Girl in a Box

by Sujata Massey

  “Obasan, you’re so—unfashionable. But if it means that much to you, I’ll call her onee-san.” Chika bowed, giving a false show of humility.

  “Rei’s fine,” I said, giving her shoulders a light hug.

  “You and Chika will share her room tonight,” my aunt continued. “But first, let’s eat.”

  The food my aunt had selected from Mitsutan’s Yokohama store was identical to what I knew from the food basement at the flagship store in Tokyo. There were tiny, plump gyoza dumplings filled with garlicky pork; nobody batted an eye when the self-proclaimed vegetarian quietly took a few. There was a bowl of spinach steeped in rice wine and ginger, and a plate of smoky grilled eels. On the side were a carrot-sesame salad and shrimp and cheese croquettes. The rice Norie had prepared herself in the trusty old Zojirushi rice cooker, and the warm soy-garlic smell turned out to belong to a heated noodle dish.

  Everyone ate heartily, though Uncle Hiroshi made some sexist protests about wives who were too busy with outside activities to do their real job. And buying food like this cost a fortune! What had Norie spent, he wanted to know?

  “Not in front of the children,” Aunt Norie said, smiling at us. I felt a stab of guilt because if I had bought the food, it would have been ten percent off. But my aunt hadn’t wanted to buy food from the store where the murdered man had been found.

  Everywhere I went, I couldn’t escape the impact of Mr. Fujiwara’s death. I hadn’t taken his call on Monday—his last day of life—because I wanted to avoid speaking to a man I was certain just wanted to proposition me. But, as Michael could have told me himself, I hadn’t known his intentions for sure. I thought back to my job interview in Mitsutan, when I’d told Ms. Aoki that my greatest skill was listening; but when the time had come for me to listen, I hadn’t been there at all.

  25

  Michael had been on my case about keeping up with the news in Japan, which I’d hardly been doing the way I once had done in Washington. I resolved to reform myself, starting first thing in the morning at my aunt’s house. It was easy, because my aunt kept the television in the dining room, and it was always turned on. It was easier for me to follow the voices of television announcers in a quiet house; the only problem was that the NHK morning news was flat-out boring.

  I thought about asking my aunt if she minded my switching to one of the tabloid “wide shows,” because I knew programs like that would probably spend a lot of time reporting details on a murder like Mr. Fujiwara’s. But my uncle Hiroshi, who worked in a bank, seemed very interested in a report on economic recovery. He speared pieces of tofu and seaweed from his morning bowl of soup, his eyes not leaving the numbers on the screen that told the story of the nation’s GDP.

  My patience was unexpectedly rewarded when the screen showed a rail-thin Caucasian in a business suit and cowboy boots walking along the Ginza flanked by a court of Japanese attendants.

  In rapid-fire Japanese, the announcer was talking about Supermart’s interest in acquiring Japanese department stores. Jimmy DeLone had made an offer for Wako—flash to a shot of the famous store’s clock tower—but had been rebuffed.

  There followed a one-on-one interview of DeLone by a journalist in NHK’s studio. It must have taken place after the offer was refused, because Jimmy DeLone didn’t look as jovial as he did in the shots where he was walking into Wako’s building.

  “We have a sayin’ in English, bah low and sayell hah.” His accent made him sound like a cowboy in an old Western; Uncle Hiroshi’s brow was furrowed in confusion until subtitles suddenly appeared. “The prahs of Japanese retail is too hah fer what it’s worth. In mah explorations, ah found almost every store in this country has not only decreased sales, but plenty of bad loans. Nobody’s willin’ to make the hard changes necessary to pare down and profit. Ah’d have liked to help out, but taking on that kind of debt, with a high purchase price, makes about as much as sense as going deer hunting in June.”

  I was stunned by DeLone’s unguarded, undiplomatic remarks—and longed to hear more. How disappointing that the camera returned to the news announcer’s desk.

  “On the other hand, the retail climate in the United States is suffering,” the announcer intoned piously. “James DeLone’s Supermart empire is under questioning for hiring illegal foreign workers and denying health benefits to the legal ones. Most of the merchandise comes from China, and while those items are inexpensive, they are frequently found to have caused consumers to complain.”

  Tit for tat, I thought, as the camera went back to Jimmy DeLone, walking on the Ginza again—this time through the doors of Mitsutan, where Enobu Mitsuyama and his father Masahiro stood at the door, bowing their official welcome.

  “What do you think about that fellow?” I asked my uncle during the commercial.

  “Hmm,” he said. “DeLone-san seems to be very frank. On the other hand, he seems a bit crazy, since he has all those troubles of his own. What do you think? Is he a typical American businessman?”

  “He’s definitely one of the most successful we have,” I said slowly. “But don’t think that I, or most people in the country, would consider him a role model. Please!”

  The ride from Yokohama added an extra forty-five minutes to my commute, so I used the time, balanced with my back against one of the grab-poles, to text-message Michael about what I’d learned from the newscast.

  The store’s morning pep talk was about triumphing after tragedy. Enobu Mitsuyama stood on the podium, wearing a plain black suit, the kind of suit sold in the men’s funeral boutique on the sixth floor. He would be at a memorial service for Mr. Fujiwara that evening—a service to which, Mrs. Fujiwara had said, all past associates were welcome to pay their respects. However, the services started at six, which might make it difficult for employees working a full shift. Therefore, he would offer sincere condolences, on behalf of all of us, to Mrs. Fujiwara and her two grown sons, one a college student and the other a salaryman.

  Then Mr. Mitsuyama launched into a brief history of the great contributions of Mr. Fujiwara to the store’s growth and his dedication to training the sales force. Mr. Fujiwara had worked at Mitsutan for twenty-seven years; in the last ten years, when he’d been the director of customer services, he had personally trained over 1,200 salespeople.

  “Fujiwara-san may have left us in body, but he will never leave us in soul. His enthusiasm and attention to detail will live on in each one of you. As you go through your day, listening to the unspoken desires of your customers, Mr. Fujiwara’s wisdom remains with in you, as a guide. Do not betray him by forgetting to work hard, beyond the extent of what you think a good salesperson or manager must be. I recall that one of Mr. Fujiwara’s favorite sayings was that if a customer has to ask you for something, you have failed; to anticipate the desire, before it is voiced, is our duty.”

  Enobu Mitsuyama wrapped up his speech by cautioning us against gossip, against anything that might tarnish the store’s reputation. Nothing was to be said to customers, though if anyone offered condolences, a gracious thank-you would be appropriate. After that, salespeople were requested to change the subject back to shopping. That would be the essence of good customer service, which Mr. Fujiwara would have wanted.

  There had been no discussion, I thought as I went upstairs, of the fact that a crime had been committed. There had been no talk about safety precautions people should perhaps be taking when they traveled through the alley to reach the annex building after dark—as we all did, after closing time. Maybe Enobu Mitsuyama understood that there was no risk, that the death had not been the random act of a street person or gangster.

  I asked Mrs. Okuma if she’d heard, internally, whether there was more information from the police about the murder. It was a quiet moment, when a Finnish tourist had just left the office with her rebate, and Miyo was out on the floor with two Australian rugby players who needed help buying shirts.

  “Well, yesterday I needed to take some papers to Mitsuyama-san’s office, so I asked him that sam
e question.” She sighed. “I shouldn’t even be talking about this; you heard what he said about gossip at the morning talk.”

  “You’re right. I don’t mean to be a bother, but my parents are worried about my security. They might not let me continue working here unless that criminal is caught.”

  Mrs. Okuma sighed. “I understand that. My husband is worried as well. So I don’t know if this will make them feel better, but I have been told that Mr. Fujiwara’s body was in the van for at least twenty-four hours before discovery.”

  “And the van was parked out in the alley for all that time?”

  “No, the thing is, it was traveling. It went out to several of the warehouses of the manufacturers that supply clothing to us.”

  “Consigners?” I asked.

  “Yes. I think it was a lot of clothing.”

  “Really? Which brands?”

  “We can’t even ask that! If people knew—that clothing had been present in the same vehicle as a dead man, it would be a terrible scandal. It could tarnish the store’s reputation.”

  “Why not just pull that merchandise, send it back? I hear the consigners greatly accommodate the desires of the store.”

  “They don’t want it back, either.” She shook her head.

  “Was he—was he killed because he suffocated or something like that, in the van? Or killed beforehand?”

  Mrs. Okuma didn’t answer my question. Instead, she brought up what I’d been hoping she never would recall: the fact that Mr. Fujiwara had left a phone message for me.

  “That’s right, Miyo took the message.” I was trying my damnedest to sound blasé.

  “What did he want?”

  To lie, or not to lie? I paused. “I’m sorry to say that I never found out. I forgot to return the call.”

  “You forgot?” Mrs. Okuma’s tone made it clear she didn’t believe me.

  “I did. I’m sorry. It was only the start of my second week, and I was frankly exhausted by all that had happened.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Okuma said, and that was it.

  I hung my head the way I’d seen the others do at morning exercises. It seemed clear that I’d screwed up in not saying anything—but I feared that if I did make something up, even something innocuous, Mrs. Okuma might tell someone. And it was my own damn fault, really, that she’d asked the question; I’d talked too much. I reminded myself of what Mr. Fujiwara had counseled: the importance of listening, even to things that weren’t said.

  The wine bar in Hiroo was crowded, but that made me feel secure as I walked in exactly half an hour after getting off work. Mr. Kitagawa was nowhere to be seen, and that was even better. I supposed I could wait fifteen minutes, then leave; I’d have the perfect excuse, that he hadn’t arrived.

  Although this wouldn’t end things, I knew; he would probably request that I meet him again. After all, Mr. Kitagawa hadn’t responded to my plea that my boyfriend wouldn’t approve of my meeting him.

  Fourteen minutes after I’d arrived, the door opened and I saw a tall man with gray-and-black hair stride confidently in. He wore a gray business suit, which looked like one of the Paul Smith collection that was so popular at the store; male employees at Mitsutan didn’t have to wear uniforms like the women, just suits. I noticed that he had a red tie, but he’d tucked it in the front pocket of his jacket, leaving his collar open.

  Date mode. My stomach jumped with anxiety, and I actually put a hand on my belly to steady it. I felt the presence of my navel ring underneath, hard and reassuring. I would survive this.

  “Shimura-san?” The executive looked me up and down, and his expression seemed to falter slightly at the sight of my clothing.

  “Yes, it’s me.” I bobbed my head, understanding that my outfit had done exactly what I’d hoped: turned him off.

  “I suppose we’d better get a table. I like this place because it has wine by the glass, you know, so you can try different things. They have a lot of wines from Europe that are quite good.”

  “American, too,” I said as we squeezed into a tiny table just being vacated by a group of tipsy office women. I’d noticed some California reds that I liked, Rosenblum and Duckhorn—a nice surprise in Tokyo.

  “Ah, American wines aren’t as good as the European. At least—that’s my opinion.” He gave me a patronizing smile. “Shall I choose something for you?”

  “Could you choose between Ebisu and Kirin?” There would be almost no chance that he could poison me with Rohypnol if I had a bottle with a tiny opening that I could keep a finger on, casually, at all times.

  He frowned, but gave the order to the waitress when she arrived. For himself, he chose a whiskey.

  “Well, really, I’ve called you here to apologize,” he said heartily, after the drinks had arrived and we’d toasted each other.

  “If you’re talking about last weekend, there’s no need. Really, I shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”

  “It certainly put a smile on everyone’s face,” he said.

  “I’m glad you all had a good meeting,” I said. “It seems like a very long time ago, doesn’t it, since Mr. Fujiwara has died.”

  “Yes, yes.” He shook his head. “A tragedy. I would have gone to the memorial service, but the timing was wrong.”

  Mr. Kitagawa was a top executive in the store; he should have been able to leave for a colleague’s memorial service. Instead, he’d kept to his original schedule of meeting me for a date.

  “Did you ever meet his wife?”

  “No, I’m afraid I didn’t. We keep our work and family lives pretty separate at the store. I knew him very well, of course; he trains all the sales force in our department.”

  “Yes, and Young Fashion is so huge—what is it made up of, thirty-nine individual boutiques?”

  “Thirty-nine at the moment, though we hope to add a few more. That’s one of the things we were discussing at the meeting.” He smiled at me. “What kind of clothes do you think we should add to attract the attention of girls like you?”

  “Oh, I’d better not say! I’ve gotten into plenty of trouble overspending there already.”

  “I see you like Comme des Garçons.” He was looking at my blouse.

  “Yes, but I don’t do it justice,” I said. “It’s a great label. Really original.”

  “It’s not my favorite, because it’s rather—architectural. But of course I can’t say that I only want to stock clothes that make women look sexy. I instruct the buyers to choose what women want to buy.”

  “You’re right,” I said, thinking. “Women don’t necessarily buy clothes to please a man’s eye. We buy them, I suppose, because we’re afraid of seeming out of step with other women,” I added, thinking of Melanie Kravitz and her cool-kid jeans.

  “My wife, for example,” Mr. Kitagawa said. I’d been waiting for this; within the space of a few minutes, he’d told me how his wife was nothing like the girl he’d married, how her fashion decisions were based on whether things were machine-washable. No matter how many times he offered to take her shopping for something bright or sexy, she always demurred, saying that at her age, she felt self-conscious.

  “Tell me, how old are you, Shimura-san?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Funny,” he said. “Girls your age usually don’t speak in such—such a strong and confident manner.” And with that, his hand clamped on my thigh.

  “I suppose you bring it out in me. I mean, it’s very unusual to have such attention from a senior executive,” I said, removing his hand. “I want to make the most of this learning experience.”

  My maneuver must have shut him down, because he shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m here.”

  “I thought—because you phoned me—you did this kind of thing all the time.” Even though he might think I was encouraging him, I had to know. Had he called me because he wanted a furin or because he wanted to figure out for sure that I wasn’t a genuine employee?

  His face flushed. “Not at all. Fujiwar
a-san, now, he was one who had plenty of girlfriends, but I’ve always been faithful to my wife. Not always happy, but always true.”

  “That’s impressive.” I studied him, not sure how much I could believe. “Literally thousands of girls walk through Young Fashion every day. Not to mention that you know many girls who work at the store.”

  “I’m not on the sales floor. I’m in the annex most of the time, dealing with management issues.” He sighed. “I don’t know why I invited you. I guess it was because I knew the others would.”

  “The others? You mean Mr. Fujiwara?”

  “Not just him. Yoshino, too. It was Mr. Mitsuyama’s idea.”

  “What was the idea?” I had a growing feeling of dread.

  “To see who would get you first. Since you’d offered yourself, as he said.”

  “Offered myself? I’m sorry, but I was in the bath first. Alone!”

  “It’s ridiculous,” Mr. Kitagawa admitted. “From the moments we’ve spent together, I can tell you’re not exactly the mistress type.”

  “Do the managers at Mitsutan do this kind of thing on a regular basis? I mean, make bets about taking on mistresses, or other kinds of games?” Total decadence, I thought to myself.

  “Retreats bring out some silly behavior,” he said. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have told you so much.”

  “It’s all right,” I said, putting down my half-finished beer, no longer fearing that it would be poisoned. “I’d rather be forewarned.”

  “I felt bad about it, you being a target.” He sighed, then glanced at his watch. “Excuse me for being rude again, but I think I’d better go.”

  “Not at all. And I thank you for being—so polite about things.” I stood up and bowed, relieved that the date had taken less than an hour and exacted no blood.

  “Don’t mention it.” Mr. Kitagawa put a 10,000-yen note down on the little tray the waitress had left containing the bill, and followed me out of the restaurant. There we parted; he went toward the subway station, and I went toward my street.

  It wasn’t until I was about to step inside that I thought about what had been so strange. Mr. Kitagawa hadn’t gotten change for our drinks. But I knew from the menu board I’d studied before he arrived that our drinks couldn’t have cost more than 5,000 yen.