“So you were in a very difficult situation,” Lieutenant Hata said at the end of Seiko’s recital.
“Yes. If the yakuza became involved in my father’s business, his life would be ruined. My mother’s life would be, too! If only Nicky had just been willing to stop, the way Kunio had been. But Nicky was a typical foreigner. Handsome and charming, but he didn’t understand how to fit in with others. He cared only for himself.”
As Seiko finished speaking, I thought about whether her description of foreigners applied to me. Did Takeo see me this way? Was my problem at the Gaijin Times my fault?
“What happened on Monday, the day that Nicky Larsen died?” Lieutenant Hata asked.
“I went to my father’s shop to work and told him that I needed free time between one and three that day.” Seiko spoke in a rush, and I sensed she wanted to unload her sad experience for good. “I told him that I would like to attend a presentation on new photocopying equipment in Akihabara. He thought it was a good idea.”
“You went to meet Nicky for the matinee,” I said.
“That’s right. My family has a car, which I drove to his apartment. Nicky had always wanted to, um, do it inside the car. I think that is an American tradition. Is that true, Rei-san?”
I blushed. “I think in movies and such it is, but probably not in real life. It’s quite—risky.”
“Nicky loved risk. I didn’t.” Seiko cried softly for a minute. “He liked to do this thing where he would stop breathing for a few seconds at the time of… you know, the time of the most pleasure.”
“What exactly happened during your last time with Nicky?” Lieutenant Hata continued the questions.
“He asked me to draw a stocking tightly around his throat. We’d done it about ten times before. He was enjoying the time in the car so much, he insisted I use one of my stockings.”
“Where was the car parked when this was going on?”
“By a vacant warehouse near the river. I knew the place had gone out of business, because we used to pick up goods there, and now it’s closed. So I thought it would be a safe spot to make love.” She cried again. “We did, and when it was time for him, he signaled me with his hand. I pulled the stocking, and everything flashed before my eyes: the problems with my father and the yakuza, how stubborn Nicky was. I knew the problems would all go away if Nicky stopped breathing.”
She paused and stared out of the window for a long time. Then she looked directly at me.
“I was thinking about what it would be like to keep pulling on the stocking. I didn’t realize until a minute later that I’d really done it. His eyes were wide open, but they didn’t see anymore. And he was not breathing.”
“Oh, my God.” I put my face in my hands, unable to look at her.
“I ran out of the car and into the warehouse, which was unlocked, thinking maybe there was a telephone, I could call the ambulance for help. But of course there was no telephone; it was closed. I went back to the car, and the body was there. I started thinking about how now I was a murderer, that my father could trade me to the yakuza as an employee or something and they would stop asking him for money.”
“Did you do that?”
“Oh, no. When I was calm, I took a tarpaulin from the trash outside the warehouse and brought it to the car. I wrapped it around Nicky, dragged him to the river’s edge, and there I threw him. Then drove back to the copy shop. My father asked where was the literature from the Akihabara photocopying demonstration. I said I’d forgotten it. He said, ‘You’ve been with that American, haven’t you? I can tell.’ Then he hit me; that was the black eye that you saw. After he hit me, I told him he’d never need to worry about Nicky again, and he said, ‘It’s a good thing you’re finally listening to me.’ Seiko paused. “Soon after that, it was reported on television that Nicky had died. I think my father guessed that something might have happened in the car, because he had it cleaned the next day. But he never asked me any questions. I think he believes I did it to save our family.”
It almost seemed like an accident, I thought. Manslaughter, with a cover-up. Curious about one thing, I asked Seiko, “Why did you make the Mars Girl marking on his forehead?”
“I didn’t do that. He did it himself. He liked to draw on both of us during those moments. I washed my forehead off in the river. Oh, I should have just drowned myself then. I’m going to be put to death, aren’t I?”
“Capital punishment is usually only exercised in situations of premeditated murder,” Lieutenant Hata said. “Of course, I can’t speak for the judge who will hear your case. But I will tell him that you were forthcoming with the story.”
I left the hospital that afternoon and never saw Seiko Hattori again. She was transferred to a police-controlled sanitarium. The word was the government wanted to try her for manslaughter, not murder.
Curiously, Seiko became something of a cult heroine. The fact that she’d suffered abuse from her father for a relationship with a foreign boy made the Seiko-Nicky story one of star-crossed lovers. I hadn’t tried to play it up that way in my article for the Gaijin Times—I’d just written furiously for three days. My article came in on time, but I told Mr. Sanno that he would get it only if Alec and Rika had no editorial involvement. I just didn’t trust them.
Rika and Alec stormed about it. In fact, I heard from Karen that they broke up, and when Rika’s internship ended, she was not asked to reapply. Rather typically, Alec got to keep his job; I wondered if Rika would think twice about sleeping with someone in a Japanese office next time.
In the end, Norton Jones, the boring, slightly pompous business editor, edited my story. He asked me to clarify a few points, and he rewrote my lead, but otherwise, the story was just as I would have told it. Nicky and Seiko were the cover story of the next month’s issue, and with Kunio Takahashi’s permission, sections of his best work for Showa Story were included. Mr. Sanno decided to print a complete Japanese translation of my article, to run side by side with the English version, so for the first time anyone could remember, Japanese people bought the magazine. When the issue sold two hundred thousand copies, Mr. Sanno declared he’d discovered a winning formula. Japanese people liked being able to read what foreigners were saying about them, especially if it was conveniently translated. Frequent Japanese-English translations, in addition to manga, were going to make the Gaijin Times a hot new publication.
A week after the article was published, Kunio called me. He had decided, in light of all the fabulous publicity that had resulted, that he wanted me to represent his artwork. He’d decided that this was a golden moment.
I told him that I hated gold unless it was antique and gilding the edge of a screen. I was going back to selling antiques; no more dabbling in writing about modern art or artists. It was a dangerous distraction.
When I told Takeo the story of that conversation, he hugged me and said, “Does this mean you care for wood? For paper? The simple things that make up a simple Japanese house?”
“Well, of course,” I said, kissing him. “My life’s work is furnishing houses.”
“Now that this house is fixed up, I’m thinking of doing another. The real estate market is depressed enough that I could actually buy an old house, then fix it up and sell it.”
I shook my head. “There’ll never be another house like this one. And it’s in your family! How can you think of such a thing?”
“I’m not saying I’d give up this one,” he said. “In any case, I couldn’t. Not with Natsumi’s half ownership.”
“Oh, right.” I frowned.
“In any case, I’ll be bringing up the matter of buying more houses with my father when he comes for dinner tonight.”
“You didn’t invite him knowing I’d be here, did you?”
“Of course I did. He was most impressed with your article, particularly the way you managed to keep our family name and house out of it.”
“Well, I didn’t see the point of bringing up anything that happened on your grounds, beca
use I’d hate for it to become a tourist spot.” I’d have to see Takeo’s father that night. Did this mean I had to cook? Feeling completely frazzled, I asked, “What does your father like to eat?”
“Relax. I’ve ordered a platter of sashimi from the best place in town. It will be delivered half an hour after we’re finished.”
“Finished what?” I asked.
Takeo began to shimmy out of his shorts, and I could guess the rest.
Why I Wrote This Book
Any time you set foot on a Japanese bus or train, you’ll notice that the most popular form of printed reading matter are comic books. During my years in Japan—as I stood packed like sushi on crowded trains—I couldn’t help noticing the many comic books being devoured by my fellow commuters. I couldn’t read the words, but I couldn’t help seeing all the cartoon images that were alternately violent, sexual, humorous or sweet. The covers of the manga revealed they were aimed at specific groups: housewives, young children, sports fans, businessmen, foodies, fantasy-lovers. I was intrigued to find manga aimed at teaching people like me how to read Japanese. However, wasn’t until I watched some beautiful and emotionally powerful animated films by Hayao Miyazaki that I knew Rei would find some cartoon image so nostalgic and compelling that she would tumble into a mystery.
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About the Author
Sujata Massey was born in England to parents from India and Germany. She grew up mostly in the United States, where she studied creative writing at the Johns Hopkins University and worked as a newspaper reporter at the Baltimore Evening Sun. In the 1990s she left journalism to marry and move to Japan, where she worked as an English teacher while studying Japanese and starting a mystery series set in Japan. After Sujata’s return to the U.S., the first Rei Shimura novel, The Salaryman’s Wife, was published in 1997. Nine Rei Shimura novels followed this one, and a forthcoming book, The Kizuna Coast, will be published in Fall 2014 as an E-book and paper book from Ikat Press.
Sujata Massey also writes historical suspense novels, novellas and short stories set in India. The Sleeping Dictionary is a romantic saga about a young woman in late British Raj India that was published in August 2014 by Simon & Schuster USA and by Penguin/Random House India in June 2014. The Sleeping Dictionary will also be translated into Turkish and Italian. Booklist called it “An utterly engrossing tale of love, espionage, betrayal, and survival… historical fiction at its best.”
The Ayah’s Tale is a novella told in alternating voices of an Indian nanny and young English boy living in 1920s Bengal. It is published as an E-book across all platforms and also is forthcoming as a paper book. “Sujata Massey beautifully depicts the life of an Indian ayah and the complicated relationships that people in the employ of their colonial employers had to deal with. Even though Menakshi endures great hardships in her life, she finds love in these pages and a more hopeful future.”
"The Bride's Kimono" Preview
Rei’s adventures in The Floating Girl continue in the fifth series book, The Bride’s Kimono. Check out Chapter One!
For most people, a telephone ringing in the middle of the night is a bad omen.
In my case, it is business as usual. The caller could be an overseas client ignorant of the time difference between New York and Japan, or he could be my best friend, Richard Randall, stranded after the subway’s close and in need of a place to crash. There is always a reason to fumble for the phone sandwiched between my futon and the old lacquered tray that serves as my nightstand.
“Rei Shimura Antiques,” I croaked, unsure if I was awake or still dreaming.
“Is this Rei?” The voice on the other end sounded like my mother’s, but she should have known about the time difference.
“Yes, Mom.” I sighed heavily, trying to give her the message that I’d been asleep.
“Actually, I’m not your mother—”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.” What I had caught on to was that I’d been fooled by the super-modulated, almost English, but really American accent. Flowing into my eardrum at two-forty in the Tokyo morning, it rang with a surreal clarity.
“My name is Allison Powell. I’m the textile curator at the Museum of Asian Arts in Washington, D.C. I don’t know if you’ve heard of us.”
“Of course I have,” I said, coming fully awake. I’d made a few visits to the museum near Embassy Row when I was a college student. I remembered the charming black-and-white marble-tiled foyer and a pleasant collection of Utamaro woodblock prints on the walls. There were other wonderful Asian antiquities, too: Chinese terra-cotta figures, Korean celadon-glazed pots, and Kashmiri shawls. It was the kind of place that had served as inspiration for my own fledgling business in Japanese antiques.
“Can you give me a few minutes? I have a proposition for you.”
I had a suspicion that all Allison wanted was a guided tour on her next trip to Japan. The previous month an unknown Los Angeles woman had landed on my doorstep and asked me to escort her round-trip to Kyoto—going Dutch, of course.
Trying not to sound too rude, I said, “Well, let me guess. You’re coming to Japan and need to be shown around? I can recommend a wonderful English-speaking guide—”
“No, I actually want to give you the chance to take a trip,” Allison said brightly. “You see, we are about to launch an exhibit on Edo-period kimono. I know it’s short notice, but I want you to join us for the opening festivities a month from today.”
“Are you sure that my mother didn’t put you up to this?” I was suspicious, because my mother had been badgering me to come home to the United States to visit her and my father for the last year.
“I don’t know your mother, but I do know about your expertise in Japanese textiles.”
“Thank you,” I said, still feeling paranoid. “I’m wondering who gave you my personal phone number, because it wasn’t in any of my articles.”
“A member of our advisory committee had the information. I do apologize for the short notice, Rei. We were supposed to have a speaker from the Morioka Museum, but he canceled at the last minute, so that’s why we’re so desperate to get someone like you. We can pay an honorarium, per diem, and your travel expenses.”
“Oh, really?” So I was a second choice. Still, I might as well hear about the money.
“Three thousand is what we were going to pay Mr. Nishio,” Allison purred.
“That’s barely going to cover the cost of a night in a place like D.C.—” Three thousand yen was about thirty dollars.
“Well, three thousand dollars is a bit higher than what an American courier would typically get for a ten-day visit. However, I know you’re not on salary from a Japanese museum, so I could see if I can swing an extra five hundred. Would that suit?”
She’d been thinking in dollars, not yen. I said, “I don’t understand. What is the money supposed to take care of?”
“Seven days’ worth of hotel, food, city transportation, and incidentals — we budgeted that at two thousand and were planning to give a thousand dollars in honorarium for two brief talks on kimono of the late Edo period. The plane tickets will be arranged out of a separate budget—”
“I can do that for you,” I said quickly. I knew I could get a much cheaper round-trip flight through my Tokyo connections.
“You could do that and keep the difference, if there’s any, as long as you fly business when you’re carrying the kimono. Economy class on the way back is fine. You see, the kimono will stay in the U.S. with us for three months. At the end of it, we could possibly hire you again to do a
pickup of the goods, if you’re interested…”
Allison chattered on, but I was busy making my own happy, rapid calculations. Not even factoring in airfare, I was being offered a budget of $500 a day. It was an outrageous amount. I could do the Washington gig and profit.
“I’m going to have to check my calendar,” I said, snapping on the electrified antique lantern next to my bed. “Why don’t I write down your phone number right now, just in case we get disconnected—” Or if I wake up and worry this was a dream.
“Certainly.” Alison rattled off a number with a 202 area code, then gave me her fax number and an e-mail address.
“Um, I don’t e-mail.”
There was a pause. “No e-mail?”
“E-mail came to Japan a little later than in the States. I haven’t signed up yet.” The truth was, Internet access in Japan was much more expensive than in the U.S., and the idea of communicating by e-mail, rather than by voice or letter, made me uncomfortable. It all seemed so—temporary. My boyfriend, Takeo, swore by it—he spent a couple of hours a day with his laptop, but he couldn’t get me to do more than glance at the thing.
“You sound like a real antiquarian.” Allison laughed lightly. “Never mind, I’ll send things to you the old-fashioned way. I think I have your fax number already.” She rattled it off, startling me. I couldn’t afford to advertise my antique shopping business in any international arts journals, so I could only assume Allison had a network of excellent contacts in Japan.
After hanging up, I was too excited to go right back to sleep, so I bounded out of bed to make a cup of chamomile tea. If I could get by spending only $500 for the week—rather than per day—I could bring back $3,000 to put in the bank. My savings account was quite low, because in the past year. I’d lost the steady income I’d had from writing an arts-and-antiques column for the Gaijin Times. I needed to cobble together all kinds of odd, antiques-related work in order to make my rent. Traveling overseas and speaking about Japanese antiques was something I’d never done—and I had to admit, despite my being the museum’s second choice, this would be a great boon.
The Floating Girl: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mystery #4) Page 27