Girl in a Box

by Sujata Massey

  Mr. Yoshino, the director of Accessories, was more typical of the store’s veteran male managers: a balding man in his fifties who wore conservative suits and thick glasses. He reminded me a little of my Uncle Hiroshi, the banker, so it amused me greatly to think of him poring over designs for handbags and necklaces, figuring out what would sell fabulously for spring.

  Mrs. Okuma was the only woman in the group; senior managers at the store were mostly male. Many women employees left the store when they became mothers. It struck me that I knew Mrs. Okuma was married, because she wore a ring, but I didn’t know if she was a parent. Day care was limited in Japan, so I imagined that it would have been very hard for her to work full time while having a child; I decided that she probably was childless.

  I wouldn’t leave her in the lurch without her papers, I promised myself while settling on the far side of a heavy waterwheel that had been erected in the ryokan’s front garden as a decoration. It was the largest thing I could camouflage myself with. Lounging with my back against it, the latest Banana Yoshimoto novel, in Japanese, in hand, I felt that I must be the perfect picture of a relaxed young Japanese tourist. And the position was great, because I could see through the spokes of the wheel to view all the arriving guests.

  Things were slow, so I’d text-messaged Michael: IN IZU AND WAITING. ALL SYSTMS GO.

  Within minutes, a message had flashed back: SURE U REMBR DRILL?

  YESSIR! I answered fliply. IN PANTS PKT ALNG W/EXTRA JST IN CASE.

  I WAS REFRNG 2 YR PLNS IN C/O POSSBL SNAFU. ANY QSTNS?

  Despite the 8,000 miles between us, I blushed at having so grossly misunderstood the reference. After a pause, I typed back: I’M GDTGO.

  I had to be.

  The sun was high and I’d been bitten by half a dozen blackflies by the time the Mitsuyama limousine rolled in. I’d already witnessed the arrival of Mrs. Okuma (in the black pumps she always wore to work), Mr. Fujiwara (in tan loafers of indiscriminate origin), and Mr. Kitagawa (in snappy brogues, maybe Paul Smith).

  As I’d expected, the boss and heir apparent arrived last. They came in a chauffeured black Mercedes with the kanji characters for “Mitsutan” on the passenger doors. Apparently, the Mitsuyamas thought of themselves as royalty.

  I peeped over the rim of the waterwheel and focused on the son, Enobu Mitsuyama, who emerged wearing a white polo shirt, white pleated pants, and—once I’d put my camera lens into close-up mode—blindingly white loafers with a gold G firmly affixed to the front. He walked around to the rear, to stand at attention while a black-suited driver opened the door and assisted his father, Masahiro, out of the rear. The conference was taking place over a weekend, yet the elder Mitsuyama had worn a sober dark blue suit and highly polished black wing tips. I wouldn’t need to take a photo to identify these shoes in the lineup later on. He would be the first individual out of the thirty-odd people I’d spotted arriving that morning who had worn work shoes to the resort.

  The chauffeur hefted the men’s bags—Vuitton, the store’s bestselling luggage brand—up to the front as Enobu took his father’s arm, leading him at a gentle pace toward the door.

  But Masahiro Mitsuyama shook off his son’s hand. From my hidden position, I smiled at the show of independence. The store’s patriarch was staunchly independent, not even allowing his son to treat him like an old man. With that kind of attitude, and on the basis of what I’d noticed in the store, I was looking forward to some lively commentary once the bugs were in place.

  17

  The problem with long-term surveillance comes down to one thing: the bathroom.

  Or, to be more discreet, the honorable hands-washing place. That’s where Mrs. Okuma discovered me five hours after my wait in the garden had begun. It was my own fault, because I couldn’t hold out any longer.

  I’d memorized the ryokan’s floor plan, so I’d thought getting in and leaving would be a snap. But that was before I emerged from the toilet, which was a nice one—an electric toilet seat with a built-in bidet wand, and a button you could press to make a constant flushing sound for the ultimate discretion. Maybe it was because I’d been enjoying these privacy features that I hadn’t realized there was another person in the restroom: Mrs. Okuma, wearing tweed pants and a matching jacket, washing her hands. She shot a glance at me, nodded, and then looked again—as if she’d realized how incongruous it was that I had infiltrated her company retreat.

  “Hello…Shimura-san?” Her greeting was partly a question. Well, I did look a little different.

  “Okuma-san, hello. I’m sorry to disturb you here, but I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” I spoke loudly, hoping that I sounded urgent rather than scared. I bowed, wondering whether I should start washing my hands now, or wait until the conversation was over.

  Mrs. Okuma took a paper towel and began drying her hands. “I’m surprised to see you. Are you on holiday for the day?”

  I could say yes, because she didn’t seem suspicious, but then she wouldn’t get her papers back.

  “There’s been—I found out—” I stumbled over my words.

  “Please, Shimura-san. Why don’t you take your time and I’ll meet you in the lobby and we can talk there?”

  “Yes. But aren’t you terribly busy with the conference?” I asked.

  “Well, we just finished a seminar and are taking a break before the evening meal.”

  I looked at my watch. I had been so intent on surveying the scene that I hadn’t realized it was already four o’clock. No wonder nature had called me.

  “I didn’t know. I just hurried from the station, I have something for you—”

  “Please, let’s talk outside. When you’re ready.”

  Mrs. Okuma was waiting for me in the lobby, which was the grand old reception room of the original Edo period home. The room’s walls were supported by heavy wood beams, none of which had been fastened with nails; the floor was tatami, of course, and there was a sunken irori fireplace with some cushions around it.

  “It’s this,” I said, opening my bag. “I found something on the floor at work that I thought you needed. Pages from your presentation.”

  She took the pages I handed her and glanced over them. “Oh, I see. Yes.”

  “Is it—essential to your presentation?”

  “Not exactly; but, yes, they are helpful to have. Where did you find them?”

  “I spotted them yesterday evening, when I’d stopped back into the office because I’d forgotten my bag. Miyo had left for the day, so I couldn’t ask her for advice. I decided I’d better just bring them!”

  She blinked. “You are a hardworking person.”

  I bowed my head. “Not at all. I didn’t get the paper to you in time, I’m afraid—”

  “To the contrary. I will speak tomorrow, perhaps. Or perhaps not, depending on what the leaders’ plans are.”

  “Really?”

  “So you came all this way, Shimura-san.” Mrs. Okuma nodded approvingly. “I would call that old-fashioned behavior. But you are more of an old-fashioned girl than the others I’ve hired. More of a hako-iri-musume.”

  She was using a metaphor, girl in a box, which was often applied to describe excessively protected, well-brought-up young women. The term didn’t jibe with me at all, except for the fact that my Japanese could lapse into an overly formal mode, something I could blame only on too much time spent with my well-mannered aunt.

  “What are your plans now, Shimura-san?”

  “I think I’ll just go back to Tokyo. I work tomorrow, as you know. But now, since the paper is with you, I can relax.” And, I hoped, get my hands on the shoes, when the activity in the lobby quieted down enough that I could enter without being noticed.

  “Did you know there is a rotenburo here?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “A hot spring bath in a beautiful garden is one of the great pleasures of Izu. I know, why don’t we take a bath? I’ve not had a chance to talk to you about my impressions of your first week. We can do tha
t now.”

  I blinked. Michael Hendricks had thought it was inappropriate to have a beer after work with me, but Mrs. Okuma thought it perfectly fine to sit together in a hot spring. Naked.

  “Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly…”

  “But why not? I really have nothing to do, while the men are at golf.”

  I thought about it. If I went to the bath with Mrs. Okuma, at least I’d be presenting the appearance that I was a guest with the department store group. And afterward, I could don one of the hotel’s yukata robes, which would make me look even more natural in the hotel lobby.

  “I’d like it. Thank you for the invitation,” I said, bowing my head.

  “You may go straight ahead to the dressing room, and from there you can find your way into the water. I’ll put the papers away in my room, and then I’ll join you.”

  In the empty women’s dressing room, I folded my clothes and placed them in a basket, hoping nobody would snoop through it and discover that I had enough tools to be a locksmith in the pocket. I showered and chose a towel from a stack of folded ones on a wooden counter. The towel was only about a foot wide and two feet long—not much surface area, but that was typical of a tenugui, or modesty towel, which bathers used to shield their private parts as they entered and left the bath.

  Beyond a moon-patterned split cotton noren lay the entrance to the bath; it was a damp, warm room paved in granite, with a small section of water from which steam rose. There were a couple of women sitting in this area, but I could see that the roof of the room ended and the bath continued outward, into the open air. I preferred to be outside, rather than claustrophobically close to people I didn’t know, so I ventured on and found a place leaning back against a rock support.

  The bath was formed in a natural riverbed, so it had an organic, meandering shape; beyond a cluster of scenic rocks topped by a bronze tortoise the bath extended farther than I could see. This was the largest onsen I’d ever soaked in, and I found it impressive that so much space was allotted to women.

  I lay back in the delicious, naturally hot water, stretching out my legs, thinking that this silky, clean-smelling spring suited me better than the baths I’d been to in Hakone, which smelled strongly of sulfur. This particular spring was rich in potassium, reputedly good for the skin. Perhaps so, but the steamy water was making my elaborate eye makeup run into my eyes. I used a corner of my tenugui to clean them off completely. I did it quickly and surreptitiously, because one wasn’t supposed to perform any actual cleaning in a public bath.

  Mrs. Okuma was taking her time, but I was glad, because I had no idea what I was going to say to her. Dinner started at six—maybe then I’d finally get my chance at the shoes in the entryway. I closed my eyes, letting myself go for a minute. I loved the feeling of the cool February air drifting over my head and shoulders; it kept me from being overheated. And the hot water felt wonderful on my blackfly bites.

  I heard an owl hooting somewhere and glanced skyward, looking for it. I saw it fly off with a great beating of wings at the sound of water splashing and men’s voices on their side of the bath.

  I sank a little deeper under the water, annoyed at the break in the quiet, but knowing that it was inevitable. This was a ryokan with twenty-five rooms. Of course other guests would drop in. And I wouldn’t have to talk to them, unlike Mrs. Okuma when she joined me.

  I listened to the conversation, which was curious—some of the men were speaking very politely, while others spoke in plain-form Japanese.

  “Just takes practice. You’ll improve.” Plain form, older man’s voice.

  “No, no. I’m really not cut out for golf, I’m afraid.” Superpolite, and younger.

  I mulled over the voices, wondering if they could belong to the Mitsutan party. After all, some of the men had gone off to play golf. Maybe they were back already. If so, I’d get some excellent eavesdropping, though when Mrs. Okuma joined me, I’d have to pay attention to her.

  Two men came wading around the cluster of rocks, directly toward the part of the bath where I was lounging. Quickly, I grabbed the tenugui to cover my front as two more men followed them.

  “Good evening,” old Mr. Mitsuyama said, bowing to me. His flabby upper body drooped with age, decorated only with a few sparse white hairs. I looked away as quickly as I could.

  “Good evening,” I echoed faintly, contemplating taking a deep breath and swimming underwater all the way back to the indoor bathing area where the women had been peacefully soaking. No wonder I hadn’t seen Mrs. Okuma—I’d gone beyond the prescribed point.

  “It’s very nice to enjoy a warm bath on a cool evening, but isn’t it…” Mr. Fujiwara waded closer in the waist-high swirling water. “You seem familiar. Were you at the reception desk, earlier?”

  “No, I—”

  “I know! You were on the trainee tour this week! The one who answered the question correctly about the importance of customer service.”

  I ducked my head into a bow. “That’s so. I apologize for disturbing you, Bucho, I’m going to leave now—”

  “I recognize your voice, that unusual keigo.” Mr. Fujiwara was speaking expansively, and I realized that he was probably drunk.

  “A brand-new employee here. My, how surprising!” Mr. Yoshino echoed.

  “Wonderful!” Mr. Kitagawa said.

  I was surrounded now; the only thing between them and myself was my wet tenugui, which barely stretched from my breasts to the top of my thighs.

  “Your name again?” Mr. Fujiwara demanded.

  “Shimura Rei.” I bowed my head. “I’m so sorry about this, Fujiwara-san, I will excuse myself now—”

  “Shimura will not leave without permission!” Masahiro Mitsuyama’s voice crackled with the same authority he’d exhibited at the food counter.

  What was this? I clutched my tenugui closer as the old, wrinkled man waded across to sit on the portion of stone bench that lay between me and the route back to the women’s area. The male bathers had placed their tenugui in various places; Mr. Yoshino and Mr. Fujiwara were blessedly covering their own laps, though Mr. Kitagawa had stretched his across his shoulders and Masahiro Mitsuyama was using his to rub his face.

  “How was golf?” I asked, trying to break the tension.

  “You know we played golf?” Mr. Kitagawa, the young stylish one, laughed lightly.

  “I heard from my boss,” I said quickly. “Actually, the reason I’m here is I was running an errand for Okuma-san. I was supposed to meet her in the bath, actually, but I think I may have gotten the ladies’ location wrong—I’ve never been to this place, and I’m afraid I just didn’t know.” I attempted a light laugh; but once it came out, I realized what a mistake it was. They might think that I was enjoying myself, that I was some kind of—entertainer—

  “Okuma-san! We should have her join us too, but I’d rather not see her unclothed, heh, heh!” Mr. Fujiwara said.

  “Kaicho, may I ask who had the lowest golf score?” I asked, as old Mr. Mitsuyama blew his nose in his tenugui. I cringed, thinking that I had to figure out plan C, since I’d already whipped through B. What had C been? I hadn’t ever imagined this would happen.

  “It was Yoshino-san,” Mr. Kitagawa said. “Excellent game. As I was saying, I must work hard to improve.”

  “But you are better at other games,” Mr. Yoshino said; and suddenly, somebody was holding my thigh.

  I froze for a second; I had no idea if it was Kitagawa or Yoshino, because they were both on my right, and I was steadfastly refusing to look below the clear water’s surface for fear of seeing things even uglier than their facial expressions.

  I had to get away, whether or not I would lose my job at Mitsutan. But now, the path back to the curtain, and the area behind it where women had been, was obstructed by Masahiro Mitsuyama. I would run into his body if I tried to get out, staying in the water. The only escape was to jump out to the rocky surface surrounding the bath and make my way back to the dressing room, completely exposed.<
br />
  Better sooner than later. I turned away from them and, using my arms, hoisted myself out of the bath; once I was clear enough to have a knee on the stone surface surrounding the bath, I grabbed at my tenugui with one hand to make sure my hips were covered. I refused to worry about the rest of me. I knew that my breasts were completely average for a Japanese, nothing that they hadn’t seen before.

  “Shimura-san, please don’t go,” someone pleaded, while several of them laughed and applauded.

  I had risen out of a crouch and was standing up straight, catching a few drops of water glistening on the pearl ring in my belly. I turned and faced them with a posture as straight as if I’d been in my Mitsutan uniform. That was what I was told myself: my skin was my armor. They couldn’t see through it.

  “It’s a bit like one of the vendors said in the food basement the other day,” I said with the cool, closed-lips smile that I’d learned from Miyo. “You can look, but don’t touch.” The tempura chef had actually said something a lot milder, but who cared about manners and accuracy at a time like this?

  I walked off, abs tight and head high, feeling the eyes. And something had changed; I wasn’t even cold as I walked back wet and unclothed to the curtain, which I lifted gently to one side so I could pass through. I’d done my best, with dignity. They’d hoped to humiliate me, but I’d won.

  18

  Mrs. Okuma wasn’t in the women’s dressing room. A brief thought flashed through my mind that she’d set me up to run into the men, but I dismissed it almost immediately. She was no more devious than she was organized. I dressed quickly, slipping on my watch last. Six o’clock. The men would linger in the bath a while longer, I expected, hashing over the incident. I’d bought myself a little extra time.

  The passage to the banquet rooms—and there were many rooms, because at a ryokan people generally dined only with their traveling companions—was down a hallway to the right of the dressing rooms. I could imagine the men perhaps wearing their robes to dinner, although that might make Mrs. Okuma feel uncomfortable. I wondered if the golf game was a lie they’d told her, so they could just hang out alone together.