My vision was slightly blurred, but I nevertheless checked out Hikari. She was tall, like all the best-looking girls in the Roppongi clubs. Her naturally-black hair swung all the way to her waist, and she had a tiny frizzed set of bangs. The conservative black suit she wore could be kindly described as Chanel-inspired, the double-C imperfectly stamped on gold buttons. She had a powdery smell I recognized as my deodorant; there, our similarities ended.
We stood the first half hour on the train but squeezed into seats after a big exodus at Yokohama Station. I pulled from my backpack three English language dailies with articles about Hugh’s detainment. The one in the Japan Times was headlined RAKE’S PROGRESS and narrated how Hugh had ripped apart the Nakamura’s idyllic marriage. The writer noted that Hugh had worked for short stretches at six different companies, lived in a Roppongi apartment with a monthly rent of 600,000 yen and had been charged with several parking violations since his arrival in Japan. An investment banker in London was the last girlfriend before Setsuko Nakamura, according to anonymous sources within the expatriate community. The article had a quote from Piers Clancy urging the public to remember Mr. Glendinning had not been indicted, much less convicted, and had a stellar reputation in the international legal community. Not surprisingly, Sendai’s public relations office had no comment.
Hikari was looking over my shoulder, so I handed her each paper as I finished. After looking at the Japan Times, she asked if the word “rake” meant something other than a garden tool.
“In this case, it means a playboy,” I said. “Do you know about playboys?”
“I know.” She shot me a pained look and read on silently until we got to the final stop, Zushi. Taxis were lined up at the curb, and she ushered me in ahead of her. We were transported along a rocky seashore to Hayama, the nearby town where Mr. Nakamura lived.
“So what do you think about my hair? Does it look as fake as it feels?” I was beginning to worry I wouldn’t be able to pull something over a man who already knew me.
“I think you look very Japanese. Like my sister, maybe.” Hikari flipped open a glow-in-the-dark compact and repowdered her perfect face.
I took off Richard’s glasses to stare out the window at sprawling suburban houses, each with a garden lot large enough to erect another dwelling, which would have happened had it been Tokyo.
“I heard that in the mid-seventies, a rice farmer sold his land. If you bought then, maybe you could afford it. Today it would be impossible,” Hikari said, as if she knew what I was thinking.
Each house appeared to have been designed with a restrained splendor true to Japanese roots; low structures in spotless cream or white stucco, topped by sloping tiled roofs in gray or blue. The gardens were walled so you couldn’t see the treasures within, but I did catch a glimpse of a soaring fountain through one bamboo gate. I found myself wishing I could bail out of the cab and the ominous tsuya to seriously investigate these palaces of the bourgeoisie.
“I don’t really want to go in. I have no idea what I’m going to do,” I confessed.
“Rei-san, do not doubt your strength.” Her voice was reassuring. “I received a faxed message from Hugh through his lawyer which said to trust you, because you are good at finding hidden truth.”
So he was sending the same ironic commentary to everyone. She also had warranted a fax and I hadn’t. “Did Hugh mention any names of Setsuko’s relatives? Mother, father, what did she have?” The word child popped into my mind, but I didn’t think it would be wise to tell Hikari everything.
“No parents living, as far as I know. This is the house. Please stop.” It was too dark to see Hikari’s expression, but in her voice I heard fear.
13
The kanji character for death glowed darkly on the surface of white paper lanterns flanking the Nakamura house. People wearing sober black suits and kimonos streamed past a small army of reporters clogging the street with bright lights and microphones. Some guests responded to their shouted pleas, but I kept my head down and followed Hikari inside, placing my kden on a tray monitored by a pair of mean-looking men in black suits. On the back of the envelope I’d written the amount being given, 5,000 yen, and my aunt’s maiden name, which I had decided to use as my cover.
Setsuko’s good taste was as apparent in her home as it had been on her person. Calligraphy scrolls hung on the walls, and small antique ceramic and lacquer pieces were arranged on glossy tansu chests. The living room bustled with well-dressed guests and tuxedoed waiters offering whiskey and beer. The overall effect was of a very fashionable cocktail party.