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The Salaryman's Wife(115)

By:Sujata Massey


I started walking again, sorry that I hadn’t taken the taxi all the way home. To return to Mr. Waka’s shop, I’d have to run toward my stalker. Where was Kenji Yamamoto tonight? I wondered. Or Keiko’s yakuza friends?

I slipped off Karen’s shoes and took them in my hands so I could walk faster. The street was freezing cold and rough against my feet, with disgusting wet spots that soaked through my pantyhose. As the footsteps fell faster behind me, I spun around and a slight figure leaped into the gas company’s doorway. He was shorter than Joe Roncolotta and Yamamoto, but maybe it was the man who had tried to run me over with the motorcycle.

“Yamete,” I said loudly. Quit it. There was no response. I broke into a run, my apartment looming like a beacon just fifty feet away. I made it in and took the stairs two at a time, cursing the fact there was no lock on the vestibule door. My stalker could run up the stairs behind me if he wanted.

When I turned the key into the lock of my door and tell inside, I was trembling so violently that Richard got up from eating an octopus–corn pizza with Mariko and put his hand on my forehead.

“What is it? The flu or something? Poor baby—”

“No, it’s the guy who rode the motorcycle at the train station. He came back to get me,” I said as I ran to the telephone and dialed 110. An English-speaking officer came on halfway through my conversation with the sergeant who had answered the call.

“Excuse me, miss, but how long will you remain in Japan?”

“I’m not a tourist, I live here!” I gave my name and street address again. When they realized I was the Friday girl who had been involved in an accident at Minami-Senju station earlier, the English-speaking officer asked if Hugh Glendinning was with me. I said no.

The policeman decided to dispatch a car to my street, all the while warning me an arrest would be unlikely, given that it wasn’t a crime for a person to walk around at night. “Unless, of course, the person is carrying a weapon—in our country, unlike yours, guns are not allowed!” the officer huffed.

I hung up and asked Richard to make me tea. He gave me a can of Pocari Sweat, insisting the soft drink’s ionization action would settle me better than caffeine. But I didn’t want to sleep.

We sat by the window with the lights off watching for the stalker. All that appeared was the police cruiser, which double-parked in a manner so obvious and unusual that lights started snapping on in neighboring windows. Two cops got out. They peered in doorways and roused a few street people, but left after twenty minutes with nothing to show for it.

“When you came in, he must have given up. He probably was just a lecher who followed you from the station,” Richard told me.

“But I only noticed him on our street. It was almost like he was here first, waiting for me to arrive.”

“The guy was probably sent by Keiko,” Mariko said grimly. “Earlier this evening I called Esmerelda at the bar. She said a punk wearing a motorcycle helmet showed up asking for payment.”

So the attack was Keiko’s doing and had nothing to do with Joe Roncolotta or Kenji Yamamoto. I should have told the police…or would that have made things worse? I felt clammy and realized that I was sweating into the Léger. Karen would kill me if I stained it. I shooed Richard and Mariko back to their room, then undressed and gently sponged the arm holes with a mixture of water and baby shampoo.

The silk felt good under my fingers; it really was a nice dress. And what my mother always told me about quality fabrics had proven true. The material was implausibly unwrinkled, even after my battles with the piranhas of the Tokyo American Club and the phantoms of the East Tokyo streets.





32


I hit the alarm clock’s SNOOZE button twice before struggling into a sitting position at six-thirty on Saturday. I couldn’t figure out why I was awake. Through blurred eyes, I saw the evening dress on its hanger and the memory of my wild night came back.

I turned on all possible sources of heat—my kerosene heater, the water tank, broiler, and range—before showering fast and sliding into jeans and Hugh’s white shirt, which had been washed and ironed by someone. Richard didn’t usually do my laundry. I chuckled a little as I made coffee and dialed California.

My father picked up the phone on the second ring.

“It’s Rei on the telephone, Catherine! She’s all right.” Then he started in on me. “Rei-chan, there’s a crazy rumor about your name being on Japanese television! Eric Hanada saw something on cable, and his granddaughter says she’s going to mail a magazine called Friday with you on the cover.”

“Baby, it’s time for you to come home.” My mother had gotten on another extension. “Cash in that ticket we sent you last year or just buy a new one—”