Southern Fried Sushi, page 2
Time. I checked my watch for the tenth time, still too many stops away from Shibuya. The train lurched to a halt, opened its doors, and out rolled a moving sea of people. Kyoko and I hung on to the rings dangling from the ceiling for our lives. The tide poured back in, blasting us like seaweed in a typhoon.
Red kanji characters burned overhead as the doors closed, announcing the next stop, and my eyes bounced over silent, charcoal-gray-clad businessmen avoiding eye contact, a subway map, and too-colorful advertisements for green tea and soap. No one spoke. Kyoko stuck her iPod buds in her ears, harsh guitar chords audible even over the chunk-chunk of the tracks.
When the subway car finally eased to a stop at Shibuya station, I’d melted into a rumpled, wrinkled mass of sweat. Westumbled out into the station and across the platform, following humanity up, up, and up the stairs toward daylight.
We didn’t have to think. The crowds moved us along without effort, like a piece of flotsam in a flood. I just had to remember to keep right so running businessmen could speed past on my left.
The right-left thing changed, though, from city to city. So I had to stay on my toes.
“What’s the P in your middle name stand for?”
Obviously I had to stay on my toes at all times with Kyoko, too. I narrowed my eyes at her. “Nice try.” This time she’d done the split-second subject change on purpose. Trying to catch me off guard. “I’ll never tell. So you can stop asking.”
“Must be pretty wild if you don’t use it instead of your first name.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” I stuck my tongue out at her.
“Where are you meeting?”
“At Hachiko. We always meet there.”
People crisscrossed our paths yakking into tiny flip cell phones, sucking Starbucks straws, and tuned out with iPods. No two faces looked alike: topped with a delivery cap, wrapped in an Indian turban, or hair cut in the fashionable, shaggy Japanese teen look. But all were on a mission: lunch. And air-conditioning.
I took my scarf out of my purse and tied it on then put on my navy-blue jacket. Even in the heat. And my new pricey sunglasses. Rolled on a bit of perfume from the glass tube in my purse.
“Done yet?”
I sniffed at Kyoko. “Can’t help it I want to look nice. Look! There’s Hachiko.”
As we grew closer to the unassuming bronze statue of a dog, I felt a lump strain my throat. According to the story, Hachiko waited at Shibuya Station every evening for his master to arrive—until the day the man suffered a stroke and never returned. Still Hachiko waited. Even after they gave him away, he escaped andwaited at the station at the time of the train. For ten whole years until he finally died in 1935.
No story had ever gripped me as much as Hachiko’s, and nothing in my adult life—ever—had made me want to cry.
Hachiko chose to love. And stay. Unlike everybody else in my so-called life.
I blinked under my sunglasses at Hachiko’s characteristic bent ear in bronze.
“You okay? You haven’t even met her yet.”
I whacked Kyoko with my purse. “I don’t care about her! Will you forget it? Honestly!” I crossed my arms and scowled at a group of boisterous European tourists, laughing and taking pictures of three delicate Japanese girls, all decked in colorful cotton yukata kimonos and shyly waving fans.
I started to say more, but a pair of black eyes lazily strode into view. “Little late, aren’t you?” he said in his spicy accent, kissing me lightly on both cheeks. Not a bead of sweat—even in a full suit. Tropical blood, I guess. And he smelled wonderful. I leaned closer and tried to memorize the scent.
“It’s rush hour, babe.” I took his arm.
He tugged on my scarf. “Is that real? What am I gonna do with you, spending all your money?”
“It cost about as much as your Italian shoes,” I shot back, reddening not just from the heat.
Carlos spoke as if he hadn’t heard me. “We’re going to Friday’s, but first … oh, I see her. Wait a minute.”
“Hello?” Kyoko waved her hand in irritation, but he didn’t notice. Not unusual. Carlos didn’t care much for Kyoko, and she mirrored his feelings. Plus some.
We strained our eyes through Japanese gakusei (high schoolers) in their blue Prussian-style uniforms, spike-haired store clerks with chopsticks wolfing down rice from to-go boxes, and a TV crew setting up to film a sweat-drenched guy dressed like a piece of sushi. A man yelled angrily into his phone in
Arabic. Cicadas sawed with a ringing sound, and it all swirled together in a hot, sweaty mass. “Uh-oh.” Kyoko’s voice fell flat.
“What?” I asked sharply, shielding my eyes. “I don’t see anyone remotely …” My breath deflated. “Oh no.”
Chapter 2
Kyoko wisely kept her mouth shut as we wended our way across the crowded plaza. There on an iron bench sat a vision of a girl with thick, white-blond ringlets stylishly done up in a messy bun. Her cheeks bloomed pink, yet she remained cool and refreshing in a white skirt and sandals.
She looked up from typing text messages, blinking the palest green eyes I’d ever seen—like translucent sea glass. “Cahlos?” She stood, giving an enchanting, warm little smile that seemed to know no strangers.
He gave her the same two kisses he’d given me, Argentinian style, and I bristled. Did he do that with everybody?
Carlos cleared his throat and looked disinterested. “Mia, meet … um … Sh-Shiloh. My girlfriend.”
I stared into his perfectly sun-browned face. He stuttered. Carlos never stuttered, not even the night he proposed. I’d only heard him stutter once: before a big company presentation with the president. From nerves, he’d explained.
“Fiancée,” I corrected and gave her a stiff smile. Not only did she dazzle with all her perfect hairs in place, but that accent only made her cuter.
“Shoy-loh,” she said delicately, betraying her Aussie roots.
She smiled and fanned herself with a pretty paper fan. “Ploised to meet you. Mia Robinson. I’m from Sydney.”
She dug in her purse for a business card—the quintessential Japanese “who’s-higher-on-the-totem-pole” accessory—and I reached for it with one hand. Not two, per Japanese customs of respect.
“I’ve been to Sydney.” I didn’t even glance at her card, which—if either of us were Japanese—would have insulted her immediately.
Instead I squared my jacketed shoulders, deciding to pull rank as well as height, since petite Mia barely reached my nose. Not that my height was anything to brag about. “Kyoko and I work for the Associated Press bureau in Shiodome. I’m a reporter.” I offered her a business card from a professional card holder inside my purse. With two hands.
“Associated Press.” Mia blinked adorable lashes, those frosty green eyes shining like sea foam. “How exciting! I know someone there—Nora Choi. We studied Japanese together in Kobe University.”
“Nora. Yes. She’s our coworker.” I straightened my slipping purse strap, miffed that Mia had somehow entered the AP circle, if only by acquaintance. The mystery I’d hoped to convey faltered.
Carlos stood there like an idiot, hands in his pockets, and then finally cleared his throat. “Well, let’s go then.” And he turned and headed off through the giggling high school girls. (One of whom tried to take his picture, blowing kisses after him.)
I came to my senses and trotted after Carlos, leaving Kyoko and Mia chatting behind us. I took his arm and tried to talk, but he seemed a million miles away. “The heat, amor,” he said shortly.
“But you’re not even sweating!”
“Well, it’s still hot.” He walked with a sort of swagger. “I’m getting promoted, you know. I’m top seller of the month. Again.”
“You told me. Congratulations.”
“It’s really hard to beat my record. But it’s easy for me. I was born for sales. In fact, they might transfer me to Beijing with a promotion.”
“What? But I thought …” I looked up at him in horror.
“I know. You like Japan.”
We turned a corner, and I coughed back my astonishment. Beijing?
“Hey, porteño,” Kyoko called to Carlos over the street noise, using the nickname for Buenos Aires natives. Her world knowledge never failed to impress me. “Did you hear Shiloh’s story on Kobe won—”
“I know. Some little … award,” Carlos interrupted, checking his cell phone.
“It’s not little,” I retorted. “It’s a big deal.” All the press crowds, snapping photos while shaking hands, and international telegrams and wires made sure it was a big deal.
“Sure.” Carlos glanced back at Mia and smiled. Looked at me, struggling for conversation.
We walked in silence a few blocks, interrupted only by the ringing of cicadas and endless chatter on cell phones. A bento (lunch box) delivery motorcycle buzzed past.
Behind us I could hear Mia’s musical little laugh as she and Kyoko talked. About what, I have no idea because Kyoko sometimes made a piece of shrimp look sociable.
“So you’re going to room with her?” I peered up at Carlos suspiciously through my sunglasses.
We passed an udon noodle shop where businessmen stood slurping bowls of steaming soup through their chopsticks. The delicious smell made me pause for a minute before he pulled me along.
“I guess.”
I wrinkled my nose. “You really think it’s a good idea?”
“Why? You’re not jealous, are you?” He locked black eyes on me. “Stop being childish, Shiloh! This is business. I could use the
money. I mean, I’ve got an extra room I don’t use.”
“Well, why don’t we …?” I fingered the ring again. I didn’t want to push things too fast, but if we got married now, then …
He touched his forehead, which started to glisten slightly with sweat. “I don’t think now’s a good time. I can’t take vacation yet, and a wedding is a big deal. I want to get married back home. It’s better to wait.”
“Bring your parents here. I can help out with the cost.”
“I’ve got a big family, amor. You have no idea how big.”
“I’ve got money,” I pouted again, feeling stung. “I mean, I do work for—”
He tugged on the corner of my scarf, and I snatched it off in exasperation and stuffed it in my purse. He didn’t even notice. “And that trip you took in February? To Brazil?”
“So what?”
“You should have gone to Arhentina. We’ve got a better Carnival. The Brazilians think theirs is so wonderful because they’ve got samba. But we’ve got something better.”
“What?”
“Arhentinians.”
I rolled my eyes. Carlos could be such a nationalistic snob sometimes.
I glanced back at Mia, fluttering her fan while a breeze tossed those white-blond corkscrews. Her celadon eyes glimmered in her happy face as if playing a practical joke on my heart.
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-three.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I’m not sure I like it.”
Carlos rubbed his face with a free hand in annoyance. “I’m helping her out, that’s all. It’s more for her sake. I feel sorry for her.”
“Well, she can come live with me then if she needs help.”
Pure bluff. Housing at the AP apartments would never allow it, and besides, they were already too small. I felt as if I lived in a closet. A nice closet, but still.
“Don’t be silly. You know she can’t live there.” He stopped abruptly on the sidewalk and faced me. “Do you think I would bring her here to meet you if I had other intentions?” He stared me down.
I turned away, blushing. “I guess not.” What a lame answer.
“Then forget it. She’ll only stay a few months. I promise.”
“Months?”
“Weeks. Whatever.”
I laced my fingers through his as if to make sure he stayed with me, no matter what, and tried to push Mia Robinson out of my mind.
Kyoko didn’t say much on the way back. She pretended to be absorbed in her cell phone, typing out text messages nonstop until I finally grabbed her phone and snapped it shut.
“Hey! What’d you do that for?” She scowled. “Now I have to type it all over again.”
I tried to erase the troubled line from my brow, but I couldn’t. “You think it’s a bad idea? Mia and …?”
Kyoko shrank her eyes into dark lines. “You really want to know?”
I swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, it’s a bad idea. A very bad idea,” she hissed.
I lifted my chin. “Well, you don’t know Carlos.”
Kyoko grabbed her cell phone back. “Do you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I just mean you haven’t known the man for what … eight months? It raises a lot of red flags.”
“Ten. And what do you know about red flags?” I played with the zipper on my purse and fumed. It was also a Louis Vuitton. Okay, so I’d broken my promise. But just that once.
“You asked. I answered.”
“Well, you’ll see. It’ll turn out fine.”
“Besides, Ro, is that even legal?” She squinted at me. “I mean, the company obviously pays for his housing. I doubt they’d be too keen on subletting, no matter how many rooms he has. Did you ever think about that?”
She had a point. Leave it to legal Kyoko. I caught a flash of my face in the glass, lips curved into an unhappy frown. I forced a smile and lifted my head.
“Carlos is my fiancé. I can trust him.” I changed the subject. “Did you go to law school or something?”
She ignored me. “Just the same, better keep him away from Miss Australia for the time being.”
I plodded back to the office in silence, straightening my hair and tying on my scarf in the bathroom mirror. Kyoko reapplied her already dark eyeliner and some purple-brown lipstick. She pressed her lips together, looking like one of those sad, black-clad rockers strumming guitars in subway corners.
We had just come through the glass double doors of the office when Bob the copyeditor jumped out at me. “Good thing you’re back. Dave’s waiting for you.”
“Dave? Why?”
“Says you’re late on a story. He’s not happy.”
I recoiled as if bitten by one of the Japanese monkeys that hung out near the hot springs. They routinely stole lunches and grabbed soft-drink cans. One even tried to carry off Kyoko’s gigantic purse, which is nearly as big as me.
“What? I turned everything in! The Fujimori speech with the faux-pas reference to the shrine. The new recycling bill. The one about—”
“The prime minister’s wife,” Bob finished in irritation.
Sudden horror rose in my stomach, and I felt the floor suddenly buckle, earthquake-like. But I steadied myself and feigned relief. “Oh, of course!” I waved it aside like a pesky bug.
“I’ll send it to you.”
“He’s scheduled a meeting with you at two fifteen.”
I glanced at the clock. Forty-five minutes.
“No problem. I’ll talk to Dave.”
I hurried back to my desk, pins and needles tingling at the ends of my fingers. My breathing turned shallow, and I sat down quickly at my desk, rubbing my face with trembling hands.
Calm, calm, I willed myself, trying to get a grip. The prime minister’s wife story. I remember it now. I’d been so consumed with the Diet story and understanding the complex Japanese government issues (and equally complex Carlos, I had to admit) that somehow I’d forgotten the PM’s wife.
I opened my calendar and flipped back through my list of assignments, and to my horror red ink glared at me—deadlined for Wednesday. Today was Friday. Afternoon.
I grabbed my Rolodex and riffled through it with shaking fingers, nearly tearing the pages until I came to the official governmental numbers. Normally I’d have gotten a secretary to make the appointment for me days ago, but in the haste somehow I’d forgotten.
How? How? I pounded my fingers into the soft fabric of my chair, wondering how on earth something so important could have slipped my mind. I’d never, ever turned in a story late—especially one so stunningly important. Shiloh the award-winning rookie—barely out of college and halfway through her master’s—did not turn in stories late.
If I failed now, I’d fail at everything. Dave would bawl me out. He’d never said a cross word to me, although once I saw Nora Choi fleeing to the bathroom in tears after a heated discussion in his office. The same day he broke the copy machine in half.
What would I say? “Sorry, Dave. I haven’t even started”?
I grabbed the phone and punched in some numbers then hung up. What am I doing? I don’t want Kyoko and the whole world to hear me calling the Japanese government at one thirty inthe afternoon on a Friday! I snatched up my Rolodex and fled to a conference room then shut the door and dialed again. I could hear my panicked breathing as I waited for the sound of ringing.
Please, please pick up!
No answer. I dialed again desperately, keeping an eye on the slowly moving second hand on the clock. Tried another number then another. Finally the beautiful sound of a human voice.
I blurted out my request in my best Japanese, begging for just five minutes to speak to the prime minister’s wife or one of her representatives. I’d just started my lengthy Japanese apology when the receptionist abruptly put me on hold.
I tapped my foot impatiently, maneuvering myself over to the sleek computer on the desk, phone under my chin. Opened a fresh page and set up all the correct headings and formats to save time. I could type the interview, if a miracle occurred, straight into the story.
“Moshi moshi?” asked a professionally crisp voice. “Hello?”
I introduced myself and begged his mercy then pleaded to speak to the prime minister’s wife. I knew I’d breached all possible protocol, and even Japanese etiquette, by demanding something on the spot—but it was my last recourse. They should know me by now. I’ve interviewed the Japanese prime minister, for crying out loud! I’m dependable! I’m good! I’m …
He was saying something about France. “I’m sorry?”
