The Salaryman's Wife(54)

“Tell me more about your aunt,” I said, watching Mariko transform her eyelashes into long, navy blue spikes.

“She was very kind to me, usually took me shopping at Mitsutan or Mitsukoshi for a new outfit every couple of months—”

“When was the last time you met?” I interrupted.

“Two months ago. She called in the meantime but said she couldn’t get away to see me.” She wiped off the purple lipstick, applying a dark red Chanel color and checking her teeth for smudges.

“Mariko, can we meet this weekend and talk some more?”

“Why do you care?” Mariko was asking as the dressing room door banged open. Kiki, the Mama-san, walked in and tapped sharply on her watch.

Mariko sighed. “I’ve got to start work.”

“Let me be your first customer. I’ll buy you a drink.” I started to follow her out, but Kiki blocked the door.

“Who are you?” Kiki surveyed my checked suit, turtleneck, and low-heeled shoes with disdain. There was something threatening about her, so I gave my name in a cold voice and left it at that.

“You’re not one of the Ozawas?” She looked me over a second time, and when I shook my head, said, “It’s a good thing. Setsuko was hard enough.”

Her use of the past tense hinted that she knew about the death. Knew, but hadn’t told Mariko. I asked her, “May I ask how you came to know Setsuko?”

“You think she was too high to know me?” Kiki shot back.

“Not at all. She grew up poor and had no employment. And you look like you’ve done very well.”

“What are you, some kind of girl-detective-in-training trying to get dirt on my business? We pay all the right people to avoid these problems.”

“I’m a teacher, actually.” Striving to present myself with authority, I added, “I don’t feel right leaving Mariko now. She’s been through a shock, not knowing anything about her aunt’s death until five minutes ago.”

“It’s a little strange, a lady teacher visiting us.” A furrow developed between Kiki’s sharp eyes.

“When will Mariko be free?”

“Never,” she answered, taking me by the arm and escorting me into the hall.

“But I need to ask her something—”

She cut off my protest with directions. “I’ll send you out the back way. Just around the corner to the right and you’ll be on the main street.”

I obeyed, but once outside, walked the opposite way to get to the front of the club and note its name, Club Marimba. I’d be back.


New Boys Look opened to the street. Richard was right up front, preening not in the jacket he had talked about, but a shiny leather vest and jeans.

“I’m thinking of taking these instead of the jacket. What do you think?” Richard’s eyes remained locked on himself in the mirror. I knew from experience this could last an hour.

“Special price,” one of the clerks said in English.

“Gee, I don’t know, honey,” I teased. “You look fabulous, but will it play in Nova Scotia?”

That did it—Richard hated any mention of the place where he’d spent his tormented teen years. He handed the clerk his Mastercard.

“Gift wrap, please.” To me, he said, “They told me about a dance club with an amazing eighties theme night. Depeche Mode, Eurythmics, all our favorites. But ladies aren’t allowed.”

“That’s right.” The salesclerk winked at him, and Richard gave him a sly smile. I’d had enough.

“Come back later to do your flirting,” I said. When he started whining, I tapped my watch the way Kiki had done it.


As we crowded on the subway to work, Richard remained sulky. “I don’t know why you’re complaining about my behavior. You’re the rude one. You were fifteen minutes late!”

“What would you say if I told you I was hanging out at a hostess bar?”

“I’d say you were full of it.”

“Sssh, you’re teaching the wrong kind of English,” I cautioned, aware of the curious teen-agers across the aisle.

“I thought female customers weren’t allowed into hostess bars.”

“I think it’s okay if you’re escorted. I met Mariko at JaBank and then she took me to where she works.”

“Your little bank teller is a lady of the evening?” Richard’s jaw dropped.

“Richard, all hostesses do is talk to men, light their cigarettes, et cetera. In sexy clothes. While we talked she was changing into a dress you wouldn’t believe.”

“Something delish? Tell me.”

“It’s not your scene, Richard,” I said, opening up the Weekender to cut him off for a while. The party page was as tranquil as ever. The Japanese College Women’s Association had sponsored a sale of contemporary Japanese prints at the Tokyo American Club. Everyone who was anyone had gone. From amongst the gaijin and Asian elite smiling in black and white, a face tugged at me. I pulled the paper closer.