The Samurai's Daughter (19 page)

When life gets chaotic, sometimes the best escape is work.

I wasn't surprised to wake up at six the next morning and see Hugh, already dressed for corporate battle, sitting at my tea table with a pot of tea and lots of fax pages in front of him.

“Did something come in for you from San Francisco?” I asked, yawning as I stumbled into the room to join him.

“No. It's the translation of your grandfather's book—Tom sent the first few chapters.”

“Oh, right. I glanced at it yesterday evening, but didn't have time to read it, considering all that happened.” I went into the kitchenette to get myself a cup, then came back and sat next to Hugh. “Is it interesting?”

Hugh put down the papers and looked at me. “I'll say so. Actually, it's more provocative than anything.”

“Don't tell me my great-grandfather wrote the sexual history of Japan,” I teased, laying my head on his shoulder.

“No.”

Hugh's brief, strained-sounding response made me stiffen. “What is it then?”

“Rei, your grandfather was a bit…Listen, I'm sorry. I won't say anything against your ancestors. Here, you read it for yourself. I'll bring your coffee.”

“If you're trying to say Kazuo Shimura was a conservative, I already know that,” I said. “He was a great scholar, but unapologetically nationalistic. That's why he was chosen to tutor Hirohito.”

Hugh didn't answer me, just busied himself with the coffee. I started turning over the lined notebook pages. Tom had translated four chapters of the twenty-chapter book. I read through the introduction, which was dated 1931. It was fairly straightforward, though pedantic; my great-grandfather wrote, in a rather officious tone, that the lessons learned from the past would help Japan in the future, and that the great deeds of the ancestors should never be forgotten. The introduction ended saying that students should listen to their teachers, and parents and study history's lessons diligently.

Chapter 1 was titled “Reverence to the Sun” and outlined the proof that Japan's imperial family was literally descended from the Sun God. I didn't believe it was true; the fact that my great-grandfather had reported it as such must have been a direct reflection of the atmosphere around him. Emperor Hirohito's advisors knew how useful it would be to have a public fervently believing such things about their leader—it would allow them all complete power to do what they wanted in their wars.

The next chapter was a history of the different reigns in Japan. Scant attention was given to the importance of China in Japan's past—China, which had given Japan Buddhism, its system of character writing, and more. Perhaps my great-grandfather had overlooked all this because Japan was at war with China when the book was written; politics could cloud things. He wasn't too enthusiastic about the West, either.

“People call Europe and America the most advanced national powers; however, just as it is true the chrysanthemum is the world's most gorgeous flower, so Japan cannot be dominated, in either its national power or culture,” I read with a sinking feeling. I'd heard that my great-grandfather had been a brilliant professor. But in my mind, “brilliant” meant original. I could only hope the book would improve in later chapters.

“What do you think?” Hugh asked, putting his own pages aside.

“So far the history seems accurate, if a bit prejudiced in its presentation. I wish he would have said more about the importance of China in building Japanese culture, but maybe he couldn't because of the political climate when this book was published.”

“Oh, he says plenty about China later on. Just wait,” Hugh said grimly. “Anyway, I'm going to have to put it aside to get over to meet Eric at the Imperial Hotel. Then in the afternoon, I've got to fetch Charles from the airport. If he's not too tired, I'd like to make a dinner reservation for all of us somewhere. Any ideas?”

“Why don't you leave it up to Charles to decide?” I said. After all, his company was footing the bill.

“He doesn't know the restaurant scene the way you do.”

“If he likes fashionable Japanese food, you should try Kiku. But it's hard to get a reservation.”

“I'll use my accent.” Hugh winked and was gone.

I left a message on my parents' answering machine that I had reason to believe Manami was alive and well, and to call me for details. Then I showered and blow-dried my hair and went out to Sendagi Station to buy the
Japan Times
. I had bought it to check the real estate listings in the middle, but my eyes were drawn to a front-page article that reported that a crowd of Japanese nationalists—some party members and others students—had gotten into a fight in the park surrounding the Yasakuni Shrine yesterday afternoon. After they'd refused to obey police requests to keep to a certain area, a small melee had developed. The police had released tear gas, and ten people were treated at area emergency rooms for discomfort.

The fact that the police had struck against Imperialists was quite ironic, I thought. In the early 1930s, Japan's top military leaders were at first wary about the expansionist attitudes Hirohito's staff members were espousing, but what could they do?—he was the descendant of the Sun God.

I tucked the newspaper under my arm and got ready to pay the fare to Shinjuku. I knew this was the station closest to the office of Mr. Idabashi, the detective. I had been thinking that he was probably the only person in Japan who could have figured out the connection between Ramon Espinosa and me. For reasons of his own,
he might have decided to get something from Ramon. The bowl of tear gas noodles might have been a warning from him to me to stay out of things.

I'd thought I could trust the detective, but the fact was, he hadn't been recommended to me. Private detectives were free agents; their motivations to do their work could be all kinds of things.

On the platform, I dug into my backpack for the receipt that came with the refund he'd given me, since he'd done the job in less time than I'd paid for. His business card was stapled to the paper; it included a minimap of Shinjuku on the back, with a big star marking the Fine Future Building that housed his office.

So he had a real office. Or did he?

I rode one stop to Nishi-Nippori and then changed to the Yamanote Line to Shinjuku. It was late enough in the morning that I had a seat to myself, so I hung my head and took the tiny catnap I sorely needed after my night of disjointed, troubled sleep. I opened my eyes a few stops before Shinjuku and half-focused at the row of commuters facing me. It was too late in the day for people to be heading to work; I imagined that the smartly dressed women in their thirties through sixties were heading for shopping and that the few businessmen interspersed between them were en route to see clients. My eyes slid back to one young guy buried behind the same edition of the
Japan Times
I'd been looking at earlier in the day. Not many Japanese read an English-language paper. Nor did they wear Bass Weejuns. I became curious enough to stand up and move toward the exit, even though Shinjuku Station was still thirty seconds away and I would not have to battle any crowds to make it out the door. As I edged along, the man turned the newspaper page, and as the veil was momentarily removed, I saw him.

“Eric? I can't believe it,” I said. Even though Hugh had told me Eric had arrived the previous evening, I was so discombobulated by seeing him that I fell into the usual polite pleasantries. He looked proper—instead of his usual slouchy clothes, he was in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and yellow tie. It was an entirely appropriate business look for Japan.

“Wow, this is great, Rei.” Eric grinned at me openly, the way he
once had when we were friends in our youth. “I can't believe you're out by yourself like this—I thought you and Hugh were joined at the groin.”

“A politer expression is ‘joined at the hip.' And no, we aren't,” I said frostily. He hadn't transformed into his younger self after all—he was still the same creep who had tried to embarrass me in San Francisco. I scrapped the offer I'd almost made to guide him to the Imperial Hotel, or wherever his destination was.
But wait a minute,
I thought. He was staying at the Imperial Hotel. Why was he on a train bound somewhere else?

“Shinjuku, it's Shinjuku. Don't forget your things—” the recorded announcer's voice said over the loudspeaker.

“Well, I've got to run. Better not get lost,” I said, moving toward the door.

“Rei, don't leave the train on my account.” Eric, to my horror, was following me off.

“I'm not leaving because of
you
—I'm going to my appointment. Why don't you do the same?” I shouted over my shoulder, trying to move along as fast as my high heels would permit.

“But—I'm going to Shinjuku too!” Eric declared. “We can go around together. I'm not very good at finding my way here, this being my first trip—”

“Well, let me tell you that Shinjuku is quite a hike from the Imperial Hotel. From this point on, it's about a half hour on the train—”

“I don't care if I'm late,” Eric said, catching up to me and grabbing my arm so hard that I had to stop. More than a few people stared at us, and I wondered whether it was because two obviously Asian people were speaking English to each other or because we were squabbling—an unacceptable public behavior.

I stopped moving—since I bruise easily—and Eric let go of my arm and put his hands in his pockets rather sheepishly.

“I'm sorry, Rei. It's—well, this is the first time I've caught you alone. In San Francisco I couldn't manage it, and here I thought it would be impossible. Just hear me out, okay? Could we have a cup of coffee or something? We could meet later if you're too busy right now.”

Eric hung his head a little, and I reminded myself to be gentle—for some unfathomable reason, he still had a crush.

“I doubt there will be time,” I said. “Right now I'm dealing with quite a lot of problems.”

“Well, I guess you can tell me about it at dinner.”

That was right, Hugh was making reservations for all of us. I nodded, but didn't say any more.

 

I made quite sure Eric boarded the next Yamanote Line train headed southwest before I left the platform for the east side of Shinjuku Station. If he followed me to Mr. Idabashi's office, I could just imagine how bad it could be.

It was my first time back to Shinjuku in a while, so I looked at it with new eyes. Through the mid-nineties, many gigantic, high-style shopping malls had been built; now, the glass palaces were going up more slowly, and there were many signs offering sale prices in the department stores. Yes, it was the customary time of year for sales, but I knew the economy had weakened. As I walked toward Kabuki-cho, the pleasure quarter, I thought about the impact any trouble at Morita Incorporated would have on the economy. The first people laid off at big Japanese companies were usually women and part-timers. If office ladies lost jobs and couldn't shop, department stores would falter.

It was like making a pyramid of tangerines, a game I used to play when I was a child staying the summer in Japan. I built and built as high as you could go, and then my competitor, usually my cousin Tom, would remove one of the tangerines and the pile of fruit would collapse and roll across the floor. We were all dependent on each other; that was the game's lesson.

Already, I could see the impact that a depressed economy had had on Kabuki-cho. Many hostess bars had closed, now that there were fewer companies with generous entertainment allowances. The admission fee to sleazier places—soaplands and no-pants coffee shops—had been reduced, according to signs in the windows.

Mr. Idabashi certainly had chosen an unsavory location for his detective agency, I thought as I turned left into the little street that
had been marked on his business card. Well, my goal was to see if there was the slightest inkling of impropriety about him. So far, things weren't looking good for him. At least there wasn't a red-light business in the Fine Future Building, I thought as I looked at the companies listed on a sign posted on the modest two-story, aluminum-clad building. It contained a travel agency, a wedding planner, and the Idabashi PI Service.

The three came together logically, I thought. Young people about to be married were likely to need PI services. Once a bride's parents had read an investigative report and approved the fiancé, they could walk a few steps to the wedding planner to get the ceremony set up, then a few more to the travel agency to arrrange details for the honeymoon.

I had hoped that the detective agency had a glass window in its door, so I could spy on Mr. Idabashi without raising his antenna; but there was no such luck. It was a steel door with the agency name on it in black letters. Across the hall was the wedding planner's office. This door did have a glass window. I glanced into a small, cluttered room painted pink and decorated with a little frieze of bells and flowers. Maybe I could get some information from the planner.

I opened the door, catching the eye of a woman in a pink suit sitting behind a large desk crowded with papers. She was wearing a telephone headset, into which she was talking to someone.

“Yes, yes. Blue roses, irises, and lilies of the valley.” A pause. “For all of them.” A sucking in of breath. “Let me check with the client. Thank you!”

When she put down the phone, I said, “Excuse me for disturbing you.”

“Welcome to Sugo Bridal Service! I'm Sugo Nanae.” She beamed at me as if I were her new best friend, and I realized that I must look like a potential client.

Well, I'd been thinking this was the way to go. “Ah, Sugo-san, I hope you can help me. I want to get married…”

A quick glance to my left hand, and Ms. Sugo said, “Well, it looks as if you've got a good start on the project. What a beautiful ring.”