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Authors: Sujata Massey
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would lead to another push for me to come home. My mother was like that.
I turned the page of my message pad and on a blank sheet wrote "People at the Kayama School at time of death." Lila Braithwaite, and her friend Nadine St. Giles; Mari Kumamori, the pottery artist Sakura had been rude to; Eriko, who was Aunt Norie's best friend. Then there were Takeo and Natsumi Kayama, and Miss Okada, the school receptionist. There were a few other Japanese women students whose names I could check with my aunt.
Under "People missing" I listed Mrs. Koda and the headmaster, Masanobu Kayama. Lieutenant Hata probably possessed this information. Maybe he had cleared everyone on my list and was looking for a serial killer. Of course, there have been very few serial killers in Japanese history.
I turned to look at Mrs. Morita's four plates, which I had displayed in a kitchen tansu that took up the length of a wall. Each shelf of the cabinet had a door with a railing that protected the china inside from falling out should an earthquake hit. I wondered how long I'd be responsible for the unlucky group of plates. I put away the notebook and dialed my aunt's telephone number, hoping against hope that she would answer. The recorded greeting came on, but as I began leaving my name, Aunt Norie answered.
"Thank you for calling so many times, Rei-chan." She sounded weary.
"How are things in Yokohama?"
"The reporters are outside the house," she whispered, as if they might be able to hear. "It is absolutely awful. Somebody even brought a futon and slept on the street! They are waiting for me to come out. My husband was going to come back from Osaka tomorrow afternoon, but I warned him not to, for fear of what will happen. Are the press doing the same to you?"
"No, it's all clear." Looking out my window, I saw a couple of drunken university students staggering down the street, but nobody else. I was glad again for having an unlisted address and telephone number. I had purposely left my name out of the NTT telephone book because a feminine name was an invitation to obscene callers. The only concession I made for running my business was listing a fax number under Rei Shimura Antiques. I'd actually received eight media messages that day on the fax, and simply turned off the machine.
"Why don't you stay with me?" I suggested. "I'm not listed in directory information. My sofa folds out into a bed."
"When one is in trouble, she should seek shelter under a big tree, not a seedling," Norie said. "Besides, I could not leave without being followed. They are stalking me, and I know they will catch up, because I have to leave the house tomorrow to help put together the exhibit at Mitsutan."
"That doesn't sound wise," I said.
"We need to be there. There is an allotted three-meter space with the Shimura name on it. To have it empty would be disgraceful."
"We? I would ruin your arrangement. Remember what Sakura said about my skills?"
My aunt spoke in the wheedling tone that she used whenever she wanted me to dress in kimono to show off to her friends. "If we hide from the other school members, it sets us apart. It is like an admission of guilt. We need to carry on proudly, as the Shimuras have done for many centuries. Our surname is common in Japan today, but please remember that my husband and your father are descended from an important family. We must defend the family name."
Maybe it wasn't a good idea to have Aunt Norie stay with me. I could imagine her lecturing me around the clock on my samurai heritage. "Aunt Norie, I love you. It it's that important, I'll work with you on the installation at Mitsutan."
"It will only take a few hours," she said, sounding happy for the first time. "It will make such a big difference for everyone there. And for me."
We hung up and I had dinner: a glass of Asahi Super-Dry beer and some old rice that had hardened in my tiny refrigerator, with a bit of pickled daikon radish and plum on the side. The meal seemed lacking.
I turned the page of my message pad and on a blank sheet wrote "People at the Kayama School at time of death." Lila Braithwaite, and her friend Nadine St. Giles; Mari Kumamori, the pottery artist Sakura had been rude to; Eriko, who was Aunt Norie's best friend. Then there were Takeo and Natsumi Kayama, and Miss Okada, the school receptionist. There were a few other Japanese women students whose names I could check with my aunt.
Under "People missing" I listed Mrs. Koda and the headmaster, Masanobu Kayama. Lieutenant Hata probably possessed this information. Maybe he had cleared everyone on my list and was looking for a serial killer. Of course, there have been very few serial killers in Japanese history.
I turned to look at Mrs. Morita's four plates, which I had displayed in a kitchen tansu that took up the length of a wall. Each shelf of the cabinet had a door with a railing that protected the china inside from falling out should an earthquake hit. I wondered how long I'd be responsible for the unlucky group of plates. I put away the notebook and dialed my aunt's telephone number, hoping against hope that she would answer. The recorded greeting came on, but as I began leaving my name, Aunt Norie answered.
"Thank you for calling so many times, Rei-chan." She sounded weary.
"How are things in Yokohama?"
"The reporters are outside the house," she whispered, as if they might be able to hear. "It is absolutely awful. Somebody even brought a futon and slept on the street! They are waiting for me to come out. My husband was going to come back from Osaka tomorrow afternoon, but I warned him not to, for fear of what will happen. Are the press doing the same to you?"
"No, it's all clear." Looking out my window, I saw a couple of drunken university students staggering down the street, but nobody else. I was glad again for having an unlisted address and telephone number. I had purposely left my name out of the NTT telephone book because a feminine name was an invitation to obscene callers. The only concession I made for running my business was listing a fax number under Rei Shimura Antiques. I'd actually received eight media messages that day on the fax, and simply turned off the machine.
"Why don't you stay with me?" I suggested. "I'm not listed in directory information. My sofa folds out into a bed."
"When one is in trouble, she should seek shelter under a big tree, not a seedling," Norie said. "Besides, I could not leave without being followed. They are stalking me, and I know they will catch up, because I have to leave the house tomorrow to help put together the exhibit at Mitsutan."
"That doesn't sound wise," I said.
"We need to be there. There is an allotted three-meter space with the Shimura name on it. To have it empty would be disgraceful."
"We? I would ruin your arrangement. Remember what Sakura said about my skills?"
My aunt spoke in the wheedling tone that she used whenever she wanted me to dress in kimono to show off to her friends. "If we hide from the other school members, it sets us apart. It is like an admission of guilt. We need to carry on proudly, as the Shimuras have done for many centuries. Our surname is common in Japan today, but please remember that my husband and your father are descended from an important family. We must defend the family name."
Maybe it wasn't a good idea to have Aunt Norie stay with me. I could imagine her lecturing me around the clock on my samurai heritage. "Aunt Norie, I love you. It it's that important, I'll work with you on the installation at Mitsutan."
"It will only take a few hours," she said, sounding happy for the first time. "It will make such a big difference for everyone there. And for me."
We hung up and I had dinner: a glass of Asahi Super-Dry beer and some old rice that had hardened in my tiny refrigerator, with a bit of pickled daikon radish and plum on the side. The meal seemed lacking.
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