The Salaryman's Wife(6)

“Fish eggs?” Mrs. Chapman faltered.

I’d crunched down on the sheet of tiny roe earlier; to me, they were a cheaper version of the Beluga my parents were probably serving at their own celebration in San Francisco.

“Not enough children are being born,” Mr. Nakamura told us. “The government knows it’s a problem—they pay families who have more than two children some small sum. But it’s barely enough to pay for one bag of groceries.”

“That’s right, I can’t even think of getting married or having children until I have four million yen in the bank!” Mr. Yamamoto joked.

“You’ll have to work much harder at Sendai for that to happen. And on your skills with ladies as well.” Mr. Nakamura cackled, and his subordinate flushed with embarrassment.

“We have the same problem in America,” Mrs. Chapman said. “It costs lots of money to raise kids. But in my opinion, a family just isn’t right without young ones. I raised two of my own and to think I’ve only got one grandchild! She’s my everything.”

“It’s very sad not to have children. I have not been fortunate.” Setsuko Nakamura’s smile was tremulous.

“You’re still quite young!” Hugh comforted her.

“My wife, like a fool, talks too much.” Mr. Nakamura snapped. “She’s like a curse I carry, even on holiday!”

He spoke in English, so everyone understood. I felt Mrs. Chapman stiffen beside me. Color rose in Hugh’s face, but he said nothing.

Maybe Mr. Nakamura was just in a bad mood. Still, I thought it was an unforgivable way to talk to your spouse. I sneaked a glance at Setsuko Nakamura, who was delicately cutting the raw meat with her chopsticks. Even though her facial expression remained blank, I sensed something radiating from her, a sharp vibration of pain. Young Mr. Yamamoto began chatting about tourist activities but it was too late to right the awkward stillness that had come over us all.


After dinner, Mrs. Yogetsu brought a small television into her pristine living room, set it up and left. I settled down amid cushions on the floor with Mrs. Chapman, who was now complaining about the lack of back support. I tried to rig something for her, but she grumbled that she might as well go up to her room for a rest.

The young couple I’d chatted up at the table plunked down next to me.

“I travel to your country every year for Honda Motor Company,” said the man whose small, rectangular glasses gave him the look of a friendly owl. “I am Taro Ikeda. My wife Yuki is too shy to speak English.”

“Actually, I would like to try speaking, if you will help me?” Her hesitant English was instantly endearing. I introduced myself in my native tongue, and they both nodded with approval at my Japanese name.

“Which kanji do you use to write it?” Taro asked.

My second name was quite standard, but my first name had over a dozen different meanings, depending on how it was written. It could mean beauty or bowing or coldness or the number zero; the kanji my father had chosen was a lesser-known one that meant something akin to crystal clarity. I had to draw the kanji before they understood.

“My name means snow. I love snowy weather very much,” Yuki chirped in her schoolgirl’s English.

“Is it your first trip here?” I asked.

“No, this is our second trip. We really enjoy ski,” Yuki said.

“Skiing, Yuki, skiing. And I must mention my hobby of ancient crime,” Taro interjected.

“You’re into crime?” I asked uneasily. It was a strange hobby for anyone, let alone such a straight-looking young man; by the way Yuki rolled her eyes, you could tell she agreed. But the Japanese were the authors of the world’s most frightening ghost stories, so I understood where his passion might be rooted.

“This is the ghost capital of Japan! Do you know its great story?” Taro asked.

I knew Shiroyama’s general history. The town was once the seat of a feudal lord, Geki Uchida, who built a castle admired throughout Japan. And, Taro was telling me, Lord Uchida was the man behind Shiroyama’s growth as a decorative arts center.

“Lord Uchida made much work for the people, cutting wood for furniture and designing shunkei. I am sorry for my poor English, but I cannot translate it exactly,” Taro said.

Setsuko Nakamura, who had taken a prime spot at the hearth with Hugh, sighed impatiently. “Shunkei is Shiroyama’s famous lacquer which is used for bowls and tableware. The lacquer is extremely thin that you can see the grain of the wood underneath. Therefore, it is considered beautiful.”

“Is it possible to find antique shunkei around here?” I was intrigued by the idea.