The Typhoon Lover (18 page)

“You’re right.” Takeo looked at me for a long moment, then dropped his gaze. “We can never go back to being lovers. But at least we can help each other.”

“All right, then,” I said, taking off my Asics sneakers one by one, pouring out the water, and putting them back on. “You were saying you had protected me from the police. Why did my name even come up?”

“It wasn’t your name. Emi’s father’s chauffeur told the police that a woman dressed in man’s clothing had been at the house, and her presence had agitated Emi. When the police asked me about it, I told them a woman had come by to ask for some assistance after the storm. I said I didn’t know her.”

So he’d lied. I should have been relieved, but this news set off a new storm of worries. “I hope that lie doesn’t come back to haunt you.”

“Well, now you know how deep I’m in. By the way, there’s something I want to ask you about,” Takeo said. “You mentioned that you had a cellular phone stolen. When?”

“The day I went to talk to you at the school. I think someone may have grabbed it when I was going home after the storm, because I know I didn’t leave it downstairs at the baggage checkpoint. I called to ask.”

“What did it look like?”

“It was one of those camera phones. It was dark blue and there was a brand name on it, Linxar.”

“Emi had a dark blue telephone that I didn’t recognize. I saw it in her purse when she was taking out the pills.”

“Oh! So maybe I left the phone by mistake when I was talking to you in the headmaster’s study.” I thought about the password that had been broken—Take0 would have been an easy guess for Emi, and my choice of it as a password would have made her believe I was obsessed with her boyfriend.

“Now the police have it, because they have her purse.”

So the Japanese police would find, in the phone’s memory, the list of numbers I’d called, including Michael and Hugh in Washington, my aunt in Yokohama, and Mr. Watanabe in Tokyo. The numbers wouldn’t lead them to drugs, but would lead to everything I’d been bound to keep quiet. I looked at Takeo, then away. I had to get out. I was so panicky, suddenly, that I couldn’t stay in the park another moment.

Across the pond, a group of schoolchildren, mothers, and teachers were walking; someone in this group had probably flashed a camera, startled the geese, and caused us to fall into the pond. Now I needed them. I was still a little younger than the casually dressed mothers, but I’d make myself blend in.

“I’m going to try to slip out with that school group,” I said to Takeo. “I think it’ll attract less notice, just in case someone did follow you and is waiting on the outskirts of the park.”

“What if I need to talk to you again? I’m really worried.”

“I have a new phone.” Grudgingly, I gave him the new number but instructed him to purge it from his phone’s memory, once he’d completed a call. Then I said, “Can you try to do something for me?”

Takeo shot me an exasperated glance and did not answer.

“When you go back to the Haradas’ house, I want you to keep your eyes open for another piece of pottery that looks like the ibex ewer you had in your house. Don’t say anything, just be aware.”

“Why?” Takeo asked fiercely. “Why is that vessel so important?”

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” I said it lightly, as a joke, but he didn’t laugh.

“I’ll do what I can. I’m expected to pay a call there anyway in the early afternoon. We’re all going to the cremation.”

The cremation. I’d been to the cremation of my Japanese grandfather. I’d seen the coffin slide into the oven, seen the big metal doors latch closed, and then heard the sound of the flames. I’d been so terrified that I’d run outside, but there I saw a plume of gray smoke rising from the chimney. I couldn’t escape the horror of the death, no matter where I went.

“I’m so sorry,” I said now to Takeo. “I haven’t gotten a chance to tell you yet how sorry I am for everything that happened, and that you lost her.”

“It was a short engagement,” Takeo said. “But I did care for her. I understand now that it would have been a terrible marriage. But I did care.”

After I took my leave of Takeo, I sent an e-mail to Michael giving him a brief message about the Japanese police having custody of the telephone. Then I closed up my phone and clipped it into the lining of my sweater pocket, deciding this was safer than my backpack.

I caught a bus to Yokohama Station, and as I stared at the bustling traffic around me, I thought more about what Takeo had said about caring. It was a word he’d always used a lot: he cared about social justice, endangered butterflies, and so on. He’d even continued to care about me, since he’d decided to keep my name from the police, or was it more that he cared about losing his flower arranging empire?

He might have cared about me, but he never loved me.

A familiar face with dark green eyes swam before me, but I closed myself to that image, and tried to think happier thoughts until we reached the train station.

Waseda! I’d spent a junior year abroad here, so I felt a small explosion of nostalgia to be back in this paradise for smart, unconventional young Japanese. Waseda University was one of a kind in the city; it was tough to get into, and its graduates went not only into business but into advertising, media, and other creative fields. It also boasted the highest population of foreign students at any Japanese institute of higher education—that was why I’d gotten in.

From Waseda Station, I took a narrow curving road toward the campus, where I was quickly surrounded by a mix of prewar and modern academic buildings. I had to pause at the Okuma auditorium, a golden brick building topped by a medieval-looking tower. I used to meet my friends from Waseda’s art study club in the peaceful garden next to the tower, because we thought art could flow only from tranquillity—and student life in Tokyo was not, on the whole, tranquil. As I walked closer to look at the tower, it made me think about how the European castle style remained popular for love hotels. At the Haradas’ house as well, with its stained-glass windows and fancy furniture, Old World European aesthetics prevailed. Given Kenichi Harada’s worldly views, it seemed strange that he hadn’t wanted Emi to study at a university before marrying.

I was annoyed to learn that the international students’ center was no longer in the center of campus, but in a section of off-campus buildings; I made the trek over, then discovered the administrator was at lunch. I had to shift to plan B and visit the registrar’s office, where I found an exhausted-looking woman sunk behind a computer terminal with a stack of folders at her side.

The woman listened warily to my story: that I was urgently trying to get in touch with a student I was currently mentoring.

“Her cell phone must be off, because she’s not answering,” I said, taking out my new phone and waving it about, as if it contained the proof of my efforts. “My best thought is to meet her outside the classroom. I thought you could tell me where she is, geographically, at this moment.”

“I’m so sorry,” the woman said in a standard apology that brooked no rejoinders. “We cannot allow anyone to enter the classroom and disrupt the schedule.”

“I won’t go into the class, I swear. If I could just wait outside the door, I could catch her in time so she doesn’t miss her interview.”

“Interview?” the girl repeated dully.

“Yes, at the Diet. For an internship there.”

She blinked, because I was talking about Japan’s parliament. It was the most important place I could think of, offhand, and not a place I could ever remember a Waseda student interning.

“It’s very important for her to have this interview. Her future depends on it.” I spoke earnestly, hoping the jogging clothes I was wearing wouldn’t dissuade her from thinking that I was an important person.

“I’ll check for you now. But please don’t disturb the professor.” The administrative assistant closed the screen she was working on, and replaced one sea of
kanji
characters with another. With lightning speed, she pressed keys and flipped through web pages. At the end, she printed out a sheet for me.

“Here you are.”

“I’m so grateful. Thank you very much. You’ve been very kind.” I bowed a thousand times and backed out of the office, running into a stocky sixty-something professor, whom I recognized at the last minute as the person who’d given me a C in linguistics.

“
Gomen nasai,
” I apologized, turning to bow. My mistake.

“Shimura?” Professor Morito didn’t use an honorific with me, as was typical for older professors toward students. “Well, I never thought I’d see you again. The last thing I heard was that you’d become a salesperson of old things—”

“She’s a mentor,” said the secretary. “She’s arranged for one of our students to have an interview at the Diet.”

“Yes, yes, I’m hurrying to meet a student. Excuse me for being rude, but I really must run!” I said over my shoulder despite Professor Morito’s continued grumbling commentary on students who squandered lost opportunities. The truth was that Professor Morito was right. I hadn’t worked hard enough at linguistics or learning
kanji
, and as I walked down the boulevard, studying Fumiko’s class schedule, I wished desperately that I was fluent in written Japanese. Here was the time, 13:00; the name of the topic she was studying was unintelligible. The only thing I could tell was that she was studying at the Information Technology Center, a place where I wished now I’d spent more time during my year overseas.

There was a little glass window in the door of Fumiko’s classroom, so I peeped through it a few times, looking for her in the class of about fifty, before I realized that I was attracting the attention of several students. I slunk back to the opposite side of the hallway. Nobody was around, so I made a phone call to the Meiwashima Auction Gallery to find out whether Kenichi Harada ever brought things to auction. No, he hadn’t sold anything, but he had been a longtime customer. I thought about calling Kazu Sakurai’s studio in Kyushu to ask him whether Kenichi Harada had been a customer, but I didn’t know the name of the town the studio was in. I’d have to research it later.

I looked again through the classroom window. All the students had their laptop computers open, hindering my inspection of their faces. I was a bit shocked to see students using laptops in the classroom, but I guessed that was a reflection of my age. It would have been nice to have had a laptop during Professor Morito’s class, so that I would have missed his myriad cranky expressions.

I hoped Fumiko wouldn’t be a dead end, because I needed information. I didn’t have time to follow false leads, when the Japanese police were probably close to figuring out I was a player in Emi Harada’s death. To derail them, I had to get Takeo the information he needed about the drug supplier.

Finally, I heard the snap of all the laptops closing. There was much scraping of chairs and a babble of voices, and then the students streamed out. Fumiko was wearing a generous sweatshirt and jeans. She did a double take when she saw me, letting me know that I didn’t need to worry about reintroducing myself.

“Ohisashi buri desu,”
I greeted her.
Long time no see.
It had been less than twenty-four hours, but so what?

“Do you teach here?” she looked at my clothing with seeming confusion.

“Please tell me I don’t look that old,” I said, falling into step with her. We passed out of the building and started our way down the campus’s main pedestrian boulevard.

“I didn’t mean a professor. I thought you might be a teaching assistant. I mean, why else would you be here? You told me you’d finished your studies.”

“I came today because I need to talk to you about Emi. It’s starting to get out about the amphetamines—”

“Don’t say that word!” she whispered, panic in her voice. To think a college student was this paranoid about drugs! It reminded me that I was in another country.

“Sorry. Let’s talk about it in a quieter place. May I take you to lunch?” I was starving, despite the stress.

“I only have about thirty minutes.” She looked at me anxiously.

“I know a great, quick
okonomiyaki
shop nearby.” I knew that
okonomiyaki
, the delicious Japanese savory pancake, was as essential to the survival of Waseda’s students as pizza was to American undergraduates.

“Omori-san’s shop? Is it even open for lunch?”

“Yes. I know most students go in the evening. It won’t be crowded and we’ll have the privacy we need.”

Feeling as if I’d been away from Waseda for only a semester, I walked into the restaurant and I led Fumiko straight to the old table of the art study club, close to the restrooms—a good location because of the amount of Kirin we drank in those days. The lacquered pine table was well worn from many student elbows. The center of it had been cut out and had a round electric cooktop, which was quickly turned on by the cook-owner, an old grandma type who greeted me with a smile of recognition. Omori-san asked us a few questions, then carefully poured a mixture of egg, soy, scallions, and octopus onto the hot surface. It was up to us to poke at the pancake, from time to time, to see if it had set.

I liked the pancake fully done, but I deferred to Fumiko when she decided to start cutting it up for eating a scant five minutes after it had started to cook. She was obviously in a rush.

“So, you seemed to understand what I said about the—substance.” I opened the interview, keeping my voice low and calm.

“Did her parents find out?” She watched me anxiously.

“Yes. They need to know who the supplier was.”

“It wasn’t me! I never—”

“I believe you. But I think you might know something. When that boy ran out of the funeral yesterday, some people were wondering if he had something to do with the drugs. It seemed as if you recognized him.”

“I do,” she said in a low voice. “He’s a student in the foreign exchange program. His name is Ramzi Birand.”

“Birand?” I sat up straight. Birand was the name of the Turkish art dealer Michael Hendricks had mentioned during the slide show about Takeo. “How do you spell it?”

“If you want to see the spelling—” she touched her backpack—” I have our student list with me. He’s auditing a history class.”

Fumiko rummaged through a folder and handed me a piece of paper. The list was typed in English, signaling that this was a cross-cultural class with a high number of foreign students. Birand’s name was spelled right, and his nationality was listed as Turkish. There was also an address, with a telephone number.

“You mentioned to me that Emi never studied at Waseda—or any other college. So why did Ramzi attend her memorial?”

Fumiko pressed her lips together and shook her head.

“Please,” I said. “If you’re keeping a secret for Emi, there’s no point anymore.”

“He—he was her boyfriend at the American school in Istanbul. This past summer, he came to Japan and enrolled at Waseda to be near her.”

Another man
. Something I hadn’t expected from the innocent-looking Emi. Trying to readjust my thinking, I asked, “What was their relationship like?”

Fumiko closed her eyes, then opened them. They were slightly wet with tears. “She—she sent me a lot of e-mail from Istanbul about him. He was two years older, and they met at a school party. She was always talking about how smart and handsome and funny he was. She was crazy about him! Then, her parents found out.”

“I gather they were nervous about it?” What parent wouldn’t be nervous about a teenager embarking on a serious relationship?

“Not nervous—furious. Her father was angry that she’d gotten so seriously involved—and he moved their whole family back to Japan. He put her in a girls’ school and told her that she could go only to a women’s college after she was done. But she kept writing to Ramzi, and he found a way to gain admission to Waseda.”

“Oh! So they carried on their romance here—”

“Only for a little while. When the parents found out Ramzi was here, Emi was forbidden to see him again.” Fumiko pressed her lips together. “Emi’s father couldn’t force the university dean to make him leave, so he and his wife decided to make Emi completely unavailable to Ramzi. They made her have an
omiai
.”

“In your opinion, was the arranged marriage to Takeo an attempt at—punishment?” I was skeptical, remembering how possessive and passionate Emi had seemed toward Takeo.

“Not punishment, but control. They just thought that it was time to get her safely married. They said she’d gone too far.”

“Are you sure about all this? I saw Emi together with her fiancé. She seemed really excited to be with him, happy to be furnishing their house.” I didn’t add how I’d overheard the sounds of her and Takeo settling into each other for a serious snog, just a few days earlier at the flower arranging school.

“She kind of liked him, I guess. There were many advantages he could offer her.”

“What kind of advantages?” I asked, wondering if she’d been as calculating as Takeo.

“Well, she did have choice about the man she married. She thought Takeo was the best of the men she met because he was so successful. He was so busy with the
ikebana
school that he told her he’d spend a lot of time away on business but he’d provide her a generous allowance, and she could stay at the apartment in Tokyo or the house in Hayama, whatever she wanted.”

“But—but what about the physical nature of marriage to a man so much older?” I tried to express it delicately. “Wasn’t that frightening to her?”

“Oh, she’d done it lots of times, with Ramzi and then—with Takeo. She told me all about it. She said it was quite nice, actually. She also said that one day my time would come. But look at me—who’s going to want to sleep with such a big fatty?”

“Please, don’t talk about yourself that way!” I said gently, but my mind was racing. Takeo and Emi had embarked on their traditional marriage plan with complex and mercenary agendas. But being typical modern, young Japanese, they’d had sex along the way—and that had changed everything, at least for Emi. Takeo’s charisma had led to her undoing, to the start of her falling in love. And perhaps the drugs she took made the decision easier.

“Did she start taking drugs in Istanbul?” I was beginning to think that Emi had changed from a good Japanese girl into a teenage libertine while she was abroad—just as Japanese people were wont to say about “foreign-returned girls.”

“I think so, but it got a lot worse here,” Fumiko said. “She was already slim enough when she arrived. I told her she shouldn’t keep taking pills, but she insisted it was the only way to keep the pounds off. And after her parents found out about Ramzi, I think the pills made her feel better, emotionally.”

“So,” I said, studying the list of students in the class that Fumiko had showed me at the beginning of our conversation, “I don’t recognize this address where Ramzi lives, and it’s not right here in Takadanobaba. Did you ever go there with Emi?”

“No, and she didn’t go there either. He lives with his uncle over their shop in Omote-sando. Actually, if that’s all you need, I should go now. I must not be late for my next class.” Fumiko held out her hand for the paper.