s really pretty good,” I offered before saying half-truthfully, “I missed you last night.”

“So what did you do, paint the town red?” Mrs. Chapman’s sharp gaze told me she wasn’t fooled.

“No, we just went to see the new year rung in at the temple. I knocked at your door, but you must have been—”

“Sound asleep,” said Mrs. Chapman. “Beer always goes straight to my head. I turned on a National Geographic special and must have nodded off. When I woke up they were doing some kind of crazy exercise program.”

Yamamoto and Nakamura came in wearing heavy sweaters and ski pants. A missing wife wasn’t enough to cancel the day’s sports. My anger surprised me, given that I didn’t even like Setsuko Nakamura. Breaking his chopsticks apart, Mr. Nakamura gave me a venomous look, which I returned. I hadn’t volunteered to hear the details of his problem—I’d been drafted. I continued eating my vegetables and invited Mrs. Chapman on my morning hike. She declined, saying something about souvenir shopping in town. I didn’t coax her further. I liked the idea of walking fast by myself, working off the troublesome feelings I couldn’t quite identify.