The Salaryman's Wife (7 page)

I awakened in blackness. A burnt odor filled my nose: gas, strong enough that I was choking. I pulled myself out of the blankets and began crawling to the heater. There was no flame, but I could feel with my hand that the control switch was rigged between on and off. I tried turning it, but it wouldn’t budge.

Oh, God. The personal prayer I hadn’t been able to think of on New Year’s Eve came to me now. I needed to get out. I pulled myself along on my stomach toward the thin wedge of light shining under the door.

I had locked the door before bed. Now the knob wouldn’t turn at all; some force held it tight. I pounded and tried to call out, but couldn’t manage more than a cough. Feeling along the wall for the switch to the fluorescent overhead light, I flipped it with no effect. My energy spent, I curled up on the floor for a minute, trying to calm myself. As my hand stretched up once again to try the door, it suddenly opened. I fell gasping into the lighted hallway and onto a pair of large, Argyle-covered feet.

“What are you doing in there? The smell!” Hugh coughed.

I sucked in the hall’s fresh, frigid air for a minute before croaking, “Gas leak.”

He swept past me into the bedroom, and I heard first a tearing sound of the
sh
ji
paper screen and then the window slamming open. The next sound was of the heater’s tubing being yanked from the wall. He came back and half-dragged me across the hall and into his room.

From my place on his futon, the shadowy room seemed to spin in a cool while light flowing from a laptop computer on the tea table.

“Don’t be sick, I beg you.” I heard him pouring liquid, and he put a glass to my lips.

“That smell,” I said before sucking down the most delicious glass of water I’d ever had.

“A harmless hydrocarbon mixed in with the natural
gas. It’s there to warn you, thank God for it.” Hugh coughed again and drank straight from the thermos.

“Someone rigged the heater,” I said after I’d regained my normal breathing. “And my light wouldn’t turn on, and the door was locked!”

“My overhead light’s not working either, so it’s probably a tripped fuse.” Hugh sounded thoughtful.

“Why were you outside my room in the middle of the night? What time is it?”

“It’s just after midnight. I’ve been awake, working. A few minutes ago I heard a pounding sound which made me think either the Ikedas were having an awfully good time or someone was meeting his maker.”

We both jumped at a new sound, three sharp knocks on the door. Before Hugh could move, the door was thrown open by Mr. Yamamoto, whose eyes widened at the sight of me sprawled on the futon.

“Excuse me for intruding, but I heard something—I was worried—”

“Rei had a wee accident, left her heater halfway on, and woke up to a bad smell,” Hugh said. “We’re airing the room. In the meantime, she’ll rest here.”

I started to shake my head, but Hugh camouflaged that by laying his hand heavily on my hair. “She’s feeling a bit grim, but it’s nothing serious.”

“I smelled gas when I came down the hall,” said Yamamoto. “It is very dangerous and also difficult for foreigners to understand.”

“Yes, you always tell me that,” Hugh was trying to close the door, but Yamamoto stayed squarely in the way. “My heater’s on now, but I promise to extinguish it when I go to sleep.”

“That’s a good idea, I am very glad Miss Shimura is safe. Do you wish me to wake the innkeepers and see if another room can be found for her? Or if it is more convenient, she can have my room and I will sleep with you, Hugh-san.”

“Are you kidding?” Hugh’s low chuckle was full of innuendo. “Do me a favor and keep things quiet. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You had no right to say that,” I protested when Yamamoto was gone and Hugh began shaking a second futon out of the closet. “This is Japan. I’m supposed to be an innocent flower, especially when I’m traveling alone.”

“Stay where you are. You’ll have your own bed, but you shouldn’t be alone tonight.” Hugh tucked the blankets around me tightly, as if to prevent escape. “We’ll talk more about what happened tomorrow.”

I closed my eyes. I didn’t trust him one hundred percent, but I didn’t want to go back to my room. Like him or not, he was the closest thing I had to an ally.

“Do you mind if I stay on the computer a while longer? I have some work…”

I was relieved he would remain awake, but I couldn’t muster the energy to say it. Instead, I sighed, pulled the blanket over my head, and drifted into a thick, restless sleep.

When I awoke, I felt unusually warm. Hugh sat cross-legged before the small tea table, still tapping at his computer. The
sh
ji
screen was pulled away from the window to reveal the sun dappling snowy mountains. It was a perfect morning.

“Didn’t you sleep?” I squinted at him, a vision in a fresh white shirt and charcoal trousers.

“I slept from two to seven. And don’t worry, the heater wasn’t on all night. Just since I’ve been awake.”

I sat up, hugging the quilt to me. “Would you bring me a
yukata?
”

“There’s an extra in the closet.” Hugh didn’t seem willing to get it, so I slunk out of bed and got it.

“That’s what American girls wear to bed? Hardly feminine, but on you it’s okay.”

“This is Japanese thermal underwear, and it’s perfectly normal and practical in this weather. Why are you so dressed up?” I challenged.

“Strategy meeting at the Alpenhof. Yamamoto booked a conference room so we can troubleshoot with the guys who came up from Sendai.”

“If you’ve got so much work, you should just go back to Tokyo. What are you doing?” When I knelt behind him, he instantly switched screens to a boring menu, which made me wonder what he wanted to hide.

“Nice, hmm? One of Sendai’s products in development.”

“It looks about the same as the Toshiba I have at work.”

“There’s something quite visibly different about it, though. Can you tell?”

I looked over the computer and shrugged.

“It’s not plugged in,” Hugh said triumphantly. “That’s how I kept working last night when the power was gone.”

“Well, they all can run on batteries, right?”

“Not for more than a few hours. You can safely
work on this for up to sixty hours, and the battery holds a charge for two years.”

“Wow!” I wouldn’t mind something like that for myself.

“It’s an advanced lithium ion battery called the Eterna, and it is still in development.” He stopped, then laughed. “Look how I’m opening up, sharing trade secrets even. And you say I’m not frank with you!”

“Who designed it?”

“A brilliant young engineer from Bombay. He was glad for the cash, and now we’ve got exclusive rights. None of the market leaders can touch it.”

“That’s too bad,” I mused. “Your engineer would have done better if he were able to sell it to more companies. And in turn, society would have benefited. Everyone could share the technology.”

“What are you, a Communist? Come on, a fair price is one that makes both parties happy.” Hugh turned off the computer and snapped it closed. “I’m off.”

“I’m going back. I’m sure my room is well-aired by now.” I shifted from foot to foot, knowing I owed him something. “Thank you for taking me in last night.”

“I do have a minute to get your thoughts on what might have happened.” He paused, the joviality gone. “Last night, you were speaking hysterically of someone rigging the gas.”

“It really happened. Whoever did it jammed the door so I couldn’t get out.” I spoke in what I hoped was a reasonable manner, adding, “The whole episode makes me curious whether Mr. Nakamura really left town yesterday evening.”

“Of course he did. Yamamoto and I saw him off.” Hugh dug through his suitcase for a tie.

“He could have traveled to the next station and returned to set the gas. Or had somebody else do it,” I suggested, watching him loop the tie and straighten it.

“What’s the motivation for Nakamura to gas you?” Hugh looped and straightened his tie without so much as a glance in a mirror.

“He hates me.” Haltingly, I told the details of how Nakamura had confronted me outside the
minshuku
bathroom and practically accused me of murdering his wife.

“You’re overreacting. But what about your chums Mr. and Mrs. Crime? The husband’s an engineer, which he means he’s rather adept at mechanical things. If he could open your souvenir box, he could surely tamper with your heater and trip the right fuse.”

“Taro Ikeda is my friend,” I protested, thinking uneasily of his and Yuki’s unexplained absence during the afternoon.

“He’s mad for murder and mayhem! Mrs. Chapman told me how he got his thrills in the torture chamber. Sometimes, there’s a thin line between fantasy and action.”

“What’s your excuse? You vanished after dinner.”

“Like I told you, I was upstairs working. Ask Yamamoto, he’ll vouch for me.” Hugh paused. “Surely you don’t think I fixed the gas to drive you into my bedroom?”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Upset at his accurate guess, there was nothing for me to do but leave.

Even after a long, hot shower I had a headache, and the smell of gas hung heavy in my memory. I shut the window in my cold room and began searching for aspirin. A tiny enameled pillbox had spilled open in my backpack, and the business cards and receipts in another pocket were crumpled and out of order. My natural tendency toward disorder appeared to be spiraling.

I wasn’t
that
messy, I thought, going over to my duffel bag. Unzipping it, my fears were confirmed. Someone had tossed everything about and even rifled through the pages of the
kanji
dictionary. My passport and money were still intact, which made me relieved until I began wondering what the intruder had wanted. When had he or she been in the room?
After the accident
.

Not bothering to pour myself water, I swallowed the aspirin and went downstairs.

“Sleep well? You’re down late today,” Mrs. Chapman commented when I dragged myself to the table.

“Not really. There was a problem with my gas heater, and I was overcome by some fumes. I suppose it was a malfunction, so I’m going to see if I can get it replaced,” I said, watching people’s faces.

“Gas heaters are extremely safe—in fact, there’s an automatic shut-off bar in the case of earthquake. You must have made a mistake, Rei-san,” Taro said sternly.

“You sure you want to stay on here, honey? For what we’re paying, you’d expect central heating!” Mrs. Chapman was outraged.

“Actually I don’t expect it,” I said, sensing more disapproval from Yuki and Taro. “I don’t expect this to be a little America.”

“Well, I’ve done all I can with no heat and the rabbit diet.” Mrs. Chapman peered into her bowl of miso soup and put the lid back on. “I’ll get on to Singapore and some real food, if I can get a flight out today.”

“Today? You need to talk to a travel agent because it’s the middle of the holiday season! What are you going to do in Osaka if there’s no connecting flight?” I had a terrible vision of her with a pile of luggage and no one to help.

She refused all logical arguments, though, and wound up having Taro call an agent. No space, as I’d expected. Since she was so sulky, Taro helped book her on a day tour of the Alps with an English-speaking guide. I agreed to take her to Alpenhof myself to meet the bus.

Half an hour later, as I slipped into my boots at the
minshuku
entrance, Mrs. Yogetsu marched up to me.

“You made a lot of noise last night and tore the
shoji
paper over your window.” Her voice was as frigid as the wind that had blown through it.

“That’s because the heater in my room broke. I could have died from gas poisoning!”

“If you don’t know how to use a heater, please ask for help.”

She had a lot of nerve to treat me like a foreigner, given all her lectures to me were in Japanese. I figured the only way to fight back would be to give her a taste of my American mother’s haughtiness. In a cold voice, I told her, “I do know how to use a heater, and I
know the one in my room is broken. I’ll need a new appliance or a new room tonight—your choice. Just have it done by the time I come back.”

At the Alpenhof Hotel, I carried Mrs. Chapman’s overweight carry-on bag into the bus and saw her settled among a nice group of senior citizens from Canada. I waved until the bus disappeared into a red blur against the winter landscape. Then I was alone, feeling worse than I’d expected.

I had to do something. Anything. I wandered like a zombie through the town until I found the Shiroyama Folk Art Center, a gallery nestled in the downstairs rooms of an old merchant’s house. The curators had assembled an excellent exhibit on three centuries of regional lacquerware, so I forced myself to study the spare elegance of the
shunkei
handicrafts Setsuko Nakamura had lectured us about in the living room on New Year’s Eve.

Thinking of her made me sad again. If I had gotten off on the right foot, we could have become confidantes. I could have told her about the Tokyo group I knew who helped women break away from abusive marriages. I might have given her a reason not to walk out in the snow to her death.