“I—I guess so. I haven’t been reading the papers.” Now I felt embarrassed. Here I was, the agent on foreign soil, and my boss was telling me about a development I should be informing him about.
“Rei, you need to keep up with the news, and fax or e-mail me things of importance. All right?”
“I’m sorry. I will get back on track. But first, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.” In as neutral a language as I could muster, given the situation, I told my boss that three of the executives who had been at the retreat were attempting to meet me privately.
“What the hell? What did you do, internationally expose yourself?”
“Well, there was exposure of a sort, but not the kind that you’re thinking of.” Rather shakily, I explained about following Mrs. Okuma’s directions to meet her in the women’s section of the rotenburo, and the mix-up I’d made by going into an open section, where I was unfortunately joined by Masahiro Mitsuyama, plus Kitagawa, Yoshino, and Fujiwara. I’d been recognized, and I’d beaten a fairly hasty retreat, but not before they’d gotten a glimpse.
“I understand,” Michael had answered after a pause. “These are older guys away from home, perhaps already half sloshed. They get a glimpse of you, an attractive junior employee, in a bikini, and they start to fantasize—”
“But I wasn’t wearing a bikini. A rotenburo is an outdoor bath, not a swimming pool.”
“You mean to say…” Michael’s voice trailed off. “Oh, my God.”
“I was naked! They were naked! That’s why I got out of the water. If I’d stayed a moment longer, I might have been raped.”
Michael had been silent.
“Are you there? Please understand that I did the best I could, under the circumstances.”
“I’ve got to go.” Michael’s voice was curt.
“What would you suggest that—” But I never finished my sentence. He had hung up, leaving me to stew.
It was eight-thirty, and I really had to get out of the apartment, if I was going to retrieve the kimono from Norie in time. There was a Japanese expression for the way I was feeling: hari-no-mushiro, sitting on needles, anxious and uncomfortable.
I picked up the bedside phone and punched in a number I knew by heart, that of my relatives in Yokohama. My aunt Norie was in the process of serving her husband and son their breakfast, but she sounded delighted to hear from me. She promised that after breakfast, she’d open up the tansu chest where she kept four dozen kimono neatly stored, and pick a good one for me to wear to the temple. Of course she asked me with whom I was going; I said a few friends, because I couldn’t figure out how to mention my connection to Mrs. Ono. Fortunately, my aunt believed the story; she knew I loved folk festivals and temples. She only asked me to pick up some incense for her while I was there.
Hearing my aunt’s voice, so normal and warm, made me feel human again. I rolled out of bed; took a shower; and dressed in a warm sweater, jeans, and my favorite black rain shoes. I decided not to do the elaborate eye makeup until later, because it would startle my aunt. She knew nothing about my cover, my job at Mitsutan, or my fancy apartment in Hiroo; she thought I was staying with my old roommate Richard while I was job hunting.
My feet felt great in the flat-bottomed rain shoes, I thought an hour later as I splashed up the hill to my aunt’s house in the Minami Makigahara section of Yokohama. If only I could get away with wearing the rain shoes with the kimono, rather than the high-heeled wooden sandals that were de rigueur. My aunt always kept a pair in my size handy, because during my visits one of her favorite things was to take me, properly dressed, to events hosted by her cultured women friends.
“Welcome home, Rei-chan! Won’t you please stay for a while?” she said when I’d called my greeting and stepped in through the front door.
“I’m so sorry, but not today, Obasan. I’m meeting someone at Asakusa at eleven.” I was already taking off my wet coat and shoes. “What do you think I should wear?”
“Well, I’m sorry to say you can’t wear pink anymore—because of your age, you need something shibui.” Shibui expressed a kind of subtle elegance, which until this point, she’d always said was too old for me. “I was thinking of this lavender and olive silk—it’s not too bright, but look at the pattern of wisteria, how delicate it is.” She smiled nostalgically. “I wore this to the birth ceremony for Chika.”
“Vintage kimono like this are becoming very trendy among young women,” I said, fingering the silk moiré with appreciation. It was thick, yet incredibly supple—much better quality than any of the sexy but flimsy silk blouses that I’d been thinking about buying in Young Fashion. Nobody wove silk like this anymore—it was too expensive.
“Well, popular or not, I’m not giving them up to any kimono salesman. Can you imagine, a dealer came through the neighborhood last week, knocking on doors and asking housewives if they had any old kimono to sell? I told him no, thank you. I’m sure the price he’d offer would be even less than what my parents paid thirty years ago.”
My aunt took me into a side room, where she drew closed the shoji screens and I undressed down to my underwear. The first step was putting on the thin silk socks known as tabi, which have a separated big toe, because once I was dressed, with a thick, stiff sash around my middle, I’d be physically unable to lean over and pull the socks on. So I put on the tabi first, then a half-slip, then the light cotton under-kimono, then a succession of cotton sashes designed to make my middle as flat as possible, and finally the kimono itself. I knew how to dress myself in a kimono—I’d taken a six-month course—and I could even tie the thirteen-foot obi sash in a fancy bow; but it was much nicer—and quicker—to be helped by my aunt. As she worked, she chatted about whether we should tie a double butterfly bow or something else.
“If it’s a date with a man, you should definitely have an extravagant bow,” she said leadingly.
Irately, I asked, “What kind of a man goes to a memorial service for sewing needles?”
“A tailor, or perhaps even a fashion designer. I know you enjoy fashion. I noticed that you were wearing a lovely new cardigan today. What’s the label?”
“Agnes B,” I said.
“You’re spending more on your clothes, since I’ve last seen you.” My aunt sounded approving but curious.
“Well, I earned some decent money in the United States before I came over, so I guess I’m treating myself.” It was hard to resist clothing at Mitsutan, especially when I had no expenses for food or housing, plus a generous salary paid by the government. I was spending more on clothes than my weekly pay from Mitsutan, that was for certain, but it was part of the character I was supposed to be. It was like a little party, a party that would come to end in a few weeks; I might as well enjoy it, before I returned to my secondhand lifestyle.
And secondhand clothes could be very elegant, if you kept them nicely, as my aunt had preserved the kimono I was wearing. I felt fresh when I set off, holding my uncle’s golf umbrella over me. I was wearing a special mauve brocade kimono raincoat—a bag-shaped garment that would protect most of the kimono from the rain, and I’d let Aunt Norie apply light makeup to my face, although she did nothing around the eyes except for covering my under-eye circles and applying light mascara. The goal was to look very natural, to harmonize with the traditional garment. If I had time, I told myself, I’d do the eye makeup on the train. I’d seen lots of women doing things like makeup and eyebrow plucking on the train; it was a strange exhibition of private behavior, given that people were too embarrassed to speak on their cell phones in public places. Perhaps it was because exposure of a person’s inner life was considered more dangerous than taming one’s eyebrows or cleaning one’s teeth.
Ultimately, I decided against redoing the eye makeup on the train. Wearing a kimono was a form of exhibitionism; I saw everyone looking me over, the way people in the West can’t help stopping to look at a bride. Women looked because they were interested in the fabric design and the intricacy of the bow; men l
ooked to figure out whether you were a respectable housewife going to a tea ceremony, or a less respectable but more exciting woman working in “hospitality.” Elders looked because they were nostalgic; children looked because they were seeing their fairy tales come to life. No matter who you were in Japan, a kimono turned you into a cultural icon, and I wasn’t going to ruin my image by fussing with my eyes. I could do it in the women’s restroom at Asakusa Station.
I got out at Asakusa, and in the wet, smelly restroom did my eye makeup as quickly as I could; took off the rain shoes; and put on the high, tricky geta. Then I carefully made my way up the stairs and out to the street, where the rain had lessened slightly. Every tenth woman I saw was wearing a kimono—a high proportion, no doubt because of the festival.
Mrs. Ono was already waiting underneath Kaminarimon, the famous bright red gate with a 100-kilogram lantern hanging in its center. To the left were old carved wooden statues of the gods of wind and thunder, who had done a bang-up job with the day so far. As usual, people were taking shelter under the gate’s tiled roof, while young tourists relentlessly photographed the gate and each other with digital cameras. I spotted a news crew with a camera, first photographing the scene at the gate and then heading in the direction of Sensoji Temple. The needle memorial service was a feel-good story that might lead off the night’s broadcast, if it turned out to be a slow news day. I made my way to Mrs. Ono, trying to stay away from the camera crew.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said, though by my watch it was one minute to eleven. “You must be very inconvenienced and tired, waiting here for me all this time.”
“It was just a minute. And look how pretty you are in that purple, like a real orchid.”
I flushed at the unexpected compliment, which I knew I’d better deflect fast, to show her that I wasn’t arrogant. “Oh, it’s very old and out of style. But it’s a rainy day, so my mother didn’t want me to ruin anything of hers that was nice.”
Mrs. Ono smiled at that. “I arrived early to make a lunch reservation for us at the pork cutlet place, but unfortunately they are full.”
I made a sorrowful face but was inwardly relieved. There was a very famous katsu-don restaurant in the area, but I didn’t eat meat. “Perhaps we can find another traditional restaurant after the ceremony. There are so many in this area. I know a wonderful place for sushi—”
“Yes, yes, but we are in kimono. We must be careful with the fabric; shoyu stains are almost impossible to remove. By the way, that’s an attractive raincoat. Few young women possess the right cover garment.” She nodded in approval at the traditional garment Aunt Norie had tied over me.
“Oh, it’s quite old. From my mother’s closet,” I said.
“The old silks are the best. How I’d love to work with those instead of cheap Chinese fabric.”
“You could. I mean, I noticed that there are all these little boutiques springing up around the city, where young women are buying old kimono to wear themselves.”
“Really?” Her eyes widened with interest.
“Yes,” I said. “And since Mitsutan sells some antique furniture and china, it would make sense for the store to get in on this trend. I’d be happy to put together a proposal, if you could put the idea upward in the company.”
“I’ll think about it,” Mrs. Ono said, in a voice that told me she thought the idea would never fly. “Come, it’s wet. Let us visit Sensoji, and then we shall have time to talk.”
We hurried through Nakamise-dori, the 300-year-old shopping street, where vendors still sold Japanese goods, and on to Tokyo’s oldest temple, founded in the seventh century. The temple’s copper tiled roof had been replaced many times, but nevertheless, the current tiles were oxidized to a gorgeous green. A delicious smell of incense wafted out as Mrs. Ono and I managed to find a place on the ground to leave our sandals, and then stepped up on the rain-spotted wooden steps that led to the tatami-floored house of worship.
The floor was heated. That was the only source of warmth in the open-air space packed with women dressed like us, either standing in front of an image of Buddha or kneeling in prayer. There were two large pans of plain white tofu lying in state, studded with what looked like hundreds of pins and needles: sewing pins with colorful ball tops, regular needles with thin eyes, and even hospital syringes, which I fervently hoped weren’t used.
Mrs. Ono spoke briefly with the priest, while I bought incense for my aunt and then spent some time studying the needle display, trying to figure out where I could stick the unbroken needle I’d brought with me.
“Are you ready?” she asked me, taking not just one but ten needles out of a strawberry pincushion in her purse. When she saw me look at the needles in awe, she added, “I’m making offerings for the whole alterations department.”
“Why is there tofu?” I asked.
“As you know, tofu is very soft. It’s easy for the needle to pass through. So it’s a good place for us to insert our needles.”
“What happens to all of it?” I noticed the priest carrying away one tray, and another ceremoniously kneeling to place a new tray of the soybean curd in its place.
“The priest recites a sutra that expresses a prayer for the needles passing from active life. After that, the tofu is burned.”
I paused. “Wouldn’t the needles survive the fire?”
“Yes, of course. They are kept in a sacred place in perpetuity. It is like a cremation for a person; here, they receive respect and a peaceful place to rest forever.” As Mrs. Ono spoke, she neatly stabbed each needle she’d brought into place. I followed suit with my needle, which slid softly into the tofu.
“Very good. Now I shall pray.”
Mrs. Ono knelt before the altar for a long time, her grayish-black head bowed. I had to squeeze in between some other women, because the space was so tight. As I tucked my feet under my thighs in the classic seiza position, I thought about the meaning of the day; how interesting it was that in Japan the instruments of work, such as needles, were honored rather than people. No matter how intently the seamstresses and nurses around me were praying, I was sure that their working lives would continue to be tough. I’d been working for only a week at Mitsutan, and already I was exhausted; I could imagine the situation of people like Mrs. Ono, who had spent almost fifty years on a craft. I’d seen how gnarled and rough her fingers were when she’d clasped her hands in prayer.
“Will you be my guest for lunch? Please, I insist,” I said twenty minutes later, as we reentered the rainy streets of Asakusa.
“We must take care of our clothing,” Mrs. Ono fretted. “I can’t imagine what we can safely consume.”
After some looking, during which time the rain picked up, we decided that our best bet was a sandwich shop on a lane that ran parallel to Nakamise-dori. It was so warm inside that the windows were steamed up, and the air was rich with the scent of good coffee. We each ordered a lunch set; a set of finger sandwiches, a cup of corn soup, and a cup of tea. It felt odd to me to eat nouvelle western food while wearing a kimono, in a casual restaurant with a television mounted close to the ceiling, but Mrs. Ono ate quietly and zealously.
“Have you had a very busy year in the alterations department? Is this the reason you brought the needles?” I asked.
She shrugged, her small shoulders barely rising under the stiff kimono. “Not especially. These days, there are so many special sections, like Daisy and Rose, for ladies who don’t fit into the standard clothing. Not so many alterations for us to do these days, but still, we are employed, and the store continues to profit. I’m quite lucky.”
“Is that so?” I had no idea how to judge the high profits that I’d seen reported when I’d glanced at the K Team’s computer each day. I kept notes and sent the figures by e-mail to Michael, nevertheless. The OCI wanted numbers; the analysts in Virginia were supposed to be able to understand what they meant.
“Just a minute. The news!” She lifted her chin toward the television, which she was facing. I turned
my chair to look, because my obi was so tight that I couldn’t twist my body. By the time I turned around, the television was showing a long delivery truck bearing the Mitsutan name surrounded by ambulances and police cars. It was parked in the alley that ran behind Mitsutan—the area I passed through to get to the locker room each morning.
“Oh, it can’t be!” Mrs. Ono exclaimed as the film footage showed next the store’s general manager, Enobu Mitsuyama, bowing and greeting customers.
“But it is,” I said with a growing feeling of dread. “That’s our shacho, Mitsuyama-san.”
“Sssh,” she said, despite the fact she was the one who’d started talking. Now they were showing another shot of the van, and another Mitsutan employee—a man I didn’t recognize, wearing a dark suit, standing at a podium before a crowd of journalists clicking cameras.
I listened as hard as I could, but the din of the lunch customers, plus the fact that Japanese wasn’t my first language, made it impossible for me to understand what had already had been said. There was news at Mitsutan, and from what Mrs. Ono had already expressed, it wasn’t good.
When the show switched to a commercial, Mrs. Ono turned to me. Her mouth was trembling. “I can hardly believe it. And just after we prayed.”
“Is the store being sold? What was the news?” I was tripping over myself to learn what I hadn’t been able to understand.
“It’s very bad news.” She dropped her gaze downward, in the same manner she’d done in the temple. She was praying. After a minute, she spoke again.
“I’m especially sorry for you, Shimura-san. I know that Fujiwara-san was a mentor to you and all the new salespeople who just finished customer training.”
“Something happened to Mr. Fujiwara?”
“I’m afraid so. He was found dead in one of our store vans. And the police are saying that he may have been the victim of foul play!”
22
On the way home from Asakusa, I found myself shivering with a mixture of sorrow and fury. It wasn’t that I cared at all about Mr. Fujiwara personally—in fact, I had considered him the ringleader in my harassment in the rotenburo. But I had known, through my eavesdropping, of a probable murder—and I had not figured out that he was at risk.
Girl in a Box Page 17