The Floating Girl: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mystery #4)

by Sujata Massey

  “Mr. Sanno, if I may say a few words, the magazine is more than an advertising circular. I report stories on the banking crisis, the yakuza, the future of the Diet,” Norton interjected.

  Norton didn’t know the right etiquette for a conversation with a Japanese boss. I exchanged quick unhappy looks with Toshi and Rika. Joey Hirota was still staring down in his lap, as if he’d been horribly embarrassed to be revealed as having written phony reviews. I should have figured out the reason for the review scam long ago. Personally, I never took much stock in anyone who thought you could buy a decent chimichanga in Tokyo.

  “With changes in the economy, however, our loyal advertisers have less money to spend. To keep the magazine alive, we need more subscriptions.”

  But the business of being a working foreigner in Tokyo had gotten tough. Salaries for English teachers, bar hostesses, and the like had dropped precipitously in the last few years. Young gaijin were becoming skeptical of the length of time that they could make a living in Tokyo, which made the prospect of paying 6,000 yen up front for twelve issues of a magazine unlikely.

  “I agree that we need to up our subscriber list,” Alec chimed in. “We have to increase page space for music and clubs, things that remind gaijin kids of the stuff they left behind. A cover with the Beastie Boys or Mariah Carey would sell far more than one with a Japanese person on it. Get it?”

  “I see your point,” Toshi Ueda, the photographer, said. No Japanese person would blatantly tell another person he was wrong, but I had a sense that Toshi had something up his sleeve. “Speaking of musical culture, it is interesting that the Namie Amuro cover sold more than any other issue to date.”

  “Yes. Sales of that issue prove that Japanese idol singers appeal to foreigners. Foreigners come to Japan because they admire our popular culture!” Mr. Sanno’s mild voice had become almost vehement, proving that Alec’s brash, anti-Japanese comment had annoyed him.

  I saw my chance to make a gentle comment to help my own cause along. “I agree. Another aspect of Japanese culture that foreigners love is Japanese antiques. Even if budgets are small, people are still enthusiastically buying vintage Japanese furniture.”

  “What about original Japanese fashion?” Karen added. “Why don’t we point out some of the local designers who aren’t yet in the department stores and are thus less expensive?”

  “So many good ideas.” Mr. Sanno stroked his smooth chin. “In this case, I have looked at the Japanese publishing market for guidance. Can you identify the single largest-selling category of book in Japan today?”

  “Business,” Norton said with a yawn.

  Mr. Sanno shook his head.

  “Pornography,” Alec said with a sneer.

  “No, I’m afraid it’s something rather more innocent in its nature.”

  Rika raised her hand. When Mr. Sanno nodded at her, she said timidly, “Manga?”

  He smiled expansively. “That’s right. Forty percent of all written material sold in Japan is comics. Will the young lady please tell me her name? I’m afraid we haven’t met.”

  “Rika Fuchida. I’m just the intern here from Showa College—”

  “A fine school. I am a graduate.” Mr. Sanno twinkled at her. “Do they still have the manga club?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m a member.”

  Mr. Sanno flipped open the binder he’d been perusing and read from it. “As Rika-chan could probably tell you, there are several English-language magazines aimed at fans of Japanese animation. But there is no English-language manga that instructs foreigners about life in Japan.”

  Was he going to turn Gaijin Times into a comic book? No wonder Whitney had quit. Every face at the table was neutral, but I could only imagine that the others were as shocked as I.

  “When do you anticipate the change happening?” Toshi croaked. Probably he was pondering what role his artsy black-and-white photographs could have in a comic magazine.

  “Most of the three future issues, articles and art are already completed—yes, Miss Talbot was very efficient, and that must not go to waste. However, I would like to see at least two articles in next month’s issue that explore the idea of manga. We will also put out a call for cartoonists to audition their work, and begin running two or three different comic stories per issue. It’s now July, so let’s see… a full manga-format issue by December would be reasonable. With the hard work of everyone, it could happen. Joey will write his restaurant reviews as a comic strip—imagine the possibilities! The reader will not only read about what the food is like, but also see it. Likewise for you, Miss Karen. Photographs don’t work anymore.”

  “What do you mean?” Karen sounded confused.

  “If a dress is not flattering to a woman, the real-life appearance”—Mr. Sanno gestured to Karen’s muumuu-like black dress—“makes it look bad. Likewise, photographs tell the true story, which can make the retailer upset. A cartoon illustration, on the other hand, can make any dress look truly lovely.”

  I felt strange, as if I were hovering over the table and witnessing the beginning of a disaster. Karen felt bad enough about her weight gain, which Mr. Sanno was cruelly pointing out. What would happen to the rest of us, and to the publication? The Gaijin Times had never been a prizewinning publication, but it had done a decent job imparting crucial lifestyle information to foreigners. I’d used the Gaijin Times to search for apartments and jobs when I’d arrived. Come to think of it, I’d learned about the waxing specialists at Power Princess Spa after reading an article Karen had written in last month’s issue. Could all that be scrapped for wasp-waisted, big-eyed androids carrying guns?

  “I assume you’ll bring in a new editor.” Joey sounded glum. “One who is expert in comical matters?”

  “We Japanese always believe in promoting from within,” Mr. Sanno reassured. “I am certain that one of you could easily rise to shine in the transition. We will decide on some projects for all of us today, and that will keep us busy before I select the editor.”

  There was a long silence, and I imagined everyone was trying to think of projects.

  “I’ve heard there is an American scholar who is an expert on comic books aimed at salarymen. I could explore the changing ethos of work in Japan through manga,” Norton suggested. “Toshi could take pictures of salarymen reading comic books on the subway to go with the story.”

  “The photos can be used as a basis for manga sketches,” Mr. Sanno said. “If the salarymen are ugly, the drawing can make them look better. In my opinion, there have been too many ugly people in the magazine lately.”

  Mr. Sanno was not exactly a Japanese version of Hugh Grant, but of course, nobody could say that.

  “Well, that salaryman idea takes care of Norton and Toshi. But what about Karen-chan?”

  Mr. Sanno was calling all the women in the room by the suffix -chan, which means “little.” I could tell that Karen thought it was demeaning, because her pale skin flushed. She spoke rapidly, another sign he’d rattled her.

  “I was writing a story about fall cocktail dresses worn by some of the top bar hostesses in town. I will call a fashion illustrator who can sketch the clothes on the girls. They’re very, very attractive,” she added, as if to head off further comments on ugliness versus beauty.

  “What about sketching the clothes on well-known cartoon characters?” Rika, the intern, ventured.

  “It might not be legal. Betty and Veronica are probably copyrighted,” I said swiftly, to avoid having Mr. Sanno slap Karen with an impossible assignment.

  “Actually, it’s different here,” Rika replied. “Japanese manga publishers don’t really care if amateur artists copy the figures. What the amateurs sell is called doujinshi, and when those doujinshi comics sell, it is believed to create publicity for the original series.”

  ‘‘Rika-chan is right.” Mr. Sanno nodded at Rika, who promptly hung her head and mumbled how worthless she was. It was a perfect Japanese etiquette moment that I would have appreciated if Mr. Sanno had not swiftly tu
rned his gimlet gaze to me. “Rei-chan, I know that you are only a part-time employee, but you will be a part of the transformation. Your column relates to antiques and fine arts, so you will have many possibilities.”

  “I know very little about manga,” I said stiffly. “My background is in Japanese decorative arts.”

  “Manga are today’s most important art form,” Mr. Sanno said. “Can’t you write that in your column?”

  A battle raged inside me. I wanted to walk away from this stupid fantasy comic book of Mr. Sanno’s, but I didn’t want to give up seeing the phrase “Rei Shimura Antiques” in fourteen-point type once a month. I spoke carefully. “My goal is to help the Gaijin Times be the best that it can be. That is why I would be willing to resign if my writing doesn’t fit the new format.”

  “Are you hoping to be fired, Rei?” Alec asked. I was really beginning to hate him.

  “I know what you can do, Rei-san!” Rika offered. “Since you are a serious person, you can write a serious article about the history and artistic significance of manga. If you can present manga in a worthwhile light, the readers will become prepared for the switch to the new format.”

  “That’s right, Miss Fuchida! Please help with Miss Shimura’s assignment.”

  Rika, sitting across from me in her short pleated skirt, knee socks, and braids, still looked more like a junior-high-school student than a senior at Showa College. But at that moment I, and probably every other staffer in the room, could imagine what form she would emerge into as surely as Clark Kent transformed himself into Superman: She’d be Rika Fuchida, Gaijin Times’s youngest-ever editor in chief.

  Chapter Three

  “Jealousy is a sin,” I muttered into my arm on Saturday afternoon.

  “What’s that? I can barely hear you over the waves.” Takeo Kayama was rubbing some sort of super-organic sunblock on my back. Up and down, back and forth—his fingers, rough from gardening, created a pleasant abrasive sensation on my skin.

  “I’m jealous of the student intern at the Gaijin Times,” I said in a louder voice. “Rika Fuchida was a glorified gofer until yesterday, when she turned out to have the equivalent of a Ph.D. in cartoon history! It’s all so suspicions. She started working at the magazine just a few months ago. There was nothing on her resume about her knowledge of animation. It surfaced at just the right time, in front of the right person. I wonder if she knew in advance what was going to happen to the magazine.”

  “Whatever the situation, you should feel glad for her,” Takeo said. “You’ve had your own share of lucky breaks. As have I.”

  “That’s true.” I counted Takeo Kayama as one of my blessings. In the few months that I’d known him, he’d brought a considerable amount of fresh air and sun into my life. It was an ironic union, because I was struggling to become an upwardly mobile capitalist while Takeo was on a downward slide, forgoing a management role in his family’s prosperous flower-arranging school to plant his own organic seedlings.

  “Are they paying you as much as usual for the story?” Takeo asked, putting the cap back on the tube of sunblock. We were on Isshiki Beach in Hayama, a seaside town an hour south of Tokyo where Takeo’s family had a summer house. Ping-pong balls and Frisbees were in the air along with the excited squeals of a few hundred schoolchildren on their brief summer vacation.

  “Mr. Sanno became so thrilled about Rika’s idea that he asked me to write something longer than I usually do. He even said to me later that he’d pay me more for it. He really wants some kind of article that gives manga credibility.”

  A toddler stumbled by, kicking up clods of dark brown sand. I readjusted the sun umbrella we’d rented for 5,000 yen, and reminded myself that the dirty-looking sand was that way for geological reasons. Isshiki Beach was supposed to be one of the cleanest beaches in the Tokyo area because of the proximity of the emperor’s summer villa. However, there was an ominous trickle coursing through the sand from the beach’s sole outhouse-style lavatory.

  “You don’t have to do it, but I think you’d have a good time,” Takeo said, resuming the discussion of my potential assignment. “All you have to do is read comic books for a few days, then sit down at the computer and type out your impressions of the comics versus what you know about wood-block prints.”

  “There are two problems with that,” I said. “The first one is that I know the wood-block artists are going to be far superior in terms of artistry and social relevance. It’s a foregone conclusion, and one Mr. Sanno won’t want to hear. The second problem is one that you know well. I can’t read much Japanese.” Adult manga were written almost completely in kanji, the vast system of pictographic symbols for words that had originated in China. At the beach snack shop, I’d paged through a magazine called Morning and found it almost indecipherable.

  “Hmmm, maybe this will get you to finally learn to read.” Takeo continued to massage my back.

  I was a nearly fluent speaker but was stymied at reading and writing—a great embarrassment for me. The only way to fix it was to seriously study kanji for a few hours a day, but at the end of the day, after having pounded the pavements of Tokyo looking for antiques and suitable homes for them to enter, all I wanted to do was read escapist English-language fiction.

  Takeo looked at me serenely. His complexion had tanned to copper from his work as a gardener, work that was extremely unusual for a man with his background, but something he’d chosen to do to get away from his father’s dictatorial ways. Takeo was only twenty-eight, but several months of labor under the sun had already carved a few lines around his eyes and built lean muscles that were noticeable as he crouched over me in nothing more than his black swimming trunks.

  “You know how hard reading is for me,” I began.

  “You always say that,” Takeo told me in a voice as warm as the day. “Just as I should be practicing English but have given up because you’re so good at speaking Japanese. But I don’t live in America, and you live here. I’ll help you learn to read. We’ll work on the manga together.”

  “But this should be a time for you to relax,” I said, feeling grateful but a little bit disappointed at the same time. I had hoped that this would be a special weekend for us to figure out where our relationship was really headed. Hence the no-telephone-contact-until-Monday message I’d left with my answering service. Hence the cooler I’d packed with the most delectable home cooking. Hence the bikini wax.

  As I lay in my twisted position, trying to sense Takeo’s feelings, a ping-pong ball smacked the center of his forehead. I gasped as a young man wearing a semi-obscene red nylon thong jogged over to retrieve the ball. He apologized with a flurry of bows and darted off, his muscular buttocks gleaming under a sheen of oil. It was amazing how young Japanese men had so little modesty about their nether regions. In a stark contrast, most of the beach’s females wore maillots, regarding their stomachs as an X-rated region. I was the only one in a Speedo bikini. It had been my bathing suit of choice for the last ten years because it kept my tummy in firm check and the top had straps that couldn’t be pulled down by waves.

  “Would you like to go for a swim?”

  “Actually, I can’t swim very far,” I said. When Takeo looked puzzled, I said, “I swim, but you’ll see I’m rather clumsy. My best stroke is the sidestroke. Obviously, I’m not going to be able to make it as far as the buoys, if that’s where you want to go.”

  Takeo smiled at me. “You don’t have to swim anywhere. A lot of people are just hanging around.”

  I looked and saw what he meant. Many of the people in the water seemed to be floating in place, playing ping-pong, or just standing together, conversing.

  “Our things will be safe on the beach?” I asked, gesturing toward my beach bag holding the comics and a little money.

  “Of course. This is Japan!” Takeo laughed and set off in a sprint for the water. I caught up just as he entered the water. It was gloriously warm, almost bath-like; I sidestroked for fifty meters behind his crawl before becoming a
little bit tired.

  “I’m going to have to stop,” I called, stretching my legs downward to check the depth. It was about four and a half feet deep. I wondered how far out the drop-off was.

  Takeo swam back to me with a few quick strokes. He dove under the surface, grabbed me by the waist, and pulled me down for an underwater kiss.

  I came up sputtering and laughing. With our heads out of water, we kissed some more. We had only recently become lovers, so there was a playful quality to our time together.

  “I like your bathing suit,” he said, slipping his hand along the elastic of my bikini.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  Something soft fluttered across my inner thighs—was it a fish, or Takeo? I wrapped my legs around his waist, feeling my body temperature rise. “Just relax,” Takeo murmured, bending over me.

  As a wave of pleasure swept over me, I was relieved the surf covered the sound of our voices. But then a problem presented itself. Sometime during our wild wiggling my bikini bottom had gotten loose and floated away. Now I was bottomless, and could go in one of two directions—either suicidally into the heart of Tokyo Bay, or back toward the hundreds of families picnicking on the sand. The irony of my recent bikini wax struck me—I’d appear as immaculately groomed as a centerfold if I had to show myself. Which I had no intention of doing.

  “It’s quite simple, really,” Takeo said in between guffaws. ‘”Stay in the water. I’ll go out and buy a bikini at a beach shop. I’ll swim back to you with it. You can dress underwater.”

  “No!” I laughed back just as merrily. “How can you possibly find a bikini that resembles the American one that I’m wearing? It’s a better idea that you give me your swimming trunks. At least they match my top, and the boy-leg look is in. I’ll go out and buy you some new trunks. Do you really want the same style? I think one of the vendors on the beach is selling thongs. Is one-size-fits-all okay with you?”