The Salaryman's Wife(14)

“Please ask her to elaborate,” Okuhara ordered after I translated her statement.

“Rei, you saw them.” Mrs. Chapman wiggled around in the kitchen chair that was too tight for her hips. “They didn’t say a word to each other, just spoke to Glendinning and his little Japanese assistant. It was eerie, kind of like they were talking through a medium.”

I knew what she meant. But in a Japanese marriage, the best communication was supposed to take place without words. A wife was supposed to anticipate her husband’s needs and respond to them. What wasn’t normal was the way Setsuko had stiffened, her profound aura of anger mixed with pain.

Captain Okuhara kept me for a few minutes after he was finished with Mrs. Chapman.

“You seem to have a prior relationship with the Englishman. When did you first meet?”

“Around six o’clock on New Year’s Eve.” I didn’t want to go into the exact details of where.

“He said you met at dinner, which according to the sign in the entry hall, is always served at seven.” His voice was as sharp and cold as the icicles I’d seen outside.

“I don’t understand,” I said, hoping to be excused.

“You’re giving a very odd impression, Miss Shimura. It is apparent that either you or Mr. Glendinning is not telling the truth.”

“No! I mean, I had just arrived at the inn. I was in the hallway, getting ready to walk downstairs to the bath. I didn’t see him, but I heard his voice.”

He nodded at last, letting me go.


The five kilometers to the castle’s summit were tougher than I’d expected, a fitting penance for my half-truths to Okuhara. Plenty of ice was packed beneath the snow. Even though I followed in other people’s tracks, there were some unsteady moments as I struggled to the uneven, broken-down stone wall at the summit.

This was the only remnant of the castle foundation. Yuki had warned me it was a sorry-looking ruin that didn’t do the legend justice. Still, the views were good. Around me were the soft colors of old stones and evergreens and below were snow-covered roofs and the highway winding like a dark ribbon down the mountain.

The air was sharp enough to bring tears to my eyes, tears that should have come earlier. I felt disconnected, at a point somewhere above grief and shock and horror. It was a little like sitting in the balcony watching a Kabuki drama unfold beneath me. I had trouble understanding the theatrical dialogue, just as I couldn’t understand the subtext behind Captain Okuhara’s words. Did he suspect I’d done something wrong, perhaps in collusion with Hugh?

Going down, I took the alternate route marked DIFFUCULT through deep snow, following a path marked only by colored rope tied on trees. As I stopped to look at a misted old plum tree that was starting to bud, I heard a crunching sound in the snow behind me. It halted abruptly and started again when I resumed walking. I spun around and saw a tall, slender figure dressed in black. Japanese eyes peered out from a woolen ski mask.

“Miss Shimura, excuse me for what I was doing. These woods are supposed to be dangerous. Bad conditions for injury.” The man pulled the mask off his face and I recognized him as Yamamoto, the young assistant to Mr. Nakamura and Hugh Glendinning.

“You followed me all the way up the mountain?” I was starting to freak out.

“Yes, I walked behind a group, so you did not see.” As the young man moved closer, I noticed how intense his expression was, how powerful his figure seemed looming half a foot over me. He had hit the temple bell with a lot of vigor last night, more than was necessary. A dim sense of unease prickled in me, similar to the feeling I have in certain parts of San Francisco.

“Do you want to talk to me about something?” He could probably smell my fear, the way dogs did.

“Yes. I’m very concerned about the Nakamura situation,” he whispered as if there were people around to hear.

“How so?” I leaned against the plum tree and studied him warily.

“Nakamura-san’s in my room. That’s because the police are searching his room, I am not sure why. He’s very—disturbed. As you can imagine.” A short, nervous bark of laughter made me think again about dogs. “Hugh-san was on the telephone with the company president, who says we have to get this thing straightened out or we’ll be fired.”

“Come on, Japanese companies aren’t that bad,” I said. As his fear was becoming more apparent, mine began receding.

“It’s terrible for Sendai, it would be a disaster if—” he stopped short.

“If what?” I was sympathetic to him, but also impatient.

“Suicide is bad enough.”