The Samurai's Daughter

by Sujata Massey

  “I wish you wouldn’t be,” Mr. Ishida said. “I wish instead you would understand what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “You told me a horror story out of your past, something you’d rather forget.” The hard things survive, I thought. “That’s enough for my last day in Japan—I don’t think I can handle any more.”

  “What I’m trying to show you is that I obeyed without question,” Mr. Ishida said. “I was ordered to kill, and I complied. You also are being ordered to do something—to give up a name. You’ve chosen not to do it. I’m proud of you.”

  “But my life isn’t at stake. Yours was.”

  “Your happiness is—and that of several other people. What’s life without happiness?”

  Through a blur of tears, I said, “I can’t imagine life without having you to talk with.”

  “Well, there’s no reason our talks should stop.”

  I looked at him. “It won’t be the same. The way I could come in and have tea and learn about a piece of furniture…the way it was just last week.”

  “Why not? We can’t have tea, but you can serve as my agent within the U.S., importing pieces from me that you think your clients will like. It could be as simple as your calling me about a need and my faxing you a picture, or it could involve your working as a courier to bring the pieces over—in fact, the tansu Mr. Murano bought must go to the West Coast tomorrow. Your first job for me could ensure it passes safely through customs and reaches its destination, the home of a Mr. Ikehata. Being Japanese, he’s bound to be exacting.”

  I was silent a minute, digesting it. “It’s an idea. But I want to be more than a gofer or someone who leaves you orders. After all I’ve learned, and dreamed of doing, I want to have more.”

  “What’s ‘more’?”

  “I might want to have my own retail shop,” I said. “The rents have gone down in San Francisco, you know, especially in this area south of Market Street—”

  “Good,” said Mr. Ishida. “And the end result of it is we could be partners, though on paper I’ll appear as your employer—which means I can perhaps sponsor your reentry into Japan.”

  I bit my lip. “You know, my lawyer said I could reapply to return to Japan after a year’s time. I was planning on doing that…but a letter from you would only help.”

  Mr. Ishida smiled. “As you know, I’ve never had children. But I’ve always thought of you as a granddaughter.”

  I caught my breath. “Will you call me that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can call me Rei-chan, if you like. It would make me feel so happy. So honored.”

  “Yes. But only if you will call me Ojiisan.”

  He’d given me license to call him Grandfather. I whispered the word, wondering at how good it made me feel. And then we embraced. As I felt the warmth of his thin arms, I thought of them sixty years ago, younger and stronger and holding a bayonet. And I didn’t flinch.

  The things that I couldn’t understand before about Japan, I did now. There were no good Japanese and bad Japanese. They were all the same people sharing a capacity for both kindness and evil.

  Mr. Ishida had taught me that the choice lies within all of us. And although the choice I was making was hard, I knew it was the right one.

  32

  On my final night in Tokyo, Richard Randall threw a long good-bye party at Salsa Salsa. I was too depressed to even finish my first caipirinha. I sat, sober and grimacing, as everyone around me told tales of my past. The insane things: the time I’d sneaked into a hostess bar, the time I’d been tied up in a mountain cave, the time I’d almost drowned in the Hayama Bay, but for the last-minute rescue by a gangster. They ran through all the good old, bad old, times. They gave me good-bye presents: a rape whistle, to use for the mean streets of San Francisco, and a Hello Kitty mobile phone, with a month’s worth of international calling. And I had to come back, everyone said. The furor over my misdeeds at the Imperial Hotel would die down, and Mr. Ishida’s employment of me would cinch the reentry visa.

  Everyone believed it but me, and after a round of hugs and long good-byes, I left early with Hugh. I was practical enough to want to make the last train and have time to lay out my clothes for the next day. I decided to wear the black Ultrasuede suit I’d worn to the hotel the day I’d found out the truth about Eric and everything fell apart. It seemed fitting, and I’d arrive unwrinkled. As I smoothed my hands over the jacket, my fingers felt a bump in a pocket. I pulled out its contents: the MAC lipstick I’d hurriedly smoothed over my lips that morning, a rose-colored shade called Desire; an old subway ticket; and a note folded in two. I unfolded it and read the name, “Murano,” followed by a phone number with a Kawasaki area code. Oh, yes. Charles’s telephone message; I’d jotted it down when I’d listened to his voice mail.

  “Murano,” I said. The name haunted me. I remembered that Mr. Ishida had told me that a Japanese buyer called Murano had purchased the staircase chest.

  “What’s that?” Hugh said from the bathroom, where he was brushing his teeth.

  “This is weird,” I said. “Remember the staircase chest that Charles Sharp considered buying from Mr. Ishida? A man named Murano bought it. And here I have his name and phone number, because he tried to get in touch with Charles Sharp—he left a message on Charles’s voice mail at the Imperial Hotel the day I was there.”

  “Murano? That rings a bell for me, too.” Hugh came into the bedroom and took the little paper in his hands. “This is a number at Morita Incorporated. I can tell by the prefix.”

  “Really? Who is Mr. Murano?”

  “He’s a section head at Morita,” Hugh said, still staring at the paper. How expensive was this tansu?”

  “Thirty thousand U.S. I hear he paid full price.”

  Hugh whistled. “That’s a lot of money for someone making around 100K a year. I wonder how he swings it.”

  “Well, Mr. Ishida’s glad for the sale. It netted him enough profit to not have to worry about his rent for the next few months. He’ll have more funds to use for the new overseas expenses.”

  “It can’t be enough on its own to cover the storage and retail space you were talking about finding in San Francisco, though.”

  “You’re right. Actually, I was going to sell some of my mutual funds to cover that myself. After all, Mr. Ishida is doing me a favor in coming up with this export plan. It might not work, and he’s an old man. I don’t want him to lose everything on a risk.”

  Hugh studied me. “Well, if you decide to be the one to take the risk, you should really be partners with him. Not his employee.”

  “I agree with you. However, I don’t have inventory yet, and being his employee might help convince the government that I should be allowed back in.”

  “I see. Just make sure you don’t sell your soul for that visa, Rei.”

  “Mr. Ishida wouldn’t be a bad boss to have,” I said.

  “Of course not. But you must ensure that you understand your role in his organization.”

  I studied Hugh. “You used to trust Mr. Ishida. Now you’re paranoid. I think—I think you’re reading a lot of your own problems with the law firms’ consortium into my life.”

  Hugh sighed and sat down on the bed. “You’re right that there are problems. Ever since our little publicity nightmare, both Charles and Mr. Hamazaki at Morita are seriously talking settlement. I told you about it a few days ago when it was just a discussion—now it’s seeming like a reality.”

  “So Ramon will get twenty thousand dollars,” I said.

  “Yes, and I don’t think it’s enough. Some of the other participating law firms agreed with me in the past, but now they’re shifting their opinion to what Charles is saying. As you know, he’s got more stature than I—he’s on his firm’s letterhead as a managing partner, while I’m just an international consultant, a hired gun to Andrews and Cheyne. It’s natural that his words are listened to more.”

  “I still can’t get over the fact that someone from Mor
ita chose that exact tansu that Charles wanted.” I stared at the slip of paper in my hand. “What if…Morita Incorporated—the company itself—purchased the tansu for Charles?”

  “You mean, they shielded his purchase and he’s going to reimburse them?”

  “No, I mean, bought it as a gift for him. A gift that he’s taking in exchange for settling the class action instead of filing it.”

  “It couldn’t be,” Hugh murmured. “It would be against everyone’s financial interest…”

  “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but the chances are the class action will fail! Then the firms will really have wasted their money. Charles might see this as the most practical way out, and as for the gift—you know the Japanese are famous for gift-giving. And it’s very hard to turn down a gift. I didn’t want that silly mobile phone, but I accepted it tonight.”

  “But they wouldn’t have surprised Charles with the tansu,” Hugh murmured. “He checked it out himself and then asked for it specifically. Not to mention that for a lawyer to take a payment or gift from an adversary during negotiations is completely unethical.”

  “I wish I could meet this Murano-san,” I said. “I could tell you within five minutes of chatting with him whether he really knows or cares about Japanese antiques.”

  “No!” Hugh’s voice rose. “Please don’t! You only have a few hours left in Japan. Let’s make them hours we spend together loving each other, not chasing more trouble.”

  So we did, but the next morning came too soon.

  Like a coward, I placed a call to Aunt Norie’s house at precisely the hour when I knew the men would be at work and she would be out at an ikebana class. I’d bargained on getting the answering machine, and I did; but after I started speaking, Chika picked up.

  “Rei-chan, it’s me.”

  “Oh! I thought you’d be back at the university,” I said.

  “It doesn’t start for a week. Hey, you want to go downtown again? I’m not doing much today.”

  “Chika-chan, I was calling because I’m leaving. I have to go back to America this afternoon.”

  “Oh, really? Are things okay with your parents?”

  “They’re perfectly fine; thanks for asking.” At least they’d sounded that way when I talked to them a few days ago about the arrest of Eric Gan. I knew, however, that they wouldn’t be fine when they heard that the government was kicking me out. They’d wanted me to come home for years—but not in disgrace.

  “Then why are you going?” Chika caught her breath. “I hope Hugh-san didn’t get the wrong idea about the hotel. If he did, I can explain—”

  “Chika, you know nothing about the Imperial Hotel, okay? It’s very, very important that you never discuss with anyone that you went there with me. Now, let me tell you that I hope to come back to Japan soon, though I’m giving up my apartment. I will be back and forth on a new business adventure with my mentor, Ishida-san.”

  “I don’t understand. You must have done something wrong if you want me to keep secrets about the hotel,” Chika said.

  “You’re right, Chika. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Are you still getting married?” she asked plaintively.

  “Yes, I—I think so. But obviously, it can’t be here.” My fantasy about getting married under a bower of cherry blossoms would never be realized. All because of my mistake.

  My stupid, stupid mistake.

  The police had said it wouldn’t be possible for Hugh to accompany me to the airport, so the next morning we had a tearful good-bye while a massive gray police bus pulled into my street, blocking everything. Two men in pale blue shirts and badges stepped out and knocked on my door.

  “Time to go,” they said.

  “May I ride with her?” Hugh asked, his voice cracking.

  They shook their heads.

  “Tell them in Japanese, Rei,” Hugh said. “I don’t think they understood I just want to ride along with you to the airport…”

  But of course they wouldn’t allow it. And when I got on the bus with my two suitcases, I could see why. The bus was loaded with a dozen immigration police officers and about thirty foreign prisoners. I was surrounded by Filipina hostesses, Chinese restaurant workers, Thai nannies, and Iranian construction workers—all of whom had been caught overstaying tourist visas. As people chatted in our babble of various languages all the way to the airport, I learned that most people had been brought directly from an immigration jail in Kita Ward. Because they’d been convicted of immigration fraud, they were banned from returning to Japan for fifty years. I had the chance to reapply after a year—which they all considered special. Lucky, even.

  I didn’t feel lucky as I stared out the window at the gritty Tokyo landscape, which after an hour turned to rolling green rice fields. The green fields would be my last vision of the country that had brought me so much success—and pain. It was the land of my roots. I could only imagine what my great-grandfather would have thought, to know his country had turned its back so decisively on his offspring. I guessed he would have been ashamed of me.

  When we reached Narita Airport and stepped off the bus, an officer clamped each of our wrists with a pair of truly unusual handcuffs—steel underneath, but covered with a dark blue fabric. I imagined that the blue fabric was supposed to keep the other passengers in the terminal from realizing who we were. However, the fact that we had to carry our own luggage with this restriction on our arm movement made the cuffs quite noticeable—that and the fact the immigration police had formed a large ring around our group, as if to prevent anyone from wandering astray.

  As I huffed and puffed along with my two suitcases, I worked my way to the fringe of the group so I could explain to one of the officers that I had a crate of special goods waiting with a customs broker and I’d need to check it before leaving.

  “That is most unusual,” the officer said. “Everyone coming from the prison has their two-piece allowance—”

  “But I didn’t come from the prison! And it’s not personal goods,” I said. “It’s a prepaid shipment of an antique chest to a client in San Francisco. My boss wants me to be sure it gets on the plane.”

  “Just how old are these antiques? Do you have clearance for them to leave Japan?”

  “Of course. I have the certificate in my carry-on bag, along with the client’s duty payment. Would you care to see it?”

  The officer conferred with his supervisor, and it was agreed that the supervisor would take me to the proper desk and that we would then rejoin the rest of the group at the baggage check.

  Mr. Ishida’s crates were immediately visible at the special luggage area—they were huge, and stamped with his shop name and FRAGILE and THIS SIDE UP in both Japanese and English. The customs agent who’d brought them to the airport was already there. His eyes widened at the sight of me in handcuffs.

  “You really are Shimura-san?” he asked.

  “Yes, just ask the officers. I am,” I said glumly.

  “Ah, I have to give you these documents to present in San Francisco,” he said. “How can I give them to you…?”

  “Yes as you see, my hands are literally tied,” I said. “Can you unzip the carry-on bag on my shoulder and tuck it in?”

  “Shimura-san, would you mind double-checking the address on each crate, to make sure it is correct?” the agent asked.

  I got up on a chair so I could see the tops of both crates. The base of the chair wiggled as I gingerly stood on it in my stocking feet. I put my bound hands on top of one crate to steady myself and looked at the address label, which was printed in block letters and covered with clear plastic to ensure its safety.

  The addressee’s name was Japanese and meant nothing to me: Teshi Ikehata.

  But his address did. It was on Washington Street, in San Francisco. Washington Street—where I remembered hearing that Charles Sharp lived.

  33

  As I waited in line for the luggage lying on the belt to be X-rayed, I had time to open my carry-on and doub
le-check the paperwork. It was all coming together. Mr. Murano of Morita Incorporated had bought Mr. Ishida’s chest, but was shipping it to Mr. Ikehata at an address that was close to where Charles Sharp lived. How I longed to use my new cell phone to call Hugh about the situation—but with the police breathing down my neck, I couldn’t. And the truth was, when I reached San Francisco and was on my own, able to escort the crate to its final destination, I’d be able to put all the pieces together. The depression I’d felt about leaving Japan was suddenly tempered by the realization that I would be learning something new about Charles Sharp—something that could possibly quash the looming settlement that Hugh was so against.

  The agents were now methodically going through everything in my suitcase with wands and special lights and X-ray devices. I handed over my carry-on bag and watched them begin to wand it. A beeping noise broke the quiet, and I jumped. Oh, no. Had I left in the metal measuring tape I carried everywhere? It might have set things off.

  The inspector reached a gloved hand into the bag and handed the new cell phone to me.

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t know it was on.” I clicked on the receiver and gave a low “Moshi-moshi.”

  “Rei. It’s me.” I recognized Eric Gan’s voice right away. The ordinariness of it sent a chill through me.

  “You’re out. Where are you?” Suddenly, I was glad to have so many policemen around me.

  “No, I’m not out. I finally got the right to make a phone call, and I wanted to talk to you before you go.”

  “If you want to talk to somebody helpful, you should call the U.S. consul,” I said. “How did you get this cell number, anyway?”

  “They’re already helping me, if you can call it that. And to answer your second question, I called your regular home number. You left a message on it saying you were moving and that this number would work for a while.”

  “Eric, I don’t know how I can help you. At this moment, my hands are literally tied—”

  “But I’m in solitary confinement! Rei, you’ve got to do something to get me out. I only knocked the guy over. I never tried to kill him. It was all a big mistake; he threw a metal box at me filled with millions of tiny needles, and I lost it. I pushed him in self-defense, that was all.”