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

by Sujata Massey

  “You don’t drink?” Seiko asked when the waiter was gone.

  “I’m, um, not feeling that well right now.” I wanted to keep my wits about me.

  “Which American place is your homeland?” Seiko asked in a proper conversational tone.

  “California.” Everyone in Japan knew it. Usually they would repeat the state’s name and then sigh in wistful appreciation. Beverly Hills 90210 and Baywatch had done a lot to color impressions. Seiko didn’t make the sighing sound, I noticed. She stayed blank.

  “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.” I figured that I’d better get things going. “I’m hoping to interview you for an article that will run in the Gaijin Times. Have you heard of it?”

  She nodded. “Yes. My American friend, who was at Showa College with me, read that magazine sometimes. It reviews restaurants, right? Are you planning an article about photocopy shops?”

  “No. Our management is planning a shift to a manga format. That’s the reason I want to speak to you about Showa Story.”

  “How did you find me?” Seiko began fiddling with a silver hoop in her ear. I noticed that she had about five piercings in her left earlobe and three on the right.

  “I was given some information at Showa College. But you’re not studying there anymore.”

  “My father made me quit.” She said it without emotion.

  She’d had to quit, just like Nicky. And Kunio had vacated his apartment. They were all running scared from something.

  I asked, “Was he upset because you insisted on studying English?”

  “No. When I started two years ago, my father had enough money, but now . . .”

  “Sure. The economy’s tough. But it’s tough on you, to have to leave. I understand you were part of a circle of students who created Showa Story.”

  “Showa Story‘s dead. I should have told you on the bus, but I didn’t know you wanted a story.”

  “Can you tell me about the history of the group?” I asked, trying to stir her out of her flat, closed answers.

  She sighed heavily. “Kunio-san started drawing the comic book two and a half years ago. I met him in the manga club. I helped with the printing. Nicky, who was our American member, had ideas for stories and wanted to make translations.”

  “Where is Nicky these days?”

  “He’s dead,” Seiko answered sharply. “Don’t you know that?”

  “Um, I wasn’t sure if you knew the facts.“

  “How could I not know? It’s all over the news.” She buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders rocked for a moment. Then she looked up again. “A couple of days ago, Nicky said something about a girl reporter wanting to interview us. I suppose that was you.”

  “I really am an antiques dealer, but I sometimes write about antiques and art for the Gaijin Times.”

  “Really? There are so many comics to choose from. Why ours?”

  “I want to write about Showa Story because I am interested in Kunio Takahashi’s artwork. It’s really quite extraordinary. Then came Nicky’s death.” I paused, thinking about how she might interpret my role in the death. “If the attention I paid to the group somehow caused the tragedy, I’m very sorry. But if I go through with the story now, outlining the death, someone may read it and come forward with evidence to catch Nicky’s killer. We can’t bring him back, but we can make sure the killer is punished.”

  “You’re right. I should be thinking of what’s best for him.” Seiko reached a finger under her glasses, and I guessed that she was wiping away a tear, or wanted me to think that.

  “Let’s not talk about Nicky for a moment. I never met Kunio Takahashi. What is he like?” I asked.

  “Well, everyone says he’s good to look at,” Seiko mumbled. “He’s not my type. I do think he’s a very smart, calculating boy.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, he always wanted the best deals on everything. I know now that he allowed me in the circle because he wanted free photocopying. Good paper, too.”

  “Did you secretly photocopy the magazines at your dad’s shop, then?”

  Seiko shook her head. “No. My father wanted to help. He produced the magazines for us, and in exchange, we gave him the profits we made from magazine sales.”

  A cozy relationship, similar to that of Sanno Advertising and the Gaijin Times.

  “Could Kunio have killed Nicky? Was there rivalry, unhappiness, anything like that?”

  Seiko shook her head. “No. We admired Kunio’s talent so much. I described to you already how Nicky and I were doing technical things, working on translations, distribution, printing. We really were there to help him. We both love manga, but we can’t draw them. We needed to work with someone who could draw. Plus he had this fantastic history background— he was a history major. That really helped with the illustrations.”

  “Do you think Kunio’s dead?” It was an abrupt change of topic, but the way she was talking about Kunio in the past tense made me fear she thought the same thing that I did.

  “I have not seen him in a while, but I’m sure he’s safe. He has a way of getting what he wants.”

  She had mentioned safety. It reminded me of the fears that Marcellus had expressed to me.

  “Do you know a man named Marcellus?” I asked.

  “From Africa?” She sounded startled.

  I nodded.

  “He’s a dancer at the place where Nicky had a part-time job. They were friends, but I think that Marcellus was a bad influence. He was the one who told Nicky to leave college to work full time and make more money. It made me sick, because Nicky didn’t have to leave college. I did.”

  “I’ve been to that club. The mama-san mentioned that she’d banned you from the premises.”

  “She was horrible.” Seiko bit her lip. “She only likes girls coming in large groups. I came alone, and she was suspicious of me. So she made me leave.”

  Something was missing from Seiko’s account, but I decided to get back to some other issues. “What about Dayo, the company that publishes Mars Girl?” I asked. “Were they pressuring you to stop producing your doujinshi?”

  “Oh, you’re thinking about that because of what they said on television,” she said. “We never heard any complaint from them before. But I did hear of them. Kunio mentioned getting some correspondence from them. When Nicky asked to see the letter, though, Kunio wouldn’t show him. There were some things Kunio kept private from Nicky and me. Even though we worked well as a manga circle, we weren’t really close friends.”

  “You’re very kind to be talking to me,” I said, noting the way she’d said Nicky and me. I was starting to suspect that Nicky might have been the one she loved. “There’s so much I want to ask, and now only you can speak for the group.”

  Seiko’s expression froze at my words, and I wanted to kick myself. She muttered, “I should go back. I ran out of the shop because I had an argument with my father. I needed a drink. But I must return.”

  “Do you live at home with him?” I asked.

  Seiko nodded. “That’s why I’ve got to apologize. There’s nowhere else I can go.”

  I felt a premonition of something bad. “Are you really safe there, Seiko? How did your left eye get hurt?”

  “It’s not hurt. Why are you saying a crazy thing like that?”

  “I saw you before you put on your sunglasses. I was hit in the eye like that once.” I chose my words carefully. I wanted her to understand that I was sympathetic.

  “Please, let’s discuss something else,” Seiko said.

  “Did your father hit you?” I asked softly. “Maybe he thought you weren’t doing your job right in the copy shop? Or because you were grieving for your gaijin boyfriend?”

  “No! I don’t know what kind of journalist you are, but that certainly isn’t a question relating to art and Showa Story—”

  “What about the yakuza?” I whispered the word, mindful of how paranoid it made people. “I brought in an article about Japanese gangs to be photoco
pied at your shop, and your father seemed shocked.”

  Seiko stood up.

  “Where are you going?” I asked, realizing I’d tried to go too far with her, too fast.

  “The toilet,” she said, but from the way she grabbed her handbag, I knew she was not coming back.

  “Please, I’m sorry. I just want to talk to you a little longer—”

  But there was no chance. She flung open the wooden front door and was gone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I’d done it. I’d finally landed an on-the-record interview with a member of the Showa Story circle, but I’d also scared her off. What kind of success was that?

  I used my credit card to pay 3,000 yen—about $28—for the two glasses of sherry and my iced coffee. The only perk was that in her haste to leave, Seiko had forgotten the comic book she’d been carrying with her. I slid it into my shopping bag.

  “You’re leaving us so soon? What a shame,” the waiter said, watching me take the magazine. I guessed he’d wanted to look at it himself.

  On the street, I located a bright green NTT pay phone and dialed Takeo’s cellular phone number. I’d decided to finally memorize it. Was this a sign of emotional commitment for me?

  He picked up on the second ring. “Hi, Rei! You’ll never guess where I am.”

  “On top of the roof?”

  He laughed. “No. Driving back into the city for paint. My workmen are finishing the roof and I’m working on the interior. What are you doing?”

  “Kicking myself.”

  “Heh?”

  “It means I’m angry with myself. I had an interview with Seiko, one of the members in the animation circle, and in my questioning, I managed to scare her off.” The telephone line beeped, reminding me that I had only a few units left on my telephone card. “Oops. I’m about to get disconnected.”

  “Will you be at your apartment in an hour?” he queried.

  “Yes. And I’ll see you after I’ve—” The phone went dead.

  I made my way home on the subway, thinking all the while of how I could have handled Seiko better. When I got home, I went straight to the answering machine and saw a message light blinking. Hoping to hear Seiko’s voice, I instead got Rika’s, telling me that Mr. Sanno was excited about the direction the article was taking and wanted to speak to me the next morning at ten.

  The Gaijin Times had taken over my life completely. I hadn’t seen a client on antiques business in days. There was a backlog of new people who wanted me to shop at the flea markets with them, and some old clients who wanted me to represent their interests at an auction in Kyoto. All I could do, really, was promise to come through with the things they needed after the article was done.

  I made a few client calls and was just trying to get the apartment into a semblance of decency when there was a knock on the door. I opened it and Takeo walked in, wearing a paint-smeared T-shirt and jeans. He thrust a nicely wrapped box from the sushi shop down the street into my hands.

  “I didn’t know if you’d had dinner.”

  “I forgot to eat. No wonder I’ve been feeling so frazzled.”

  “So, what happened?” Takeo went into the kitchenette and, after washing his hands, proceeded to lay the sushi in a pleasing arrangement in a rectangular dish.

  “I met Seiko. She works at her father’s photocopy shop. She has a black eye and won’t say who hit her. When I asked, she ran out on me.”

  “You’re thinking the killer hit her, and she just barely escaped?”

  “No. Actually I really was thinking it was her father—they were having an argument when I walked into the shop. Of course, I don’t know. My invasive question scared her off. About the only thing I got out of the interview was the knowledge that she didn’t like Kunio very much, and that he’d had some direct contact with Dayo, the publisher of the commercial Mars Girl series.”

  “That’s good information.” Takeo poured cold barley tea from the pitcher in my fridge. I helped him carry everything to the tea table. It was going to be a nice, light, high-energy meal.

  “Itadakimasu.” Takeo said the customary word of grace and reached for a piece of salmon-topped rice.

  “Do you say itadakimasu when you’re alone?” I asked.

  “Of course. I’m casual in so many ways, but when it comes to food, I want things to be right. Somehow, saying it makes me feel connected to other people. Do you say it?”

  I shook my head. “I do when dining with someone, but not when I’m alone.”

  “Eating alone is depressing.”

  “It can be. Actually, Seiko did something that I found really hard to do. She went to the Show a Boy club alone. That atmosphere is geared to packs of women, not individuals. Chiyo didn’t like Seiko’s being there, and in fact banned her. I want to find out what Seiko did that was so awful. And I have a Showa Story comic book to read that Seiko left behind in the bar. How’s that for luck?”

  “I don’t know about luck. Maybe she left it for you on purpose.” Takeo still sounded morose. “I don’t suppose you need help with a translation of this one. Your reading skills are improving.”

  “I’d really like to have your help with the translation.” I said. “But I’ve got to warn you—from my first glance through, this one looks raunchier.”

  “I’ll suffer through it,” Takeo said, winking at me. His expression changed after he’d started paging through it. “I’m not sure how much of this you’re going to want me to translate. The words are just awful.”

  “I’m going to transcribe everything you say. It’s just too hard otherwise.” I got out the notebook I’d been using for the article.

  “Okay. Well, you take a look at it by yourself first.”

  Takeo left the magazine sitting on my tea table, so I had to pick it up. Almost as if it were contaminated by something, I thought, opening the worn cover with care.

  The story started during the war, about five years later than the period in which the previous Showa Story comic took place. Mars Girl was looking for a job in a factory so that she could help the family she was staying with. Within the first few pages, she headed off to search for employment wearing a fitted mid-calf dress her host mother had made from an old futon cover. Kunio had perfectly captured the period clothing style and the economic hardships of the time.

  “This plot seems like the best one yet,” I said.

  “Just wait,” Takeo said.

  I wondered whether Takeo meant that the story was going to be even more fantastic. I happily turned the page and followed Mars Girl into an auto plant.

  “Mars Girl is asking, “Are there any jobs available?” Takeo translated. “The foreman says, ‘You’re too delicate to work the machines. Go away.’ Mars Girl is thinking, ‘I’m tougher than most soldiers. If only he knew.’”

  Dejected, Mars Girl walked with her head down from factory to factory. Either there were no places for her to work or she was not qualified. As I looked over the comic, I remembered my own first miserable job hunt in Japan. I was turned down from many places for a good reason, though; I couldn’t read. It was a problem that haunted me even now, making me dependent on Takeo for help with the article.

  I read more. Mars Girl was standing before a military recruitment center with a banner across the door.

  “Work… women… does it say ‘jobs for women’?” I asked. I was reading aloud as much of each line as I could, and asking Takeo to translate the rest.

  “That’s right. And the next thing that happens is she goes into the place, is served a cup of tea, and is interviewed by this man… he is a major in the army. ‘There’s something foreign about you . . . are you from another land?’ the officer asks Mars Girl. ‘No, I’m Japanese,’ she replies. The thought bubble over her head showed her musing, ‘What else can I say? That I was born in outer space?’”

  I smiled at that. I’d felt the same way so often during my time in Japan.

  “‘Do you live with your mother and father?’ the officer continues. Mars
Girl replies, ‘No, they’re dead. Right now I’m boarding with my aunt and uncle. I need to earn money for the household,’“ Takeo read. “The officer says, ‘Very well. I have a good job I can offer you, but it involves traveling. Room and board are included, so you can send all your earnings home.’ Now Mars Girl is in a quandary. She’s afraid to leave Tokyo, because she believes she has been sent from outer space specifically to protect the way of life in her family’s neighborhood. She asks, ‘Do you mean I’d become a soldier?’ The officer laughs at her. ‘No, no. You’ll be a maid to the officers. We have some rest houses spread throughout Asia. The job would not be a long-term one, but it pays well, and you would have the pleasure of serving your country.’”

  “What are Mars Girl’s political beliefs?” I asked Takeo.

  “They’re never stated. Mars Girl’s thought bubble has the message, ‘It is my duty to help the host family eat. I must take this job.’”

  The next several pages showed Mars Girl meeting other women placed on transport to the military job. All were young and malnourished. Some were Korean, I could tell from the traditional long-skirted costumes.

  I turned the page and saw the rest house, a shabby villa overlooking the sea. It was perhaps the island of Okinawa, I guessed, from the palm trees. In the guesthouse, there were women working who wore the traditional batik dress of Okinawans.

  “Why so many maids for one building?” I asked Takeo. “This has got to be one detail Kunio’s gotten wrong.”

  The maids were taking in the new girls for orientation. They were told to disrobe, and here Kunio showed the women’s nudity. But instead of being lascivious, he showed how bone-thin and sickly the young women looked.

  “The drawing here reminds me of the German expressionists who painted people showing the ravages of war. Like Kathe Kollwitz,” I added.

  “I don’t know all the artists that you do.” Takeo sounded admiring.

  “You grew up with a real Miro on your wall,” I said, remembering a painting I’d seen in his family’s Tokyo penthouse.