“And you want to know the kicker? My mother had it appraised in San Francisco for seven thousand dollars more than I’d paid.”
“Maybe I could do this for the ladies in my retirement community,” Mrs. Chapman looked excited. “That’s the focus for the rest of my stay here—antiques!”
Joe toasted me with his coffee cup. “Why are you even wasting your time teaching English?”
“Nichiyu is a good employer. Sooner or later they’ll let me run the language program.”
“If you really want to work with antiques, you should just do it,” he insisted.
“I’ve heard that before.” I didn’t try to hide my bitterness. “The people who’ve interviewed me here all say go back to the States, maybe I can find a job in San Diego or Seattle where it won’t matter when I can’t read and write kanji. The problem is I don’t want to leave Japan.”
“I see.” Joe paused. “Have you heard of personal shoppers?”
“I used one a few years ago to get all my Christmas shopping done. The problem is they stuck to one store and certainly didn’t look for bargains!” Mrs. Chapman wiped daintily at her mouth with a napkin.
“Exactly. Rei could become a freelance antiques shopper specializing in overseas clients and the expatriate community in Tokyo. It would be easier and cheaper than opening a store.”
“I never thought about retail. Just museums.” I contemplated the dark, sugary sludge at the bottom of my coffee cup, thinking if I drank it, I’d be up all night.
“If you want to be highbrow, give them lectures and trips to museums. I’ll think about it some more.” It was as if an electric light had switched on inside Joe; I knew why Far East Ventures had succeeded.
“The foreigners I know would never go for that,” I protested. “They have enough trouble paying their rent, the telephone, that kind of thing.”
“What about my friends? Corporate couples, military hot shots? I could get you a few introductions.” He pulled an appointment book from his breast pocket. “Let’s do an open house in, say, six weeks?”
“Unlike your hot shots, I don’t have the funds to start a business.” I felt regretful for a moment, thinking of my small savings account, the CDs that couldn’t be touched for ages. I shook myself. It was odd Joe had come up with such generous career advice. Perhaps he was trying to distract me from the search for Setsuko’s relatives.
“With a business like that, you don’t need any capital. Just contacts, PR, a will to succeed!” Joe wouldn’t stop talking.
“I don’t think so.” It was a phenomenal idea for another person. “I’m sorry I took your time. It wasn’t honest of me. Here, please let me share the cost.” I gestured toward his gold American Express card lying atop the dinner check.
“Eight of my friends are watching us. Are you really going to shame me in front of them?” he asked.
I supposed it would look odd if we went Dutch in such a fancy place with such a well-known man. I gave him a half-smile and acquiesced, thinking it best not to end the evening with a scene.
“I do have a marketing question for you,” I said as the three of us zoomed down to the lobby in the New Otani elevator. “We have a situation where we’re trying to promote caffe latte drinks. The question is whether to say latte or ratte. Does it matter?”
“Ratte for all your signs and brochures here and latte overseas.” Joe’s answer came quickly.
“But don’t you think rat looks awful? Won’t people laugh?”
“Why are you working at Nichiyu, to look smart or help sell their products?” Joe challenged. “If you want to move products in this country, you’ve got to adapt.”
On New Year’s Eve, I’d used virtually the same words to criticize Hugh Glendinning. How self-righteous I’d been, priding myself on my encyclopedic knowledge of Japan. Talking to Joe Roncolotta made me realize how much of the book I had left to read.
16
When the telephone shrilled somewhere in the tunnel between night and morning, it took me away from a horrible dream that Mr. Nakamura had become my boss at Nichiyu and Hugh my student. The three of us stood in a classroom filled with giant Almond Pocky sticks that I knew would tumble if anyone moved.
I groped for the telephone in a haze. “Moshi-moshi?”
“My apologies, Shimura-san. It’s Okuhara.”
I snapped on an old, tin lantern I’d electrified into usefulness and squinted at my Seiko alarm clock. It said two-fifteen.
“I’m calling about Mayumi Yogetsu,” The police captain spoke crisply.