Zen Attitude (7 page)

Where was he? I scanned the families strolling to the zoo and student groups going to the Tokyo National Museum. I sat down on the bench closest to the park entrance and waited. After a minute there was a rustling in some bushes and Jun Kuroi emerged, his smooth pompadour covered with bits of stick and leaf.

“You took long enough!” he chided. “The dude on the steps was bothering me, so I had to change location.”

“You’ve got Sakai? Really, truly?”

“Yesterday evening I was hanging in the head office when a telephone call came from another Toyota dealer. Apparently Sakai went there trying to get rid of his eighty-six Corona Grand Saloon. They didn’t want to take his car and were checking if we might be interested. Sure, I said, and got them to put Sakai directly on the line. I told him if he brought me the Corona, I could trade it for something else with no paperwork required. It made no sense, but he’s a greedy fellow. I picked him up at the cheap hotel where he was staying in Yokohama and told him we’d need to stop in Tokyo for the new car.”

“How clever,” I said, although I was starting to feel nervous. For the past forty-eight hours all I’d focused on was the need to find Nao Sakai. Aside from waving Mr. Ishida’s appraisal in his face, I hadn’t figured out how I’d convince him to give me my money back. My worries grew as I followed Jun into a side street lined with rickety wooden houses that looked as if they had been built before the war.

“I left him in there with the childproof lock on,” Jun said, gesturing to his car perched squarely on the tiny strip of sidewalk, so at least traffic could get by. “He was getting suspicious about not going straight to the buyer’s home. But you’ll know how to handle things,
neh
?”

“He’s still in there,” I said, squinting at the shape of a man in the front passenger seat.

“Of course. I locked the doors.”

When I reached the passenger door, I noticed Mr. Sakai was leaning his head against the window. This didn’t surprise me, because Japanese people have a talent for sleeping anywhere. Pass any taxi stand, and most of the drivers will be reclining with little masks over their eyes. On the train, commuters slide into seats and their heads bob downward, miraculously rising when their home station is announced.

“He shouldn’t be sleeping! Not with something as exciting as the prospect of a new car!” Jun opened the driver’s door and leaned across to address his passenger. “Sakai-san! Wake up, please. I have someone to meet you.”

Mr. Sakai didn’t respond. Jun reached over to touch his shoulder, and he fell sideways like a soft rag doll. He was wearing the same shirt I’d seen him in at Hita Fine Arts, but it was deeply wrinkled. My gaze flicked over his clothing and up to his face, which had an odd bluish pallor. His eyes were open, staring straight ahead with a fixed expression.

“Do you think he’s sick?” Jun sounded nervous.

“No.” The signs were obvious, and bile rose in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them. Sakai’s corpse still lolled in the seat. I reached across Jun for the car phone, then whisked my hand back. I shouldn’t touch it.

“W-w-we will do CPR. I learned it in the Boy Scouts,” Jun stuttered.

“There’s no point, he’s—”

“Don’t say it!” Jun screamed. “Don’t say it!”

“I’ll be right back. Don’t move him. And don’t touch anything.” I was already off and running around the corner back to Ueno Station. All I had in my pocket was a thousand-yen note; I’d have to get change or a telephone card in order to call the police.

In my peripheral vision I saw the telephone card hawker talking to another foreign man. I ran up and gasped out my plea for a telephone card.

“What are you, undercover?” his friend, whose face was marked with a jagged scar, practically spat at me.

“No, it’s an emergency. A man—a man is sick. . . .” Somehow I could not say
dead.

“
Ay Khoda!
No, I do not want your money. Just borrow it.” The second man shoved a telephone card into my hand, and I sprinted for the green public telephone box. I got there, slid the card in, and dialed 110. The card slid back out. I realized then that 110 was a free call—there was a red button I could press to go directly to fire, police, or ambulance. I made my request, dimly aware that the man who had followed me was shouting something to his friend. By the time I’d gotten off the phone and turned around to give the telephone card back, both men were gone.

Jun Kuroi had been a Boy Scout and the manager for his high school judo team. He gave to Unicef and he helped his grandmother with her garden every weekend. He started listing his accomplishments when a police squad car and an ambulance converged on us five minutes later, but the police were more interested in what had happened in the last half hour.

“The car was parked with the air-conditioning off,” Jun confessed. “If he became overheated, he did not have me to help him. It was a terrible mistake!”

It had been warm in the car, but even if Mr. Sakai could not unlock the door, he could have called for help. On the other hand, if he had been hit with a massive heart attack, he might not have had the energy.

“You will make your statement at the police station. Just a formality,” a patrol officer who looked as if he was barely out of training assured us.

“Actually, I need my car for work,” Jun protested when a city tow truck arrived and began hooking up the Windom.

I looked at him, startled. Had he really intended to drive back to Hakone in a car in which someone had died?

“But we need to examine your car. Police regulations,” the officer said gently.

Jun’s face fell. He muttered to himself all the way to the North Ueno police station, where we were led into the main waiting area, a sunny room decorated with cartoon posters on the walls and stuffed animals on the desks. It was as cheerful as a kindergarten, and, sitting there, I felt as powerless as a child. I could explain that my pursuit of Nao Sakai and his sudden death were coincidental, but why would anyone believe it? It was like telling a teacher that you really did your homework, but unfortunately the dog ate it.

Jun and I wound up telling our story several times: first in separate rooms, then together. At present, six men representing the North Ueno police, the park’s patrol, and the Tokyo Metropolitan Police were conferring in a private office. Jun and I remained in the happy kindergarten waiting room.

“The wife is coming. They radioed she’s in the area,” the junior constable told us between chews of apple-scented gum.

“You found her?” I was amazed. “I thought the Sakais moved without leaving any forwarding address!”

“A call was made to Sakai’s brother in Kawasaki, who knew where she was staying. The police picked her up and drove her in.”

His mention of the brother-in-law reminded me of Angus Glendinning. I looked at my watch. I should have picked him up at Narita Airport half an hour ago. He would be alone and helpless.

I wasn’t sure that my guard would allow me an unsupervised phone call. In any case, I didn’t want him looking at my black-market telephone card. Forcing my face into a shy expression, I begged permission to use the honorable hands-washing room. The guard rolled his eyes at my feminine euphemism but ultimately pointed me in the right direction.

There was a pay telephone in the alcove outside the rest rooms. I slid my telephone card in, dialed, and was sent straight to Hugh’s voice mail where I left a message about my location and my sincere apologies for missing Angus.

I returned to the waiting room, where Jun was twisting restlessly in his seat. I wanted to give him the hint about the telephone but obviously couldn’t in front of the policeman. There was no point in talking about anything, so I tried to calm myself by watching the station’s caged canaries. I stared at the fluffy yellow and green birds, wondering at their presence in a no pets-allowed zone, until I decided they were probably working members of the police team. Canaries expired from the slightest whiff of poison gas, a major fear in Japan. These canaries were singing now, but in the case of a terrorist attack, they would be the first to die.

I didn’t want to think about death. I jerked my attention to the wall and began trying to read a poster on bicycle safety. With my poor
kanji
knowledge, it took me a good half hour to get through it.

The police station’s automatic doors slid open, and two cops entered the room with someone between then. A woman, I deduced from the back view of her pageboy hairstyle.

“Sakai-san, I regret the terrible news.” The North Ueno chief of police emerged from his office, bowing to the woman. She turned toward him to acknowledge the condolence, and my breathing stopped for a split second. Her face was dominated by a large black mole.

The woman was the customer who had bid against me for the
tansu.
Shock and outrage mixed inside me, but this woman, who I now understood was Mrs. Sakai, didn’t notice. Her watering eyes were focused on the police chief.

“Your journey from Kawasaki City must have been very tiring,” the chief said in a low voice. “Please come with me to the office. My assistant will bring you a drink.”

“Sakai-sama!” Without warning, Jun Kuroi left his chair and knelt before Mrs. Sakai. “I was with your husband. How terribly sorry I am that he became ill while a passenger in my car. I wanted to resuscitate him, but my friend thought it was too late—”

“I need to sit down,” Mrs. Sakai murmured, not even looking at him. The policemen closed ranks around her, and she was led off.

“Please don’t do that again. You’re upsetting the victim’s wife!” the junior constable said to Jun. I tuned out, trying to concentrate on this new knowledge I had about Nao Sakai’s wife. I had told the police about the conditions under which I’d bought the
tansu
, but I hadn’t given a physical description of the other customer, not knowing about the connection. If I brought it up now, it might make them examine Mr. Sakai’s death more intensely. It would also convert my status from an unfortunate witness to an accidental death into something more sinister.

I pondered this during the next hour, during which an elementary school class and several neighborhood residents came in to learn about matters such as household registration and bicycle permits. If only life were that mundane for me. I wondered if I would ever consider it mundane again.

A junior high school student departing with the paperwork for her new bicycle was almost knocked over by a new arrival, a long-haired foreigner with his eyes everywhere except the path in front of him. The man was in his early twenties, dressed in tie-dyed shorts and a tank top bearing the motto
Fükengruven.
A illegal jewelry vendor, I guessed from the size of his backpack and the long silver lizard earring that dangled halfway to his shoulder. But no court of cops surrounded him. When he noticed the canaries, he snickered slightly and ambled over.

“Whassup?” The backpacker stuck a finger in a cage, withdrawing it when the canaries backed away. The young man pulled a hand-rolled cigarette out of the waistband of his shorts. He lit the cigarette, turning as he inhaled so I got an excellent view of his dark green eyes. Yes, I was certain now. He was a nightmare version of Hugh—proof of what might happen if my lover chucked his Paul Smith suits and went Rastafarian.

“
Oi, marijuanakai?
” The young, gum-chewing constable jumped to his feet and headed for the stranger.

“No! It’s not pot, is it?” I blurted in English.

“It’s clove. What’s it to you, lass?” He blew a smoke ring at a canary, which squawked at the outrage.

“He is only smoking a clove cigarette,” I translated for the police officer.

“And what is that substance?” the policeman demanded a bit shakily.

“A spice that is very popular overseas, commonly used in cakes and curries.”

The backpacker sneered, and the young constable said, “This overseas boy could be fined heavily for disregarding our No S
MOKING
sign. And for animal abuse!”

I switched languages and said, “Put it out unless you want to spend the night here.”

“Talk about an uptight country.” He stubbed out the cigarette on a bar of the cage, knocking ash into the canaries’ home.

“You’re Angus Glendinning, aren’t you?” I asked.

The backpacker gave me a thorough up-and-down, then smirked. “Rei? I would not have guessed. You dinna look like a mistress.”

I swallowed hard and said, “You surprise me, too. Where did you learn that odd accent, the movies?” He hadn’t sounded so ridiculous in the few seconds I’d heard him on the telephone.

Angus merely laughed. “Shug said to tell you he’ll be a few minutes. He’s gone to fetch his lawyer.”

Shug.
That was the Hugh’s nickname, which had never made sense to me. If I were on better terms with Angus, maybe I could learn about it. Trying to sound nicer, I said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t get into the airport. How did you get into the city so fast?”

“I rang my bro when you didn’t show up. He told me to take a taxi to his office. When I got there, he said we had to haul you out. Now he’s off to pick up some lawyer. A hell of lot of running around, and all I want to do is crash.” Angus settled down on the other side of me, bringing into my line of vision a filthy sneaker and a grimy ankle tattooed with a snake.

If Hugh had called in Mr. Ota, the Tokyo lawyer who had gotten him out of a nasty jam once before, he obviously thought my problems were serious. When Hugh finally came in unsmiling, I felt sure of it.

“I’m sorry,” I said as he bent to kiss me. Jun Kuroi gaped. Obviously he had no idea about all the foreigners in my life.

“Don’t say anything to them until you’ve had a few minutes in private with Mr. Ota,” Hugh murmured into my hair.

“It was only an accidental death—I mean, it’s terrible, but Jun and I are here voluntarily. You really didn’t need to come.”

“We’ll talk about it later. Anyway, my brother arrived safely and we’re going to have a wonderful time.”

“There is no need to worry,” Mr. Ota chimed in, standing just behind Hugh. He was bearing a massive box of sweets, as if he’d come to make a social call. When he presented it to the constable in charge of us, I understood. He was softening people up, making them beholden.