The Salaryman's Wife(58)

“Where were you on New Year’s Eve?” I asked. There were still too many coincidences for me to be comfortable.

“Getting sloshed with a few friends at TAC—the Tokyo American Club. You can ask the doorman about it.” Joe ordered coffee for all of us. I shook my head at dessert. Looking regretful, Joe also declined. Mrs. Chapman picked at a piece of chocolate cake.

“Tell you what,” he said after he’d flooded his beverage with cream and sugar. “If you’re serious about this search, take the train down to Yokosuka. A master chief, Jimmy O’Donnell, hangs out at the veterans’ club. This fella had his nose in everyone’s business from the late forties through the sixties. If anyone would remember your sailor, it would be Jimmy.”

“That’s a good idea. Thanks.” I was slightly cheered.

“You’re welcome. I can’t remember when I’ve had a more surprising dinner meeting. It makes me wonder who you are, really.”

“Not party page material,” I said, my defenses going up.

“Tell me and I’ll judge for myself.”

“Rei’s an antiques expert who’s pitifully under-employed. What do they call those kids who can’t find good jobs, slickers?” Mrs. Chapman mused.

“Slackers,” I told her, by now really annoyed I’d invited her along. In a monotone, I gave Joe my five-minute résumé: the Berkeley master’s degree that didn’t pay off, the disastrous job interviews, my choice of bar hostessing or teaching at Nichiyu.

“It’s hard to be here, unconnected,” Joe said when I was finished. “I tell you, my business would never have gotten off the ground without my Japanese partners. I know a fellow on the board at the Tokyo National Museum, if you want me to put in a word for you.”

“I don’t believe in favors.” It sounded obnoxiously pious, but people who chose to employ only their friends’ friends had kept me from finding a decent job in Tokyo. The last thing I wanted was to become someone like them.

“You’re not very Japanese then.” He chuckled.

“I’m half, and I don’t appreciate comments like that.”

“If Seiho and I had been lucky enough to have a child, I wonder what she would have looked like. Maybe you.”

Joe’s eyes rested on me for longer than I was comfortable, and Mrs. Chapman yawned loudly. I guess it wasn’t much fun to go to dinner with a handsome man your age and find him neglecting you for a slacker.

“We should go,” I said, getting out my wallet.

“It’s my treat.” Joe signaled for the waiter to bring him the check. “And even if you don’t believe in favors, Rei, I do. You owe me something for the money and time I’ve invested in you.”

“Oh!” I was horrified by the connotations, especially after he’d spoken of me like a daughter.

“Sweetheart, I want your best Japanese antique shopping tip. Painted screens are more or less gone forever, tansu are selling sky-high, and you can’t find truly fine pieces anymore.” He looked so comically distraught that I laughed.

“Haven’t you tried going to Heiwajima?”

“That God-awful fair in the Rytsu Center?” Joe looked pained. “It’s pitiful to see my friends’ wives begging for discounts with their terrible Japanese. They wind up lugging home things that probably cost more here than it would in L.A. I’ve been here forty years and I’m beginning to think there’s no point in even shopping anymore!”

“You need to shop smart,” I told him.

“How’s that?”

“Three steps,” I said. “The first is to realize you can’t be an expert in everything. You need to concentrate on what you really love, whether it’s furniture or blue-and-white china. Step two is going to museums, and combining that study with window-shopping every antique store in town. Finally, when you’re shopping at a big sale like Heiwajima, pick up a business card at every stall and look at the address. The dealers from far away would sooner discount their antiques than carry them back.”

“When is this sale?” Mrs. Chapman asked.

“Not until the spring, but I can send you something, if you like. Old fabrics and china are really all I can afford, but my serious love is nineteenth-century wooden furniture. I’ve only bought one big piece. For my parents.”

“How’s that? Don’t they live in California?” Joe asked.

I told him the story of how my mother had begged me to find her a tansu straight out of an art book. The chest had to be made of zelkova wood with iron fittings and a special lacquer finish, and be reasonably old although not decrepit. It took three weekends of combing shops and flea-markets until I found a superb example for a fair price. I paid a teacher returning to the States $300 to include it in her shipment, saving thousands off the cost of private shipping.