Still, what could she do? Who was going to save them from all this? They had to go on living. And even if she felt like a slave, even if it seemed as though she would always be doing the dirty work, who else was there? She had to keep trying. If she didn't, it would be all over. She needed to think of a plan, a way out.. . but before she did, she had to get back to work.
Miki had come into the bathroom and was washing with a new brand of cleansing foam: Yoshie could tell at once from the fragrance. She had bought it, along with her contacts and her hair mousse, with the money from her part-time job. In the morning light, the girl's hair had a dyed-brown sheen.
When she'd finished washing the diaper and disinfecting her hands, she looked up at Miki, who was brushing her hair and studying herself intently in the mirror.
'Did you dye your hair?' she asked.
'A little,' the girl answered, continuing to brush.
'It makes you look like a juvenile delinquent.'
'No one says "juvenile delinquent" any more,' said Miki, doubling up with laughter. 'No one's said that in years except you. And besides, everybody's doing their hair.'
'I suppose so,' her mother murmured. Miki had become loud and her taste had turned garish recently, and it was worrying. 'What are you going to do about a summer job?' she asked, to change the subject.
'I've found something,' said Miki as she sprayed something on her long hair.
'Where?'
'A fast-food place across from the station.'
'How much do they pay?'
'High-school students get ¥800 an hour.' Her mother was silent for a moment, absorbing the shock: that was ¥70 more per hour than they made on the day shift at the factory. Was it just being young that made them worth so much? 'Something wrong?' Miki asked, studying her mother's face.
'No, nothing. Did everything go okay with Grandma last night?' she went on, to change the subject again.
'She had nightmares. Calling out Grandpa's name and making lots of noise.' Yoshie remembered that the old woman had seemed particularly fretful before she'd left for work, whining like a baby and refusing to let her go. She'd complained about being left in the house, about being so helpless. Ever since a stroke had paralysed her right side, she'd been much meeker and quieter, but just recently the selfish, infantile tendency in her had come to the fore again.
'That's strange,' said Yoshie. 'You don't suppose she's getting senile?'
'Ugh. I hope not. I really don't want to have to look after her.'
'Don't say that. I need you to take care of her and make sure she's comfortable.'
'No way,' Miki barked. 'I get too tired.' Pulling a drink carton from the refrigerator, she plunged a straw into it and began sucking. It took Yoshie a moment to recognise it as a breakfast substitute she'd bought at the convenience store, one all her friends seemed to be drinking. She could have had a perfectly good breakfast with the rice and miso soup I went to the trouble of making the night before, thought Yoshie. Her heart sank at the thought of the needless extravagance. And Miki seemed to be repeating the sin at lunch. She used to eat the lunch Yoshie put together from whatever she had in the house, but now she was going to fast-food restaurants with her friends. Where was she getting the money? Unconsciously, she'd begun to stare at her daughter inquisitively.
'What are you looking at?' Miki asked, turning her head and scowling.
'Nothing,' said Yoshie.
'Did you remember the money for the school trip I told you is due tomorrow?' Miki said. Yoshie, who had completely forgotten about the trip, looked taken aback.
'How much was it?' she asked.
'Eighty-three thousand.'
Yoshie gulped. 'Was it that much?'
'I told you!' Miki shouted, suddenly furious. Yoshie fell silent, wondering where she would come up with that kind of money, while Miki quickly got dressed and left for school. No doubt about it, she thought, feeling all the more depressed, I need more money.
'Yoshie,' her mother-in-law called, sounding impatient. Yoshie gathered up the diaper she'd just washed and went into the back room. After struggling to take off her soiled nightgown and put on a clean one, she fed her breakfast and changed her diaper again. It was nearly 9.00 a.m. by the time she'd finished the mountain of laundry and finally crawled into the futon stretched out next to her mother-in-law's. They could both sleep until around noon, but then the old woman would wake up and make a fuss until Yoshie fixed her lunch.
Yoshie slept only a few hours each day. In the afternoon, she was barely able to doze between nursing chores, and then in the evening she would sleep a bit more before leaving for the factory. At best, she managed only about six fragmented hours of sleep, barely enough to get by on. This was her daily routine, but she worried that she would soon reach the breaking point.
-
Though payday wasn't until the end of the month, she decided to call the payroll office at the factory to see if she could borrow against her wages.
'Sorry, we don't make exceptions.' The accounting manager's tone was frosty.
'I know,' said Yoshie, 'but I've been here quite a while.'
'Yes, but rules are rules,' he said, turning her down cold. 'And by the way, Mrs Azuma, you've got to start taking at least one day off a week or we'll have trouble with the labour bureau.'
'I understand,' said Yoshie. She'd recently been working seven days a week for the overtime pay.
'You get welfare payments, don't you? If you go over the allowable income, they'll cut you off.' Unexpectedly, Yoshie found herself apologising and bowing as she hung up. Now she had only her last resort: Masako. How many times had she already asked her for help in an emergency?
'Hello,' her husky voice said. It sounded as though she'd just woken up.
'It's me,' said Yoshie. 'Did I wake you?'
'Ah, the Skipper. No, I was just getting up,' said Masako.
'I've got a favour to ask, but you've got to tell me if you can't manage it.'
'I'll tell you,' said Masako. 'What is it?' Yoshie hesitated, wondering whether her friend would really be frank with her. But this was Masako. More than once at the factory she'd been amazed at her openness, her lack of pretence.
'I'm wondering if you could lend me some money,' she said at last.
'How much?'
'Eighty-three thousand. It's for Miki's class trip, and I'm completely strapped.'
'No problem,' said Masako. Though she was sure that Masako herself couldn't easily spare the money, she was delighted that she'd agreed so easily.
'Thanks,' she said. 'You don't know how much I appreciate this.'
'I'll stop at the bank and bring it this evening,' said Masako. Yoshie went limp with relief. It was humiliating to have to borrow money, but she was glad to know she had a friend like her.
-
She had just dozed off with her head resting on the low table when the doorbell rang. Masako stood in the entrance, her face dark against the sunset.
'Hi,' Masako said. 'I got to thinking about it and realised that you wouldn't want to leave the cash sitting around the factory, so I brought it over.' She handed her the bank envelope. No doubt the thought had occurred to her as she was making the withdrawal and she'd come all this way to deliver the money. It was so like Masako, so sensible. But beyond that, Yoshie realised, it was also quite kind, for she had understood that Yoshie wouldn't want to be seen borrowing money at the factory.
'Thank you. I'll pay you back at the end of the month.'
'Take your time.'
'No, I know you've got loans yourself.'
'Don't worry about it,' Masako said, smiling slightly. Yoshie
stared at her in something approaching wonder, having so rarely seen her smile at work.
'But... ' she stammered.
'Don't worry about it, Skipper,' Masako repeated, closing the subject. Her expression suddenly turned serious, and a small vertical line, a scar perhaps, appeared next to her right eyebrow. Yoshie knew that the mark was a sign that M
asako, too, had worries, but the thought made her uncomfortable. She had no idea what might be on her friend's mind, and she feared that even if she did find out, it might be something an ordinary woman like her would have trouble understanding.
'Why does someone like you work at a place like that?' she asked suddenly.
'Don't be silly,' Masako said. 'So, I'll see you later,' she added. Giving a quick wave, she turned and headed back toward the red Corolla she'd left parked on the main street.
Almost before she was out of sight, Miki appeared, coming home from school. Yoshie handed her the envelope as she walked in the door.
'Here's the money,' she said.
'How much?' Miki asked, taking it as if she'd been expecting nothing less and peering quickly inside.
'Eighty-three thousand.'
'Thanks.' Miki carelessly tucked the envelope into a pocket in her black backpack. Catching a glimpse of the satisfied look on her daughter's face, Yoshie suddenly had the feeling that she'd been taken for a ride, that the real price of the trip was somewhat less than the sum in the envelope. But as always, her instinct was to avoid facing facts. Miki had no reason to lie to her, not when she knew how hard up she was. How could she?
4
Mitsuyoshi Satake's eyes were fixed on the little silver balls in motion. Word had gone out that new machines were arriving, so he'd got up early to line up for one. He'd been playing now for three hours, so he was about due for a pay-off. All he had to do was be patient. Perhaps because he'd had too little sleep, his eyes burned as he stared at the bright-coloured machine. He fished a bottle of eye drops out of the Italian leather pouch that lay on the railing in front of him and, resting his shooting hand for a moment, placed a drop in each eye. As the medicine soaked into his dry eyes, tears began to flow, and Satake, who had hardly ever cried since he was a small boy, took a certain pleasure from the warm liquid trickling down his cheeks. He let the tears flow, resisting the urge to wipe them away.
At the next machine was a woman wearing a backpack. She glanced over at his tear-streaked face, and Satake could see in her expression both a certain curiosity and a frank disinclination to get involved with a man dressed as flashily as he was. He stared back through his tears at her smooth cheeks and decided that she was barely twenty years old. He was in the habit of sizing up a woman like this without necessarily making contact.
Satake himself was forty-three. His close-cropped head was set on a thick neck atop a powerful body - a generally thuggish appearance - but his eyes had an intelligent look, slanting up at the corners, his nose was well formed, and his hands were rather beautiful. The contradiction between the powerful body and the sensitive face and hands was odd to say the least.
37 With one beautiful hand, Satake pulled a designer handkerchief from the pocket of his sharply tailored black pants and dabbed at his eyes. Noticing the small tear stains on the black silk of his made-to-order shirt, he carefully dabbed at these as well. The flashy clothes and the Gucci loafers he wore without socks were just his work outfit, the equivalent for him of the business suit that the young woman at the next machine would have felt more comfortable sitting beside.
He glanced at the solid gold Rolex on his wrist. It was almost two o'clock and time to go. But just as he was looking down at the balls left in his tray and beginning to gather up his things, his luck came in: a flood of pachinko balls instantly filled the pocket and began flowing over into the tray.
'Shit,' he blurted out, disgusted at the timing. He nudged the woman next to him, who looked back in slight alarm. 'I've got to go,' he said. 'They're yours if you want them.'
'Thanks,' the woman muttered, looking pleased but wary. It was obvious she wouldn't make a move to take the balls until she was sure he was leaving. Smiling ruefully, he took his bag and stood up. As he walked down the aisle between the deafening pachinko machines underscored by the heavy bass line of the rap music pouring from the speakers, he thought about how he must look to young women these days.
Out on the street beyond the automatic doors, he was met by a new wall of noise: speakers announcing the next show at a movie theatre, men hawking cheap goods on the corner, a popular tune blaring from a karaoke studio. While it was somehow comforting to immerse himself in the familiar air of Kabuki-cho, he had a vague sense that he didn't have to be here. Looking up at the sliver of overcast sky visible through the grimy buildings, he wondered how much longer the humid, threatening heat would continue.
He tucked his bag under his arm and set off at a quick pace, but as he was passing the Koma Theatre, he realised there was a piece of chewing gum stuck to the leather sole of his loafer. He stopped for a moment to try to scrape it on the kerb, but the gum was sticky from the heat and hard to get off. By this point, Satake was thoroughly irritated. The sidewalk itself was sticky with dark stains, reminders of the food and drink consumed and then left behind by the young people who gathered in this neighbourhood at night. As Satake picked his way through the mess, he nearly bumped into a line of old ladies waiting for a concert at the theater. Raising his hand, he tried to cut through them, but the women were lost in their chatter and didn't notice. He stood for a moment in disbelief but then smiled and walked around them. No point in getting pissed off with people you didn't know. No, the gum was the bigger problem right now.
A man handing out fliers, another advertising some kind of girlie show, and a gaggle of sluttish high-school girls - they all gave Satake a wide berth. They knew the streets well enough to read the danger signals he was giving out. Plunging his hands in his pockets, he turned into a back street with a scowl on his face.
The club Satake owned, 'Mika', was in a building that faced an alley off the street that led to the ward office. Springing up the stairs, he pushed open the black door at the end of the passage on the second floor. With all the lights on, the room was unnaturally brighter than the pale shimmer of daylight that came through the frosted glass of the windows. The glass was etched with designs that seemed vaguely Grecian. A woman was sitting at a table near the door, waiting for Satake. She knew how much he hated to be kept waiting and so had come early.
'Thanks for meeting me here,' he said.
'That's fine,' she replied. Reika Cho was Taiwanese. Though her intonation was sometimes a bit odd, she spoke perfect Japanese, which was one reason Satake had agreed to make her the manager of his club. She was already in her late thirties, but she was proud of her smooth white skin and tended to favour low-cut blouses. Her make-up was limited to a gash of bright red lipstick. Around her long white neck she wore an intricate jade pendant and a large gold coin. She had apparently just lit a cigarette as he walked in, and now let out a long stream of smoke as she bowed slightly in his direction.
'Sorry to bother you. I know how busy you are,' he said.
'Not at all,' she said. 'What could be more important than a meeting with Satake-san?' There was something flirtatious in her tone, but Satake decided to ignore it and sat down across from her. He looked around at his club with an air of satisfaction. The colour scheme was based on a dark shade of pink, with rococostyle furniture. There was a karaoke machine near the entrance and a white piano surrounded by four tables. On a lower level toward the back were twelve more tables - a sizeable place, all in all, with a hint of old Shanghai about it.
Reika folded her pale, slender fingers in front of her and looked at him. One hand was adorned with a large jade ring. As if to throw her off guard, instead of taking up the matter they had met to discuss, Satake pointed at the vases of flowers placed around the room.
'Reika-san, you should know better than to forget to change the water in the flowers.' The vases were filled with extravagant bunches of lilies, roses and orchids, but the water had gone cloudy and the flowers were wilting.
'Oh? Yes, I'm sorry,' Reika said, her eyes following his around the room.
'You should at least be able to handle that,' he added, making a joke of it, though privately the complaint was real enough. Still, sh
e was otherwise efficient at running the club.
'But what was it you wanted to discuss?' she asked, smiling brightly and apparently intent on changing the subject. 'Is it about the receipts?'
'No, it's about a customer. Have you been having any problems lately?'
'What sort of problems?' Reika asked. He could see the cogs turning in her head.
'It was something I heard from Anna,' said Satake, leaning forward as he noticed her tensing slightly. Anna Ri, from Shanghai, was the top hostess at Mika and its principal draw. Reika knew that Satake took special care of her and listened to what she said.
'And what did you hear?' she asked.
'Is there a customer by the name of Yamamoto?'
'We get several of them with that name. . . . Oh wait, I know who you mean,' Reika nodded, as if suddenly remembering. 'He's quite a fan of Anna's, I believe.'
'So she says. And that's okay, if he pays his bill; but seems he's been waiting for her outside the club and following her around.'
'Is that so?' said Reika, leaning back to emphasise how surprised she was.
'And yesterday I had a call from her saying that the guy had somehow found out where she lives and had shown up at her apartment,' Satake added.
'Now that you mention it, he has been a bit slow with his bill,' Reika said, with growing consternation.
'I've warned you about these jerks with eyes too big for their expense accounts. Next time he shows up, figure out a way to send him packing. I don't want Anna hooking up with a creep like that.'
'I understand,' she said. 'But what can I tell him?'
'That's up to you. It comes with the job,' Satake said. The rebuff seemed to put her on her mettle, and her expression changed, her lips narrowing to a fine crease.
'I understand,' she said again. 'I'll give strict orders to the floor manager.' The floor manager was a young Taiwanese who'd been off the last two days with a cold.
'And when she hasn't any customers, send Anna home by taxi.'
'I'll do just that,' said Reika, her head bobbing. The conversation at an end, Satake grunted and stood to go. She followed him to the door, as if her were a customer.