The Salaryman's Wife(10)

“So, I think you are an unusual girl, Rei-san. What about your parents? Why aren’t you with them for the New Year’s holiday?” Yuki asked.

“They’re the last ones I want to see.” I made a face, and when Yuki shushed disapprovingly, I confessed that I didn’t want to spend my few days of vacation listening to them urge me to move back. I was an only child; they could spend unlimited funds and energy on me. Idealism kept me in Tokyo, that and the fear that spending one night back in my cozy featherbed in San Francisco would make it impossible for me to re-emerge. I loved luxury. Forsaking it was one of the things I was proudest of.

“You are strange. Do you want to come skiing with us today?” Yuki asked, drying off.

“Actually, I’m more into temples and museums.” I got out, sucking in my stomach a little.

“Well, then, you must come with us tomorrow when we go to the old city hall. It used to be a court-house and prison for people in the late seventeenth century. There is an interrogation chamber where criminals were tortured. It’s just horrible! Naturally, my husband must take some photographs.”

After we dressed, Yuki asked me to help blow-dry the back of her pageboy and then insisted on trying to restyle my cropped cut. She gave up quickly, saying “I like your hair! It is not typically Japanese!”

I told her about my American mother then, and she sighed. “That is romantic. I can see it in your bone structure.” She pointed at my cheeks. “Strong American character. You are not a typical konketsujin.”

The word which meant hall-blooded person made me flinch. Mr. Katoh, my boss at Nichiyu, had asked about my ethnic background during my job interview and, sounding sad, advised me to keep it to myself. Blue-eyed blond teachers were always flavor of the month and landed the best-paying jobs. Looking Japanese complicated things, perhaps hinted that I was ainoko, a child born from a short-lived, illicit union  . In reality, my mother from Baltimore and father from Yokohama had met in San Francisco at an Isamu Noguchi gallery opening. They’d married fast but had me a very respectable three years later. I had brownish-black hair, a small Japanese nose, and almond-shaped eyes. Still, I was undeniably konketsujin. I hated the word, even spoken by somebody meaning no offense.


The two men faced each other, blocking the hallway as I returned from my bath.

“If I could find my bloody cell phone, we could ring the police.” Hugh Glendinning’s voice rasped as if he’d just been awakened. He was wearing his yukata over pajamas and stood barefoot on the cold wood.

“There’s no reason to go to extremes,” said Mr. Nakamura, also in a robe but at least wearing slippers.

“You’re already up and dressed, Rei.” Hugh turned his sleepy gaze on me. “Have you seen Setsuko, ah, Mrs. Nakamura?”

“The last time I saw her was before her bath last night. You were there.”

“That was around nine, wasn’t it?” Mr. Nakamura hesitated. “I remember now. I was in my room reading. Just before midnight, I came downstairs and went out with Yamamoto.”

“Hold on. Didn’t you tell me your wife had a headache and didn’t want to go to the temple? When did she say that to you?” Hugh moved closer to his colleague, who backed against me in his haste to achieve some distance.

“I did not want to inconvenience anyone in the group with my problem.” Mr. Nakamura coughed, a hacking sound that spoke of cigarette addition.

“What about after you came home from the temple? Did you see her then?” Hugh asked.

“You were so tired that I wanted you to sleep, not to worry.” He coughed again.

“You mean your wife was not in your bed and you didn’t think it odd?” Hugh’s voice rose to an unseemly level for New Year’s morning.

“In Japan, husbands and wives…they have more space between them,” Nakamura said weakly.

Hugh shot a questioning look at me, and I gave a tiny nod. My Aunt Norie had shared a futon with my cousin Tom until he was seven, and many of the mothers who worked at my company did the same. But Mrs. Nakamura didn’t have a child.

“You were booked into the same room here, correct?” It was as if Hugh decided to turn the hall way into his courtroom.

“Certainly, but Glendinning-san, it would not have been polite for me to disturb you last night!”

Hugh looked at the floor for a few seconds. When he spoke again, his voice was flat. “We’ll ask that woman about it.”

“Mrs. Yogetsu,” I supplied.

“Yes, Mrs. Getsu. And I suppose if Mrs. Getsu hasn’t placed your wife in a separate room, we’ll start a search.”