The Salaryman's Wife(110)

“This is the contract I drafted. If you like, you can bring it to a lawyer first.” Mr. Ishida held out a packet of papers.

I shook my head. Hugh wouldn’t be able to make heads or tails of it, and Mr. Ota had more serious matters on his agenda. I also knew the price was astronomical for a cheap pine box not even 150 years old.

“If you give me a line-by-line reading of what it says, I’ll sign now.”

Mr. Ishida began, and the joy in his voice as he went through the dry words was apparent. Not even the knocking of a customer at the door would make him hurry.

As I pulled out a ballpoint pen to sign the document, he shook his head.

“Don’t you have a hanko?” He was talking about my personal name stamp. A hanko was considered more secure than a handwritten signature; it also had its roots in hundreds of years of tradition.

“Of course.” I dug around in my bag and found the slim, capped stick with my name carved out of rubber. My father had given it to me as a good-luck present for my new life in Japan.

“Ambition. An auspicious kanji to celebrate the start of a new career,” Mr. Ishida said, surveying the first character in my surname.

I blushed and merely said, “Okage samade”; because of you, the ritual way to show gratitude toward others for your own success. I’d been running around like a lunatic while Mr. Ishida and Taro Ikeda had spent time analyzing my purchase. I’d have to find a way for them to be credited.


Outside St. Luke’s, a thick crowd of reporters greeted me. After a bath at Karen’s and a run through her closet, I was a new woman wearing a white leather trench coat over a cream-colored stretch satin evening dress she had borrowed from a magazine shoot. “Don’t even think of staining this outfit!” my friend warned while I swore up and down nothing would happen. Now I tugged the skimpy coat over my thighs and refused the shouted questions about my accident at Minami-Senju Station and hurried into the warmth of the hospital.

“A vegetarian who wears leather. How refreshing,” Hugh said when I arrived at his bedside.

As I slipped off the coat, he stared at the sleek evening dress. “Whose is it? This isn’t your usual.”

“Karen’s. Well, it really is on loan from Classy.” I was glad he was focusing on my clothes. I had decided not to tell him about the motorcycle attacker, because I had a feeling if he knew he wouldn’t let me out of his sight.

“What I mean is—” he sighed at the language gap that remained between us—“who designed the dress? It’s not your usual tomboy or missionary drag. Come closer so I can have a good look.”

“It’s an Hervé Léger.” I suddenly felt very naked.

“You look like a kinky bridesmaid.” His face didn’t tell me whether it was a success or a disaster. “All those straps and cut-out patches.”

“Karen said that because it’s expensive and French that makes it all right, but I don’t know—”

“It depends on what you’re doing, and with whom.” He slipped his hand into the bodice, and I shivered as his fingers glided over my bare skin.

“Someone’s taking me to the black-and-white party at TAC.”

“This is a game you’re playing with me, right?” Hugh asked, pulling his hand away. “A jealousy thing.”

“No, this is just a man I met who’s got a lead for me about the American—”

“Who’s the guy?”

“Joe Roncolotta.”

Hugh was silent for a minute. When he spoke, he sounded cranky. “Since when have you been pals with the czar of the gaijin business establishment?”

“I called him up a few weeks ago. We’ve had dinner once. He’s helping me.”

“Given his age and girth, I suppose he’s harmless enough. But he can’t give you anything on the American that I don’t have.”

“What do you mean?” I lounged precariously on the bed, afraid to wrinkle the dress by sitting.

“The deal I made with Nakamura last night was rather simple. After I promised not to report him to Sendai, he agreed to abandon his plans for the sale of the Eterna battery. He will also tell Captain Okuhara we entered the house with his permission. Finally, he’s delivered what we needed all along: Setsuko’s father’s letters.”

“Are they real?” I asked, thinking of Mr. Ishida’s handwriting expert.

“They’re in their original envelopes, all postmarked from Texas over a period of twenty-five years. Kind of hard to fake that, I think. These were the valuables Setsuko was keeping in the safe.”

“He knew about her father?”