The Salaryman's Wife Page 2

  What riveted me was the fact that her ivory dress was made by Chanel—I quickly discerned from the buttons that it was the real thing. And her jewelry was Japan’s best, a double-strand choker of gleaming pearls with Mikimoto’s trademark gold butterfly clasp. The outfit was too expensive for a typical salaryman’s wife, she’d probably bought everything overseas at a discount. Maybe they were simply rich, the sort who filled the party page of the Tokyo Weekender, the bi-weekly tabloid for expatriates I studied as closely as my antiques journals. As much as I scoffed at Tokyo’s social lions, I was fascinated by them. This woman wasn’t someone I recognized, but she seemed familiar. A memory of the bell-like voice I’d heard before my bath came back.

  The sleek woman was inspecting me, taking in my ancient cashmere V-neck and the velvet leggings I’d thought would be okay for dinner. Her gaze lingered on my feet. Yes, they are larger than yours, that’s good nutrition and my American half, I thought angrily before remembering the tiny hole in my left sock.

  At dinner, Mrs. Yogetsu, the innkeeper, seated the elite couple at the head of the communal table. Mrs. Chapman and I were placed in the middle, surrounded by a sea of empty spaces.

  My dinner tray looked very promising. Buck-wheat noodles swam in broth that smelled deliciously of garlic and ginger. Small porcelain plates were filled with a jewel like assortment of sashimi, as well as sweet black beans, sesame-flecked spinach, lotus root, and other artistically arranged vegetables. The only foods that made me nervous were tiny dried sardines meant to be eaten whole and paper-thin slices of raw meat I suspected was horse, a regional specialty.

  Mrs. Chapman’s whisper drew me away from my worries. “I can’t use chopsticks. Do you think I can get a fork?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s like working a hinge.” Even though grace hadn’t been said, I slipped my chopsticks from their paper wrapper and showed her how to make the subtle, pincer-like movements. As she followed my lead, two new guests slid into the cushioned places across from me. I made a slight nod of greeting to a young salaryman wearing a heavily creased navy suit that looked like a cheap cousin to the senior man’s. After a panicky look, he bowed back. And then I longed to be small enough to fit into my lacquer soup bowl, because settling in right next to him was the naked giant I’d met in the bathroom.

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  He looked good in clothes, too. From beneath my lashes I took in slouchy corduroy trousers and a hand-knit Arran sweater. His hair was wet, so he must have made it into the bath after all.

  “I’m sure to lose circulation in my toes before dessert, don’t you think?” the foreigner said in a hearty tone to the elegant couple.

  “Alcohol helps,” the senior salaryman said. “Drink a lot and you will be able to sit on the floor for hours.”

  “Is that a charming Irish accent I hear?” Mrs. Chapman beamed at the fair-haired man.

  “Scottish. We all sound alike to Yanks,” the man groaned.

  “Mr. Glendinning is from Glasgow, home of all that’s right in the land!” said the young, rumpled-looking salaryman with whom he was sitting.

  “Keep that up and I’ll take you home, Yamamoto-san. Golfing in the afternoon—”

  “And blazing at night!” crowed Mr. Yamamoto, whose manner changed when he turned to the big boss and switched to Japanese. “Mr. Nakamura’s room is not too uncomfortable, is it? And Mrs. Nakamura, she is surely tired after the long train ride. Too many people standing around your seat, neh?”

  “We’re glad to be here, and you made acceptable arrangements,” Mrs. Nakamura replied in near-perfect English, inclining her beautiful face toward the foreigner. “Hugh-san, we Japanese believe that sometimes the simplest things are the most comfortable. And I wanted very much for you to see the nostalgic way of life.”

  As I sucked down the savory noodles and broth, I considered Hugh Glendinning. Although his name was straight out of Brideshead Revisited, his accent wasn’t. I thought about the working-class Glasgow accents I’d heard in the movie Trainspotting and concluded that also didn’t fit. Hugh Glendinning’s rolling Rs and rounded vowels fell into their own uncharted territory.

  “You’re with these people? Did you meet them through one of the tourist agencies?” Mrs. Chapman’s drawl jerked me out of my linguistic reverie.

  “We work together in Tokyo. I’m going through the holidays alone, so Mr. Nakamura and his wife were kind enough to include me on their trip. I drove up separately thinking I would save time. It turned out that I could have read Tale of the Genji in the time it took!”

  He was talking about Japan’s longest and most famous novel, a weighty tome written in the eleventh century that would probably still be sitting on my nightstand in the twenty-first. Somehow, I doubted he’d finished it either.

  “Is that your Lexus in the parking lot?” Mrs. Chapman’s shrewd eyes rested on Hugh Glendinning.

  He grinned. “The export model’s called Lexus—here it’s the Windom. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  “It’s just Jinglish,” I said, and everyone turned to look at me. “You know, the new language created by Japanese people to express cross-cultural ideas. Here, a department store is spelled depaato, and a white-collar worker like you would be called sarariman. Or salaryman.”

  “So what’s the meaning of Windom? It makes no bloody sense,” Hugh complained.

  “Mmm.” His arrogance was bothering me. “Maybe a play on window and kingdom? You own all the views because you have a luxury car?”

  “At least Hugh had a seat,” Mrs. Chapman broke in. “The Japanese trains are terrible. No one gives up their seat to old ladies, and young gals like Rei get molested. To think I was told people in the Orient are so polite!”

  Now that she had everyone’s ear, Mrs. Chapman was unstoppable, plunging into a merciless replay. Thankfully, the young salaryman named Yamamoto manipulated the conversation back to the less volatile territory of Mrs. Chapman’s own life in the United States. I ate my way through the fish and vegetables and took a second helping of rice while she described the retirement life in Destin, Florida, home of the most beautiful white sand beach on earth. Still, there was so much sun it got a little boring, sometimes gave a gal an itch to travel.

  “Is there a Mr. Chapman?” Hugh inquired, picking up the thread. She shook her head and told him she was a widow. As he murmured in sympathy, I noticed Mrs. Nakamura giving her the evil eye. No doubt Mrs. Chapman’s careless comments about meeting Asians through tourist agencies had taken their toll.

  Worried an East-West table war was underway, I started a conversation about the food with a young couple who had joined the table late. Even though I was speaking Japanese, I felt Hugh Glendinning listening. When I tried to discreetly hide my serving of horse under some garnishing leaves, he picked his up and ate with gusto. I wondered if he’d be so happy knowing he was eating something that had once pranced merrily. Then again, I’d heard the Scottish national dish was something like a sheep stomach stuffed with intestines.

  “You do this for a living, don’t you? Talk to people. You teach, or something,” he boomed when I had finally fallen silent.

  “Right. It’s about the best job a foreign woman can get.” I would have preferred a position cataloging Japanese antiques in a small museum, but after six weeks of searching, I got realistic. My two offers were bar hostess or English teacher. I took the job with health benefits.

  “I’ve been meaning to start language training. Tell me, do you work at Berlitz?”

  “No. I’m just a contract employee at a kitchenware company.” I was starting to get embarrassed about being the poorest, most marginal person in the group.

  “Kitchenware. What is it, Tiger, Nichiyu, Zojirushi?” he persisted.

  “Nichiyu,” I said, surprised he knew it.

  “So you’re from Tokyo also. I’m an international solicitor—I think Yanks would call me a lawyer? Mr. Nakamura has been good enough to let me muck about in his department at Sendai. So far, there’ve been no disasters.”<
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  Sendai was known to me as a historic furniture-making town, so I had been surprised to learn it was also the name of an upstart electronics company. Sendai had probably hired him to assist with overseas trade, a dubious prospect given the collapse of the bubble economy.

  “Glendinning-san is a good friend.” There was something oily in Mr. Nakamura’s smile as he nodded toward the Scot.

  “And that’s why we want to share your first New Year’s Eve in Japan,” Mrs. Nakamura added in silvery tones.

  “Setsuko knows it’s a lonely night for me.” Hugh rewarded his boss’s wife with a crooked smile. “In Scotland, New Year’s Eve is the night to end all. And January first is the best day of the year, traditionally the one people took for holiday instead of Christmas.”

  “That sounds un-Christian.” Mrs. Chapman frowned the same way she had at the bath signs.

  “But we have Pagan roots!” Hugh said cheerfully. “In one of the small towns, people still run through the streets with balls of fire, and on New Year’s Eve we drink our way from house to house. Nobody locks their doors because the parties carry on into the morning.”

  “New Year’s Eve is family time in Japan,” said Setsuko Nakamura, including everyone but me in her benevolent gaze. “We spend time with the people we feel close to and dine on New Year’s foods with lucky meanings. For example, these long noodles celebrate the changing of the year. Vegetables and fruits represent the harvest from field and mountain.”

  “Sort of like American Thanksgiving?” Mrs. Chapman looked at her dinner with new curiosity.

  “Not quite. There’s an interest in, how do you say, fertility…the small round things like the black beans and fish eggs are hope for the birth of many children,” Setsuko answered.

  “Fish eggs?” Mrs. Chapman faltered.

  I’d crunched down on the sheet of tiny roe earlier; to me, they were a cheaper version of the Beluga my parents were probably serving at their own celebration in San Francisco.

  “Not enough children are being born,” Mr. Nakamura told us. “The government knows it’s a problem—they pay families who have more than two children some small sum. But it’s barely enough to pay for one bag of groceries.”

  “That’s right, I can’t even think of getting married or having children until I have four million yen in the bank!” Mr. Yamamoto joked.

  “You’ll have to work much harder at Sendai for that to happen. And on your skills with ladies as well.” Mr. Nakamura cackled, and his subordinate flushed with embarrassment.

  “We have the same problem in America,” Mrs. Chapman said. “It costs lots of money to raise kids. But in my opinion, a family just isn’t right without young ones. I raised two of my own and to think I’ve only got one grandchild! She’s my everything.”

  “It’s very sad not to have children. I have not been fortunate.” Setsuko Nakamura’s smile was tremulous.

  “You’re still quite young!” Hugh comforted her.

  “My wife, like a fool, talks too much.” Mr. Nakamura snapped. “She’s like a curse I carry, even on holiday!”

  He spoke in English, so everyone understood. I felt Mrs. Chapman stiffen beside me. Color rose in Hugh’s face, but he said nothing.

  Maybe Mr. Nakamura was just in a bad mood. Still, I thought it was an unforgivable way to talk to your spouse. I sneaked a glance at Setsuko Nakamura, who was delicately cutting the raw meat with her chopsticks. Even though her facial expression remained blank, I sensed something radiating from her, a sharp vibration of pain. Young Mr. Yamamoto began chatting about tourist activities but it was too late to right the awkward stillness that had come over us all.

  After dinner, Mrs. Yogetsu brought a small television into her pristine living room, set it up and left. I settled down amid cushions on the floor with Mrs. Chapman, who was now complaining about the lack of back support. I tried to rig something for her, but she grumbled that she might as well go up to her room for a rest.

  The young couple I’d chatted up at the table plunked down next to me.

  “I travel to your country every year for Honda Motor Company,” said the man whose small, rectangular glasses gave him the look of a friendly owl. “I am Taro Ikeda. My wife Yuki is too shy to speak English.”

  “Actually, I would like to try speaking, if you will help me?” Her hesitant English was instantly endearing. I introduced myself in my native tongue, and they both nodded with approval at my Japanese name.

  “Which kanji do you use to write it?” Taro asked.

  My second name was quite standard, but my first name had over a dozen different meanings, depending on how it was written. It could mean beauty or bowing or coldness or the number zero; the kanji my father had chosen was a lesser-known one that meant something akin to crystal clarity. I had to draw the kanji before they understood.

  “My name means snow. I love snowy weather very much,” Yuki chirped in her schoolgirl’s English.

  “Is it your first trip here?” I asked.

  “No, this is our second trip. We really enjoy ski,” Yuki said.

  “Skiing, Yuki, skiing. And I must mention my hobby of ancient crime,” Taro interjected.

  “You’re into crime?” I asked uneasily. It was a strange hobby for anyone, let alone such a straight-looking young man; by the way Yuki rolled her eyes, you could tell she agreed. But the Japanese were the authors of the world’s most frightening ghost stories, so I understood where his passion might be rooted.

  “This is the ghost capital of Japan! Do you know its great story?” Taro asked.

  I knew Shiroyama’s general history. The town was once the seat of a feudal lord, Geki Uchida, who built a castle admired throughout Japan. And, Taro was telling me, Lord Uchida was the man behind Shiroyama’s growth as a decorative arts center.

  “Lord Uchida made much work for the people, cutting wood for furniture and designing shunkei. I am sorry for my poor English, but I cannot translate it exactly,” Taro said.

  Setsuko Nakamura, who had taken a prime spot at the hearth with Hugh, sighed impatiently. “Shunkei is Shiroyama’s famous lacquer which is used for bowls and tableware. The lacquer is extremely thin that you can see the grain of the wood underneath. Therefore, it is considered beautiful.”

  “Is it possible to find antique shunkei around here?” I was intrigued by the idea.

  “Yes, but I’m certain it would be too expensive for you.” Setsuko’s cold, perfectly shadowed eyes rested on me briefly, then turned back to Hugh.

  “It’s not the lacquer that’s interesting, it’s the ghost story,” Taro grumbled. “Lord Uchida’s eldest son ruled the house after his death, but unfortunately he was a very poor leader. Therefore, a cousin decided to take over. The eldest son was murdered. His family escaped except for one daughter, Miyo, who stayed and tried to fight with the cousin.”

  “Physical fighting?” I asked, a dramatic picture forming in my mind.

  “Like many samurai ladies, she carried a small knife inside her kimono for possible bad situations. She used it on her cousin.” Taro paused, eyes sweeping the crowd to make sure we were all with him. “It was not a deadly wound. His servant took the knife and prepared to execute her, but this cousin had a kind heart and let her live. The shame of failing was too strong for Princess Miyo. She did not want to join her family again. Perhaps they would think the new lord spared her because…” He pursed his lips, and I imagined he was thinking of rape.

  “The soldiers released her outside the castle. She ran to the forest and was never seen again. But over time, some people who have walked in the woods tell stories about seeing a beautiful girl in a fine, old-fashioned kimono. She stands before them and then is vanished. And when it is very windy weather, people like to say Miyo is crying.” Taro Ikeda bowed to applause, his story over.

  “So it’s really mostly superstition,” I said. I didn’t believe half of it, but thought that would be rude to say.

  “Not for me! This is my historical project. I’ve do
ne research at the museums here. With a metal detector, I have searched the forest for evidence of weapons and other things.”

  “He finds only beer cans,” Yuki sniffed.

  “Yes, I was unsuccessful.” Taro didn’t sound upset. “Probably her treasures were taken many years ago.”

  “In my opinion, this conquering cousin sounds quite generous to his enemies. How did he perform as a leader? Was he able to build up the town’s economic base?” Hugh spoke from his halt-sprawled position at the fire. I had grown sick of watching Setsuko go through an elaborate ritual of warming a flask of sake-over the flame before pouring a splash in a tiny lacquer saucer for him. The ritual of a woman caring for her man. Where had Mr. Nakamura gone, anyway?

  Taro shrugged. “Everyone agrees that the new ruler saved the town. He forced the people to concentrate on lumber, work far more important to the future than shunkei lacquer.”

  “Is that true?” I asked Mrs. Yogetsu in Japanese when she came in to refresh Setsuko and Hugh’s sake supply.

  The innkeeper shrugged. “Business is good here. The runaway princess is just a story for tourists. If a daughter existed, she traveled with her family when they left the castle. As any daughter would,” she added firmly.

  I thought about the story as I paged through a guide-book to the Japanese Alps after the crowd drifted away from the living room. The legend was an easy way for the town to romanticize its brutal takeover. The ghostly fate of the princess was pure propaganda, a bit of sweet bean paste smeared over the ending like dessert.

  A handsome man in his fifties with a thick, some-what rakish crown of silver-and-black hair came out of the kitchen. Yuki told him how much she had enjoyed the meal, and I chimed in. The man looked exhausted, but managed a polite bow of thanks before leaving.

  “That man is such a talented chef. I wish my husband cooked,” Yuki complained. Japanese husbands were notorious for not being able to boil water.

  “He is talented. I ate so much it will take days to hike it off,” I exaggerated for the sake of girlish goodwill.