The Samurai's Daughter

by Sujata Massey

  Opening the door to my place, I heard the phone ringing. Why was it that when I was home, nobody called, and when I was out, everyone did? I raced up onto the tatami mats, forgetting about my shoes once again.

  “Hello?” I said breathlessly.

  “Anno, Idabashi desu ga…”

  A Japanese man, sounding startled by my English, had begun to introduce himself. It took me a few moments to realize that this man, Mr. Shou Idabashi, was one of the detectives I’d called. He must have been like me, I figured, trying to take care of all his business before the New Year’s holiday shutdown. I told him that I was looking for an aged relative of a friend. When I told him it was a foreigner, he sighed happily; foreigners weren’t that hard to find, since they were all registered with the police.

  “If Espinosa Ramon-san is still living, I can probably have his data for you within a few days. How far must I follow the trail? I will interview the man if you want to stay out of the situation and maintain your privacy,” Mr. Idabashi said in polite Japanese.

  I told the detective thanks, but I’d prefer to talk to him myself. He told me where to wire the advance payment, and I went straight out to my bank to do it. Then I returned home and made a call to Showa College, where the library department clerk said that yes, the letter existed, in the form of a scroll, and I could make an appointment to see it the next day. I hung up, triumphant. In twenty-four hours, I would know exactly what kind of business Emperor Hirohito had with my grandfather.

  In the meantime, I’d work on the stacks of unpaid bills and invoices I’d brought home from the post office. I’d been able to prepay Tokyo City Gas and Nippon Telephone and Telegraph before my trip, but many other debts had accumulated. Fortunately, my bank statement showed evidence of two payments that clients had wired me while I was gone. I wasn’t broke, because I’d been very careful with my expenses in America. The most expensive thing I’d purchased was a Gianni Versace men’s belt, for my best friend Richard Randall, and if he were a gentleman, he’d reimburse me.

  It was two o’clock, and I longed to put my head down on my pillow, but I knew that to beat the jet lag, I would have to stay awake. I dialed Richard at home.

  “Can’t wait to get together, sweetie, but I have to teach two classes first,” Richard said. “Why don’t you meet me around nine-thirty at Club Isn’t It. It’s ladies’ night, so you’ll get in for free.”

  “I’ll fall asleep before that! Can you meet me for lunch tomorrow?” I pleaded.

  “No, because it’s New Year’s Eve. I’ll be running around buying booze for the party at Simone’s. You’re coming, right?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know about it. I’ve already got plans.”

  “What, eating soba noodles with your aunt and uncle?”

  “I was going to do that, but instead I’m waiting to see if Hugh makes it into town. I was thinking a bottle of champagne and fresh sheets on the bed would be enough for me.”

  Richard sighed. “Rei, you’re acting like an old woman—when do you turn thirty?”

  “In the new year,” I said sourly. Richard was always rubbing it in that he was five years younger. I reminded him about his fancy belt, and that if he didn’t come to get it, I’d spank him with it.

  “Ooh, please. But I do want the belt for the party. Tell you what: I’ll meet you at your place late tomorrow afternoon. I’ll style you for Simone’s party, and then we’ll go.”

  On New Year’s Eve day, my appointment at the college library was set for ten-thirty. I was up at six, so I had plenty of time to exercise, wash, and even blow-dry my hair. At a quarter of ten, I was slipping on my shoes when the telephone rang. I had a suspicion it was my parents, so now I was stuck with a dilemma. Answer, and miss the train and be late for the appointment at the library. Not answer, and let the rift between us widen.

  I picked up the phone, and it was Hugh.

  “How did you get here so fast?” I asked.

  “No time to explain. I don’t want to miss the next train into the city, to get to you. Which train should I use, JR?”

  “No, no, I live in the old section of town, so better take the Keisei Flyer to Keisei-Ueno Station. From there, just take a taxi to my apartment. Oops, you’d better not. I have to go out for a big appointment right now and I won’t be back for a couple of hours.”

  “How can we meet, then?”

  I looked at my watch. “If you catch a train within the half hour, you’ll be at the station by eleven-thirty. I think I could meet you at twelve. Could you amuse yourself playing pachinko or something?”

  “My eyes wouldn’t stay open. I think the best thing for me would be to get a coffee.”

  “You can get one at the Royal Host in the station. I love you.”

  I rushed off to Showa College with a lighter step and a happy heart. I beamed when I met Miss Tokuma, the librarian. She had a pleasant, round face that reminded me of a Japanese folk character called Binfuku. I had a little collection of Binfuku masks hanging in the entry to my apartment, but of course I couldn’t tell her that. Instead, I praised her efficiency in locating the Hirohito scroll so quickly.

  “I’ve followed its trail all the way from California,” I said. “I faced so many obstacles there, I thought I’d find them here as well. But you’ve agreed to see me on the last day of the year. That was very kind.”

  “I have the scroll right here for you.” She held up a long acid-free cardboard tube. “We will view it together.”

  She led me over to a window, where we sat at a table completely free of books or people. There was a little RESERVED sign on it, which made me think of restaurants. The sign must have had plenty of power, because all the other tables were overcrowded with young people reading, writing, and punching away at laptops. Some of the students were lying across their books, obviously asleep. Since it was school vacation time, I imagined that these were the few who had overdue papers. In Japan, there was a desire to clear debts before the New Year came. For these students’ parents, the debts were financial. For the students themselves, the debts would be to their teachers.

  Miss Tokuma indicated that I should sit down, so I did. She took a chair across the table from me and drew from the large cardboard tube a silk-covered cylinder that I guessed housed the scroll. Then she unrolled it, carefully placing four glass weights on each corner of the two-foot-long paper.

  The paper was bordered in black, and its top was the pattern of a sixteen-petal embossed chrysanthemum. I’d seen this chrysanthemum carved into gates of the old Royal Palace in Kyoto, but nowhere else, until now. It was against the law for anyone but the royal family to wear, or display, the sixteen-petal chrysanthemum. A thrill ran through me. I kept darting glances back at the emblem as I slowly read what I could of the text.

  The scroll was handwritten in a flowing calligraphy going from top to bottom and right to left. I made out a few words, but that was it. My reading level was still nowhere near an adult’s. I recognized only the characters that formed my grandfather’s name and a few other words.

  Miss Tokuma had risen up behind me to read over my shoulder. She was silent for a while, then said, “The language is very special, of course, since the words are from the Showa Tenno himself.”

  Miss Tokuma had used an expression that referred to the name of Hirohito’s reigning period, instead of saying the name Hirohito.

  “Tokuma-san, I’m really sorry, but as I mentioned to you before, I came from California.”

  “Yes, yes, I understood.”

  “I mean to say that I grew up abroad and regretfully never learned to read Japanese. I would be very grateful if you could make a photocopy for me and I could bring it to a translator.”

  Her round face lost its jovial expression. “I’m sorry, but that’s not possible. The paper is too fragile to spread out on the photocopy machine. It could be contaminated by trace elements left on the glass.”

  Miss Tokuma began rolling up the letter. I wanted to grab it and hold on, but tha
t would only have made her more nervous.

  “Oh, I apologize for not understanding the situation. Could you translate it for me, please? I mean, if the calligraphy isn’t too difficult to make out.”

  She stiffened at that, and said, “Shimura-san, this is Showa Tenno’s fine hand. Of course it is legible. It is a national treasure.”

  I bowed my head. “Please, Tokuma-san, I have such poor Japanese. I long to understand the letter’s content.”

  “I would help you ordinarily, but please consider the situation. This is the last day of the year, and the library is quite busy. My duty is to return to the desk to help the many students needing assistance. It would be best if you come back in five days, after the New Year’s holiday is over.”

  She was lifting the weights off the exposed scroll, readying it to go back into its hiding place, when a shy voice spoke up.

  “Excuse me. May I help?”

  The voice belonged to a boy with close-cropped hair and tired-looking eyes. He looked all of twenty years old. I couldn’t imagine how he could help until I realized he could, of course, read.

  “If it’s not too long, I can read it to you. I like to practice my English—I have oral examinations coming up.”

  “Oh, how lucky for me,” I said. “And if you read it to me in Japanese, I would be happy to spend some time coaching you for your oral examination.”

  “Silence is the rule in the library,” Miss Tokuma said. “However, if you keep your voices low, I will allow this student to do the translation for you.”

  I thanked Miss Tokuma profusely and got down to business with the boy, who introduced himself to me as Yoshi Endo.

  “Let’s see,” whispered young Mr. Endo, taking the seat next to me. “It looks like this is a condolence letter—from the last emperor to someone called Shimura Junichi.”

  “My late grandfather,” I said.

  Mr. Endo raised his eyebrows. “Really? The letter is dated August fifteen, 1938, Hayama, Japan. That’s where the imperial summer villa is,” he continued.

  I nodded, encouraging him to go on.

  Yoshi Endo read: “To Shimura Junichi-san, I offer my sincere regrets on the passing of your father, Professor Shimura Kazuo. As you know, your father instructed me in Japanese history and political theory for three years when I was a young prince. Your father had a depth of knowledge and a gift for clear explanation. Shimura-sensei also had a generous heart and a devotion to his country that is a model for all Japanese today. I will never forget the teachings of your father, and I pray that you will find peace at this difficult time.”

  The student looked up from the scroll. “That’s the end. Was Shimura Kazuo the father of Shimura Junichi?”

  “That’s right.” I said.

  “Did you know him?” Mr. Endo asked, and then slapped his head. “Of course you didn’t. This letter says he died in 1938!”

  “Right,” I said absently. It was a few years before my father was born. His own father, Junichi, was a young professor at the time. With all that was going on politically, it impressed me that Emperor Hirohito had taken a moment to think of a teacher from the days of his boyhood. And the fact that my great-grandfather had taught him was fascinating to me. I hadn’t known the emperor had taken classes at the University of Tokyo. It didn’t seem natural for him to be taking classes with commoners, especially since there was a Peers’ College for the noble and royal families of Japan to attend. Why had my great-grandfather taught him? What were the circumstances?

  “I thank you so much, Endo-san. You can’t imagine what this means to me,” I said.

  “Shimura-san, you’re very welcome. Actually, I’m the one who is honored. Why don’t you bring your notes about the letter to the New Imperialists Club meeting! The others would be excited to learn something new about Showa Tenno.”

  “Who are the New Imperialists?” I raised my eyebrows.

  “It’s the junior committee for the political group. People who love the emperor and dream of restored powers. If you’re second-year or older, you can be nominated to join.”

  He was talking about the right wing—the ones who wanted to give the current emperor more power and to make Japan’s self-defense forces a regular military outfit capable of waging war in other countries. I tried to hide my shudder, because I understood that he had made his invitation out of nothing but goodwill—and the mistaken impression, which did flatter me, that I was a nineteen-or twenty-year-old sophomore. “Actually, I’m not a student here, so I don’t think I could go.”

  “All right. Well, nice to meet you, and happy New Year,” the student said, bobbing his head and standing as if to go back to his work.

  But I hadn’t forgotten my promise. “Happy New Year to you, but now, isn’t it time to let me help you prepare for that oral examination?”

  14

  I spent about half an hour listening to Mr. Endo discuss the narrative structure of Paradise Lost. When I finally stumbled out, I was filled with visions of hell and running slightly late for the meeting with Hugh. At the station, I passed down the wrong hallway before finding the Royal Host coffee shop. It was fifteen minutes after twelve, and he wasn’t there. I sat down in an orange vinyl booth to wait.

  Royal Host was a perfect example of an American fast food restaurant adapted to Japanese tastes. You could get a hamburger or an okonomiyaki squid pancake. I wasn’t in the mood for much so I ordered a “hotcake” and coffee.

  The syrup was artificial maple—unpalatable to a girl who had grown up spoiled by the real stuff from Vermont. I pushed aside the hotcake to sip coffee and watch the flood of travelers in the station corridor, looking for an easily recognizable tall figure with red-blond hair. At twelve-thirty, I began to worry. He’d called me before ten. Two and a half hours was plenty of time to get into the city. Maybe he’d gone to Royal Host early and left before I arrived.

  I asked the waitress—who was looking disgustedly at me for staying so long with an empty cup—whether she’d seen anyone fitting Hugh’s description. No, she answered, then made a check with the other staff in the restaurant. No white foreigners yet that day; the only foreigner had been a Filipin-jin very early in the morning.

  Too bad I hadn’t seen the Filipino, I thought, because I could have chatted him up to get more information on Filipino neighborhoods in Tokyo. I ordered a sandwich and lingered for another thirty minutes until the lunch hour rush came and it was no longer fair to keep a table to myself. I left a note for Hugh in case he showed up later. It was rather detailed, with my address written out in Japanese, and with instructions to show it to the cabdriver.

  I rode the short hop on the subway to Sendagi Station and walked home. My neighbors along the street had cleaned their windows and washed their cars. A few doorways were decorated with twisted straw roping tied with many small white paper strips. The strips signified troubles that people hoped would be over in the New Year. I could have used about ten of these: one over my door, and the rest on every window.

  So much for the happy New Year. I would stay home that evening. I was in the mood neither for noodles with the Shimuras, nor tequila with Simone and Richard. I felt too unsettled to go out.

  I opened the apartment door and headed straight for the telephone. Sure enough, the answering machine’s red light was blinking. Three callers had left messages. The first was my father, wishing me a happy New Year in a voice that sounded tentative: neither warm nor cold.

  The second call was from Hugh, who apologized profusely for not showing up at Royal Host. He said that en route to Tokyo, he’d received a call on his new cell phone—a message from the law firm about a plaintiff’s address. He said he felt duty-bound to stop in, since it was right on the way. He left the cell phone number for me, asking that I call him after three.

  I clicked my tongue in annoyance. I was glad that Hugh wasn’t lost, but it seemed clear that he was back to his workaholic ways. Still, I could understand his eagerness to make contact with the plaintiff, who I guess
ed was probably Ramon Espinosa. But what he would accomplish without a translator, I couldn’t imagine.

  The next phone message was from the detective I’d hired, Shou Idabashi. He said he had some information for me about Espinosa, and left Espinosa’s address and telephone number in Kanda.

  Perfect timing, I thought, and got ready to go out again. It was just after one—the odds were that if I made it to Ramon Espinosa’s, I’d be there in time to help Hugh if he was still on site.

  Kanda wasn’t that far, and it was also one of my favorite districts in Tokyo, with a main street filled with lots of shops that sold used books. Of course, for someone who couldn’t read Japanese the opportunities were limited, but I had bought many antique books with beautiful covers and endpapers and others illustrated with amusing woodblock print pictures. I also frequented a few bookstores with English language sections, like the Tuttle Company, where I would sometimes hide out for hours in the stacks, looking for the latest English women’s novels, or mysteries written by Americans. The Tokyo booksellers charged double for foreign books, which was the reason I tried to read covertly without paying to take books home.

  I turned off the main street leading from the station into a smaller one with a fire station, and then turned again to find the street Mr. Idabashi had described.

  Mr. Espinosa’s apartment building looked as if it had been built about twenty years before—old by Tokyo standards, where things were often torn down within ten years. The building wasn’t what was typically called a “mansion”—those apartment blocks were more like the Western ideal, supertall and wide—but it looked very nice. It was in better condition than the old stucco building I lived in, and it had the pleasant addition of balconies attached to each unit. The futons airing on the balconies were bright and new-looking, and there was a row of shiny bicycles parked in a rack near the door. The bikes had all the old traces of mud washed off for the New Year. As with most apartment buildings, each apartment had its own external entrance. Outdoor staircases ran up both the east and west sides of the apartment block.