Zen Attitude Read online

  “Running is very good for your aerobic capacity. I can tell you have a problem with endurance, from the way you were gasping when you caught up to me just now. You need to start slowly. Run until you can’t stand it, then walk, and start running when you get your breath back. It’s simple.”

  It was a beautiful and peaceful place, this secret trail in Kamakura. No one would see me if I stopped, gasping for air. No one except Akemi Mihori, a former national judo champion.

  “It’s hard for me to meet people.” Akemi stubbed her shoe against the trail. “Japanese women my age have all sold themselves to the highest bidders and are staying home with their babies. The only people I have around are guys like my trainer, the one you saw me working out with this afternoon.”

  I thought she must be pretty lonely to have opened herself like that to me. Feeling tentative, I asked if she had plans for Saturday night.

  “Nothing. Why?” She sounded startled.

  “I’m having a party. I sent your mother an invitation, but I doubt she’s coming now. You should come—it might be interesting for you.” I was going to say, You might meet someone, but decided that would be overbearing.

  “I’m not much good at parties.”

  “It won’t be your typical Japanese party; there will be tons of foreigners. Have you ever been to a party with foreigners?” Hugh would be charming to her, although she would probably consider him a “high bidder” of the most repulsive sort. At least there would be others.

  “But I’m vegetarian! I cannot eat your Western diet.”

  “I’m vegetarian, too. We have something in common!” Strangely, I was delighted by this.

  She gave me a half smile. “Okay, I might attend. As long as you come back later this week to try running with me.”

  “If your mother sees me—”

  “She and Tanaka-san are going into Tokyo to buy supplies for the tea convention. Neither of them will know you were here.”

  What was I doing, making steps toward a friendship that I really didn’t have time for? Given my business troubles, I should be doing nothing but work. I also doubted I’d be in shape to run more than half a lap. But Akemi’s eyes were pleading. I nodded and submitted my hand to another crushing handshake.

  Chapter 5

  Back at Roppongi Hills, I found Hugh asleep on the sofa with pages of The Asian Wall Street Journal strewn over him.

  “Where’ve you been? I canceled my evening meeting to be here with you,” he murmured when I gently pulled off the newspaper.

  “I can’t unload the tansu.” I stared at the bridal chest, still smack in the center in the living room. “Can we at least get it out of here? I don’t want to look at it.”

  “Let’s move it into the study, then. Maybe my brother can use it for his gear.” Hugh stood up and stretched.

  “Angus!” I had almost forgotten about the impending visitor.

  “He’ll be at the airport early tomorrow afternoon. Is that still okay? I assumed your tansu problems would be over and you’d be able to fetch him,” Hugh said as we began moving each section of drawers into the study, a room already crowded with a fax machine, two computers, and the guest futon.

  “My problems are far from over.” After we restacked the furniture in a place near the window, I sank down on the futon and told him everything: Hita Fine Arts’ refusal to take responsibility for the tansu, Mr. Sakai’s disappearance, and Nana Mihori’s humiliating rejection.

  “So you ran around all day and showed no gain for it,” Hugh said, rubbing the spot between my shoulders that had tensed with worry. “Sounds like my day. Sometimes I wonder why I’m still working in Japan.”

  “Well, you probably earned lots of money today. All I made was a new friend. Akemi Mihori.”

  “The sportswoman?”

  “Yes, the one who was in the Seoul Olympics. I think she’s lonely, because she invited me to go running with her the day after tomorrow, and she might come to our cocktail party.”

  “Running? As in moving one’s feet quickly?” Hugh paused. “Darling, you can’t go from complete inactivity to marathons! If you want to take exercise, try my rowing machine.”

  “I don’t believe in indoor workouts,” I said, feeling vaguely insulted. “In fact, I’m going to run around the park tomorrow to practice.”

  “Tomorrow’s forecast is up in the nineties. It’s not the day to start running, especially for someone who isn’t the world’s greatest athlete.”

  “I’m doing it anyway. I have to.”

  Hugh kissed me. “Think about it tomorrow morning. In the meantime, you need a relaxing bath followed by a massage. Let me show you what I learned in Thailand.”

  The massage led into something even better. I relaxed beautifully, but we overslept the next morning and had just twenty minutes for a rushed cup of tea before Hugh drove off to work. I was still determined to run. Not having proper workout clothing, I slipped on one of Hugh’s Marks and Spencer undershirts, a pair of shorts, and the stained sneakers I usually wore for furniture-refinishing jobs. I took the subway to Yoyogi Park, a huge, manicured expanse of green with smooth cement paths. After some cursory stretches remembered from a long-ago gym class, I set off, pacing myself against an old man. Within a few minutes, my heart felt as if it might explode. I slowed to a walk, as Akemi had recommended, and my breath came back. I started jogging again, the old man now being a quarter mile ahead.

  I’d heard that running could clear your mind, put you in a blissful trance. It didn’t happen for me. All I could do was mourn the fact that I hadn’t done anything with my body in the last six months outside of sex, which obviously didn’t work enough muscle groups to count. The other park exercisers were overtaking me, even a group of mothers walking with their toddlers. I would have died of embarrassment had I not already been dead from the heat.

  In the end, I had no idea of my mileage but suspected it was low. I’d run about seven minutes and walked twenty. I repaired to a soft-drink machine, from which I bought a frigid can of Aquarius, an “ionization beverage” supposedly designed for athletes. I didn’t know how I would survive a workout with Akemi.

  After dragging my tired bones home, I showered and set about organizing the rest of my day. Because a big chunk would be taken up traveling to and from Narita Airport, I had only a couple of hours to locate Mr. Sakai’s moving company. The English-language telephone directory didn’t cover Hita, so I had to call Information. I was talking with an unhelpful operator when my call waiting beeped. I said good-bye and switched over to the new call.

  “It’s Jun from Hita Toyota.” There was a lot of static; he was probably on his car phone.

  “Elvis!” I said without thinking. “How are you?”

  “I’ve found someone very important. Your buyer.”

  “For the tansu?” I was confused.

  “Yes, I’ve found the car buyer you were looking for. We’re on the east side of Tokyo. Can you meet us?”

  Someone was in the car with him. That was the only explanation for him replacing the word tansu with car. “Do I know this person?”

  “Yes, you do. He’s here for a limited time.” Jun’s voice was heavy with meaning.

  “Sakai?” I breathed sharply. “Jun-san, how did you get him into your car?”

  “Not now. I’ll explain when you get here. I don’t know Tokyo well. I’ve been driving around in circles—”

  I thought it over. “You said you were on the east side? Go to Ueno Park. There will be signs for it everywhere. I can meet you in half an hour there by the main entrance.”

  “Got it. We’ll probably be parked illegally, so come as fast as you can.”

  While Yoyogi was a modern, sunny place to run, Ueno was shady and historic and had considerable urban flavor. In fact, the steps leading to the park’s south entrance had in recent years become a hangout for men from the Middle East in search of “3K” jobs: kitsui, kitanai, and kiken, meaning hard, dirty, and dangerous jobs no one else wanted. Jap
anese police had begun throwing these foreigners out of the country, ostensibly for overstaying their visas but really because of a public outcry over foreigner-related crime. Ueno Park was no longer a safe place for black-market laborers to congregate, so I was startled to be approached by a man with dark curly hair.

  “Need a telephone card? I’m selling ten cards for two thousand yen! Fully charged, perfect for telephoning overseas.”

  I paused, remembering my perpetual troubles mustering up change for the pay telephone. Legitimate telephone cards cost one thousand yen each—more than eight dollars for maybe thirty minutes of local phone calls. Black-market phone cards were a better deal, but if I were caught using one, I could be imprisoned or sent back to San Francisco. I shook my head and went into the park, intent on finding Jun.

  Where was he? I scanned the families strolling to the zoo and student groups going to the Tokyo National Museum. I sat down on the bench closest to the park entrance and waited. After a minute there was a rustling in some bushes and Jun Kuroi emerged, his smooth pompadour covered with bits of stick and leaf.

  “You took long enough!” he chided. “The dude on the steps was bothering me, so I had to change location.”

  “You’ve got Sakai? Really, truly?”

  “Yesterday evening I was hanging in the head office when a telephone call came from another Toyota dealer. Apparently Sakai went there trying to get rid of his eighty-six Corona Grand Saloon. They didn’t want to take his car and were checking if we might be interested. Sure, I said, and got them to put Sakai directly on the line. I told him if he brought me the Corona, I could trade it for something else with no paperwork required. It made no sense, but he’s a greedy fellow. I picked him up at the cheap hotel where he was staying in Yokohama and told him we’d need to stop in Tokyo for the new car.”

  “How clever,” I said, although I was starting to feel nervous. For the past forty-eight hours all I’d focused on was the need to find Nao Sakai. Aside from waving Mr. Ishida’s appraisal in his face, I hadn’t figured out how I’d convince him to give me my money back. My worries grew as I followed Jun into a side street lined with rickety wooden houses that looked as if they had been built before the war.

  “I left him in there with the childproof lock on,” Jun said, gesturing to his car perched squarely on the tiny strip of sidewalk, so at least traffic could get by. “He was getting suspicious about not going straight to the buyer’s home. But you’ll know how to handle things, neh?”

  “He’s still in there,” I said, squinting at the shape of a man in the front passenger seat.

  “Of course. I locked the doors.”

  When I reached the passenger door, I noticed Mr. Sakai was leaning his head against the window. This didn’t surprise me, because Japanese people have a talent for sleeping anywhere. Pass any taxi stand, and most of the drivers will be reclining with little masks over their eyes. On the train, commuters slide into seats and their heads bob downward, miraculously rising when their home station is announced.

  “He shouldn’t be sleeping! Not with something as exciting as the prospect of a new car!” Jun opened the driver’s door and leaned across to address his passenger. “Sakai-san! Wake up, please. I have someone to meet you.”

  Mr. Sakai didn’t respond. Jun reached over to touch his shoulder, and he fell sideways like a soft rag doll. He was wearing the same shirt I’d seen him in at Hita Fine Arts, but it was deeply wrinkled. My gaze flicked over his clothing and up to his face, which had an odd bluish pallor. His eyes were open, staring straight ahead with a fixed expression.

  “Do you think he’s sick?” Jun sounded nervous.

  “No.” The signs were obvious, and bile rose in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them. Sakai’s corpse still lolled in the seat. I reached across Jun for the car phone, then whisked my hand back. I shouldn’t touch it.

  “W-w-we will do CPR. I learned it in the Boy Scouts,” Jun stuttered.

  “There’s no point, he’s—”

  “Don’t say it!” Jun screamed. “Don’t say it!”

  “I’ll be right back. Don’t move him. And don’t touch anything.” I was already off and running around the corner back to Ueno Station. All I had in my pocket was a thousand-yen note; I’d have to get change or a telephone card in order to call the police.

  In my peripheral vision I saw the telephone card hawker talking to another foreign man. I ran up and gasped out my plea for a telephone card.

  “What are you, undercover?” his friend, whose face was marked with a jagged scar, practically spat at me.

  “No, it’s an emergency. A man—a man is sick. . . .” Somehow I could not say dead.

  “Ay Khoda! No, I do not want your money. Just borrow it.” The second man shoved a telephone card into my hand, and I sprinted for the green public telephone box. I got there, slid the card in, and dialed 110. The card slid back out. I realized then that 110 was a free call—there was a red button I could press to go directly to fire, police, or ambulance. I made my request, dimly aware that the man who had followed me was shouting something to his friend. By the time I’d gotten off the phone and turned around to give the telephone card back, both men were gone.

  Chapter 6

  Jun Kuroi had been a Boy Scout and the manager for his high school judo team. He gave to Unicef and he helped his grandmother with her garden every weekend. He started listing his accomplishments when a police squad car and an ambulance converged on us five minutes later, but the police were more interested in what had happened in the last half hour.

  “The car was parked with the air-conditioning off,” Jun confessed. “If he became overheated, he did not have me to help him. It was a terrible mistake!”

  It had been warm in the car, but even if Mr. Sakai could not unlock the door, he could have called for help. On the other hand, if he had been hit with a massive heart attack, he might not have had the energy.

  “You will make your statement at the police station. Just a formality,” a patrol officer who looked as if he was barely out of training assured us.

  “Actually, I need my car for work,” Jun protested when a city tow truck arrived and began hooking up the Windom.

  I looked at him, startled. Had he really intended to drive back to Hakone in a car in which someone had died?

  “But we need to examine your car. Police regulations,” the officer said gently.

  Jun’s face fell. He muttered to himself all the way to the North Ueno police station, where we were led into the main waiting area, a sunny room decorated with cartoon posters on the walls and stuffed animals on the desks. It was as cheerful as a kindergarten, and, sitting there, I felt as powerless as a child. I could explain that my pursuit of Nao Sakai and his sudden death were coincidental, but why would anyone believe it? It was like telling a teacher that you really did your homework, but unfortunately the dog ate it.

  Jun and I wound up telling our story several times: first in separate rooms, then together. At present, six men representing the North Ueno police, the park’s patrol, and the Tokyo Metropolitan Police were conferring in a private office. Jun and I remained in the happy kindergarten waiting room.

  “The wife is coming. They radioed she’s in the area,” the junior constable told us between chews of apple-scented gum.

  “You found her?” I was amazed. “I thought the Sakais moved without leaving any forwarding address!”

  “A call was made to Sakai’s brother in Kawasaki, who knew where she was staying. The police picked her up and drove her in.”

  His mention of the brother-in-law reminded me of Angus Glendinning. I looked at my watch. I should have picked him up at Narita Airport half an hour ago. He would be alone and helpless.

  I wasn’t sure that my guard would allow me an unsupervised phone call. In any case, I didn’t want him looking at my black-market telephone card. Forcing my face into a shy expression, I begged permission to use the honorable hands-washing room. The guard rolled his eyes a
t my feminine euphemism but ultimately pointed me in the right direction.

  There was a pay telephone in the alcove outside the rest rooms. I slid my telephone card in, dialed, and was sent straight to Hugh’s voice mail where I left a message about my location and my sincere apologies for missing Angus.

  I returned to the waiting room, where Jun was twisting restlessly in his seat. I wanted to give him the hint about the telephone but obviously couldn’t in front of the policeman. There was no point in talking about anything, so I tried to calm myself by watching the station’s caged canaries. I stared at the fluffy yellow and green birds, wondering at their presence in a no pets-allowed zone, until I decided they were probably working members of the police team. Canaries expired from the slightest whiff of poison gas, a major fear in Japan. These canaries were singing now, but in the case of a terrorist attack, they would be the first to die.

  I didn’t want to think about death. I jerked my attention to the wall and began trying to read a poster on bicycle safety. With my poor kanji knowledge, it took me a good half hour to get through it.

  The police station’s automatic doors slid open, and two cops entered the room with someone between then. A woman, I deduced from the back view of her pageboy hairstyle.

  “Sakai-san, I regret the terrible news.” The North Ueno chief of police emerged from his office, bowing to the woman. She turned toward him to acknowledge the condolence, and my breathing stopped for a split second. Her face was dominated by a large black mole.

  The woman was the customer who had bid against me for the tansu. Shock and outrage mixed inside me, but this woman, who I now understood was Mrs. Sakai, didn’t notice. Her watering eyes were focused on the police chief.

  “Your journey from Kawasaki City must have been very tiring,” the chief said in a low voice. “Please come with me to the office. My assistant will bring you a drink.”

  “Sakai-sama!” Without warning, Jun Kuroi left his chair and knelt before Mrs. Sakai. “I was with your husband. How terribly sorry I am that he became ill while a passenger in my car. I wanted to resuscitate him, but my friend thought it was too late—”