by Paula Hiatt
“Nice restaurant, two compliments. Is this going to cut into my vacation?”
Ryoki’s witty, rehearsed speech evaporated and the truth poured forth in an ungainly rush. “I have to take the helm of a new division headquartered in a country where I don’t speak the language or know the customs. I could use your help, just to the end of the year. You know the culture and you already have a solid grasp of what we’re trying to accomplish down there. You’re the obvious choice.” The flood stopped because he ran out of air.
“I don’t speak much business Portuguese, and São Paulo has an enormous Japanese population. I’m sure assistants will be easy to come by,” she said slowly.
“You’re a quick study. You didn’t speak much business Japanese when we first started, but it didn’t hold you back.” He hesitated before plunging forward. “The job would naturally reflect your abilities. You’ll translate in meetings, help me learn Portuguese, generally assist me in the office, coordinate my schedule and run my household.”
“Household?!” The word sounded like a choke and she took a tight grip on her glass, looking ready to fling it in his face and storm off.
“I mean keeping an eye on the staff, coordinating with the housekeeper, administering household expenses. You know, act as a sort of administrative liaison between my public and private lives. It’s really just a minor expansion of the same job you’re doing now. For the most part. If you think about it.” He trailed off, knowing he’d made a weak beginning. He’d never had that type of assistance, a non-family member involved in every part of his life, and even now he couldn’t decide whether the idea was more exciting or terrifying. But he had a troublesome sense that the great knowledge he sought was somehow camouflaged in the world outside his office, and with time so limited he based his strategy on an immersion program, like a student moving into a foreign language house, December marking the end of term.
“In other words, your life is too big and you want somebody to carry the other half.” She huffed softly and stared out the window, moving her lips and fidgeting her hands as though silently reviewing her objections, revising the script for precision and conciseness before she gave her presentation. He allowed her all the time she needed and when the torrent finally commenced he listened, intently. Listening had always been his saving grace in business. He’d pulled off a number of amazing deals because he listened, conscientiously observing his opponent’s body language, the timbre of his voice, taken written note of every problem, made certain no point went unattended.
When he spoke to Kate he spoke softly, sympathetically, addressing her objections one by one, laying out the compensation package, reminding her of every nice thing she’d ever told him about Brazil, appealing to her sense of adventure, pointing out the pluses to her career. On and on for two hours it went, until the graceful waiters had begun setting up their dinner service and the maître d’ started shooting tight-lipped glances in their general direction. By the time they left the restaurant, Kate had agreed to consider his proposal, and he felt so confident in his performance that he expected an affirmative answer by the next morning at the latest. He needed to know soon if he were to be adequately prepared.
However, Kate did not oblige him the next morning or the next, or even the next after that. Ryoki watched her carefully for any indication of what she might be thinking, but she gave no sign of even remembering their discussion. By Friday, Ryoki was genuinely nervous that she had decided against it and intended to simply put him off until it was too late. If she hadn’t spoken by Tuesday he’d try to sweeten the deal, but he suspected she wasn’t holding out for money. If she didn’t go, he felt somehow it would be a personal rejection. Not a professional way to think, he knew that, but still, the worry nagged, left him feeling exposed, uneasy in his stomach.
Luckily, on Monday morning Kate sat down across from his desk. “I’ll be alone, so I want a secure apartment with a piano, in a safe neighborhood. I also want weekends off, except for special circumstances, so I can pursue the private interests I would have pursued at home.” She paused to gauge his expression, her hands folded in her lap. “I will assist you, but no one else. I’m not going all the way to Brazil to be the general office gofer.” Again she paused. “This is going to be very—” she struggled for the right word, but seemed to come up empty, “—different for both of us. If you decide to back out, I won’t be offended.”
“It will work out,” he said.
She paused in the act of getting up and looked at him thoughtfully. “That’s exactly what Brian said.”
As soon as she had settled in to work for the day, Ryoki escaped to the privacy of Brian’s office to call São Paulo and initiate preparations for her arrival. He had a surprise planned for her new apartment in Brazil, a thank you for saving his life, but it was going to take time. As he picked up the phone to make that first call, a nervous tickle flickered through his belly, the same thrill of fear he’d felt on his thirtieth birthday when he’d parachuted out of a plane with nothing but five kilograms of diaphanous nylon between himself and a horrible death. He took a deep breath and punched in the numbers.
The next day he sat across from Kate and contemplated the sensitive issue of her wardrobe. If her clothes had been too short, tight, sheer or wildly outlandish he could have pointed out some universally recognized impropriety. Instead her taste ran to modest, classic cuts and fine quality, nothing apparently objectionable. Still, he had a prickling concern that an outfit which played fine in English didn’t necessarily translate appropriately into Japanese. Just then a copy boy brought in a sheaf of papers, stammering and grinning as he spoke to Kate, even staring moon-eyed at her back as she stood up and hurried away. Poor kid, a beautiful woman in red just tagged him with a toothy smile. He never had a chance. There was the basic trouble right there. It wasn’t just the red suit. On the whole she dressed with too much panache, too much individuality, and in some inexpressible way, too much allure for his office. He thought about how he could make her understand, what words he could use to tell her she looked too, romantic. Hmmm. Not keen to have that argument, couldn’t possibly end well.
He’d hoped to avoid the whole difficulty during the initial negotiation when he offered her a clothing allowance as part of the deal, intending to include a highlighted and annotated copy of the company dress code with her contract. Unfortunately Kate had considered it a negotiable perk rather than a pointed hint and argued for a monthly book stipend of less than half the amount, claiming she wouldn’t have time to shop in São Paulo but she could always order English books online. It would have looked fishy for him to decline the better offer so he conceded the book allowance, reluctant to offend her at such an early stage in the talks. But after watching the copy boy, he knew that if he were to arrive in São Paulo towing a pretty American in a red suit, his people would think he’d brought his mistress to work. It didn’t take much to destroy a man’s credibility, especially a young man promoted by birth rather than experience.
In the end he decided it wisest to play stupid and sent her on a business trip to L.A. where she was met at the airport by a well-respected personal shopper who had worked with Tanaka Inc. executives on several occasions. When Kate returned he intended to look blank and businesslike, a man who was clueless about such feminine particulars.
Two days later Kate sauntered into his office wearing old jeans and a big white shirt, holding an envelope containing an itemized sheet wrapped around a bundle of receipts. “The woman with the plastered hair said she was supposed to bring me ‘up to code,’ whatever that means,” she said, handing him the envelope and dropping into a chair. “Why didn’t we talk about this?”
“We talked about a clothing allowance. You didn’t want to shop in São Paulo, so I sent you to L.A.” He gave his most casual shrug and let his eyes slowly drift back to his computer screen, labeling the subject too insignificant to continue, but she pressed forward.
“We traded for a book allowance.”
“Your wolf ears are sticking out of your wool suit, Ryoki.” She pointed to the total at the bottom of the itemized sheet. “Quit playing dumb.”
“I’m helping you get ready to go, that’s my part of the deal.”
Kate looked at him like a mother patiently waiting for Junior to tell her the whole truth. “I gave you the benefit of the doubt and went through with it, but if you can’t explain yourself, I will send everything back.” Ryoki fidgeted in his chair, causing it to lurch abruptly to the left and making him bite his lip.
“I need my people to take me seriously,” he said, pulling out his handkerchief and dabbing at his lip.
“That doesn’t enlighten me.”
“Among the Japanese, window dressing can be more important than you maybe understand.”
“You’re calling me curtains, Ryoki. Try again.”
“Come on, Kate, don’t do this,” he said, but she continued to look at him expectantly. He cleared his throat and took a drink from the water cup on his desk, buying time until he could find the words. “I’ve always insisted on Japanese assistants, even in London, so taking you down to São Paulo is going to be seen as out of character for me.” He didn’t want to explain how American TV programs in Japan made American women look promiscuous as cats to Japanese men. With a pang he remembered his own blonde collection, his secret pride for the last three years. He thought he’d been so clever, using Western women like Kleenex, dodging all consequences. He hadn’t, though. His reputation would now rub off on Kate and the thought that she would inevitably be lumped in with those women made him sick enough to regret every blonde he’d ever met. “If you aren’t established as a legitimate asset right up front, we both lose credibility, and it’ll be uphill until December.”
“You mean you don’t want anyone to think you brought a toy to the office,” she said, slashing straight through his coded explanation.
“You’re going to be an outsider as it is. I need them to give you a chance.”
“I understand what you’re trying to say, but we should have talked about this ahead of time.” She sounded less angry now, but not entirely mollified.
“Would you have gone to L.A. willingly?”
“No, I think this is much too big an investment for a temporary employee.”
“I essentially bought you a set of uniforms. I couldn’t in good conscience make you pay for them yourself.”
“Uniforms?” She sat chewing her lip.
“This is no different from your book allowance.”
“It’s not the same.” Her eyes lowered to the carpet as a blush crept up her neck. “It might change things if I’m walking around in your wrapping paper.”
“Wrapping paper?” Ryoki envisioned a paper-wrapped girl he’d once seen jumping out of a huge prop cake at a bachelor party, not very original but a big crowd pleaser. The comparison made no sense to Ryoki who had focused on nothing but the possible effect on his career, so he cut to the relevant question. “Do you understand why I did it?”
“I understand sticking to a dress code, but new clothes won’t hide me. After the first week people will decide for themselves.”
“But do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said grudgingly. “But we’re setting a dangerous precedent.”
“House rules,” he said. “Sometimes we have to make it up as we go along.”
She considered him a moment, lips pursed, eyes narrowed before rising to go to her cubicle. “House rules implies common consent,” she muttered to herself.
Chapter Eleven
Four weeks later Ryoki sat on the plane trying to type. He’d always hated working on planes. Something about sitting too long, confined in the canned air of the cabin, listening to the drone of the engines left him feeling wooly-headed and vaguely hopeless. Kate had already taken one of the mild sleeping pills he always carried for overnight flights and dropped off immediately. That was good. Tomorrow would be busy and there had been too many late nights recently, too many last-minute preparations. His eyes drifted sideways as he typed, unconsciously watching her as she slept. Jolted by an air pocket, he blinked and turned back to his screen only to discover his left hand had inadvertently strayed one key to the right and he’d typed a whole paragraph of gibberish. Irritated, he highlighted and hit delete.
The moment they’d boarded their flight, the barest shifting sensation began to creep over him, like a plane that alters course by a single degree and winds up thousands of miles from its intended destination. It was nothing, really, just a natural reaction to a new situation. So far everything had gone precisely according to plan, right down to the uneventful departure. Brian Porter had driven them to the airport himself, walking them to the security checkpoint, shaking Ryoki’s hand and kissing his niece goodbye, no significant looks or words of advice, no portentous emotion or touching public scene. Yet Ryoki had sensed a balance adjustment as he passed through security, as though Brian had given Kate away, entrusted her to his care. Ryoki shook his head to push the thought away, unwilling to let his imagination lead him into the wild.
He glanced at Kate again out of the corner of his eye. Maybe he was just reacting to her new clothes. She wore an austere coffee-colored suit she’d dubbed Japanese, though he suspected it originated in New York or Milan. Even so she’d managed to thwart him, knotting a red silk scarf to her briefcase, the tails fluttering like butterfly wings as she walked. In that severe suit, her expression in repose, she looked utterly unapproachable, a beauty chiseled in cold marble, and he understood why she took such pains to soften her appearance. Perhaps he had gone too far, asking her to change her wardrobe. A month ago she’d called the new clothes “his wrapping paper,” which seemed silly at the time. But when she’d walked out in that suit, he’d felt a physical tug in his gut as if the intimacy token had advanced a single square. Maybe he should have trusted her judgment. Too late for second guessing, better to just get over it.
“Excuse me, sir,” the flight attendant broke into his thoughts. “Do you have your breakfast menus?” Ryoki handed her the booklet with his completed breakfast order. “And your wife’s?” she asked with a fixed, patient smile. It took Ryoki a moment to realize she meant Kate. Not bothering to explain, he picked up Kate’s menu, quickly circling every sweet thing on it and handed it to the attendant.
Flight attendants were usually careful about making such errors. She must have been tired, not thinking. He looked at Kate again. Her arm lay on the armrest outside the blanket. He glanced around. Everyone else in first class was fully reclined, asleep or drifting off, no one was watching. He touched her hand, just to put it inside the blanket, she got cold so easily. He thought of her pink nose and exposed arms as she pruned her roses. Surely she’d be better off in a warm, moist climate. Brazil was a good choice for her.
He pulled the blanket up to her chin, where his hand lingered. Without conscious permission, his fingers moved to her cheek and for an instant he allowed himself to feel the softness he’d wanted to touch since January. Guiltily, he moved his hand away. He knew he was attracted, but that didn’t have to mean anything.
He’d met attractive women all over the world, forgetting their faces almost as soon as he passed into the next room. He wanted something different from Kate, his first platonic female friend, and he understood it would take time before he learned to see her purely as a person. Fortunate she never invited his caress, a man can only take so much. Ryoki turned back to his computer and typed a whole sentence before getting stuck on a word and losing all gumption. With a sigh he stowed his laptop and swallowed a sleeping pill.
The atmosphere inside Guarulhos Airport in São Paulo felt damp and heavy, a bit of a shock after the dry cool of the plane. Outside customs they were met by Ryoki’s “company wife,” Makoto Arima, a keenly intelligent man of thirty
-five who had served as his right-hand man and closest friend almost since the day his father had first paired them up, shortly after Ryoki left school. They were glad to see one another and the two men bowed and exchanged greetings with all the understated warmth two reserved heterosexual men can muster.
Arima bowed politely to Kate and greeted her in his clipped English. She, equally polite, bowed and greeted him in Japanese before flashing a warm smile and inquiring whether his English teacher had been British. Arima smiled and nodded in return. Each knew of the other’s existence, had even spoken on the phone a few times. But this marked the first moment they had actually entered the same sphere of existence, one of Ryoki’s dreaded “Japanican” moments when the two sides of his heritage collided. Ryoki had informed Arima of Kate’s imminent arrival almost as soon as he knew himself and the conversation had included a number of pauses gravid with unspoken questions: Why her? What happened? Who is she? Now he watched Kate and Arima watch each other as they exchanged their pleasantries, both instinctively understanding that they must get along. Kate cracked a joke, naturally muffing the punch line. Arima laughed a genuine, hearty laugh. Ryoki smiled in relief; it was a good beginning. As they walked toward the outer doors, he wondered if Arima saw Kate as he had seen her in January. The Pink Suit he met on that day seemed like a paper doll compared to the full-blooded Kate he now knew. Arima was sharp and perceptive, a little like Kate in that way. Perhaps he saw more.
Arima took charge of their luggage and ushered Kate and Ryoki into a plain black armored sedan, selected for its humdrum appearance to avoid drawing attention. Before they pulled away from the curb, Ryoki lowered his window halfway and ran his thumb across the top of the thick tinted glass before raising it again. It never ceased to amaze him that something as fragile as glass could be made to repel bullets. There had to be a reason Brazil was one of the largest markets for private armored vehicles. Even the driver was a trained bodyguard; Ryoki glimpsed the telltale bulge of his holstered weapon under his jacket. He’d been in plenty of third world countries, walked the streets fearless as an invincible young god. But in McLeary’s room he’d smelled his own mortality and now, sitting in the back of the armored car, he felt as though his fortune had tattooed a target on his back, delicate and intricate as printed money perhaps, but a target all the same.