She nodded. “Those are the names of the Americans who had been with him there. And when he came back, they told him they’d reveal his secret about the killing, make it come out that he’d murdered the children. In exchange for their silence, he gave them so much! Money, weapons. He would even have given me to them, I think, if they hadn’t thought I was so ugly.”
“You’re not ugly, Sadako-san,” I said. “You are one of the loveliest, strongest women I’ve ever seen. In Japan or America.”
“I prefer Pearl now, if you don’t mind,” she said softly. “I changed my name when I came here. I wanted a place where I could work without showing an identity card, and at that time, you could do that here. And in those days, the 1970s, there were many oyster boats working the bay. I decided to try. At first they didn’t believe I could do it, because I was a woman—they use heavy machinery, not their hands. But after I showed a few of the boat owners what I could do with my hands, I had as much work as I wanted. The work, it was all I had. I never married again.” She paused. “What about you, Andrea? You say that you were cared for by another family all these years. Were they kind?”
“There were several families,” said Andrea carefully. “Some were kind, others—not. I survived, although I can’t say that I’ve accomplished much. Not like you, becoming a scientist.”
“Oh, I’m not a scientist. I never had the education for that. But because of what I’d done on the water, I was chosen for this laboratory-technician position. People call me the oyster mother, sometimes, because these are like my babies—” She broke off. “My words are stupid. I am no mother at all.”
“It’s okay,” Andrea said dully.
“No, it isn’t. I should have brought you here to the island with me on the day I ran away. I didn’t because I wanted to make things—secure—first. I didn’t want to be one of those women you see on the street, sitting with a child and begging for money.”
As she spoke, I shivered, remembering the woman and baby I’d seen on my way to Mandala on that rainy day so long ago. Pearl and Andrea had both gone through tough lives, without a protector, but they’d emerged strong. And though their conversation was halting, it was clear how much Andrea’s mother wanted to know her grown child. And I knew, from experience, that Andrea’s reserve would thaw.
“I’m just going around front for a while,” I said, knowing that I wasn’t needed anymore. I turned and walked past the tubs of oysters, big clean shells to which tiny oysters were clinging. Asian oysters by way of California, and now, the bay. Too risky, some environmentalists said. Ha. I loved old things, but now I understood that you had to change to survive. I hoped the bay wouldn’t turn into a lonely swamp before people realized that.
I passed the car and went straight across the street, where I’d noticed a small line of tourist shops when we’d driven in. There was a snack bar called Oyster Alley, and Body Art, a tattoo and piercing parlor. A neon sign in the window beckoned, saying that it was “Open 11–11.”
It was three o’clock now, firmly in the window of operation. I stood close to the window for a few minutes, studying the pictures of tattoo designs, and pierced tongues and ears. My old roommate Richard had pierced his tongue when piercings really were radical. To get a piercing now, in the twenty-first century, was passé. Especially for a woman my age who didn’t drink much, washed her darks and whites separately, and even gave money to a mainstream politician.
I pushed the door open and went in.
A woman in blue jeans and a tank top was moving through a yoga asana on a mat in the center of the room. She looked up at me from about knee level.
“I’m working. This is just what I do when it gets slow.”
“It’s better than watching TV,” I said.
“So what can I do you for?” Slowly, she came up to a standing position, her arms outstretched. I saw now that she was over forty, but had the kind of long, straightened hair that was popular with high school and college girls. She had multiple hoops in both ears, a nostril pierced with a glittering red stone, and a tiny gold ring through her navel. A leafy vine tattoo wound its way around one ankle. There was a big-eyed moon on the other.
“I was wondering how much it is for a piercing,” I said.
She cocked her head to the side. “Depends on where.”
“Navel.” It would serve as my mark, my memory of what had happened. My stomach pains had gone away, but I didn’t ever want to forget that there had been a connection there—a cord that had briefly run from me to a baby, nourishing it for a few months of life.
“Oh, that’s easy. Lots of gals your age are doing them, and the nice thing is, it can come out if you get pregnant. I charge forty bucks and that includes the ring itself.”
I glanced around the parlor. It looked clean. “What kind of, ah, health precautions do you take?”
“We use a piercing gun, just like they do at the shopping mall when you get earrings. Everything’s sterile. If you’re nervous, our health department certificate is right by the door.”
“I still don’t know.” I hesitated.
“You need your mom’s permission, if you’re younger than eighteen. In any event, I’ll need to see a driver’s license to verify your age.”
Then I had to laugh. “What can I do to make it, well, not exactly the same as every other woman’s belly piercing?”
“You could do gemstones. I’m wearing onyx.” She raised her tank top so I could have a better look at two small black gems glittering in the middle. She was no flat-bellied nymph like Andrea, but the body jewelry was attractive on her, somehow serving to make her curves look more luxurious.
“Could I have a jewel on mine?” I was getting excited. What would Hugh think? If it was a genuine stone and completely tasteful, of course.
“Sure, but I don’t have much of serious value. Right now, my stock is mostly onyx, amethyst, cubic zirconia, and freshwater pearl.”
“Would it be a real freshwater pearl?” I asked.
“You can check it out if you’re curious. Frankly, I don’t know. I just buy the stuff from my supplier, who’s always been reliable.” She handed me a tiny box filled with the odd-shaped, small pearls. I scratched lightly at the surface of the one I liked best. It gave way slightly, so I knew that the pearl was real.
A few minutes later I was lying on a table that she’d flung a clean sheet over. I closed my eyes, knowing this couldn’t be worse than a waxing. I didn’t even have to get undressed. A swab of alcohol, and then a stabbing pain—but it was over quickly. I didn’t look down until I sat up. Voilà, in my once plain belly button, a light smear of antibiotic ointment highlighted a curving wire of gold and two gleaming, Rice Krispy–shaped pearls. The body part that I’d hated so much a few months ago now looked almost magical. And like the woman said, when I had my next baby, it would come out.
There would be another baby, I said to myself as I walked out of the piercing parlor and back to the Marine center. And that child would learn about the one who hadn’t made it.
It was time to catch up with Andrea and Pearl. I sensed that Andrea probably wouldn’t need to ride back with me that evening. But I’d say good-bye, just to put a frame on her happily ever after, and my bittersweet one.
Relishing the secret under my shirt, I looked both ways before jogging across the street.
Here’s a sneak preview of
The Typhoon Lover
by
Sujata Massey
Available in October 2005
in hardcover from
HarperCollins Publishers
1
I’ve never thought of myself as the blindfold type.
Not on planes, not in beds, and certainly not in restaurants. Especially not a place like DC Coast, where I was sitting on the evening of my thirtieth birthday, listening to my dinner companion trying his best to be persuasive.
“What happens next will be very special,” Hugh said, picking up the small black mask that he’d placed next to ou
r shared dessert. “You don’t have to put the blindfold on inside here. Just a little later.”
“You promised no party,” I reminded him, but not sharply. My stomach was filled with a pleasant mélange of tuna tartare and crawfish risotto and crispy fried bass. It had been an orgy of seafood and good wine, just my kind of night.
“Hmm,” Hugh said, studying the restaurant bill.
“If it’s not a surprise party, where are you taking me?” I prodded.
“Let’s just say I’ve got two tickets to paradise.”
I rolled my eyes, thinking Hugh was showing his age, when I’d rather keep mine confidential. I didn’t mind having a delicious, leisurely dinner, but he’d practically rushed me through cappuccino and crème brûlée. Hugh was frantic to leave, which made me think he definitely had something planned.
As we waited for the car to be brought to us on the busy corner of 14th and K Streets, Hugh folded the tiny black blindfold into my hand. “It’s never been used, if that makes you more comfortable. I saved it from my last trip to Zurich.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in regifting?” I asked lightly.
“Well, you didn’t want a ring. What else can I offer you?” The undercurrent of irritation in Hugh’s voice was clear. I’d worn his beautiful, two-carat emerald for a short while, but ultimately returned it, because engagement rings scared me just as much as turning thirty did. Hugh was thirty-two; he’d been ready for the last three years. I wondered if I’d ever be.
The valet pulled up with the car and jumped out to open the passenger side for me. I got in, feeling a mixture of excitement and fear about what lay ahead. As we pulled off into traffic, I reclined my seat as far as it would go, hoping that this way, nobody would notice the girl with short black hair and a matching mask over her eyes. If anyone caught a glimpse, they might think I’d just come out of plastic surgery or something like that—though most Washington women who went in for that flew to Latin America, where the plastic surgeons were good and there were no neighbors to bump into.
“Are we headed for the airport?” I asked, with a sudden rush of hope.
“No chance.” Hugh sounded regretful. “It would have been fun to get away, but I can’t risk any absences when the partner track decisions are forthcoming.”
Hugh was a lawyer at a high-pressure international firm a few blocks away. He’d been working for the last year on a class-action suit that still wasn’t ready to roll. His work involved frequent travel back to Japan, the country of my heritage, where we’d met a few years earlier. I would have loved to travel with him, but couldn’t because I was banned from Japan. It was a complicated story I didn’t want to revisit on a night that I was supposed to be happy.
“Don’t think about it,” I muttered to myself. It was my habit to talk to myself sometimes, to try to shut out the bad thoughts that threatened what was a perfectly pleasant life.
“What don’t you want to think about?”
“I’m getting nauseated from wearing a blindfold in a moving car,” I said. “Not to mention, my nerves are shot because you won’t tell me what’s going to happen next.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Just hang on, I’ll open the window.” Hugh pressed the control that slid down the passenger-side window next to me. “We’re just going around the corner to park. Will you survive another two minutes?”
I nodded, glad for a chance to listen to the sounds of the road. I could tell this wasn’t our neighborhood of Adams-Morgan, with its mix of pulsating salsa music, honking horns, and shouting truck drivers. All I heard was a slow, steady purr of cars caught in traffic. After a while, the car moved again and turned a corner. Then it stopped. Hugh’s window slid down.
“Paradise, sir?” a strange man’s voice asked.
“That’s right. We’re staying till the wee morning hours,” Hugh said. “Will this cover it?”
Before the parking valet could answer, I had a few words of my own. “Hugh, you know that I have a nine-thirty meeting at the Sackler Gallery tomorrow. You can very well stay until the wee hours, but I can’t.”
“Job interviews come and go. Thirtieth birthdays are only once!” He sounded positively gleeful.
My door was opened, and I unbuckled my seat belt. Then I felt a hand on my wrist, helping me out.
“You must be the girl getting the big birthday surprise.” The valet’s voice came from somewhere to the left.
I was busy working through the situation—was this a boutique hotel, maybe?—when Hugh tugged my hand. “There’s going to be a downward flight of steps in a moment. Just take it slowly.”
“What kind of a hotel has subterranean rooms?” I demanded.
“You’ll know soon enough.” Ten steps, and then a flat surface. “I’m going to hold the door open. Just step through.”
I had no sight, but my other senses were bombarded. First, the sounds—a Dead Can Dance song pounding ominously on a stereo, and lots of voices—talking, laughing, shrieking. Then there were the smells—smoke from cigarettes and sandalwood incense.
Someone took my other hand and pressed briefly down on the area over my knuckles. I guessed that I was getting a hand-stamp, like what bouncers give at bars.
“Hugh, this is so silly,” I complained. “I want to see where I am. If this is the S and M club we read about in City Paper I’m not going any farther.”
Hugh sighed and said, “I’d hoped you’d stay blindfolded until the magic moment, but if you’re that anxious, you may as well take it off. Go ahead.”
Had I known about the series of events about to unfold—not that night, perhaps, but in the crazy, dangerous days that rolled out, right after my birthday—I might have just kept on the blindfold. I would have remained in Hugh’s thrall, powerless to make my own choices, but secure—still twenty-nine and safe as houses.
But I’m not the kind of girl who stays in one place for long, whether it’s a house or a nightclub vestibule.
I slid off the blindfold, and opened my eyes.
Acknowledgments
From the very beginning, when I was casting about for an idea for Rei’s new adventure, my editor, Carolyn Marino, was inspirational. So, too, were longtime readers and e-mail friends, especially Reiko Okochi in Palos Verdes, Paul Sayles in San Francisco, and Ryohei Omori in Tokyo. I thank Gerard Busnuk for patiently answering my questions about American police procedure, and John Mann for his lessons on American warfare in Vietnam. I am indebted to the U.S. Marine Corps Historical Center, especially Frederick J. Graboske, head of the archives section, and Robert V. Aquilina, historian and assistant head of the reference section. Karen Oertel, a coowner of the Harris seafood business and Harrison’s Restaurant in Grasonville, taught me all I know about Chesapeake Bay history and oysters. Julie Kehrli, chief of staff for the Honorable Senator Paul S. Sarbanes, D-Maryland, was kind enough to give me an office tour and teach me about the ins and outs of Senate life.
So many restaurants filled me with delicious food and ideas. I am especially grateful to the staff of the former Aquavit restaurant in Minneapolis, and in Washington, D.C., to restaurants including Burma, DC Coast, Poste, Zola, and Zaytinya. I also give special thanks to my husband, Tony, who manfully submitted to many restaurant dinners over the past year, and to Carina Casabón Inzunza, for giving our children dinner and a lot of fun during these times. I owe the writing of this book to Larry Horwitz and all staffers and friends, past and present, at the real Urban Grounds in Baltimore, as well as Mike Sproge and Glen Breining at its reincarnation The Evergreen. Without your encouragement, nickels for the meter, and single skim-milk lattes, this book would not have progressed past page one. Finally, to my children, Pia and Neel: You’re the best—now eat your asparagus!
Sujata Massey
October 2003
Baltimore, Maryland
Praise for The Pearl Diver
“Beautifully constructed and highly emotional. Massey’s knowledge of Japanese antiques and downtown D.C. enhances the story.”
—USA Today
“A superb book, with wonderfully realized characters, a deftly woven plot, and a vulnerable, heroic, unforgettable sleuth.”
—Diane Mott Davidson
“Massey’s pungent take on mixed marriages and East-West culture clashes is first-rate.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Adept at crafting dead-on dialogue and juggling serious issues with humor, Massey has produced another triumph.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Sujata Massey gracefully weaves Japanese art, history, and social mores into a series narrated by a Japanese-American antiques dealer.”
—New York Times Book Review
“A riveting story.”
—Library Journal
“The clever mix of the…restaurant opening with the serious investigation of a disappearance, perhaps a murder, makes this seventh novel of Ms. Massey’s enthralling.”
—Dallas Morning News
“A feast of delights, sure to make readers impatient for Rei Shimura’s next adventure.”
—Sun (Baltimore)
“Sujata Massey’s mysteries are breezy and girly and…tartly funny.”
—Philadelphia Inquirer
Other Books by Sujata Massey
The Samurai’s Daughter
The Bride’s Kimono
The Floating Girl
The Flower Master
Zen Attitude
The Salaryman’s Wife
About the Author
SUJATA MASSEY was a reporter for the Baltimore Evening Sun and spent several years in Japan teaching English and studying Japanese. She is the author of The Salaryman’s Wife, Zen Attitude, The Flower Master, The Floating Girl, The Bride’s Kimono, The Samurai’s Daughter, The Pearl Diver, and The Typhoon Lover.
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