Girl in a Box

by Sujata Massey

  Miyo winced. “A bandage dress? But that’s so old, like from the time when we were children—”

  When she was a child. I merely shrugged and said, “American men don’t read Oggi or 25 Ans. It’s a nice, sexy dress; they’re bound to think it’s cool. And even if I had the money, there’d be no time to shop with just the two of us covering the desk.”

  It was true; this was a very busy day, with a Swedish tour group coming in, assorted Chinese and Koreans, and what seemed like a representative of every Eastern European country. Miyo was willing to take the Korean customers around, I was glad to see. I was getting faster on the computer; by now, I knew most of the kanji that came my way, as I oversaw sales transactions and handled tax rebates by myself.

  I was just giving 2,500 yen to a jubilant Thai woman—it never failed to thrill the foreign customers that they could get a fraction of money they’d spent back from the store—when Ravi Shah walked in. He was wearing khakis, a rugby shirt and Top-Siders, looking every bit the Indian preppie. His gaze swept over Miyo and me, and he smiled.

  “What are you doing here, stranger?” I smiled back at him, thinking that, except for the matter of age, Ravi would be quite appropriate for a rebound romance. I was also feeling relieved that Mrs. Okuma was at lunch and wasn’t around to listen in to this particular conversation.

  “Oh, just wanted to check out if you two really worked here.” His smile was ingratiating, but I felt myself cringe slightly under his alert gaze.

  “Of course we work here. What do you want, shopping help?” Miyo giggled. She had been the only one to jump up and give him the mandated welcoming bow; I’d been too stunned by his appearance to remember my etiquette.

  “I already bought something for tonight.” Ravi held up one of Mitsutan’s to-go garment bags, which I deduced was hanging over a formal suit. “This has to be the only country in the world where I can buy a suit without needing to alter the trouser length.”

  “What about India?” Miyo asked.

  “Everything there’s custom-sewn by tailors. You can get an exact copy of a Savile Row suit hand-stitched in less than forty-eight hours, and I can’t begin to tell you at how low a price.”

  “You’ll make me cry.” I’d already unzipped the garment bag and examined the inky-black Christian Dior tuxedo. “I hope you bought the tux using your Mitsutan credit card.”

  “I used Visa. Why?”

  “Well, if you use the store card, your purchases are tracked. If you’re a good customer, you get some money back at the end of the year.”

  “Ah, but good means spending a fortune, right?” Ravi raised his eyebrows. “And I’m not big on Japanese banks.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “No offense intended. I’m sure that this store’s banking and credit division is fine.” He leaned forward over my desk. “Actually, Rei, I was wondering if I could stash the suit here for about an hour while you show me around the store. You mentioned last evening something about an exhibit of antique Japanese games. And would you have time for lunch after that?”

  “I wish I did, but there’s just two of us on the K Team desk today.”

  “You can go,” Miyo said. “And why not take Ravi-san to lunch using the house charge?”

  “Are you sure it would qualify?” I asked.

  “Look at what he’s bought so far,” Miyo replied in Japanese. “I’ll enter him in the K Team book, saying you helped him with the tuxedo, and then, as far as Okuma-san goes, there will be nothing out of line.”

  Life was so much better, now that Miyo liked me. But I felt a bit uneasy, heading off with Ravi, who I sensed had something more on his mind than the games exhibit or lunch with me.

  “The store has so many restaurants that we really have a lot of choices. I can help you figure out something vegetarian,” I said to him from the back of the elevator, where we were jammed in along with many housewives, all headed up toward the restaurant floor.

  “Don’t worry about that. I’m actually not that hungry. But I’d like to see the games.”

  We exited on five and entered Musée Mitsutan, which was twice as crowded as it had been the last time I’d stopped in. This must have been because it was Saturday. Fathers were around, holding their children’s hands and explaining the intricacies of the different games. A few of the children got really excited and tried to pick up the old agate and crystal pieces; one toddler started screaming when a Mitsutan staffer tried to intervene.

  I couldn’t help smiling, and Ravi said to me, “That’s quite a cool game. But it’s really Chinese in origin, isn’t it?”

  I turned to him. “It’s a matter of debate. Each country wants to claim to be first. I tend to believe great games can develop spontaneously in different places.”

  “Games also traveled quite a bit. I know India’s supposed to be the original place for a lot of games, like snakes and ladders and chess—which actually seems a bit like that game over there.” He pointed at a footed shogi board with eighty-one square places marked on its surface; on it were little pieces of lacquered wood inscribed with words for gold and silver generals, knight and lance. I explained the strategy of shogi, and its various playing pieces, to Ravi.

  “Is this the most important game in Japan?” he asked.

  “Probably. It’s such a great game of strategy. I know it’s tough to play the first time around, but I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it, if you’re interested.”

  “You said it was a game of siege when we were talking yesterday.”

  “That’s right. But in order to win, you need to develop a skill we call taikyoku-kan.”

  “Which means?”

  “The ability to view the entirety of what’s going on, all the time.” I looked at Ravi, who seemed befuddled, so I went on. “The way it works, I think, is by constantly surveying the progress of the game, always imagining different outcomes. A player who gets really excited by a partial victory could be defeated at the end; that’s what kept happening to you and Archie last night, I think.”

  “Archie didn’t care,” Ravi said.

  “But did you? Did it bother you that two girls were taking the lead, telling you what to do?”

  Ravi’s voice sounded guarded. “Are you asking me this because you think I come from a conservative culture?”

  I hesitated, remembering who I was supposed to be. Quietly, I replied, “I suppose so. As an Asian woman, I know there are some things I’m not supposed to say or do in order to keep things harmonious.”

  My mind on this, I picked La Mer, Mitsutan’s Mediterranean restaurant, for lunch. I figured there would be some kind of pasta or salad that would meet Ravi’s standards, but unfortunately, just about everything contained some form of meat or fish. The waitress shook her head when I asked if the spaghetti bolognese could be served just with olive oil. So much for catering to the customer’s needs. Also, we hadn’t gotten a good table up front; we were in the back, next to the kitchen door.

  “I’ll order the fruit cup; I’m not that hungry anyway,” Ravi said.

  “I’ll have the salmon salad, then, if you don’t mind seeing fish on my plate.”

  “It’s okay. I’m used to being close to things I don’t like.”

  “You seem a bit stressed,” I said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “A bit stressed,” Ravi repeated. “What an interesting phrase.”

  “What do you mean?” I said, laying out the napkin on my lap. It was a treat for me to eat in a Mitsutan restaurant while in uniform; the only reason that it was happening was that I had a customer, and I was determined to enjoy my meal, whether or not the customer was surly.

  “Your English is very good for a Japanese store clerk,” Ravi said, and from the expression in his dark, hooded eyes, I finally understood that he knew. I couldn’t play the acquiescent Asian anymore; I’d have to match his aggressive moves with a few of my own.

  Lowering my voice, I said, “I wonder how many people have said the same k
ind of thing about your English?”

  “English is the national language of India,” Ravi said stiffly. “I attended English schools until I arrived in New Jersey, at the age of ten. Yes, I speak Gujarati at home with my parents, but English is what I’ve always spoken, most of the time.”

  “Of course. But there’s the matter of how you look. And how I do, as well.”

  “You’re not really twenty-three years old,” Ravi said.

  I shrugged. “Maybe not. I didn’t say anything when Miyo was telling you my age because I didn’t want to scare you young darlings off.”

  “I believe you’re thirty years old,” Ravi went on, “and you’re not a graduate of Waseda University, but of Johns Hopkins in Baltimore.”

  We were staring at each other when the waitress interrupted us with the fruit cup and my salad. She left the bill prominently at my side. It was because I worked for the K Team, of course; but Ravi didn’t know. He stared at the bill as if it were dirty.

  I picked it up. “I’m paying this, and I can do it right now and leave if that would make you more comfortable. Obviously you’ve done a Google search or something like that on me, and I’m not to your taste. That’s fine—I understand it completely—”

  “Don’t go,” he said. “I just want to know why you’re pretending to be someone else.”

  I gazed into the eyes of this bright, energetic young man, knowing that what Michael feared most was happening: my cover was on the verge of being blown. The only consolation was that he didn’t work at Mitsutan; but even as a friend, he was a danger to me.

  “I don’t know if you can possibly understand what it’s like to grow up in two worlds.” I spoke slowly, formulating my words as I went along. What I was going to say was based mostly on truth, and that was what made it so difficult. “I was educated there…but I’m supposed to fit in here. That’s why I’m at Mitsutan. It’s the perfect place for a woman in her twenties, and, well, my twenties were a lost decade, I’m sure you already know, if you read about all the things that happened.” I paused. “Did you?”

  “Well, actually, what I did was follow a hunch and go to the website for foreign alumni of Waseda. It tells what everyone did after the junior year abroad. You, I believe, went to Hopkins and Berkeley and then over here, to sell antiques? That’s a far cry from what you’re doing now.”

  I shook my head in dismay. “There is a Japanese-language website for regular Waseda alumni, with a different Rei Shimura listed, with all the correct biographical data. I’m sure of it!” Michael and Mrs. Taki had slipped the information about me into the existing web page.

  “Yeah, but because I don’t read Japanese, I wound up in the foreigners’ section, like I always do.” He was talking about a section I had never bothered to search, and hadn’t even known had listed me.

  “Well, during the last few years in Japan I’ve faced—some discrimination—so I’ve decided to go completely native. You’ve heard of born-again Christians? Well, I’m a born-again Japanese! That’s about all I can say for myself.”

  “Why do you pretend to have a Japanese accent? It kept coming and going last night; it was ridiculous. Don’t even use it tonight.”

  “I don’t know whether I should come with you. I’m a bit anxious, now, about it. I just thought it was going to be a good time, dancing and that kind of thing—”

  “Why did you hit on us last night?” Ravi asked abruptly.

  “Miyo and I were just out—enjoying ourselves. We saw two cute, friendly-looking guys and sent over a couple of martinis. We didn’t mean to cause you any concern.”

  “Listen, I have enough phony shit going on all day long,” Ravi said. “The last thing I need is more of the same.”

  I would have loved to hear what he considered phony shit, but I didn’t want to press my luck. So I sliced off a wedge of salmon and chewed it instead of answering.

  Ravi spoke again. “I must marry an Indian girl.”

  I looked up at him, and saw how agitated he had become. This twenty-four-year-old guy, who I’d thought was happy-go-lucky the previous night, seemed on the verge of tears. I said, “Is that a big problem?”

  “Sometimes I wonder if anyone will have me.”

  “Of course someone will. You’ll have your pick, I’m sure.”

  Ravi closed his eyes for a long moment. “My parents worked so hard for this…for me to go to Penn, then to get a chance at a place like Winston Brothers…but it’s just rotten. I wish I could quit.”

  I nodded, not having to fake sympathy. “What’s going on at work, exactly?”

  “It’s—the things we do, the corners we cut.” He shook his head. “Our business practices are no better than the worst stories I hear from my uncles in India. Maybe it’s because we’re in Asia. But then again, I’m working for a hundred-year-old American firm, supposedly perfect.”

  “I left America for a reason,” I said, feeling treacherous as the words left my mouth. Surely Michael would never make comments like this, even if he were a prisoner of war threatened with torture. But I felt that I knew exactly what Ravi was talking about.

  “I don’t know where I belong.” Ravi sounded bleak. “You know, I’m supposed to be going back next winter to choose my bride.”

  “Lucky girl.” I tried to smile.

  “Nobody’s fortunate to have to come with me into this life.” Ravi ran a hand across his unlined, damp brow. “You saw us on Friday night, when it was over. Basically, we work about one hundred twenty hours a week, sitting on our asses, shouting into telephones. How is that any different from the life of my cousin, sitting in Mumbai answering phone calls from people with effed-up computers?”

  “You’re making a lot more money than your cousin, I bet.”

  “Yes, it’s all about money.” Ravi sighed heavily. “That’s what Warren Kravitz said.”

  Warren Kravitz, who Michael thought was great. I said, “I would love to go out with you tonight. But only if you want me there.”

  “As long as you understand the situation.” Ravi looked at me intently. “Don’t expect anything from me, and I won’t expect anything from you.”

  35

  “You recruited me, back when I was down and out. Why can’t I recruit him?”

  I was arguing with Michael Hendricks through my bathroom door while getting dressed. The chic bandage dress that had fit so sleekly when I was twenty-seven now was sadly overtaxed. I tried to tell myself it was because of all the muscle I had developed, but that was only part of it.

  “You’re not a case officer; you’re an informant. Only COs and administrators in the Directorate of Operations can do the recruiting.” Michael’s voice was patient. “And at this point, nobody new is joining our game.”

  “OCI is supposed to be a street-smart, creative agency. Why can’t I use my street smarts where it really would count?”

  “Leave it alone, Rei. And come out of the bathroom. I’m sure your makeup’s fine, and it’s almost time for you to meet Miyo.”

  “All right, but I’m having a problem with the dress.” I came out in the square-necked dress, with openings at the midriff that were punctuated by diagonal bands of black. The dress fell to mid-thigh, and I’d accented it with a sheer black stocking with a diamond pattern. On my feet, I wore Jimmy Choo satin-and-rhinestone evening sandals, which my mother had passed down to me after one season.

  “Whoa. That looks pretty—severe. Severely pretty,” Michael amended when he saw my hurt expression. I hadn’t intended to look like a dominatrix.

  “I can’t close the zipper.” I turned around to show him.

  Michael shook his head. “I’ll count to three while you suck in.”

  I did, and unbelievably, the zipper lurched upward.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “No problem. I had to do that kind of thing for Jennifer, occasionally. I guess I haven’t forgotten one skill, at least.”

  I turned to face Michael. “If it’s not too intrusive…I was wondering if y
ou’d tell me what happened.”

  “You want to hear how she was killed?” Michael sounded startled.

  I nodded, startled by the word. Most people would have said “died.”

  “It happened when I was in the navy. We’d had a long separation, almost a year, when I was deployed on an aircraft carrier in the Persian Gulf. After that, I was sent TDY to a small destroyer out of Rota.”

  “TDY?” I hated to interrupt him, but I didn’t understand.

  “Temporary duty, which meant I could go only if unaccompanied. That meant Jenny and I would be apart six more months.”

  “No wonder you left the navy,” I said, feeling indignant.

  “Jenny couldn’t tolerate the extended separation. She raided our savings and booked an apartment for us in a small Spanish village. I wanted her to fly on a military plane, but she was always lowest priority, a spouse traveling alone, without any moving orders.”

  “Could she take a commercial flight?” I was beginning to have a sinking feeling.

  “No, she couldn’t.” Michael paused, and when his voice came out, it was a croak. “I don’t quite understand why she wound up on that particular Pan Am flight.”

  “Oh, my God.” Now I understood that he was talking about the flight that had exploded into a million pieces of shrapnel over Europe, killing everyone aboard. People all over the world had mourned the event, but nobody seemed to realize it was just the beginning of many more bad things to come.

  “After Jennifer was killed, I resigned from the navy at my first opportunity. I felt like it was pointless to spend my life just—reacting—to bad things that had happened. I wanted to identify dangerous situations as they started to emerge, and halt them before they got out of control. I never wanted anyone else to suffer what happened to Jennifer and to me.” He paused. “Don’t cry, Rei. It’s going to ruin the mascara.”

  “I’m so sorry about what happened to you,” I said as I hurried to the bathroom to check what had happened to my eye makeup.

  Michael followed and leaned against the door. “I haven’t told many people about what happened. I don’t want pity.”