The Salaryman's Wife(17)

“I served her, too!” Hugh retorted, his face reddening as if he realized how bad that sounded. “I mean, she wanted to practice English.”

“Her language skills were good enough that she hardly needed it. And for someone who likes speaking English, she had nothing friendly to say to me last night.” Irrationally, the burn was still there.

“She should have. She had an absolute fascination with America. I used to help her go through the travel books in the library at Tack….”

“What’s Tack?” I asked as the waitress arrived with two toasted sandwiches oozing cheese. I passed one to Hugh.

“T.A.C.” He spelled it out. “The Tokyo American Club.”

“Cute nickname for an intense place. How on earth did you get in?” Until now, I’d believed the astronomically-priced enclave was exclusive to Americans of the Tokyo Weekender genus.

“Members represent over fifty countries, including Japan—and we’re mostly all there because our companies pay the initiation.”

I had digressed. “How terrible do you think Setsuko’s life was with Mr. Nakamura? Could he have been beating her?”

“I doubt it. Nakamura would argue with her about the shopping, but that was all. Yamamoto definitely was being straight with you regarding her shopping mania.” Hugh made a face. “When we went into the shops, all the clerks welcomed her by name.”

“You kept shopping with her, even after your apartment was finished?”

“Yes, I, ah…” he faltered. “Occasionally, we shopped together.”

“Even when you knew her husband didn’t want her to do it?”

“It was okay. I paid,” he said shortly.

“What did you buy her?” I was amazed.

“We’re getting off the subject,” Hugh said.

“Right.” I gave him a disbelieving look. “How wealthy are they, or is that a rude question?”

“I don’t think money’s a rude subject at all.” He raised one eyebrow, a neat trick. “Nakamura earned about fourteen million yen per annum, depending on his annual bonus. They have a large house in the suburbs I’ve heard was devalued to a hundred-thirty mill, given the real estate slump.”

One hundred and twenty yen to the U.S. dollar. I did some rough calculations on my napkin and came up with a minimum salary of $116,000, plus a house worth almost $1.1 million. Pretty cushy for a couple with no kids. “What about his wife’s net worth?”

“Setsuko didn’t work, of course, and she brought no money to the marriage. She was, as you Americans say, a trophy wife. A decade younger and better looking than he deserved.”

“You know a lot about them.” Yesterday he had come off like the Nakamuras’ new and naïve friend. Today he sounded like a spy.

“Mr. Yamamoto is a huge gossip.” He grinned as if I also had an assistant at my beck and call.

“What’s going on at Sendai?” I persisted. “Was anything brewing with Mr. Nakamura that might have led him to snap?”

“Do you honestly think I’d tell you if there were?” His eyebrow rose again, and I lost my temper.

“That’s right, you’re the company lawyer! Forget the fact that I saw you going through an emotional breakdown when I came in here, you’ve bounced back admirably. The Nakamuras had no problems outside of the wife who shopped until she dropped.”

The Scotch must have loosened me. I had never delivered such a tirade to a stranger. The assertive American was re-emerging after three years of suppression.

“If I told you what I’d done, you’d know it was my fault.” He sounded sullen.

God, what was this, a confession? Oddly, I didn’t feel like running out. Taking his hand would be too forward, but I felt he needed encouragement. I closed my fingers around his wrist.

“What? What could be so bad? Come on, I’ve been honest with you.”

He was struggling with something. I waited, feeling his pulse throb underneath my fingertips. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat.

“Divorce. She wanted one. I counseled against it. And now she’s dead.”

Before I could react, he had twisted his arm away from me and was gone.


The crisis must have sent Mrs. Yogetsu straight to her bed. I didn’t see a trace of her all evening. Her husband, on the other hand, had come through with flying colors for New Year’s Day supper. There were steaming bowls of miso soup, trays of fish and pickled vegetables, and chewy mochi cakes to round things off for dessert. I couldn’t bring myself to eat much, feeling headachy from the whiskey and what Hugh had told me. Neither he nor anyone from Sendai had shown up for the meal. When Yuki asked after them, Mr. Yogetsu whispered that a company delegation had arrived on the six o’clock train. They had holed up in the living room, the sliding doors closed so tightly only the scent of their cigarettes seeped out.