Girl in a Box Page 12

  Michael would also be pleased, because I was getting the first bug in much earlier than we’d expected. I resolved that I would plant devices this way when I was certain that no other employees were around to catch me; and as I became more comfortable with the computer system, I’d be able to work from the K Team desk, planting the spyware that was most likely to collect the information needed. Already, I’d noticed that the three of us were not always in the office at the same time; and with Mrs. Okuma’s somewhat scattered attention, I would certainly get my chance.

  I still thought, from time to time, about Mrs. Okuma’s error the first time I’d watched her: miscalculating the amount of a purchase. The mistake surely would have been caught by the customers, I thought—almost all of them were aware of the five percent tax rebate. In fact, I couldn’t recall that a customer had ever come to us without the passport necessary to obtain this little bonanza. So, I decided, Mrs. Okuma wasn’t intentionally cheating anyone. I saw her make plenty of mistakes, of all kinds.

  Miyo knew that our boss was an airhead, and clearly took advantage of this. For instance, although both of us were supposed to work a fifty-hour schedule that included most weekend days, Miyo had ensured that she had either a Saturday or a Sunday off for the next month. My weekly days off were to be Tuesday and the half day, Monday—although I did have the forthcoming Saturday free, because if I didn’t get the break, I’d be scheduled to work eight days in a row, in violation of the store’s labor laws. Already, I had plans for the day; I’d put in my hours listening to audio recordings, then go for a long run through Ueno Park. I could hardly wait.

  Miyo had actually complained to Mrs. Okuma about the fact I was working a shorter week; Mrs. Okuma told me privately that in the future, I was to negotiate the schedule with Miyo to find times mutually convenient to both of us. She herself would be spending the weekend at the famous old Okamura Onsen on the Izu Peninsula; it was not for pleasure, but the Mitsutan retreat for top-producing departments she’d mentioned. Mrs. Okuma fretted to us that everything would have to be perfect because the Mitsuyamas would be there—Masahiro, the picky old chairman of the board; and his son, Enobu, the store’s general manager.

  “I wish I could help you there, be your assistant.”

  “Ara, that wouldn’t be a bad idea, to have someone hold my graphs and distribute papers—but Saturday is your time off, and you are scheduled to be here on Sunday, neh?”

  I nodded. I knew I couldn’t switch my days around, not when the person I had to deal with was Miyo Han.

  “So, that’s our problem. We don’t have enough staff,” Mrs. Okuma continued. “We had a full group of six employees in the K Team three years ago, but now it looks like three is what we must manage with. So we work together, a little harder.”

  Reduced staff. I thought about whether this might be a reason Mitsutan’s profits were higher these days. If staffing was cut fifty percent in many of the store’s departments, the savings would be significant. And from what I’d noticed walking around the other department stores in the Ginza during the day and evening, Mitsutan was no busier than any other place. And while the store dazzled the eye with a seemingly endless array of cosmetics, jewelry, accessories, and clothes, it didn’t offer a greater amount of these goods than what I saw at the other stores while walking around on my lunch break.

  Despite Mrs. Okuma’s talk of teamwork on Thursday morning, she soon left us to go to an administrative meeting in Shinagawa. Shinagawa, a decidedly unglamorous section of town, was where the Mitsutan boardroom was, in a privately owned building that also held offices for the planning department—the group that planned new investments and expansion. It would have been great to bug both the boardroom and the planning department, but I knew I had no credible reason whatsoever to be as far away from the Ginza as Shinagawa. The only way I could get there would be if Mrs. Okuma became attached to me and saw me as a kind of errand girl—something I’d have to cultivate, but it would be difficult with competitive Miyo nearby.

  “Han-san, you must be looking forward to your weekend. What are you planning to do?” I asked in keigo Japanese after Mrs. Okuma had departed.

  “Oh, enjoy some late nights dancing.” She looked at me loftily, as if she saw me as the kind of girl who stayed home on weekend evenings.

  “Where do you like to go?”

  “Gas Panic. Why?”

  “Just curious.” That was the place where Tyler Farraday had been last seen alive. I wondered if Miyo, with her penchant for English-speaking males, would have known him.

  “You’re curious about a lot of things, aren’t you?” Miyo retorted.

  “Isn’t it the place where that cute gaijin model died?”

  “What are you talking about?” Miyo blinked.

  “A cute male model. His first name was Tyler. I think he did some work for the store.”

  “Oh, yes. Tyler Farraday was American, and he was in a photo portfolio of fall men’s bags. They pulled it, because he died.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “Well, I saw him a lot around here. He used to come up and try to get shopping help sometimes. But he was okama, you know?” She wiggled her hand.

  She was using the Japanese word for the rice that has scorched on the bottom of the pot. For reasons that were not obvious to me, it was also a slang expression meaning a gay man. It was a silly word, and belittling—but also mysterious.

  “How did you know him?” Miyo looked at me.

  “Well, there was a time I was considering modeling as a career, and he gave me a few words of wisdom—“

  Miyo interrupted me, sputtering with laughter. “You? Modeling?”

  “Of course he discouraged me—I’m simply too short. I decided that since I love clothing, I should try to work inside a department store, though unfortunately I haven’t had the advantage of all the experience you’ve had here. How many years is it again, Miyo-san, eight or ten?” I could dig back just as hard.

  “Five,” she said crisply. “I would be in retail management by now, if the job wasn’t just a year-by-year contract position.”

  I shot a sideways glance at her. She was frowning. Carefully I said, “Do you believe we’re discriminated against?”

  “Of course! This is Japan, and you’re a half, and I’m a full-blooded Korean, no matter that I’m the second generation in my family born here.”

  “But there are other contract workers here, one hundred percent Japanese, who are in the same economic situation.”

  “I understand that, but they don’t care.” Miyo’s voice had an edge to it that went even beyond her usual nastiness.

  “Why?”

  She looked at me as if I were incredibly stupid. “This is something you do for a little while, and then you get married. Some girls work here entirely because of the discount.”

  “So do you think the rise in discount percentage is going to be really popular?” I was skillfully, slowly drawing Miyo out, so that when a tall westerner with limpid brown eyes and dark curly hair approached our desks, I was annoyed.

  “Irrashaimase!” In one smooth movement, we jumped to our feet and bowed. It was the first time Miyo and I had ever done anything in harmony.

  “I’ll take him,” Miyo murmured, her lips already curving into a smile.

  “I’m searching for a present for my daughter,” the man announced in a lovely burr. “Do you reckon you could help me find the right size kimono for a six-year-old?”

  My gaze shot to his right hand, because that was where the Irish were supposed to wear their wedding rings. There was a silver band there. I saw Miyo looking at it, too.

  Miyo said in her stiff English, “What a nice gift. Rei-san knows a lot about kimono.” In Japanese she added to me, “Okuma-san asked me to go through a list of all our past customers and telephone the ones who haven’t come in lately. I’ll work on that here, and why don’t you assist our honorable customer.”

  Miyo had no interest in married men with chil
dren, I thought as I led the attractive father up to the seventh floor, where traditional Japanese goods were sold. Miyo was out for someone unattached, someone who could become more than a boyfriend. Figuring out Miyo’s psyche cheered me; it made me feel that I had something to use sometime, though I wasn’t sure how.

  My time looking at kimono with Mr. O’Connell, as he turned out to be called, started off quite well. I learned all about his daughter, a fairy princess of a girl who lived with his wife in Dublin. Together, we chose a lavender kimono patterned with cherry blossoms, because he’d said her favorite colors were purple and pink. Mrs. Ono, the lady who’d been in charge of outfitting the new hires, came out of the nearby alterations department and unsmilingly watched me attempt to choose the correct size.

  “Is she about this tall?” I put my hand at my waist.

  “No, here.” He laid his hand flat in the air, but close enough to my body that it accidentally brushed my breasts. “Sorry.” He grinned, and I caught my breath in shock. The touch apparently wasn’t accidental; I had my own ideas about what I would have done to the guy if we were outside the department store, but I needed to keep my job.

  Mrs. Ono, who was suddenly between us, said, “The average Japanese six-year-old is about as tall as that girl in the corner, looking at the dolls’ dresses. Is your daughter about that size?”

  I was surprised at the facility of Mrs. Ono’s English, and also at the way she’d stepped in to help. When Mr. O’Connell was gone, I thanked her profusely.

  “He was trouble, neh.” Mrs. Ono’s disapproving mouth was pinched as tightly as the pickled plum on the rice Mr. Mitsuyama had decided to spot-check a few days earlier.

  “Thank you for taking over with him. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been close by.”

  She nodded. “The other morning, your coworker Han-san mentioned that you have many troubles.”

  “How so?” I asked apprehensively.

  “You found trouble with your uniform and took it home to mend.” Her pursed lips dropped into a grievous frown.

  How bitchy of Miyo to tattle on me to the alterations czar! “I know it’s not supposed to be done, ordinarily, but I know a little about sewing—”

  “Ah so, desu ka,” Ono said. “That’s good. Not many young women know how to sew anymore.”

  “Well, I need to because I collect vintage—” I’d been about to say kimono, but I remembered that Mrs. Taki had said they were considered dirty and déclassé. “I collect vintage textiles and often must make small repairs by hand.”

  “Hand sewing. Very good, fine work.” Mrs. Ono nodded. “Tell me, what are your plans next Tuesday?”

  “It’s my day off, actually. I have nothing planned.”

  “Why don’t you come with me to Asakusa for harikuyo.” Her words sounded more like an order than an invitation; the only problem was that I had no idea what I was being invited to.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m so new here I’m not yet familiar with harikuyo.” How I hoped this was not a simple thing every Japanese woman should know!

  “It’s got nothing to do with Mitsutan, exactly—it’s the broken needle festival, celebrated all over the country.” She shook her head. “Of course, the younger generation doesn’t necessarily know about it. But if you sew, you should. During this day, all seamstresses bring their worn-out needles to rest peacefully at the temple. There, we will show respect to our needles for their hard work of the last year, and pray for the power and energy to persevere in this new year.”

  “It sounds remarkable. Yes, I’d love to go.” Even though I wasn’t a real seamstress, I would take all the spiritual help possible to get through the next few weeks. And I was touched that this prickly older woman had invited me out—she was my first colleague at Mitsutan to do so.

  Mrs. Ono nodded, looking satisfied. “Let’s meet at the Asakusa Kannon bell at eleven. I recommend that you wear kimono. I’ll be wearing mine.”

  15

  The rest of the week sped by. I’d never worked harder, and at night I had no energy left for Tokyo’s high life. I supposed that it was just as well. Thursday night, instead of going out with Richard for happy hour, I stayed home to fiddle with the listening station. Despite my having installed a bug at Comme des Garçons, the listening station was not spilling forth conversations about fashion, financial transactions, or even what the salesgirls were going to do that weekend. All I heard was static.

  By nine, I was feeling frustrated enough to phone Michael. Seven in the morning in Washington, and he wasn’t at home or at the office. Now that I was gone, he was taking it easy, probably breakfasting in bed with the gorgeous blond girlfriend, showing up at the office at nine.

  My annoyed thoughts were interrupted by my own phone trilling in the classic Japanese double-beep. I picked it up on the second ring, answering in the higher-pitched voice that I’d adopted since coming to Mitsutan.

  There was no sound.

  “Brooks?” I asked.

  Michael drew in his breath sharply. “You didn’t sound like yourself!”

  “I guess my cover’s becoming reality,” I said, realizing that this was the first time I’d spoken English since my embarrassment with Mr. O’Connell. The words came a fraction more slowly, and I realized, for the first time, how sharp-edged English sounded.

  “So, what’s new?”

  “Well, as I e-mailed you earlier, my first device is in place. But I can’t seem to pick up any sound on my receiver.”

  “Really.” Michael sounded almost blasé. “And what’s the situation at the store right now? Is anyone working?”

  “No, the doors closed at eight.”

  “So what you’re hearing is the sound of silence.”

  “But I’m supposed to be able to hear things that were said earlier!”

  “Look at the left side of the machine. Is the green light on?”

  It turned out that I’d never activated the record feature. Michael told me I could leave it on, or start it up the next morning, before I left for work. I opted to leave it on, because chances were I’d forget the next morning.

  “I’m such an amateur,” I said.

  “Don’t feel bad. This is your first experience with devices, and everybody takes a while getting used to them. And it’s good you’ve got the hang of it early. You know, the store’s board of directors is probably going to discuss the proposal from Supermart in the next few days.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Well, I don’t really know. I’m guessing it’s likely, because a story in the Asian Wall Street Journal reported that Jimmy DeLone is veering away from Wako and Mitsukoshi. I’d like you to get a listening device into the Mitsutan boardroom next.”

  “I’d like to as well. The only problem is that the boardroom is in a privately owned building somewhere in Shinagawa. I can’t possibly come up with an excuse to get over there.” I paused. “Mrs. Okuma went there today, so she probably will go again sometime. And she’s so absentminded, it’s possible that I could send a bug over with her and let her leave it there by mistake.”

  “It’s an idea,” Michael said. “But they probably clean up papers after each meeting. On the other hand, if you could get a bug on any of the store big shots, say the Mitsuyamas, your idea would work.”

  “But I can’t see how—”

  “Be creative.”

  I thought for a minute, and said, “Maybe I could get close enough to plant something. Masahiro Mitsuyama goes around the food basement, tasting food and raising hell. And it’s a crowded environment, I could drop something into his pocket—though there’d be no chance to sew it in.”

  “He’d find it,” Michael said. “You need time to work on his clothing, if you’re going for that idea. Does he—or his son, for that matter—tend to take his jacket off?”

  “Never,” I said. “It’s important for them to preserve formality and show how powerful they are. For all I know, those suits never come off until they undress to
take their nightly bath—but…but…hold on.” A germ of an idea was growing. “There’s a senior management retreat at a hot spring this weekend.” I told Michael that Mrs. Okuma was going to the hot spring resort in Izu.

  “I have Saturday off. Theoretically, I could hop the bullet train and get down there within a couple of hours. But how could I be there?” I wondered aloud. “I have no reason to follow Mrs. Okuma. I hinted already that I’d like to help her, but she dismissed the idea.”

  “You don’t have to be seen,” Michael said. “You spent a week studying how to get around without being noticed. I remember it well.”

  “The Mitsuyamas wouldn’t recognize me, but Mrs. Okuma certainly would. I don’t know about the others. What should my story be?”

  “Before we run around in circles frustrating ourselves, let’s outline whether there even is a logical way to plant a bug down there. You’re facing the same challenges you have in Tokyo, except that once you’re there, I won’t be able to help you much. I’ve never been to a hot spring; I don’t know how they’re set up.”

  “Maybe Okamura Onsen has a website.” Already I was tapping the Mac’s keyboard, getting into the Japanese Yahoo! site. Bingo. Okamura Onsen came up, with both English and Japanese versions of the page available. I told Michael the web address of the English version, and within a few seconds, the two of us were looking at a picture of the sun setting over a rocky beach.

  “Looks like a gorgeous part of Japan. Nice tiled roof on the place, too. But we need to see floor plans. It doesn’t look as if there are any.”

  “There are floor plans on the Japanese-language website,” I interrupted Michael. “Hold on, I’ll give you the link.” I walked him through the picture, telling him which rooms were which. The baths were obvious—they were represented as blue boxes attached to most of the rooms. There was also a communal bath, partly indoors, with the bulk outdoors. The drawing was so detailed I could even see the location of the men’s and women’s dressing rooms.

  “Chances are that at some point in the evening, the men are going to bathe communally,” I said. “That’s when the real business talk will start.”