“Yes, but the only reason the painting’s there is because it has flowers. We’re limited to floral themes, haven’t you noticed?” Takeo sounded weary as he returned to translating the story.
“The girls are given thin robes to wear, and assigned to bedrooms. Each room has several dirty futons on the floor. When Mars Girl asks about the next day’s hours, an officer slams the door shut, locking it from the outside. ‘You shouldn’t be so bold,’ Mars Girl’s roommate cautions her. ‘We need to know when the workday starts, and we cannot work in such thin clothing as this. I want my underwear back!’ the feisty Mars Girl argues.”
“I think I know what’s coming,” I said.
“Yes, it’s about slave prostitution. It’s pretty hard to take.”
I turned the page, and I didn’t need Takeo’s translations anymore, because the action was so clear. Two soldiers arrived and spent a few moments deciding which of the female workers they’d take first. Mars Girl stepped in to defend her colleagues, but belatedly discovered that her special amulet, usually worn on a chain around her neck, was missing. Without the amulet, her superpowers were gone. She had just the strength of a woman, nothing more.
The crimes against the women unfolded in excruciating detail. It was typical for Japanese artists to show genitalia in exaggerated forms, so I shouldn’t have been surprised by the graphic details of these illustrations. I felt physically ill, though. The girls were so helpless against the soldiers, who were both violent and humiliating.
I pushed the magazine away and shut my eyes, wishing I could erase the pictures I’d just seen.
“It does turn out to have a happy ending. Mars Girl gets hold of some of the soldiers’ sado-masochistic tools and turns an erotic encounter into a bloodbath,” Takeo said.
I shook my head. “Didn’t this happen in the earlier comic that we looked at together? Mars Girl was raped then, too. You know, that’s the flaw in this series that I absolutely hate. If Mars Girl is a super-heroine who can beat up all these men, why does she get raped so often?”
“I wonder what Seiko thought of it,” Takeo said.
“That’s an interesting point. What if the inspiration for this story is somehow connected to her personal history? Maybe she had a great-aunt or someone like that who told her this story.” I shook my head. “This stuff about comfort women isn’t in history texts that college students would read.”
“Remember, it’s fiction,” Takeo said.
“What do you mean by that? Are you saying that you don’t believe the Japanese military kidnapped and violated women in the worst ways possible?”
“No, I believe those things happened. But this comic strip must be fiction. I mean, students wrote it. Not historians. And there’s something creepy about it. It’s not just supposed to make you feel horrified. It’s supposed to excite the reader.”
I shut my eyes to concentrate. He was making me think of something that had been said to me a while before. I opened my eyes again. “Nicky, when I met him, mentioned the sexually risky things Japanese women would do with him. I didn’t press him for details because I was so offended. I wonder now if he was talking about S and M or pretend rape.”
Takeo leaned over and ran a hand down my face. “Looking at this material probably makes you want to swear off sex forever. Or at least men!”
I smiled back. “You’re not like that. Come on, let’s forget about that.”
The last time, I hadn’t been in the mood to be touched because images of dead Nicky had been burned into my brain. But this night, I was ready for consolation. I kissed Takeo thoroughly, tasting the wasabi in his mouth, feeling the heat run through me. I was surprised when he backed off.
“I’m going back to Hayama tonight,” he said. “The house is just so much work.”
“You can’t go yet!”
“Well, I’d feel terrible driving off. I came to get the paint, check in on how you were doing, and go back. Really, Rei, that was the plan.” His eyes were widening, because I’d already pulled off my dress and was starting to unsnap my bra.
“I’m taking a shower,” I said, standing up and stepping out of my panties. “I think you need a shower as well. It will refresh you for your drive home.”
When I was bending down to adjust the water temperature to a pleasant warmth, I felt his hands on my hips. He was naked, as I’d hoped. I sprayed him with the handheld shower, and once he was clean, he turned it on me.
There was a different feeling to the sex; I didn’t know whether it was a subconscious reaction to the comic book we’d just looked at, but I found that I didn’t want to speak to Takeo, and I didn’t want soft caresses. I wasn’t technically rough with him, and neither was he with me, but we coupled with a force and speed that was different. While we were toweling off, I remembered the bathroom window was wide open to all the neighborhood. Our pleasure might have probably been broadcast all the way to the tofu shop. I whispered my embarrassment into Takeo’s ear, and he laughed softly.
“Japanese make love in the bathroom occasionally. Now you’re not such an alien, my darling.”
“I don’t know,” I said, leading him into my small bedroom, where the windows were closed and the air conditioner was blasting. I threw a towel at him. “Did we really make love? It seemed wilder, somehow. Is there a different Japanese word for that kind of thing? Just like there are so many different words for rain.”
“There is a word, but it’s not something I want you to learn. It doesn’t reflect you.”
“How so?”
“As you said the other day, you’re more the type who likes air-conditioning and fresh sheets. And gentle kisses, I think.”
“Do you really have to go?” I had a prickling sense of unease at being alone.
“I’m rising at the break of dawn to work with the painters,” he said. “Hey, why don’t you come with me?”
“Can’t. I’ve got a Gaijin Times meeting in the morning. So we’re both tied up.”
“You know, plenty of people live in Hayama and commute to Tokyo for work. It’s an ideal situation,” Takeo said, buttoning up his jeans.
“Don’t tempt me,” I said, trying to decide whether Takeo was just talking about the fact I could get in quickly the next morning or was suggesting a more permanent arrangement.
“I wish I could.” He smiled tenderly, not making the decision any easier for me. “Rei, I’ll be thinking about you during my drive. And though I know people say this all the time, I really mean it. Be careful.”
“I promise,” I said, closing the door after him and using all three bolts.
Chapter Nineteen
I walked into the conference room at the Gaijin Times the next morning and saw immediately that the power had shifted. Mr. Sanno was still at the table’s head, but Rika was on his right. There was an empty place for me on the other side of Rika, near enough that I had to inhale the Egoiste cologne Mr. Sanno had spread liberally over himself. I wondered if the scent was overpowering Rika, because she looked ill. All the bluster and aggressive behavior of the past two days were gone, and she was slumped low in her chair. A wacky Pebbles-style topknot and a shrunken pink T-shirt decorated with Belldandy from the Ah! My Goddess cartoon series added to her childlike aura.
That morning, I dressed to steel myself for conflict. I was wearing a black, slim-fitting sheath from my mother’s late-1960s collection that made me look as slim as Rika, for once. The dress had a genius design: very stripped-down and elegant, almost Michael Kors. That’s what Karen, my friend who was the fashion editor, had told me when I arrived a few minutes early.
“You look like an office lady,” she teased. “Shouldn’t you have worn something more rough-and-ready? The expectation now is that you’re leading a murder investigation.”
“So what’s the right outfit? Dark glasses and one of those windbreakers that says POLICE across the back?” I didn’t hide my irritation, especially since my dress was so tight that I could barely sit down.
U
nfortunately Mr. Sanno caught me in mid-scowl. “Hello, Miss Shimura. Your art story has turned into a murder mystery! You have an aptitude for making news.”
“Oh, no. I’m afraid it was a matter of unlucky events taking place,” I answered. It wasn’t polite to take credit for anything.
“Congratulations. I hear you talked to Nicky Larsen. That will be a real coup, the story from the victim a few hours before his murder.”
“I didn’t write down anything that he said,” I admitted. “When we spoke at length, I believed he was an unimportant neighbor to the artist Kunio.”
“Still sounds like an interview to me.” Alec Tampole, who was sitting close to the end of the table toying with an unlit Mild Seven, put down his cigarette and looked at me with an unpleasant expression.
“I cannot accurately report what he said if I don’t have a record of it.”
“Don’t you have a memory?” Alec asked patronizingly.
“I could summarize things, sure, but that doesn’t seem very honest. Not without notes,” I hemmed.
“The subject is not alive to contradict what you write,” Mr. Sanno said callously. “Therefore, you don’t have much of a problem.”
“Write it up dialog-style,” Alec said. “Summary doesn’t read very well.”
I nudged Rika. She was a journalism student; she surely could quote some manual to tell them that they were suggesting unethical behavior. But then again, Rika was still technically an intern. I shouldn’t have been surprised that she kept quiet.
“Rika took notes at the morgue,” I said, trying to nudge her into taking part. “She did a fine job of getting some evidence of her own on her Palm Pilot.”
“It is Rika-chan’s duty to answer the telephone,” Mr. Sanno said, surprising me with his coolness. He had fairly twinkled at Rika when he admired her animation knowledge the week before.
“There’s, um, a bit of interviewing to do in areas that I don’t have much expertise with,” I said. “Somebody needs to interview management at Dayo about Showa Story. After all, Showa Story was ripping off their mainstream publication.” I looked directly at Norton, who was the business reporter.
Norton shook his head. “Ordinarily I could help, but I’m on deadline to finish a story on the economics of manga. I don’t think that I could help you girls. Sorry.”
“Since you’re busy, Norton-san, Rei-chan will follow up on that angle.” Mr. Sanno glanced around the table, picking out Karen. “How about the costume aspect of the death? Could there be a fashion feature?”
I could see Karen flinch. “I worry that people would think it might be… tasteless,” she said at last.
“Nonsense. And call up a few of our advertisers, tell them you’ll try to mention their shops in the story. It will be good for revenue.”
“I’ll try my best, said Karen. “I think there are some boutiques in Harajuku that specialize in that kind of fashion.”
“I’ll take photographs of live Mars Girl wannabes,” Toshi, the photographer, added.
“You could also take pictures at Comiko, the animation convention this weekend. There are bound to be a lot of amateur artists or comic book enthusiasts there,” I explained to the group, all of whom were staring at me with flat expressions. “Maybe some of them knew Nicky and might have pictures of him from past conventions.”
“Why haven’t you interviewed Kunio Takahashi? Isn’t he a big part of the story?” Mr. Sanno asked.
“Maybe he’ll be there,” I said, not wanting to admit I hadn’t had the interview with Kunio that Rika had mentioned on Monday. “And I’ll interview an editor at Dayo about their attitude toward Showa Story.”
“Very good. That makes work for everyone except Alec,” Mr. Sanno said.
“There is the chance Nicky’s death might have a gang connection,” I said rather wickedly. “I suppose that Alec, with his vast experience at this magazine, could interview one of his sources in the yakuza.”
All heads turned toward the entertainment editor who would be king. He smiled an awful phony smile. “You mean because you’re too scared to do it?”
“No, because we’re supposed to be a team!”
“I actually think of myself as operating on a higher level. Maybe I can spearhead the whole project. You know, keep an eye on everyone.”
“Fine,” Mr. Sanno said, barely looking at him. “For those of you who don’t know, the stories are due in one week’s time. By next Thursday, at the latest.”
“But what about the gangsters?” I said.
“We should include them, by all means. But please take care, Miss Shimura,” Mr. Sanno said.
I should have kept my big mouth shut. Now I was doing half a dozen things, plus one. It was amazing to me that the men on the staff—save for Toshi, the photographer—didn’t want to help put together what was potentially the most sensational feature ever to run in the Gaijin Times.
“Why?” I asked Rika during a hurried consultation in the ladies’ room afterward.
“Those foreign journalists can’t read Japanese,” Rika answered with a hint of amusement. “When you started handing around photocopies of the Showa Story comic book, they looked terrified. They don’t want Mr. Sanno to know how useless they are at doing more than reviews of pizza parlors and compact discs.”
“I don’t read much Japanese, either,” I protested.
Rika looked at me pensively. “Still, you know more than anyone about this story. It belongs to you. I think you know more than you’re saying. I wonder if you kept something back at the meeting.”
“If I’d mentioned Seiko, nobody would have wanted to interview her.”
“Yes, we still need to get that interview. I will try to do it, Rei-san. To help you.”
“You?” It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Rika that I’d already met Seiko and had a disastrous outcome, but I didn’t. As Rika had said before, I was holding back.
“You do that,” I said, wondering if she would put together the clues and make her way to the Hattori Copy Shop.
I left the bathroom and got into the elevator to go down to the first floor. When the doors finally opened, Alec Tampole was inside.
“Hi,” I said, squeezing into the narrow space next to him.
He moved so that his hand brushed against my hip. “Nice frock. Hey, no stockings underneath?”
“I wasn’t aware of a Gaijin Times dress code.”
“There is none,” he said, breathing heavily. “But there is a code of conduct.”
“Oh, really? I haven’t seen it posted.” I looked at my watch, wondering how long this elevator ride was going to take.
“It’s unwritten. But anyone who’s taken a single journalism course should know the basic rule is you pay your dues before telling experienced people what to do.”
“Oh, you sound like a Japanese manager. How funny. Especially when you can’t even speak much Japanese.”
I’d scored a direct hit, because his face flushed and he thundered, “I know what you do when you’re outside this office. Believe me, I have my sources. All I can say is you better watch your back.”
He gave me a hard little shove when the elevator door opened. I shoved him back, and then I got out.
Chapter Twenty
I tried to reach Mr. Mori, the public affairs officer, before I showed my face at Dayo Publishing. However, he was tied up in interviews, and the secretary who answered my call couldn’t tell me when he’d be able to answer my phone call, let alone see me.
It reminded me of a time I wanted to buy a fantastic set of Edo-period lacquered trays. The owner hoped to sell to an internationally known museum rather than a vulgar, moneyed person. I showed up to finesse the deal with my hair combed the wrong way, wearing a borrowed pair of glasses: in short, looking as academic as possible. While there, I spoke only English and made a few vague references to a “Japanese living-arts tableau” in which the trays would be used. I was able to buy the trays for a client who, due to his extremely vulgar
income, has remained nameless. The living-arts tableau was a luncheon to which I was invited. I hadn’t lied once.
The prop that I was carrying with me to Dayo that day was the prototype for the yet-unpublished Showa Story comic. I wasn’t sure if I’d show it to anyone at Dayo, but I had it in my backpack because I’d come straight from the Gaijin Times art department. Just before I left, the art director had made color photocopies that might illustrate my story—the story that was due the following Thursday. Just thinking about that made me ill.
Dayo Publishing occupied the third and fourth floors of a spacious, shiny green office tower in central Tokyo. Stepping into the hushed offices decorated with blown-up covers of their best-selling comics, I felt suddenly insecure. This was not a place where combing one’s hair the wrong way would help. The receptionist who took my name card was wearing a stylish polyester dress without a single wrinkle, making me notice that the linen sheath I’d been wearing for a few hours was now as wrinkled as a paper bag.
Mars Girl wasn’t displayed on the wall, I noticed immediately. If she was such a treasured brand name, why wasn’t she there?
I decided to speak English, on a whim. “May I speak with Mr. Mori, please? I’m here from the Gaijin Times—”
“Gaijin Times?” The receptionist’s implausibly skinny eyebrows arched upward with some emotion.
“It is an English-language publication—”
“Oh, yes. I know it.” She waved both hands at me, as if trying to subdue me. “Sit, please. I will call for tea.”
I sat, mystified, on an uncomfortable red sofa shaped like a pair of lips as she got on the phone to someone. Less than a minute later, a sprite in a purple polyester pantsuit materialized with a steaming porcelain cup of Darjeeling. I overheard the receptionist whispering into the telephone.
“From one of the big foreign newspapers… Yes, the Times… I’m not sure if it’s the Times of London or the New York Times—Yes, I will do that.”
I tried hard to look like I wasn’t listening, but it was apparent that when I’d said “Gaijin Times,” the receptionist had not understood it was a title unto itself. She had interpreted my words as the literal translation, which meant “the foreign English-speaking person’s Times.”
The Floating Girl: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mystery #4) Page 15