The Salaryman's Wife(119)

“Sure. There’s a private post office box number right there.”

I had gone to Kawasaki looking for a house when the post office was what I’d needed to find all along. The post office, which was probably harboring more mail for Setsuko, the last vital clue to her past.

“I didn’t know people in Japan even used post office boxes.”

“It’s unusual,” Mr. Waka nodded. “However, many people use the post office for their savings accounts—same rates as the bank and right in the neighborhood!”

“I bank at Sanwa,” I said absently. “I’ve got to go there now—it closes at noon—”

“You’re going to Sanwa Bank?”

“No, the post office!”

“What about your fax?” Mr. Waka asked.

“Could you put it through for me? I’ll pay you when I get back.”

“But this is an international telephone number! I can only fax domestically.” He sucked the air between his teeth, the quintessential can’t-do it gesture.

“What?” I grabbed him by the shoulders. “Please. Can’t you re-set the fax? I’ll pay anything.”

“If I reprogram this, it will be so much trouble—”

“Waka-san, when everything works out the Yomiuri will be interviewing you.”

I put the pages in the proper order with a short note that included my telephone number. I hope I’m not ruining your life, I wrote and signed my name.


As I hurried through the tidy gray streets of Kawasaki, I thought about how the post office was a perfectly logical place for Setsuko to conduct her private mail liaison. It was a convenient stop on the way from Hayama to Tokyo, yet devoid of any chance of running into the neighbors. And she’d kept it for years, shielding her father from the knowledge she’d moved to a very pricey neighborhood.

I’d affixed my wig ahead of time, and riding the bus to the post office, my shiny tresses received a few approving glances. I hoped people would believe a woman my age was likely to have her own mailbox. Post Office Barbie, I thought.

I roamed the post office briefly before I saw the steel block of mailboxes with combination locks. When I located box 63992, I began twisting the dial. It didn’t work. I tried the combination six times before breaking down and taking the code out of my handbag to look at it again. Was there some trick in Japan? Weren’t all combinations right-left-right, the way every gym locker in my lifetime had worked?

Other customers were beginning to watch my struggle, so I gave up and went as innocently as I could to the main desk. I took a number and waited my turn with the others. It was a quarter to twelve when I was called up front.

“Excuse me, but I’m having some trouble getting into my post office box.” I threw up my hands as if that were the silliest thing in the world.

“Box number?” The clerk wearing a trainee button pulled a metal box with index cards from under the counter. Uncomputerized, as much of Japan still was.

“Six-three-nine-nine-two,” I said.

The woman rummaged for a minute, came up with a card, and read it with a sober expression. “Mrs. Ozawa, your box is closed because the last two months’ rent was not paid.”

“I’m sorry, I was away,” I said, which was true enough. “What do I owe you?”

“Eight-thousand yen.”

I winced at the figure and dug fruitlessly into my bag for cash. Why hadn’t I stopped at my bank first?

“I’m sorry, I don’t have that much money with me.” And even if the Japanese post office accepted charge cards, mine said Rei Shimura.

The clerk looked surprisingly sympathetic. “If you like, we could start automatic deductions from your savings account. That way you won’t have this problem again.”

“My savings account?” I asked, feeling slightly giddy. “What a great idea!”

“I can fill out the application for you now—”

She scribbled on a form laden with kanji and pushed it toward me. As I took out a pen she made a command that stopped me cold.

“You must use your hanko.”

I would have looked for Setsuko Nakamura’s name seal in her house if I had known what was coming. As it was, I’d have to bluff and use my own. If I could somehow manage to blur the seal, it might go unnoticed.

I took out my seal and plunged it into the plush ink pad set on the counter. Then I stamped where she indicated, applying more pressure than needed. What I’d made looked like a Rorschach blot; it was pretty hard to make out that it said anything. To my relief the clerk just filed it and gave me a receipt. I stared down at the paper, reading Setsuko’s remaining account balance: 3.2 million yen. Here was the result of all those traded-back dresses, safe from her husband’s hands.