“Ah, here’s something.” Tom pulled out a thick brown envelope and began rummaging through it. “It looks as if these are all newspaper clippings, university programs, and so on about Great-Grandfather. Have you seen his picture?”
“No, and please be careful! That material is so delicate,” I said as Tom held out a fragile old piece of newspaper for me to see. It was an article printed in tiny kanji, and next to it was a photo of an unsmiling middle-aged man. He wore a coat and a skinny tie, and his hair was parted sharply to the side.
“The article below announces that Professor Kazuo Shimura has become the tutor of Crown Prince Hirohito. So—I guess it’s really true what my father said.”
“Did you doubt him?” I asked.
“Not exactly. But I found the story so surprising that I thought it might have been exaggerated—perhaps by his father to him. You know how stories change as they pass from person to person.”
I nodded. “Will you read the article to me?”
Tom read aloud in Japanese as I scribbled at a breakneck pace. Kazuo Shimura, professor of history at Tokyo University, had been appointed to tutor His Royal Highness in Japanese history on the recommendation of the Imperial Household Agency. He was one of the crown prince’s five tutors, all of whom were respected names in Japanese academics. The author of the article opined that Dr. Shimura’s great scholarly knowledge of the Meiji Period would be of value given Japan’s new role as leader of all nations.
“Why do they say that?” Tom asked. “Emperor Meiji ended the Shogun system. I think the Shogun culture is what made Japan special. Why didn’t they talk about studying Tokugawa and all the others?”
“Ah, your samurai roots are showing,” I said. “Samurai and shoguns weren’t the model by the early twentieth century—Kaiser Wilhelm was. And I would think that the government officials grooming Hirohito thought Emperor Meiji was a perfect example since he beat the Russians in a war at sea and had hoped to conquer Korea, though he had to defer that dream because of a number of complications relating to lack of capital.”
“I’m impressed that you knew all this, Rei. I haven’t read Japanese history since I was doing entrance exams for university. And then I was just learning dates and names, so it’s all a haze to me.”
I tried to hide my pleasure that my Japanese cousin thought I had a good sense of his nation’s history. “Well, I had to take history as part of my master’s degree, and that was fairly recent.”
“It’s clear that Father knows a lot, but he apparently didn’t think the stories were worth telling until you began asking questions. I’m glad for what you’re doing, Rei. I wouldn’t be surprised if you uncover enough past glory that we could call someone up at the Palace to give us a private tour.”
“Why would you even want to visit the Palace? From what I see on TV, the royals don’t have that much to offer in the way of fun. In the past, though, it was different—Prince and Princess Chichibu were known to roller-skate through the hallways.”
“If Princess Masako left the crown prince for me, I guess I could take her Rollerblading,” Tom said, his eyes twinkling.
“Do you really think she’s cute?”
“Oh, I’m not serious. But I think it’s a shame that such a formerly lively and smart person has changed her life so dramatically after marriage. Fortunately for her, she gave birth to the baby princess.”
“Yes, if the imperial line had ended, it would have been a national tragedy,” I agreed. The loss of a continuously ruling dynasty said to have begun with the Sun God would have made even a cynic like me weep.
Tom was saying something. It took me a second to click back and hear him. “Do you really want to do it?”
“The translation? Sure. If it’s not too much trouble for you to do it, I would love to have it, verbatim, for the family history.”
“That’s not what I was asking,” Tom said softly. “I wanted to know if—if you really felt ready to be married. I like him, but…well, I’m so used to being your being you. Free-spoken and active.”
I smiled at Tom. “Hey, I’m not becoming some sort of princess. Nobody’s going to tell me to stop working or start procreating. It’s just—formalizing a commitment we made a long time ago to each other.”
Talking about commitment reminded me that I’d promised Hugh the chance of an afternoon visit to Ramon Espinosa. It was already three. “Thanks so much for showing me the article, Tom. We have to go now.”
“All right. But now that I’ve gotten into this file, I’ll look through a bit longer. Who knows, maybe the actual textbook is buried at the bottom of this mess. That would be interesting to read, wouldn’t it?”
“It would.” I hugged Tom; the movement felt awkward, because I hadn’t done it much. Because I grew up in a different country from him, and perhaps because of the slight age gap, I’d always found my cousin a little bit alluring. It wasn’t that I’d wanted to date Tom—but there’d always been something between us that was close and special.
I put away thoughts about how my relationship might be changing with Tom as Hugh and I rode the Toyoko Line back to Tokyo. Hugh was intent on figuring out a way to get to talk to Ramon Espinosa without making the old man feel threatened. In the end, we bought him a box of beautiful tangerines from a vendor outside the Kanda train station, having decided to present it as a small token for the New Year. We also decided that I should be the one to make the initial contact.
I rang the buzzer, but unlike the day before, he didn’t immediately respond.
“Espinosa-san?” I called out.
Now I heard something: a huge bang, as if something had fallen down—and then silence. Hugh and I looked at each other nervously.
“Are you all right? It’s Rei Shimura and a friend,” I called out.
“We’ll wait and give him time to answer,” Hugh whispered to me.
But as long as we waited, nobody came. Five minutes passed, and I grew antsy.
“I wonder if he’s all right,” I said.
“Maybe the door’s unlocked. Most Japanese don’t worry about those things, do they?” Hugh asked. He wiggled the doorknob, which was locked. Still, it was a flimsy Japanese lock, not a dead bolt. I remembered something my college roommate Lily had done when one of our friends had passed out drunk in a dormitory bathroom with the door locked. She’d used a flexible plastic card—in that case, it had been a cafeteria meal card—and fished it into the doorjamb, then wiggled it a few times until the lock popped.
“What are you thinking?” Hugh looked at me as if he had read my mind.
“Don’t worry, you’re not responsible. I’m doing it on my own,” I muttered. Then, quite loudly, for the benefit of the neighbors as well as the man inside, I called, “Espinosa-san? I’m going to come in to help you. If you don’t want me to do that, please say so!”
Silence.
“I’ll do my best to get in then, okay?” I searched through my wallet, rejecting my credit cards as too hard, then finally coming up with an old plastic library card that bent nicely. I slid it neatly into the narrow space between door and frame, and gave a gentle shove. The lock popped with a satisfying click, and I turned the knob and stepped into Mr. Espinosa’s apartment.
“You’re unbelievable,” Hugh said. “But I really shouldn’t be here, seeing this rather, um, illegal procedure—”
“Don’t worry, if I’m arrested you won’t have to defend me.” I cracked a smile at him, feeling triumphant over my accomplishment, and eager to go in.
17
Before, the overwhelming aura of Ramon Espinosa’s apartment had been of tidiness; despite the many boxes and utensils, everything was in its place. Now, I saw the heavy metal boxes strewn across the room and short, thin steel needles showered across the green carpet like dandelion seeds in early summer. The long acupuncture table was on its side, and the kettle lay next to it, a small river of water flowing from its opening and onto the floor.
Could he have suffered an epileptic sei
zure and wreaked all this damage? My heart was hammering as I continued my walk. “Espinosa-san?” I headed toward the back room, which I hadn’t seen during my visit. He had to be in this room, or in the bathroom.
The bedroom was set off from the main room by sliding paper fusuma doors, cracked slightly open. I peered through, with Hugh right behind me.
I had expected to see Mr. Espinosa sleeping, or dressing, or doing anything that might cause us both to be embarrassed. What I wasn’t expecting was the sight of him on the floor, lying on his side with his eyes closed.
He had to be hurt. Hugh and I exchanged glances for a split second. I threw the door all the way open so that we could get to the fallen man.
I picked up his wrist and felt that his skin was cooler than mine. I searched for a pulse, and felt something very, very slight.
“He’s alive!” And thank God we’d broken in.
“Damn it, I must have left my mobile at your aunt’s,” Hugh said. “Telephone, where is it—”
“Here.” I’d already darted off to the phone lying by the bedside table. I picked it up, but there was just static.
A new fear gripped me. There had been no storm, no earthquake, no good reason power should be out. The moment after I thought about this, my eyes went to the open window. That’s why the room was so cold. Someone had broken in through it to attack Ramon Espinosa. Probably the banging sound I’d heard was the intruder going out the window once I’d surprised him by calling Ramon from the front door.
I looked out the window, and saw that Ramon’s balcony was next to the balcony of another apartment and that just a few feet beyond that was the external staircase. If the intruder was even slightly physically fit, he could have made it to the staircase within a few seconds—an easy getaway.
Hugh’s voice, sharp and frantic, brought me back. “Rei, what the hell are you doing looking out the window?”
“Looking to see if—” I cut myself off, the enormity of the situation sinking in. “What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to try CPR.” Hugh knelt over Ramon. “Call an ambulance.”
Without saying anything more, I ran out and banged on the next apartment’s door, the one that said “Moriuchi.” A gentle-looking woman of about fifty opened the door to me. In the small space behind her, ten people were sitting around a low table upon which rested plates of tangerines and sinbei crackers. Everyone stared at us. “I’m very sorry to bother you, but your neighbor, Espinosa-san, is unconscious. May I use your phone to call an ambulance?”
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Moriuchi looked horrified. “Dear Mr. Espinosa. Let me bring the phone to you.” She hurried into the kitchen and came back with a cordless phone. I dialed 119 and made my explanations, asking for both police and medical help.
After I’d clicked off, I caught my breath and explained that I thought someone might have been in the apartment and hurt him, then used the balconies and the outside staircase as an escape route. I asked if they’d seen anyone pass by on the outside of the building. Nobody had, but their New Year’s table faced a family altar—not the window.
I hurried back to the apartment to see how Ramon was faring, with Mrs. Moriuchi and her husband following. I hadn’t performed CPR since I had taken a baby-sitting course back in the early ‘80s, so watching Hugh, I wondered if he was doing things right. With his mouth on the old man’s, he was exhaling twice and then, after catching his breath, pushing down on Ramon’s chest a number of times.
“Two breaths, ten compressions,” I said. “Are you doing fifteen?”
When he came up to do the compressions, he gasped, “Ten for children, fifteen for adults. And you can help me with the compressions.”
I kneeled over Ramon Espinosa, trying to press the life back into him; my knees felt as if they were going to shatter, they ached so much. But I kept pushing. My pain was nothing compared with what he’d gone through, what Rosa had gone through. They’d lived through so much, only to die like this, after I’d seen them.
After I’d seen them. A shudder ran through me as I kept working. Rosa had died after Hugh and I visited her; again I’d made a visit to a war survivor, and now he was at death’s door.
I pushed and cried silently to myself. So unlucky. Had this come to pass because I hadn’t prayed at the shrine? The people from next door had come in and were standing at the door behind me, clucking with worry. I couldn’t hear what they were saying over the pounding in my ears. If Mr. Espinosa turned out to have heart failure, he’d have died of the same thing as Rosa: a coincidence that some might think made sense, given their ages—but one that I couldn’t believe.
Ten minutes later—I knew because I’d checked my watch when I’d called 119—the paramedics arrived. They strapped an oxygen mask on Mr. Espinosa’s face and slid a stretcher underneath him, then strapped him tightly onto it. As they carried him down the staircase at a rapid clip, the police came storming up. They gaped at Hugh and me, and then, apparently deciding we couldn’t have been the ones in charge, turned to the Moriuchis.
“Did you find him?” one of the policemen gravely asked the couple.
“No,” Mrs. Moriuchi said, “it was due to the concern of the young visiting couple that we learned.”
“My name is Rei Shimura,” I said. “I’m the one who called. And my friend tried to give him CPR, but we’re worried it might not have been enough.”
“What’s happened to him is not so clear. They will make all necessary examinations at the hospital. By the way, are you the gentleman’s daughter? If so, you can ride along to the hospital.”
I was confused by the police assumption, but after a minute understood. It was New Year’s Day, a day of family celebration in Japan. And I probably looked somewhat foreign to the cop, too. Though I wanted to ride in the ambulance, I knew that if I were found out to have lied about my identity, it would haunt me later on.
“I’m a new friend of Espinosa-san’s. I had come to pay him a New Year’s visit.” I went on to explain about the locked door and how I’d used a library card to gain entrance. The cop’s eyebrows went up at that, so I hastened to add that the sounds I’d heard inside made me think that the old man had fallen down.
“Then, when I saw the mess on the floor, and the overturned table, I knew he was in trouble.” I walked back to the bedroom, illustrating my theory. “You can see from the open window how the person probably got inside and back out again.”
“We will run print tests on those places, and also of you and your friend.”
“I understand,” I said. I shot a glance at Hugh, who was looking nervous—as if he’d gotten the gist of the conversation. The problem was that he had his fingerprints on record with the Japanese police. Although he’d never been technically charged with a crime, the fact this fingerprint record existed would raise red flags.
While the police swept the apartment for evidence, Hugh and I walked over to the police station in Kanda. We were fingerprinted, then let go without incident. Maybe the old fingerprint record wasn’t an issue. We walked the half-mile to the hospital to wait for news of Ramon.
“If only we’d gone to see him in the morning, as you wanted,” I said to Hugh as we sat in small vinyl-covered seats in the waiting room. “I was so wrong to put it off.”
“I don’t think so,” Hugh said. “Because we came when we did, we interrupted someone who very well might have killed him. The timing was right…”
But this January 1 had been stamped with violence, and perhaps death—the worst way to begin a New Year.
When Dr. Nigawa, the cardiologist in charge of Ramon’s care, came to see us in the waiting room five hours later, I was the one who did all the communication. Hugh had warned me that he wanted to keep a low profile. The less his legal interest in Ramon was exposed, the better for everyone.
Dr. Nigawa informed us that Ramon had suffered a stroke and then lapsed into a coma. He had suffered damage to his heart, and the CPR that Hugh had given him had probably saved his lif
e. The brain scan they’d run had shown no evidence of brain damage, which was a positive. Still, his chances of emerging from coma were only 10 to 20 percent.
I explained it all to Hugh in English, and then asked if we could see the patient. But Dr. Nigawa said only family members were allowed.
“He has no family,” I said.
“Oh. Well, then, we’ll have to see. But in a few days—not tonight.”
I didn’t see how we would disturb a man already in a coma, but I knew there was no point arguing. And Hugh pointed out, as we left the hospital in the dark, that the policy would at least ensure that nobody else could get to see Espinosa—that the person who’d attempted to kill him wouldn’t get to finish the job.
We made it back to the apartment at 1 A.M., which meant it was 8 A.M. in San Francisco. I’d told Hugh I wanted to talk to my parents about what was going on, and he agreed.
“Rei, this is a surprise.” Over the long distance line, my father’s voice sounded clear—and cautious.
“Are you in a rush to get off to work?” I asked.
“Goodness no, it’s New Year’s morning here. A bit early, but I’m awake and available to talk. Your mother’s still asleep, though.”
Something about the strain in his voice made me think the call was not welcome. Maybe he was still annoyed with me over the drama of my departure. “Um, Dad, I tried to call you earlier to wish you and Mom well, but I only reached the answering machine.”
“I heard your messages. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. Things have been a bit difficult here.”
“Oh? What’s going on?” I flashed a look at Hugh, who was stirring a pan of warm milk on the stove.
“It’s Manami. I think she was more depressed than we knew, because she’s done something very strange—she’s left the pathology program.”
“What? She just quit?” My own story would have to wait, I could tell.
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