“What do you mean? Do you think she lay down in the snow intentionally?” I was astounded.
“New Year’s Eve is the customary time for suicide in Japan! Don’t you know?” Yamamoto exclaimed. “If a man cannot pay his bills by year’s end, he is extremely embarrassed. Sometimes he kills himself so his family is free of trouble for the new year.”
“But I thought the Nakamuras were rich,” I said.
“Wealthy? In Japan? No one is that way any longer. Mr. Nakamura is fairly thrifty, but in Japan, household money is usually managed by the woman. And Mrs. Nakamura liked to use credit cards.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Not like this! Mrs. Nakamura was like a crazy, always shopping in the depaato, charging up—how do you call it?—charging up a storm. Mr. Nakamura used to complain about that. He took away her credit cards, but she found some way to get new ones.”
I smiled at that. “Obviously, she knew how to preserve her power.”
“Exactly. You understand.” His eyes grew moist. “The reason I am coming to you is that, because you are a lady, maybe you can explain to the police chief about ladies’ nature and the likely story.”
My guard went up again. “You want me to feed them propaganda? Why can’t you do it?”
“I work for her husband. He would fire me very quickly if I said something about this embarrassment,”
I could understand that fear. Still, Yamamoto would have to do what Mrs. Chapman, Hugh, and I had already done: meet face-to-face with the unfriendly police chief and tell what he knew. Yamamoto would have a built-in advantage, being Japanese and male. I cleared my throat and said, “I can’t pass on your story, Yamamoto-san. Okuhura will have all kinds of questions about times and dates that I could not answer.”
Yamamoto stared past my head as if the towering evergreen trees behind me had become a major fascination. I didn’t buy it.
“You know something else, don’t you?” I asked.
“I know nothing else! I’m the junior assistant.”
“Then why are you trying to sell me such a ridiculous, stereotyped story?” I was disturbed enough that my words flew out before I had time to think them through.
Yamamoto stepped back and sucked in his breath. “Never mind. I’m sorry I bothered you. I thought you were a yasashii-hito” He used an expression which translated as “easy person,” but meant something closer to ‘nice.’
I didn’t feel nice. Yamamoto and I walked down-hill in silence until we reached the Miyakawa River. He needed to return to Minshuku Yogetsu to take care of Mr. Nakamura. I pressed on, following signs for a Shinto shrine. Soon I passed under a vermilion gate and found myself in the midst of a few hundred New Year’s worshipers, men wearing sensible down jackets while the women and girls froze in fancy kimonos topped only by short brocade jackets. A pair of teen-aged girls wearing the crisp cotton robes that were the uniform of shrine maidens beckoned from their souvenir stall. I shook my head, but the girls looked so disappointed I ultimately relented and bought their cheapest product, a paper fortune printed in English for international tourists. I opened the slim orange-and-white envelope to read the ironic message that I was the recipient of EXTREMELY GOOD LUCK.
The fortune read like a grocery list of guidance. Disease: It will take a long time to get well. Believe in God. For Employment: Talk with the employer right away…Regarding Marriage Proposal: Remember to get married with your parents’ permission. I rambled through it without interest until I came to the statement He who listens to one side is kept in the dark. He who listens to all sides is in the know.
All sides. Could that mean not parroting what Yamamoto wanted me to believe, or did it mean I should listen to him? What would these Confucian fortune writers have recommended for my specific case?
I left the shrine and turned into the historic shopping and museum district. Because of the holiday, only a few antique shops were open. Although I had none of my usual enthusiasm for shopping, I decided to go into a place selling old blue-and-white china to keep from having to return to the minshuku. I moped around the shop examining everything until the owner finally exploded and threw me out, saving that if I was just looking, the museums would reopen tomorrow.
In a dusty little shop next door, the owner was friendlier. I dug through a large tea crate filled with miscellaneous junk and retrieved a small pine letter box decorated with a geometric pattern of brown and cream inlaid woods. Judging from its metalwork, the box appeared to be early nineteenth century. The rusty iron clasp was locked, but when I shook the box, something rattled. I wondered about what it might be, given the fancy nature of the box: old coins, or maybe a carved ivory ornament.