The Salaryman's Wife (6 page)

“This is where they torture women. Or, I should say, torture women
and
men. Rei-san, can you understand how this terribly painful chair works?”

Taro was obviously enjoying our tour of the Shiroyama city hall’s punishment room. Given the black mood I was in, it was a mistake for me to have come along. I would have checked out of the
minshuku
and said good-bye to Taro and Yuki were it not for Mrs. Yogetsu announcing there would be no refunds for anyone who wanted to leave based on irrational fears following the “freak accident.” After all, the police didn’t think anyone needed to leave.

I desperately wanted to tell Captain Okuhara what Hugh had said about Setsuko wanting a divorce. I planned to ask Hugh for his permission, but he had gone off somewhere with his colleagues. I was left with the Ikedas and Mrs. Chapman. And the chair.

The seat in question looked normal except for the
sharply pointed pyramid spiking up from the center of the wooden seat. As Taro began explaining in his excellent English exactly where it went, Yuki shushed him.

“No, no, Taro! I am afraid Mrs. Chapman and Rei-san will be sickness.”

“Someone with a samurai name like Shimura would have been cross-examined on
tatami
,” Taro continued, giving me a puckish glance. “Common people sat on the cold stone floor.”

“What about foreigners?” Mrs. Chapman asked.

“Foreigners? At this point in history, Japan was closed to the world. There were no foreigners, certainly none in prison!” Taro reassured her.

Today, plenty were around. A Belgian tour group that had arrived from Kyoto were enjoying Taro’s commentary about a wall decorated with whips. Soon he had hijacked half of them and the stories were only getting wilder.

“Rei? I’m feeling poorly.” For once, Mrs. Chapman’s florid face was pale.

Yuki and I exchanged glances and took her across the freezing courtyard to more neutral civil buildings. I became interested in a group of storehouses where rice was once kept as tax revenue for the shogun; the buildings were decorated with exquisite stamped metal nail covers that looked like long-eared rabbits. I asked Yuki if they were fertility symbols and she giggled as if I’d said something naughty.

“No! The brochure says it symbolizes the power of the shogunate, that its ears are long and can hear everything that happens here, no matter the distance.”

Like Sendai Electronics, sensing trouble and coming directly to stifle it. I thought of the corporate officers who had come down last night and were now sleeping next door to me, smoking nonstop. They made rotten neighbors; I hoped they wouldn’t stay all week.

After the museum, we decided to have lunch in a modest snack shop that the Ikedas enjoyed during their last trip. I had a vegetarian sautéed noodle dish and was glad to see Mrs. Chapman liked her crispy pork cutlet, the first food I’d seen her finish. We ate in enthusiastic silence, and as I sipped my second cup of tea, I decided to bring up what we had suppressed from our conversation all morning. “So, what do you think is going to happen with Mrs. Nakamura’s death?”

“It depends whether they rule it murder or suicide,” Taro promptly replied.

“What makes you think it might be murder? Couldn’t she have died naturally?” I asked.

“Watch out, Taro, you’ll damage yourself! Rei-san is very close to the police.” Yuki pressed her raspberry-glossed lips together in disapproval. I remembered Japanese citizens were sometimes wary about the police. After World War II, many former military officers were absorbed into the police. There was a hard and secretive edge to the organization, and some recent corruption charges hadn’t improved things much.

“I was drafted to do the translations. I had no choice in it,” I smiled at Yuki to put her at ease.

“You were wonderful, sugar. Like those translators on TV.” Mrs. Chapman patted my knee.

“It must be murder because of
Mrs
. Nakamura’s
state. I saw when I followed the husband outside. No clothes! Obscene.” Taro looked more excited than upset, I noted.

“What do the ladies think? They are experts because of the many murders in America!” Yuki said.

“I heard every family has a gun inside the house. True?” Taro’s eyes glittered.

“Well, we certainly do have a right to bear arms. Out in the country—” Mrs. Chapman began.

“Not
all
of us have guns,” I interrupted. Lately, almost everyone I met wanted to know whether I packed a .45. Sometimes it was really embarrassing to be an American.

“Just because someone’s powerful doesn’t mean he’s innocent. Look at all the political scandals in Japan. Bribery, corruption, blackmail…”

“This is serious business. The police returned to the
minshuku
this morning. I think there’s every chance the death could be foul play.” Taro held up his empty teacup to the waitress, who languidly came to refill it.

“Why didn’t they move us out to search for evidence? It just doesn’t make sense,” I said.

“Mrs. Nakamura surely killed herself. She seemed plenty unhappy at dinner.” Mrs. Chapman gave me a significant glance.

“You have been spending time with Glendinning-san, haven’t you? Surely he knows more than the rest of us,” Yuki coaxed.

“Do tell.” Mrs. Chapman appeared to be salivating, even though her plate was clean.

“He’s pretty close-mouthed. He wants to be loyal
to the company, I guess.” I decided to keep quiet about Hugh’s anguish the day before.

“Aha. Very Japanese. He must be getting along well within the ranks!” Taro slurped down the remains of his tea.

“Rei-san, I’ve been thinking maybe he has some interest in you,” Yuki chimed in. “He kept speaking to you at New Year’s Eve dinner.”

I shook my head violently, not liking the conversation’s turn.

“Perhaps you prefer a Japanese or another
konketsujin?
” Yuki’s expression turned calculating. “How old are you, anyway? If you wait too long, you’ll be Christmas Cake.”

“I’m past that,” I said, making a face. Single women were called all kinds of things—“unsold goods,” “old miss” or, like Yuki was saying, “Christmas cake.” The whipped-cream-and-strawberry confection was full price right up to December twenty-fifth but couldn’t be sold the day after, just like no man in his right mind was supposed to want a girl older than twenty-five.

“Career women marry later,” Taro consoled me. “Yuki was twenty-eight.”

“
Baka!
” Yuki cursed. But from the way her husband grinned, I could tell how lucky he thought he was.

Taro and Yuki made love that afternoon. Their door was shut for the four hours between the time we all arrived home and dinner was served. They came down sleepy-looking and all smiles to join me at the hearth where I was showing Mrs. Chapman the antique box I’d bought on New Year’s Day. When Mrs. Yogetsu called us to dinner, she looked at it, too.

“This is not from Shiroyama.” Her voice was almost triumphant.

“Where, then?” I challenged. She could have been right, but it infuriated me, with my master’s degree in Asian art history, to be shown up like this.

“I think a place like Hakone. Yes, that type of wood inlay is popular there. Someone must have found it as a souvenir, and brought it here. Now it’s for sale in Shiroyama because tourists buy anything.”

“What’s she saying? Is it valuable or fake?” Mrs. Chapman had become impatient listening to the Japanese.

“Neither. She just thinks it was not made locally. If I could open it up there might be a clue, since something’s rattling around inside.”

“Let me try. I’ll need something sharp.” Taro began prying at the box.

Mrs. Chapman pulled a bobby pin out of her fluffy orange halo and Taro set to work. I looked away, unable to stand seeing my treasure broken.

“Here you go.” He handed the box back to me. “You look first, in case it’s something deadly!”

I lifted the lid and found an inch-long polished piece of blue-and-white porcelain. I passed it around and everyone agreed it had to be a
hashi-oki
a small ornamental piece used to place chopsticks on while dining.

“I don’t think it’s very old because it’s decorated with acrylic paint,” I told them. “But the box might be. Look at its paper lining.”

“Old newspaper. May I borrow this to study?” Taro looked really excited.

“Sure,” I said, handing it over but tucking the chopstick rest in a scrap of paper to put away upstairs. Worthless as it might be, I could use it as tableware at home.

“Where is Glendinning-san?” Yuki was starting to sound like a broken record.

I didn’t speak up, so Mrs. Yogetsu did. “The press conference for the autopsy took place at police headquarters this afternoon. All the men from Sendai were there.”

“The autopsy! What do you think the coroner’s finding was?” Taro looked like an electric bulb had been switched on underneath his skin.

“Mr. Yamamoto says it’s suicide,” Mrs. Chapman interrupted. “Something about money. In my opinion, the woman probably couldn’t handle life with that wretched man anymore. It’s just like my cousin, Maureen, whose husband couldn’t keep his pants on. Poor gal spent twenty years depressed and drinking. One day she just decided to leave the life and washed down some sleeping pills with half a bottle of white Zinfandel wine…”

“A sad story, but not Setsuko’s.” Hugh Glendinning spoke from where he stood in the doorway with Yamamoto. Both were dressed formally in dark suits: Yamamoto’s the one from New Year’s Eve and Hugh’s a wide-shouldered charcoal wool worn with a crisp white shirt and a Sulka tie.

“Eavesdropper!” Mrs. Chapman was furious to have been shut up.

“Sorry. I was wrong—I am a poor conversationalist,” Taro apologized.

“Gossip is only to be expected, living in the fish-bowl that this place is.” Hugh glanced at me and sat down, Yamamoto shadowing his movements. “For your information, the coroner ruled it an accident. It’s believed that Mrs. Nakamura lost consciousness and froze to death.”

“It couldn’t be,” I said under my breath.

“It’s official,” Hugh said crisply.

None of us had the nerve to ask more questions. The easy traveler’s rapport that had developed between us on the first night was gone. There were two camps now—Sendai and the rest of us.

After dinner the Ikedas and I drifted into the sitting room to watch a televised performance of Beethoven’s Ninth, the quintessential Japanese holiday concert. Taro and Yuki smiled and hummed along. I shut my eyes until the news came on at ten, with a feature on the Shiroyama press conference regarding Setsuko Nakamura’s murder. Listening carefully, I realized Hugh had told us exactly what was available for public consumption. No more, and no less.

When I went up to bed an hour later, Hugh surprised me in the hallway.

“I need a word with you,” he said.

“Okay.” I leaned against the wall outside my room, glad Taro and Yuki were out of earshot.

“What the hell have you been telling people about Setsuko?”

“What is this, the Scottish inquisition?” The nervousness I’d tried to subdue all day flared.

“Oh, come on,” he chided me. “You were giving them all an earful about possibilities of suicide and murder. I thought that was between us.”

“People thought up those things on their own. Besides, why do you care? As you said, the uncertainties surrounding her death have been solved.”

“Nothing’s been solved. Just a lot of bows made and
sayonaras
said before Nakamura hopped the four-thirty limited express to make funeral arrangements. As I’d expected.”

This was the first time since the divorce comment he had said anything remotely suspicious of Nakamura.

“What can you do about it?” I whispered. “You’re in an impossible position.”

“But you aren’t.” He looked steadily at me. “You’re a naturally nosy person and you pass for Japanese. With your language and looks you can ask questions that I can’t.”

“Hah. You don’t know the trouble that looking like this causes,” I said, thinking of the many rude discussions about my ethnicity I’d endured.

“I do know. That’s why I tried to buy you lunch yesterday.” As I started telling him I was immune to his blather, he touched a finger to my lips. A spark flew, and we both jumped back.

“You can help me. You’re already doing it, just with no sense of discretion.”

“I don’t want to.” I felt belligerent. Setsuko Nakamura had eaten out of his hand, and I saw where it had gotten her. Death in the snow, a quick write-off by the coroner.

“Why don’t we talk about it again tomorrow? Just
sleep on it.” He leaned down, bringing his face so close I could practically inhale him. Sensing he was slightly off balance, I ducked under his arm.

“You’re violating my space,” I hissed. “Good night.”

Safely inside my room, I collapsed. Doing anything with Hugh Glendinning was a very bad idea. It would be one thing to assist out of the goodness of my heart, but the fact was I had disliked Setsuko Nakamura. My initial passion to learn about her background was for my own self-preservation. Now that I was out of harm’s way, any passion I felt had a different origin.

This was a dangerous trajectory, the worst since Shin Hatsuda, the ponytailed painter who had swept me off my feet at a party in Harajuku. Shin’s crime had been departing ten months ago with half my art books and more of my self esteem; Hugh Glendinning could reap even more damage.
I don’t do gaijin
, I once said to Karen when she wanted to fix me up with a blue-eyed investment banker. It was not why I’d traveled halfway around the world.

I pulled off my sweater, belatedly remembering the window exposing me to the street. I grabbed my
yukata
around my shoulders and turned, finding the screen in place after all. I was losing my mind. I snapped off the light and burrowed into the chilly futon.

I had been dreaming about being on my high school debate team, lined up to go on stage with my teammates: Mr. Nakamura, Mr. Yamamoto, Mrs. Chapman, and Hugh. Standing at the podium in her ivory Chanel dress, Setsuko Nakamura was ready to
lead us. She opened her mouth to say something. Then she pulled out a perfume atomizer and started spraying the audience with a noxious chemical scent.