The Samurai's Daughter

by Sujata Massey

My mother held the front door open as I came slowly up the walk. “Sweetie, the car window’s fixed. Why didn’t you call me to pick you up instead of taking a taxi?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Where do you want me to put this?”

  “Basement fridge. And how was Hopewell’s?”

  “Well worth the visit. They resized the ring for free, like you thought they would, and they were able to tell me Daddy’s letter was actually a scroll written and signed by Emperor Hirohito.”

  “Emperor Hirohito? My goodness!” My mother blinked, just as I’d done upon hearing the name. “Whatever did the letter say?”

  “I don’t know. It was sold to some collectors, whom Mary is going to contact for me. Can you believe Dad went and sold something like that?”

  “Like what?”

  I spun around and found that my father had entered the room. Immediately, I demanded why he hadn’t told me that Hirohito was the author of the letter he’d sold.

  My father sighed. “I didn’t want you to become overly excited, since we don’t own it anymore. Besides, I never thought of it as a prize possession.”

  “A scroll from the Emperor of Japan to our family isn’t a prize possession?” I said dryly. “Apparently it sold for nine thousand, which seems like a lot, but if you’d only waited to sell until after he died in ‘89, you’d surely have received more.”

  “Thanks for the good advice,” my father said, and walked out of the room. Obviously, I’d touched a nerve.

  The telephone rang then, and my mother picked it up. “It’s for you, Rei. Mary at Hopewell’s.”

  I dove for the phone and said, “I can’t thank you enough for getting back to me so quickly.”

  “Well, the news I have isn’t what you wanted. The couple who bought it actually wound up selling it on their own in 1990.”

  “The year after Hirohito died. Well, that makes sense.”

  “The interesting thing, Rei, is they said the buyers were a Japanese university archive. So if it’s in an archive, it’s probably available for public inspection.”

  “Do they recall the school’s name?”

  “They said Showa or something like that. She wasn’t terribly clear on it.”

  “I bet it was Showa College. And I know the place quite well.” The college was a small, expensive institution that had a history of international exchange. It had been founded to honor Hirohito, whose reign in Japan was called the Showa Period. Showa College had a strong program for foreign students and a foreign film series in the summer that I always followed. It made sense that the school would be interested in the letter. And I could easily visit Showa College once I’d returned to Japan. I thanked her and got off the phone to face my mother.

  “I’m still on the trail, but I’ll have to wait to find out what the letter says until I get back to Japan.”

  “Well, I’m glad you can put it aside for a little while. I’m a bit frantic doing the last-minute prep for the party. Can you help me?” my mother asked.

  I did, and before I knew it the time was five o’clock. Japanese are notoriously punctual—they were among the first arrivals. I laid out Mrs. Kono’s tray of inarizushi and Mrs. Tanaka’s sweet bean cakes. A group of Chinese ladies bearing buns stuffed with savory minced pork were next. A large group of Koreans came after them with succulent grilled beef on skewers—beef I wouldn’t taste with my mouth, but did, covertly, with my nose.

  My father came back and greeted his guests, all the while avoiding me. It was an old move of his that I remembered from my angry adolescent days. I ignored him back and kept my eye on the door, looking for Hugh. Finally, at ten past six, the front door opened with a gust of cold air, and both Hugh and Eric Gan entered, carrying bags with the name of an Asian grocery on them. A girl was with them—clearly Asian-American, with waist-length hair, granny glasses, and a big smile. As she wiggled her fingers at me, I recognized her as Julia Gan, Eric’s older sister.

  While Hugh and Eric got their shopping bags organized on the potluck table, Julia and I caught up. She had always been an idealist during our childhood, and her current employment showed that she had stayed true to her character. She was working as a director of a shelter and hot-line program for Asian women who were victims of abuse.

  “They were tiny when I joined them, only working with South Asians,” Julia said. “But in the last four years, we’ve lined up hot-line volunteers who speak Korean, Mandarin, Cantonese, Vietnamese, and Tagalog.” She ticked off the languages on her fingers. “Too bad you’re not here, Rei. You could help us with Japanese; we’re still looking for someone to do that.”

  “Why not Eric?”

  Julia snorted. “My brother’s male, if you haven’t noticed. Men are the ones who have abused our clients. When a woman makes a frantic cry for help, she wants to talk to another woman, preferably someone from within her home culture who will not make sexist or ethnocentric observations.”

  I hid my smile at Julia’s Bay Area–speak. My parents, with their Mid-Atlantic and Japanese backgrounds, had never quite learned to talk this way. “Okay, I get it. And actually, I might have someone who can help you, but it would have to be on a very limited basis. We have a Japanese boarder, Manami, who I think hasn’t really integrated into the culture here—”

  “Give her this card. We’d love to meet her,” Julia said, handing me a small piece of red cardboard with the name Lotus Listens on it.

  “Why is your hot line called this?” I asked.

  “The lotus is a plant associated with tranquillity,” Julia explained. “And listening, of course, is what we do best.”

  “Has Eric told you much about the class action?” I asked. “He’s been talking with older Asian women who were victims of abuse. It’s not like they’re in an imminent situation of danger, but…”

  “But they need ongoing support against PTSD,” Julia finished. “Exactly right. I think your dad’s hospital had a program like that for women some time ago, but it was closed down. I wonder why.”

  “Hallo, darling.” Hugh had finally threaded his way through the crowd to me. “Sorry to be late.”

  “We were so busy it didn’t matter. Did you talk much with Julia about the class action? It sounds as if her hot-line workers might be able to follow up with support for the women you’re meeting.”

  “Super idea,” Hugh said enthusiastically. “Why didn’t you think of it, Eric?”

  Snip, snip. I looked at the two men, and from their postures, I understood that the words Eric had uttered on Christmas Eve had started a war between them.

  “The class action’s confidential,” Eric said, scowling at Hugh. “And if Charles knew what you and Rei were broadcasting all over town, he’d be pissed as hell.”

  “‘Pissed’? You mean, he drinks?” Hugh wrinkled his brow innocently.

  “‘Pissed’ means ‘angry’ in American slang,” I said to Hugh, who probably hadn’t misunderstood Eric’s comment at all. “Um, it’s good that you’re here. We need to talk, but as you can see, it’s a madhouse. I don’t know how—”

  “Why don’t you help me put my work paraphernalia upstairs,” Hugh suggested.

  As we started off, Eric Gan made a loud cackle. “Don’t stay up there too long. I can warn you about Dr. Shimura creeping around and spying.”

  “Thanks, but I know my dad-in-law’s habits quite well already,” Hugh said with an easy smile. Score: Glendinning one, Gan zero.

  “Father-in-law?” Eric screeched after us. “You mean, you got married? When did you have time?”

  “Not quite yet. But we are engaged,” I said, turning around to face him.

  “The wedding will be in the new year, I’m sure.” My father’s voice had come from behind us, startling me.

  “What’s this?” Mrs. Chow, the current treasurer of ALL, had sidled up next to my father. “Do you mean to say that Rei is finally getting married? Why didn’t you tell us? We would have brought an engagement present!”

  My fathe
r looked at Hugh and me with an almost apologetic expression. “I was planning to introduce Hugh, in some sort of manner, to the group. I suppose now that the beans have fallen, I should formally announce it.”

  Beans have been spilled, I thought—but didn’t dare correct my father’s English. And the truth was, I was wearing a splashy ring. But it was San Francisco, where nose rings and bindis got more compliments than a simple emerald on a finger.

  “Ah, that’s nice, but may I put away my things first?” Hugh pleaded.

  “Why don’t you leave your coat and briefcase in the library,” my father instructed. “Come with me, please—we shall stand together in the hallway. Where is my wife?”

  “Um, excuse me—Toshiro—” Hugh said, obviously having trouble using my father’s first name—” given what happened the other day, I’d rather put it somewhere less public.”

  “Go where you like, then,” my father snapped, and Hugh, completely red-faced, went up the stairs without another word. I had never seen him look so embarrassed. Why? I thought with a pang. He’d seemed proud to be my boyfriend in the old days. Was my family, so humiliatingly intense, changing that?

  “Dad, he has a good point,” I said when Hugh had gone. “The case could be jeopardized if anyone snoops in the briefcase.”

  “You mean—you don’t trust our friends?” My father shook his head at me. “You’ve changed.”

  But the Asian Language League had, too. There had to be close to a hundred people in the house, and most of them looked unfamiliar to me. About fifteen years had passed since I’d been fourteen and taking Japanese language classes. But some things never changed: the preschoolers, for example, who were making a game out of playing hide-and-seek under the buffet table, and the elementary-age children picking all the expensive bits of fish off the sushi, and the teenagers hanging out in the back staircase by the kitchen, wanting nothing to do with the adults.

  Which was how I felt, too. I was still trying to explain to my father how he’d better chill out when Hugh made his way downstairs. Instantly, my mother tapped a crystal goblet with a silvery ting. Her call drew people to the foot of the grand oak staircase, where they looked up expectantly at my father, who was standing on the bottom step, dwarfed by Hugh on his left. I stood on the right, trying to stop from fidgeting.

  My father started off simply, introducing himself as the group’s chairman emeritus and my mother as the continuing hospitality coordinator. He welcomed back the longtime members—” I do not like to say old,” my father joked, to gentle peals of laughter—and the newest.

  “Whether or not you have Asian blood, you have a place in the Asian Language League’s family,” my father said, his voice rising slightly. “We welcome all, as our name suggests. If you are interested in taking or teaching a class not offered, please speak up.”

  He went on to talk more seriously about the group’s ongoing support of Julia’s Lotus Listens project and the Asia in the Schools initiative that sent ALL members to visit classes in Bay Area public schools.

  I wanted to catch Hugh’s eye, but it was impossible with my father between us. Anyway, he seemed to be listening intently. I guessed he hadn’t had a clue about how passionate my father’s civic involvement was. All the more reason to run away, I thought bleakly.

  “And now, I have very auspicious news for the New Year. I would like to reintroduce my daughter Rei, who is with us for the holidays. Rei is one of ALL’s very first students, and I think it is a credit to her fine teachers that she learned enough Japanese to live and work there for the last five years.”

  There was a polite scattering of applause and warm smiles. I thought about how ordinary my father’s description of me had been. He hadn’t said what I did for a living, or even that I’d been a good student of Japanese. He’d reserved his praise for my teachers. Was it just Japanese manners at work, the manners that made it important not to praise one’s children for their abilities—or was it a lingering reaction to the recent arguments we’d had?

  Not daring to look at my father, I kept my attention on the crowd. I began to recognize a few faces. My first Japanese teacher was there, smiling warmly at me. How old she looked, as old as Rosa Munoz.

  “The man next to me is my future son-in-law, Hugh Glendinning.” My father pronounced the last name slowly, as it was so vastly foreign. “Hugh is a native of Scotland, but he has worked in Japan, and plans to work there again, on a most important case that will surely be of interest to many here.”

  “Please, let’s not bore them,” Hugh said in his soft brogue, but my father soldiered on.

  “Hugh is trying to file a class action suit on behalf of Asian people who had their civil rights violated by the Japanese during World War II. This issue may be of interest to some of our families, so please take the time to speak with Hugh if you like. People may have different reactions to the prospect of this lawsuit—as we have had in our own household.” My father coughed slightly. “Still, I am proud of my future son-in-law’s concerns about justice for Asian people.”

  When my father finished, I wanted to hide under the buffet table with all the toddlers. He could have broadcast the news from a megaphone on Coit Tower and had the same effect—or, for that matter, sent a press release to the local Asian cable TV channel, since Mandy Oh, a Chinese-American woman who worked there, was at this event. I spotted her now. She had a gleam in her eye and was heading right for Hugh.

  “How could you?” I said to my father.

  “All I did was announce your engagement.” There was a hurt look on my father’s face. “I’m trying to show you my support—”

  “Why did you say there was a mixed reaction in this house? You’re making it obvious that you don’t approve.”

  “You’re too sensitive, Rei,” Hugh said. “It’s not a big problem. I’ll make the best of the, um, free publicity.”

  “Well, it might be more than you bargained for,” I said. “That woman in blue coming your way is a TV reporter.”

  Hugh followed my gaze to Mandy, who was trying to advance but was temporarily blocked by two tiny Vietnamese ladies bearing massive platters of summer rolls.

  “Oh, no. I don’t think I’m ready for that. Everything’s got to be cleared with Charles—” Hugh’s face had paled.

  The door knocker sounded.

  “Don’t they know it’s not locked?” I said.

  My question was answered when the door swung open, revealing a blue-uniformed policeman.

  “Oh, someone must have parked illegally,” my father said. “Let me go and settle things.”

  “Don’t avoid me,” I called after my father. “I’m still mad at you.”

  He conferred with the policeman for a minute, and then came back with an odd look on his face.

  “Uh, Hugh. The police.”

  Hugh was busy talking to Mandy Oh, and looked distracted by my father’s greeting, but kept on going. “Yes, madam, it’s an issue that is of interest to the community, but at this point the company cannot be named—”

  “Hugh, they want to talk to you.”

  I shook Hugh’s arm. “Did you and Eric park somewhere you shouldn’t have?”

  “No, we actually taxied it,” he said.

  “We got a call from an electrician who was sent on a job to the residence of a Ms. Rosa Munoz.” The police officer had reached us. He flipped out his identification card quickly, but his name was short enough that I caught it. Ali. Officer Ali, with skin the color of café au lait, closely cropped hair, and a ruby earring in one lobe.

  “I’m the one who made the call, actually. Did she not want to let him in?” I asked.

  “She couldn’t let him in,” the officer said.

  “Oh. Did he upset her in some way?” Hugh asked.

  “No, that’s not it.” Ali frowned at us. “If you people would stop interrupting me, I can tell you what I have to say. It’s not good news.”

  “Bad news,” I said, unable to stop myself. “You aren’t saying tha
t she’s dead?”

  His expression told me that was exactly the case.

  11

  “What makes you think that?” Officer Ali demanded.

  “It was an educated guess. When you said it was bad news,” I added.

  “Nobody’s certain of the lady’s identity. That’s why I came for Mr. Glendinning here.” Officer Ali offered the business card that had Hugh’s name and my parents’ address handwritten underneath, as party guests crowded around.

  “Let’s find a private place to talk,” Hugh said in a low voice. “I’m afraid it’s rather, uh, chaotic right here.”

  “Who died?” someone in the crowd said loudly. Then they all took it up, pressing in closely to eavesdrop.

  It seemed as if Officer Ali didn’t like this any more than Hugh, because he suggested going out to the cruiser to finish the conversation.

  “Actually, there are plenty of quiet rooms upstairs,” I suggested.

  “Glendinning is her attorney, correct?” the officer asked pointedly.

  I nodded.

  “Then he’s the only one I need.”

  “How about me? I was in on all the interviews.” Eric Gan had come up behind us. “Are you also her attorney?” the cop asked Eric.

  “No, I’m a translator—”

  “Okay. The answer is no, then.”

  “I’ll see you both in a bit, Rei,” Hugh said quietly, and went to get his coat.

  Now I had a bad feeling in my stomach. The last time the police had taken Hugh away to discuss something, he had wound up in prison.

  I was left behind with Eric, and a feeling of doom. Eric offered a lumpia to me, but I shook my head. “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “So how did you get so involved?” Eric asked me, as the party moved back to its regular pace.

  “We stopped by on Christmas Eve to bring her some food and a small gift. One of us had the idea of having her stove fixed—I can’t remember who now.” I felt utterly distracted.

  “Did she know you were Japanese?”

  I smiled wryly. “She did. Actually, she said she knew my name. This made me think that one of the men who had hurt her must have been a Shimura.”