Zen Attitude (14 page)

“A hostess is always prepared for emergencies,” she lectured me. “One should keep a generous supply of nonperishable foods. Remember that for your next party.”

Mrs. Mihori remained closeted with Akemi, but the doctor eventually emerged for a cup of coffee. “Miss Mihori fainted,” he announced to the guests who had crowded around us. “A common occurrence when going from the hot city streets to a very cold place such as this apartment.”

“Yes, air-conditioning is unhealthy,” Winnie Clancy said. “In England, nobody has air-conditioning. We’re all better off without it.”

“So desu neh!
” Mr. Sendai agreed, and the cover-up was complete. Hugh had suffered no loss of face, excepting the rumor his apartment was too zealously air-conditioned. And I even had a prospective client, a friend of Nana Mihori’s called Mrs. Kita, who wanted a pair of old porcelain
hibachi.

“Despite the drama, it wasn’t that bad. My colleagues learned to dance to Nine Inch Nails, you’ve got yourself a new assignment, and Piers is setting up an interview for Mohsen.” Hugh yawned after we’d seen off Nana Mihori and her laughing daughter in a limousine headed for Kamakura.

“Did you see the look on Mrs. Mihori’s face as she left? It was positively lethal. She didn’t buy that stuff about air-conditioning, not with Akemi talking about colors moving behind her eyes.” I slid down on the sofa and put my head in my hands.

“Mrs. Mihori is grateful her daughter’s alive. And thank God Angus didn’t let Akemi have more brownies. She’d be headed for the hospital if she had five or six of the things.”

“Are you going to talk to your brother about how he got the hash?”

“Later. I don’t think he’s capable of talking about anything until tomorrow.”

“You will talk to him?” I prodded.

“I’m not the father figure, okay? If you have a problem with him, speak to him yourself. I’m sick and tired of being pulled between you both.”

“Last night you told me not to discipline him,” I protested. “You’re always blowing hot and cold. Why is that?”

“Sorry, but I have zero energy for one of your therapy sessions tonight,” Hugh shot back. “Coming to bed?”

“I don’t think so.” I was too filled with anger and frustration to lie down. I would clean the kitchen which the caterers had rushed away from, rearrange the furniture, drink another glass of wine. I would rearrange the surfaces of things, although I couldn’t do anything about the chaos underneath.

Sleeping on a sofa is a particular kind of hell. My body was half paralyzed by the time I woke up the next morning. I had forgotten to take my usual glass of water with aspirin, so my throat was a desert and my head vibrated with pain.

What had woken me? A whining appliance in the kitchen. And now Hugh was coming in, bearing a tray laden with orange juice and tea and a piece of toast with scrambled eggs spread neatly across the top. My favorite Sunday morning breakfast. This had to be a joke.

“Sleep well? The kitchen looks like it was cleaned to within an inch of its life.” Hugh towered over me, a crisp vision in a white polo shirt and khaki shorts.

“I can’t even remember doing it.” I reached for the juice, which had suddenly become the object of my deepest desire.

“I didn’t expect you’d stay here all night. I would have carried you in if I hadn’t fallen asleep myself. When will you be ready to go to the shrine sale?”

“I’m not up to it.” The thought of indulging in my usual Sunday morning antiques-shopping routine was anathema this morning.

“When I have a bad day, I still go to work,” Hugh reproved.

“Don’t push me,” I warned. “I don’t want Angus to hear us fighting.”

“Don’t worry about my brother—we’re the only ones who should matter in this relationship. I can’t stand the way you withhold yourself from me! Why didn’t you come to bed last night? Honestly.”

“I wanted to be alone.”

Hugh laughed shortly. “Well, then, Greta Garbo, I’ll leave you to your own devices. And since you can’t bear my company, I’ll take my brother golfing.”

Hugh had to drag Angus out of bed, and the two of them left an hour later, still arguing about whether Angus really would have to wear Burberry shorts on the course. I put the breakfast dishes away, showered, and made a telephone call to the Mihori household. The phone rang eighteen times without being answered. Feeling restless, I decided to get out of the apartment and go to the shrine sale after all.

It was 10
A
.
M
. when I arrived, too late for anything really good to be left along the steps and courtyard outside the historic Nogizaka Shrine. I went to the outlying area where furniture dealers sold their larger pieces. I didn’t expect to find a real Sado Island
tansu
, but I’d keep my eyes open. I was heartened when Mr. Ishida crossed my path, his slight frame weighed down by heavy bags. He had been at the party last night, but I’d been too busy to say more than hello to him.

“Let me help.” I was stiff and headachy, but I was forty-seven years younger than my friend.

“It’s too much for a young lady,” he apologized, nevertheless letting me take hold of a large bag that felt as if it contained ceramics. “Thank you for yesterday evening. What a lively event it was!”

“The party was a disaster. So, what you have bought this morning that’s pulling my arms out of their sockets?”

“A set of Imari bowls painted with a carp design. I’d like to show you, but unpacking them now would increase the chance of breakage. There’s a new porcelain dealer on the other side of the steps who gave me a dealer discount. You should introduce yourself.”

“I will. Did you see any matched pairs of
hibachi?
” I asked, remembering Mrs. Kita, the guest from the party who had made the request.

“Those are hard to find,
neh?
I saw a pair but passed because they had a Mount Fuji illustration, a bit too ordinary for my taste. They’re also too big for you to carry without Glendinning-san.”

“I have to see them! I have a client who’s interested.”

“Nana Mihori? I saw you speaking together last night and was very relieved. How did you handle that problem, anyway?” Mr. Ishida put down his bags and leaned against a gnarled old gingko tree.

“It’s a new client I’m talking about. Unfortunately, Mrs. Mihori is pretty much lost to me.” I filled in the details of Nao Sakai’s death and Jun Kuroi’s imprisonment.

“If only you’d allowed me to help.” Mr. Ishida grumbled. “Had the
ya
-san stolen the
tansu
from you, your renters’ insurance would have covered the loss. You’d still have your client, and none of this humiliation!”

“Where did you say your van was parked?” I tried to change the subject.

“In the next street.” Mr. Ishida’s voice softened. “You should not forget about the porcelain dealer. If you like the
hibachi
, get one of the Morita boys to help you carry them to my van. I can hold them for as long as you need.”

The
hibachi
were just right. Painted in soft blue and orange strokes on creamy porcelain, one of the pair illustrated Mount Fuji at sunrise, the other at sunset. The set clearly belonged together and was worth investing in even if Mrs. Kita didn’t like them. I got the dealer to put a hold sign on them while I raced first to the bank machine and then to a pay phone to telephone Mrs. Kita. As I’d hoped, she was charmed by the sunrise-sunset motif and wanted the
hibachi.

“The total cost, including my dealer surcharge, is one hundred and twenty thousand yen. Is that agreeable with you?” I asked carefully.

“Certainly! As long as it covers the cost of delivery—”

“That will be no problem.” Ordinarily I’d have run the
hibachi
over to her house in Yokohama using the Windom, but Hugh had driven to the golf course. Mr. Ishida would probably lend me his van if I made sure to refill the gas tank.

“Miss Shimura, I am so glad I met you,” Mrs. Kita enthused. “I have never been invited to one of my husband’s colleagues’ parties before. Until the last minute, my husband was saying that nothing would be of interest to me, but that certainly was wrong! Although poor Miss Mihori had a different experience. I have been worrying about her health.”

And searching for some gossip. I said, “It’s very kind of you to worry, but Miss Mihori will be fine. The doctor told us all she needed was a good night’s rest.”

“Is he checking on her today?”

“Now she’s in the hands of her own doctor.” I was not going to tell her I’d called myself and found no one at home.

“
Ja
, I’m sure you will be in touch with that doctor. Give me the latest news when you bring the
hibachi
,” Mrs. Kita said firmly, and rang off.

By late Sunday afternoon, the drive back from Yokohama was very difficult. The freeways were packed with people coming home from excursions to the beach. I remembered my time on the expressway the week before—when I’d taken my attention away from the road for a few seconds and smashed Hugh’s car. I was seized with a panic that something might happen to Mr. Ishida’s van, so I kept the radio off and my tired eyes open. By 7
P
.
M
. I was home, utterly exhausted. I lay down on the sofa where I’d slept before and closed my eyes. It seemed like a few minutes later that a light was shining down on me and a voice was cutting into my dreams.

“Where’s my brother?” It was Hugh.

I struggled to make sense of this. “He’s with you. You were playing golf.”

“I dropped him off here at five, and it’s now half eleven. Where could he have gone?”

“No idea. And where were you?”

“I had an appointment with Mr. Ota. We were trying to decide how to evade potential lawsuits from the Mihori family. Tomorrow he’s going to deliver a cash offering as an apology for what happened to Akemi.”

I sat up at that. “Doing that will make us look tacky and guilty. Besides, you know how rich the Mihoris are. As nice as your stock portfolio is, you couldn’t possibly give them anything of significance.”

“It’s not the amount that matters, it’s the gesture of caring. Mr. Ota says it’s the Japanese way.”

“You’re worried the Mihoris will tell the police to go after Angus,” I said, finally understanding that Hugh was worried his brother could be arrested for pushing drugs. Given that Mr. Ota had suggested a payoff, the threat was probably very real. “Maybe I could try to smooth it over with the Mihoris—”

“Forget it. This is my problem.”

“Only because you want it to be.” I felt a lump rising in my throat, thinking of how I’d helped him in previous months with Japanese telephone calls, and how in turn he’d set up the legal documentation for my antiques business. Leaning on each other had made us close.

“Listen, Rei, the deal is all set up. Mr. Ota knows what he’s doing.” Hugh gave me a final angry look and went into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. I did not follow.

Angus showed up at seven o’clock the next morning, his eyes bleary and his mouth shut. All he would say was that he thought he’d misplaced his key some-where and had stayed out to give us a chance to sleep.

“I was worried about you, lad. You should have come back, no matter the hour,” Hugh said.

Angus shrugged. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“We should perhaps try to put some shape to this visit of yours,” Hugh said. “To start, I think I’ll take the afternoons off this week in order to really spend some time with you. We can play more golf or swim, whatever you want.”

I stared into the
Japan Times
, trying to hide my shock. Hugh never took time off. As it was, his hours of nine to seven were considered light for a multinational executive.

“I hate golf,” Angus said. “But I wouldn’t mind getting around. There’s that festival in Kamakura. Remember, the one Akemi’s father told me about?”

Hugh dropped his butter knife at that. “I think it’s wise to let the Mihoris take a break from us.”

“There’s a luxury car show coming up in Yokohama.” I scanned the newspaper’s inside pages for something that might inspire male bonding. “You could go to that, then eat some
dim sum
in Chinatown.”

“I have been thinking of trading the Windom in.” Hugh sounded thoughtful. “It might be worth-while to look at the new models.”

“It’s at the Shin-Yokohama Prince Hotel tomorrow. Let’s see, what could you do in Tokyo today? . . .”

As I ruffled past the obituary section, I spotted an oddly familiar face—an old Japanese man with glaring eyes. I looked more closely at the black-and-white photograph and the caption below.

Nomu Ideta. My eyes flicked over the article about the longtime art collector in Denen-Chofu who was survived by his younger sister, Miss Haru Ideta. He had passed away due to complications from diabetes.

“No,” I said, clutching the obituary page in my hand, the rest of the paper falling to the floor. It had been just a few days since I’d seen the old man. He had been lively and full of arguments. Nowhere near death.

“Nothing’s on today? Like I said, we could go swimming. Rei, you’re welcome to join us.”

“I can’t! I mean, sorry, I’ll be busy.” I went into the bathroom, the only place I could be alone for a few minutes, long enough to decide why the newspaper obituary troubled me, and why I was going to Denen-Chofu.

In Nomu Ideta’s neighborhood, it felt as if people knew about the death. A group of boys halfheartedly kicked a ball among themselves, and housewives had stopped their driveway sweeping to chat in low voices, casting glances at the cars that pulled up to the Ideta house. They looked at me, too, in the black dress I’d worn to show respect for the occasion.

This time the house’s bamboo gate stood haphazardly open. I slid into formation behind two women who marched inside without regarding the doorbell.

“When will the funeral take place?” I asked, following them into the kitchen, where they began unloading lacquered containers of food.

The younger of the two, wearing a pink and white T-shirt that read B
UTTERFLY
C’
EST
L
A
V
IE
, smiled at me as if I also had come to help in the crisis. “Ideta-san is making arrangements with the priest at the temple. We will know soon. You are? . . .”