Her watering eyes were focused on the police chief.
“Your journey from Kawasaki City must have been very tiring,” the chief said in a low voice. “Please come with me to the office. My assistant will bring you a drink.”
“Sakai-sama!” Without warning, Jun Kuroi left his chair and knelt before Mrs. Sakai. “I was with your husband. How terribly sorry I am that he became ill while a passenger in my car. I wanted to resuscitate him, but my friend thought it was too late—”
“I need to sit down,” Mrs. Sakai murmured, not even looking at him. The policemen closed ranks around her, and she was led off.
“Please don’t do that again. You’re upsetting the victim’s wife!” the junior constable said to Jun. I tuned out, trying to concentrate on this new knowledge I had about Nao Sakai’s wife. I had told the police about the conditions under which I’d bought the tansu , but I hadn’t given a physical description of the other customer, not knowing about the connection. If I brought it up now, it might make them examine Mr. Sakai’s death more intensely. It would also convert my status from an unfortunate witness to an accidental death into something more sinister.
I pondered this during the next hour, during which an elementary school class and several neighborhood residents came in to learn about matters such as household registration and bicycle permits. If only life were that mundane for me. I wondered if I would ever consider it mundane again.
A junior high school student departing with the paperwork for her new bicycle was almost knocked over by a new arrival, a long-haired foreigner with his eyes everywhere except the path in front of him. The man was in his early twenties, dressed in tie-dyed shorts and a tank top bearing the motto Fükengruven. A illegal jewelry vendor, I guessed from the size of his backpack and the long silver lizard earring that dangled halfway to his shoulder. But no court of cops surrounded him. When he noticed the canaries, he snickered slightly and ambled over.
“Whassup?” The backpacker stuck a finger in a cage, withdrawing it when the canaries backed away. The young man pulled a hand-rolled cigarette out of the waistband of his shorts. He lit the cigarette, turning as he inhaled so I got an excellent view of his dark green eyes. Yes, I was certain now. He was a nightmare version of Hugh—proof of what might happen if my lover chucked his Paul Smith suits and went Rastafarian.
“ Oi, marijuanakai? ” The young, gum-chewing constable jumped to his feet and headed for the stranger.
“No! It’s not pot, is it?” I blurted in English.
“It’s clove. What’s it to you, lass?” He blew a smoke ring at a canary, which squawked at the outrage.
“He is only smoking a clove cigarette,” I translated for the police officer.
“And what is that substance?” the policeman demanded a bit shakily.
“A spice that is very popular overseas, commonly used in cakes and curries.”
The backpacker sneered, and the young constable said, “This overseas boy could be fined heavily for disregarding our No S MOKING sign. And for animal abuse!”
I switched languages and said, “Put it out unless you want to spend the night here.”
“Talk about an uptight country.” He stubbed out the cigarette on a bar of the cage, knocking ash into the canaries’ home.
“You’re Angus Glendinning, aren’t you?” I asked.
The backpacker gave me a thorough up-and-down, then smirked. “Rei? I would not have guessed. You dinna look like a mistress.”
I swallowed hard and said, “You surprise me, too. Where did you learn that odd accent, the movies?” He hadn’t sounded so ridiculous in the few seconds I’d heard him on the telephone.
Angus merely laughed. “Shug said to tell you he’ll be a few minutes. He’s gone to fetch his lawyer.”
Shug. That was the Hugh’s nickname, which had never made sense to me. If I were on better terms with Angus, maybe I could learn
“Your journey from Kawasaki City must have been very tiring,” the chief said in a low voice. “Please come with me to the office. My assistant will bring you a drink.”
“Sakai-sama!” Without warning, Jun Kuroi left his chair and knelt before Mrs. Sakai. “I was with your husband. How terribly sorry I am that he became ill while a passenger in my car. I wanted to resuscitate him, but my friend thought it was too late—”
“I need to sit down,” Mrs. Sakai murmured, not even looking at him. The policemen closed ranks around her, and she was led off.
“Please don’t do that again. You’re upsetting the victim’s wife!” the junior constable said to Jun. I tuned out, trying to concentrate on this new knowledge I had about Nao Sakai’s wife. I had told the police about the conditions under which I’d bought the tansu , but I hadn’t given a physical description of the other customer, not knowing about the connection. If I brought it up now, it might make them examine Mr. Sakai’s death more intensely. It would also convert my status from an unfortunate witness to an accidental death into something more sinister.
I pondered this during the next hour, during which an elementary school class and several neighborhood residents came in to learn about matters such as household registration and bicycle permits. If only life were that mundane for me. I wondered if I would ever consider it mundane again.
A junior high school student departing with the paperwork for her new bicycle was almost knocked over by a new arrival, a long-haired foreigner with his eyes everywhere except the path in front of him. The man was in his early twenties, dressed in tie-dyed shorts and a tank top bearing the motto Fükengruven. A illegal jewelry vendor, I guessed from the size of his backpack and the long silver lizard earring that dangled halfway to his shoulder. But no court of cops surrounded him. When he noticed the canaries, he snickered slightly and ambled over.
“Whassup?” The backpacker stuck a finger in a cage, withdrawing it when the canaries backed away. The young man pulled a hand-rolled cigarette out of the waistband of his shorts. He lit the cigarette, turning as he inhaled so I got an excellent view of his dark green eyes. Yes, I was certain now. He was a nightmare version of Hugh—proof of what might happen if my lover chucked his Paul Smith suits and went Rastafarian.
“ Oi, marijuanakai? ” The young, gum-chewing constable jumped to his feet and headed for the stranger.
“No! It’s not pot, is it?” I blurted in English.
“It’s clove. What’s it to you, lass?” He blew a smoke ring at a canary, which squawked at the outrage.
“He is only smoking a clove cigarette,” I translated for the police officer.
“And what is that substance?” the policeman demanded a bit shakily.
“A spice that is very popular overseas, commonly used in cakes and curries.”
The backpacker sneered, and the young constable said, “This overseas boy could be fined heavily for disregarding our No S MOKING sign. And for animal abuse!”
I switched languages and said, “Put it out unless you want to spend the night here.”
“Talk about an uptight country.” He stubbed out the cigarette on a bar of the cage, knocking ash into the canaries’ home.
“You’re Angus Glendinning, aren’t you?” I asked.
The backpacker gave me a thorough up-and-down, then smirked. “Rei? I would not have guessed. You dinna look like a mistress.”
I swallowed hard and said, “You surprise me, too. Where did you learn that odd accent, the movies?” He hadn’t sounded so ridiculous in the few seconds I’d heard him on the telephone.
Angus merely laughed. “Shug said to tell you he’ll be a few minutes. He’s gone to fetch his lawyer.”
Shug. That was the Hugh’s nickname, which had never made sense to me. If I were on better terms with Angus, maybe I could learn
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