“Why did you call me at the office? You could have blown everything,” I said, shaking my head at the cup of tea he was offering.
“I was trying to check your clothing size. You didn’t call me back, so I had to simply accept what Fumie brought me.”
“Your maid really wears this?” I held up the black polyester uniform with a ruffled white apron that looked straight out of an adult video.
“Don’t worry, it’s freshly washed.” He showed me into his room and left. I looked around and saw there actually was a triptych of sumo wrestlers on the wall, although I couldn’t discern the artist’s seal. Trying to get closer, I stubbed my heel on the corner of a rowing machine and swore.
The only other piece of furniture in the room was a massive sleigh bed. I sat down on the edge and began taking off my conservative work suit. Something was bothering me. I realized when I was fully undressed that it was my lack of goose bumps. I scanned the room and saw no space heaters. Hugh had central heating, the first I’d encountered in a Japanese residence.
I hung up my clothes in his closet and couldn’t help running my hand through his long row of suits, noting the fine textures and colors too expensive to be defined: taupish browns and bluish grays and charcoals. What did it say about him, that he chose such expensive things? I closed the closet and went out to the living room, hoping my face wouldn’t give away my snooping.
“That’s a good length for you,” Hugh said, looking at the too-short uniform. He had been making notes on the fold-out map, his bad ankle propped on the coffee table. A few inches of the bandage showed from underneath his gray flannel trousers. Although he’d come to the door without crutches, he still had a slight limp.
“Do you have a Bible?” I asked, suddenly inspired.
“Sorry, I’m rather lapsed in terms of religion!”
“One of those will do.” I went to the bookshelves and gave him a large, faux-leather-bound law book. “Now you look like a Jehovah’s Witness.”
As we loaded the car with a plastic bucket and cleaning supplies, I explained the concept. There was no good reason for a business-suited gaijin to roam a suburban neighborhood. Unless, of course, he had a religious mission.
“If I open my mouth, I’ll be lost,” Hugh groaned.
“Nobody will expect you to speak much Japanese. But if you’re supposed to be ex-American military, you’ll need to keep the Scottish accent to a minimum.”
“No way, man.” He practiced a California Valley boy accent which made me snicker until we entered the Shuto Expressway, where sudden lane changes sent me into a state of confusion. There was no time to read the kanji on the signs; here, Hugh guided me and I simply obeyed.
“How much longer? That wasn’t fun at all.” I rubbed at the tension in my neck and shoulders when we finally made it past the traffic jams of Yokohama and onto an uncrowded toll road.
“Judging from the signs, it’s about an hour. You can speed up, but you’ll see no one goes over one-hundred kilometers per hour.” Hugh hit his seat’s RECLINE button and stretched back.
“You’re one to talk, given all your tickets,” I said, accelerating.
“It’s only parking tickets. Why would I want to speed? If you pass one hundred, this obnoxious little bell rings. Listen, it’s happening now! Rei Shimura, I have a cell phone in hand. I could call the police right now!”
“You wouldn’t.” I stayed at 110 for a few minutes, slowing down when the bell started driving me crazy. The Toyota-installed Big Brother stuff really worked.
“You’re good for someone who’s never been on the left before. Not too much wavering into the shoulder, and your turns in the city were impressive,” Hugh told me.
“Thanks.” I felt pleased in spite of myself.
“You should get your own car,” he continued. “Everyone sells after a few years to avoid the taxes, so you can get a bargain on something used. Although I reckon its hard to find a parking garage in your ghetto.”
“Find me something on the radio, will you?” Thinking about leaving Tokyo for Osaka was upsetting me.
Hugh clicked the radio to the station I woke up with every morning.
“Good afternoon, it’s two o’clock from the J-WAVE singing clock!” I sang along with the corny station identification, which was followed by a Spice Girls hit. The British pop group segued into an old favorite from Echo and the Bunnymen, and Hugh joined in with a rich tenor. Somehow, it didn’t surprise me that he could carry a tune. What did jolt me was the fact he knew the lyrics to “Lips Like Sugar” as well as I did.