The Salaryman's Wife(53)

“Don’t speak. You’ll embarrass yourself and me,” Mariko said, pausing at the entrance to an establishment with the proverbial green door—this one decorated with a neon silhouette of a woman’s hourglass figure. We entered a small, extremely dark room. I quickly deduced it was a hostess bar from the couples at tables: businessmen with large tumblers of whiskey, brightly-dressed younger women nursing doll-sized glasses of oolong tea. All were enjoying a late liquid lunch or early happy hour. I gave a Western man with a teen-age Asian girl in his lap a particularly dirty look as Mariko hustled me by.

A middle-aged woman with eyeliner drawn up garishly around the corners of her eyes strode out from a bar loaded with glistening bottles of liquor. Judging from her glittering gold and diamond jewelry, she was probably the Mama-san who ran the place.

“We aren’t hiring,” she called out to me. I smiled and bobbed my head while Mariko yelled back I was just a friend. She led me into a back room cramped with racks of clothing and lingerie, shut the door and started undressing.

“This must be your part-time job?” I was at a loss for better words.

“You have a problem with it?” Mariko challenged.

“No. It’s just that I only knew about JaBank.”

“How was that, anyway? You’re such a snoop.”

“Mrs. Ozawa knew that you were at a bank somewhere, so I made some phone calls.” I paused. “I actually called bank headquarters and said I had a complaint against you in order to find out where you worked. I hope it doesn’t get back to you.”

“I got some stupid phone call, but because I don’t work with customers, it made no sense. I told them it was a mistake.” She walked directly in front of me and turned around, indicating I should zip up her short, spangled blue dress. Her back was as smooth and golden as her face; she must have lain nude in a tanning bed to achieve that look in the Tokyo winter. “You still haven’t told me how you met the Ozawas.”

“We met at your aunt’s tsuya.” Mariko said nothing, so I clarified, “The one for Setsuko Nakamura in Hayama.”

Mariko was fussing with her hair, attempting to pin it up, seated in front of a mirror. “Obasan hosted somebody’s tsuya? I can only hope it was her husband.”

“Your aunt…” I was going to have to break the news of the death. I swallowed hard and said, “Setsuko is the one who passed away. I’m so sorry.”

Mariko sat still for a long moment. Then she swiveled around on the dressing table stool, half of her hair up and the other half hanging down. “Tell me again.”

She sounded genuinely stunned, but it could have been an act; hostesses were trained to read people, give them whatever made them feel comfortable. Mindful of this, I spoke carefully. “She froze to death outside a minshuku in Shiroyama. It was ruled an accident but now the police think she might have been slain.”

“I don’t believe it. Aunt Setsuko was the last family member I had.” Her purple mouth quivered.

“Your mother died when you were little, right?”

She nodded. “I was just a baby. My father didn’t think he could take care of me and work, so he went off to Okinawa, Aunt Setsuko told me. I don’t remember him at all.”

“Who raised you?” She was alone in a way that was so complete that my suspicions toward her started to fade, replaced by pity.

“Kiki, you saw her out there.”

“Why do you even work at the bank?” I was curious about that, because I knew hostessing paid at least twice as much as clerical work.

“It was a deal I had with Setsuko. She said she wanted me to have other choices. But I like the bar, and Kiki needs me.” Mariko looked at my clothes, then my face. “Have you thought of becoming a hostess? That’s kind of an Audrey Hepburn thing you have going on with your hair. And your English…”

“Setsuko was right, you’re too smart to be wasting your time like this. Why don’t you go into marketing?” I stopped, realizing she was diverting her grief or trying to distract me. “How often did you see Setsuko?”

“Once a month—for lunch—and then she’d give me the money.”

“What money?” I thought her bluntness was pretty un-Japanese.

“My due from my grandfather.”

“He was American?” I recalled the sailor Mrs. Ozawa had mentioned.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said in a mocking American voice, before switching back to her slangy Japanese. “He was in the Korean war. I think he was home-ported to a ship based here, and he met my grandmother. The other thing I know is he had money and did not forget his daughters. He knew about me because Aunt Setsuko wrote to him.”