“Miss Shimura! How surprising that you have a real Japanese family! Now it is so easy and pleasant to leave messages for you.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you earlier,” I said. “The circumstances I’ve been going through have been difficult.”
“No trouble at all, although we have some questions for you, things that need to be followed up.”
“Go ahead.” I was starting to sweat.
“No, we’d rather see you in person. In Shiroyama.”
My chopsticks clattered on the table.
“We can arrange police transportation, or you can travel here on your own. It’s up to you, Miss Shimura.” Captain Okuhara’s disingenuous courtesy flowed over me like a chill rain.
“It’s not a good time for me. The problem is I have a teaching career here, and Shiroyama is very far.” If I showed up, they could incarcerate me immediately, just as they’d done with Hugh.
“But I’m very interested to learn what you were doing at the Nakamura house on Tuesday!”
Only Kenji Yamamoto could have told. I thought briefly about my open ticket back to San Francisco. No, I had to stay calm.
“Of course I’ll come. Just let me ask my boss.”
“We want to see you tomorrow.”
“I’m teaching. I must fulfill my commitment before I can come. I’ll be there this weekend, most definitely.” I could bring him the disc with the marketing plan for Taipei and whatever Joe Roncolotta had to offer me Friday night.
He was silent for a while, then spoke. “No evasion, Miss Shimura. No tricks. They’ll be watching for you at the airport.”
“They’ll be very bored.” I hung up before he could make me commit to anything more. Then, ignoring Aunt Norie’s exclamations, I went in the bathroom and threw up.
29
The next morning, I zipped over to Roppongi Hills before eight to get Hugh’s laptop. I decided to brazen my way past the front desk without saying anything.
“Shimura-sama?” The concierge’s language was as polite as possible, his bow very deep. “In order that you don’t suffer any trouble, you should know that TBS television usually arrives in the next fifteen minutes for their stakeout. The side exit may be more convenient.”
Hurrying down the hall toward Hugh’s apartment, I wondered at the strangeness of the incident, how the man had known me and where I was headed. Big Brother, I thought as I picked up a small stack of newspapers and letters that had piled up outside Hugh’s door. There was a smell to the place that I had forgotten, a mixture of leather furniture, pine-scented cleaner, and something indefinable. A gray wool sweater was tossed across the couch along with one of the American phone books. I could picture him lying there, plodding through it.
The small Nichiyu water heater on the kitchen counter was still plugged in, so I hit the re-boil button and brewed myself a cup of Darjeeling. Searching for milk in the fridge, I found a bottle of Cristal champagne and a basket of perfect hothouse strawberries. He had obviously been planning something delicious.
I drank the tea as I went into the study and collected the laptop. There were too many discs to fit in the laptop’s padded case, so I put them in an empty Paul Smith shopping bag I found in the bedroom closet. In the kitchen, I put my cup in the dishwasher and although it was only half-full, started it.
The Japanese word for nostalgia, natsukashii, is touched with more sadness than joy. This kind of melancholy swept over me now. I knew suddenly that Hugh might never come home to pull on his sweater or drink a cup of tea or make love to me again, given what Okuhara had learned about our break-in at the Nakamura house.
I heard myself making a gasping noise I barely recognized as crying, I hadn’t done it for so long. I sat at the kitchen table with Hugh’s Asian Wall Street Journal still open and cried a river that could have floated me back to Shiroyama. I understood now why I should have run from Hugh: because the problem with caring about someone was the pain it brought, the possibility of loss.
Somewhere, the phone was ringing. I went to the living room and grabbed the cordless off the glass table before realizing how rashly I was behaving. If the reporter from News to You was on the other end, he’d have a nice tape to air of a blubbering mistress.
“Who’s there?” Hugh asked. “Rei, is that you?”
“How did you know?” I let out a sob of relief.
“Well, I was actually calling in to check my messages. If you had let the telephone go on ringing, the machine would have picked up.”
“I’ll hang up if you want.”
“No, no. So you moved in! But why are you crying?”