The Floating Girl: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mystery #4) (2 page)

“Where’s Whitney?” I aimed my question at Rika Fuchida, the magazine’s college intern, who was standing with bare feet on Alec’s desk taping up the edge of a Cibo Matto poster that had come loose. I was surprised Alec wasn’t in the room watching Rika. Her skirt was shorter than mine.

“Oh, hello, Rei-san!” Rika was Japanese, so she had no trouble with my name. “Didn’t you hear that Whitney-san is not here anymore?”

“No. Is she working from home?” I glanced at my watch. I had to be somewhere else in two hours, but I really had wanted to see the editor for approval of my next column topic. I was proposing a piece on how to buy and refinish a
tansu
chest for less than a thousand dollars.

Rika shook her head so vigorously that her trendy short pigtails bounced. “Whitney quit.”

“Oh, no!” I was aghast.

Alec leaned in the doorway and joined our conversation. “She took a job at the
Asian Wall Street Journal.
Going on to greener pastures, heh heh. Good thing for all of us that she did a bunk. This magazine needs to be more culturally connected. Whitney spoke the language, but she didn’t know much about the pulse of modern Japan.”

“If the
Journal
hired her, somebody obviously thinks she’s good,” I said. From what I’d heard about her Yale education and journalism experience, Whitney was almost overqualified for the
Gaijin Times.

“Mr. Sanno, the magazine’s owner, is sitting in on the story meeting today. He’s the one who’s going to select the new editor.” Alec looked as if he would explode with excitement.

“Don’t get any ideas about showing off during the meeting. I saw your resume. The only journalism experience you’ve had prior to this is the
Johns Hopkins University Newsletter.”

“I’m not interested in the editor’s job,” I replied coolly. His mention of the magazine owner made me nervous. Would Mr. Sanno even want to keep me on as a columnist? I was very grateful for the publicity that the
Gaijin Times
column had given my business. My net earnings were 20 percent higher since I’d started being published.

“It’s almost time for the meeting,” Rika said. “May I pause in your office redecoration, Alec-san, in order to serve the coffee?”

“I’ll help you,” I offered, not wanting to stand next to Alec for a minute longer. It was only when Rika and I were placing small glasses of iced coffee on wooden coasters around the conference table that I realized how foolish my move had been. I was acting like an obsequious office lady. This was not the way to reinforce my stature as a columnist to the magazine’s owner.

I wondered what Mr. Sanno was thinking when he took the seat of power at the end of the battered steel table. The magazine’s staff of six full-time editorial employees was a motley assortment of young people who perfectly reflected patterns of immigration to fin de siècle Japan. There was Joey Hirota, the half-Taiwanese, half- Japanese restaurant critic; Norton Jones, a fresh Columbia University graduate who covered national politics; Toshi Ueda, a recent Waseda University graduate who was the photo editor; my friend Karen Anderson, a former model who had put on weight and now wrote about fashion trends; the repulsive Alec, who did the music and entertainment listings; and Rika Fuchida, Alec’s intern assistant. The gang wore faux- and genuine vintage patterned polyester, double knit and jersey. Earrings swung from multiple holes, and heavy rings and bangles clattered against the table whenever anyone reached for their coffee. There was an undeniable odor of tobacco hanging over the group and a ratio of one ashtray per person on the table, although nobody was smoking yet, perhaps in deference to the magazine’s owner.

Mr. Sanno appeared about forty years old, but instead of the gray or navy suit that was de rigueur with men his age, he was wearing a flashy green suit with wide lapels. He sat at the end of the table flipping through a large ring binder filled with pages of spreadsheets. Numbers, I thought, tensing up. I suspected that he would talk about what had proven profitable in the past, and how we would need to change.

“Thank you for allowing me to join your regular story meeting. You are kind to let me intrude into your busy day.” Mr. Sanno’s voice was surprisingly high. I wondered if this was because he found speaking English a strain. He spoke at the level of someone who did business on a daily basis with English speakers, but he didn’t have the relaxed fluency of Japanese who had lived or studied overseas.

“Hey, no worries! I’d like to see a lot more of you,” Alec said in his brash Australian way, and I sensed stiffening around the table. Alec was trying to turn his role as de facto editor into a permanent promotion.

“Thank you, Mr. Tampon,” Mr. Sanno said, smoothly botching the pronunciation of Alec’s surname. I didn’t hide my smile. “We shall all miss the leadership of Miss Whitney Talbot. However, as we frequently say in Japan and China, the kanji character for crisis is made from those for two words:
danger
and
opportunity.
Our challenging time offers a great chance to move forward, to create a larger circulation for Gaijin
Times
.”

I stopped smiling. Mr. Sanno was talking about numbers even sooner than I’d expected.

“You may know that the
Gaijin Times
is the only magazine that Sanno Advertising owns. Perhaps you would like to understand why we created this magazine?” He glanced around the table. “Because we own the
Gaijin Times,
we can run advertisements on its pages for free. Of course, we charge our clients the cost of our advertising services, and they agree that it is a fair system. If we have a Mexican restaurant as a client, we run an ad for the spot, and in the same issue, Mr. Joey Hirota gives it a good review.”

“Mr. Sanno, if I may say a few words, the magazine is more than an advertising circular. I report stories on the banking crisis, the
yakuza,
the future of the Diet,” Norton interjected.

Norton didn’t know the right etiquette for a conversation with a Japanese boss. I exchanged quick unhappy looks with Toshi and Rika. Joey Hirota was still staring down in his lap, as if he’d been horribly embarrassed to be revealed as having written phony reviews. I should have figured out the reason for the review scam long ago. Personally, I never took much stock in anyone who thought you could buy a decent chimichanga in Tokyo.

“With changes in the economy, however, our loyal advertisers have less money to spend. To keep the magazine alive, we need more subscriptions.”

But the business of being a working foreigner in Tokyo had gotten tough. Salaries for English teachers, bar hostesses, and the like had dropped precipitously in the last few years. Young
gaijin
were becoming skeptical of the length of time that they could make a living in Tokyo, which made the prospect of paying 6,000 yen up front for twelve issues of a magazine unlikely.

“I agree that we need to up our subscriber list,” Alec chimed in. “We have to increase page space for music and clubs, things that remind
gaijin
kids of the stuff they left behind. A cover with the Beastie Boys or Mariah Carey would sell far more than one with a Japanese person on it. Get it?”

“I see your point,” Toshi Ueda, the photographer, said. No Japanese person would blatantly tell another person he was wrong, but I had a sense that Toshi had something up his sleeve. “Speaking of musical culture, it is interesting that the Namie Amuro cover sold more than any other issue to date.”

“Yes. Sales of that issue prove that Japanese idol singers appeal to foreigners. Foreigners come to Japan because they admire our popular culture!” Mr. Sanno’s mild voice had become almost vehement, proving that Alec’s brash, anti-Japanese comment had annoyed him.

I saw my chance to make a gentle comment to help my own cause along. “I agree. Another aspect of Japanese culture that foreigners love is Japanese antiques. Even if budgets are small, people are still enthusiastically buying vintage Japanese furniture.”

“What about original Japanese fashion?” Karen added. “Why don’t we point out some of the local designers who aren’t yet in the department stores and are thus less expensive?”

“So many good ideas.” Mr. Sanno stroked his smooth chin. “In this case, I have looked at the Japanese publishing market for guidance. Can you identify the single largest-selling category of book in Japan today?”

“Business,” Norton said with a yawn.

Mr. Sanno shook his head.

“Pornography,” Alec said with a sneer.

“No, I’m afraid it’s something rather more innocent in its nature.”

Rika raised her hand. When Mr. Sanno nodded at her, she said timidly,
“Manga?”

He smiled expansively. “That’s right. Forty percent of all written material sold in Japan is comics. Will the young lady please tell me her name? I’m afraid we haven’t met.”

“Rika Fuchida. I’m just the intern here from Showa College—”

“A fine school. I am a graduate.” Mr. Sanno twinkled at her. “Do they still have the
manga
club?”

“Oh, yes. I’m a member.”

Mr. Sanno flipped open the binder he’d been perusing and read from it. “As Rika-chan could probably tell you, there are several English-language magazines aimed at fans of Japanese animation. But there is no English-language
manga
that instructs foreigners about life in Japan.”

Was he going to turn
Gaijin Times
into a comic book? No wonder Whitney had quit. Every face at the table was neutral, but I could only imagine that the others were as shocked as I.

“When do you anticipate the change happening?” Toshi croaked. Probably he was pondering what role his artsy black-and-white photographs could have in a comic magazine.

“Most of the three future issues, articles and art are already completed—yes, Miss Talbot was very efficient, and that must not go to waste. However, I would like to see at least two articles in next month’s issue that explore the idea of
manga.
We will also put out a call for cartoonists to audition their work, and begin running two or three different comic stories per issue. It’s now July, so let’s see… a full
manga-
format issue by December would be reasonable. With the hard work of everyone, it could happen. Joey will write his restaurant reviews as a comic strip—imagine the possibilities! The reader will not only read about what the food is like, but also see it. Likewise for you, Miss Karen. Photographs don’t work anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Karen sounded confused.

“If a dress is not flattering to a woman, the real-life appearance”—Mr. Sanno gestured to Karen’s muumuu-like black dress
—
“makes it look bad. Likewise, photographs tell the true story, which can make the retailer upset. A cartoon illustration, on the other hand, can make any dress look truly lovely.”

I felt strange, as if I were hovering over the table and witnessing the beginning of a disaster. Karen felt bad enough about her weight gain, which Mr. Sanno was cruelly pointing out. What would happen to the rest of us, and to the publication? The
Gaijin Times
had never been a prizewinning publication, but it had done a decent job imparting crucial lifestyle information to foreigners. I’d used the
Gaijin Times
to search for apartments and jobs when I’d arrived. Come to think of it, I’d learned about the waxing specialists at Power Princess Spa after reading an article Karen had written in last month’s issue. Could all that be scrapped for wasp-waisted, big-eyed androids carrying guns?

“I assume you’ll bring in a new editor.” Joey sounded glum. “One who is expert in comical matters?”

“We Japanese always believe in promoting from within,” Mr. Sanno reassured. “I am certain that one of you could easily rise to shine in the transition. We will decide on some projects for all of us today, and that will keep us busy before I select the editor.”

There was a long silence, and I imagined everyone was trying to think of projects.

“I’ve heard there is an American scholar who is an expert on comic books aimed at salarymen. I could explore the changing ethos of work in Japan through
manga,”
Norton suggested. “Toshi could take pictures of salarymen reading comic books on the subway to go with the story.”

“The photos can be used as a basis for
manga
sketches,” Mr. Sanno said. “If the salarymen are ugly, the drawing can make them look better. In my opinion, there have been too many ugly people in the magazine lately
.”

Mr. Sanno was not exactly a Japanese version of Hugh Grant, but of course, nobody could say that.

“Well, that salaryman idea takes care of Norton and Toshi. But what about Karen-chan?”

Mr. Sanno was calling all the women in the room by the suffix
-chan,
which means “little.” I could tell that Karen thought it was demeaning, because her pale skin flushed. She spoke rapidly, another sign he’d rattled her.

“I was writing a story about fall cocktail dresses worn by some of the top bar hostesses in town. I will call a fashion illustrator who can sketch the clothes on the girls. They’re very, very attractive,” she added, as if to head off further comments on ugliness versus beauty.

“What about sketching the clothes on well-known cartoon characters?” Rika, the intern, ventured.

“It might not be legal. Betty and Veronica are probably copyrighted,” I said swiftly, to avoid having Mr. Sanno slap Karen with an impossible assignment.

“Actually, it’s different here,” Rika replied. “Japanese
manga
publishers don’t really care if amateur artists copy the figures. What the amateurs sell is called
doujinshi,
and when those
doujinshi
comics sell, it is believed to create publicity for the original series.”

‘‘Rika-chan is right.” Mr. Sanno nodded at Rika, who promptly hung her head and mumbled how worthless she was. It was a perfect Japanese etiquette moment that I would have appreciated if Mr. Sanno had not swiftly turned his gimlet gaze to me. “Rei-chan, I know that you are only a part-time employee, but you will be a part of the transformation. Your column relates to antiques and fine arts, so you will have many possibilities.”