“Something serious?” Naho suggested.
“Why else would the cops be all over the place?”
“This area’s not safe anymore,” declared Satoko, who was in the kitchen tasting the miso soup. “There are just too many newcomers moving into those new apartment complexes.”
Fumitaka said nothing. He turned the TV on to watch the baseball game while Naho busied herself with setting the table. The idea that new apartment buildings meant more people — including bad people — moving into the neighborhood was a theory Satoko never tired of expounding upon.
The rule in the Kamikawa family was to wait and have dinner once all three of them were home. Since Fumitaka had been out, they were eating later than usual this evening.
Naho had been doing all the cooking until a week ago, when Satoko came home from the hospital. Now everything was back to normal.
Naho had been in kindergarten when her mother was killed in a car crash. Although she’d been little more than a baby at the time, some of the shock and sorrow of those days stayed with Naho even now. That her father was around all day running the family store definitely softened the blow. Satoko’s presence also helped. Although she hungered for a mother’s love, she had Satoko to cherish her and feed her. In fact, the other kids were always jealous when they peeked into Naho’s lunch box.
Back in April, Naho had paled with shock when she learned that Satoko was critically ill. The news caught her off guard, and she couldn’t stop crying.
As Satoko had explained to the insurance salesman, she’d originally been hospitalized to have an aneurysm removed. Before she was operated on, however, she developed a raging fever. No one knew the cause, but it was severe enough for her to lose consciousness.
She was unconscious for three days. When Satoko came around on the fourth day, Naho burst into tears all over again.
The doctor told her that Satoko’s fever was caused by cholangitis, an infection of the bile duct, and in that moment, Naho realized that the person she had most depended on her whole life was now an old woman ridden with disease.
When Satoko was discharged, Naho held her grandmother’s hand and said to her: “You took care of me for many years. Now it’s my turn to look after you.”
Touched by her granddaughter’s words, Satoko wept loudly.
However, their lovefest didn’t last. At first Satoko was willing to overlook Naho’s various domestic missteps, but gradually they started to get on her nerves. Nothing her granddaughter did was right. Satoko criticized her and sometimes barged in and took control of things. Stubborn and quick-tempered, she had no idea how to avoid hurting Naho’s feelings. Unfortunately, Naho’s temperament was similar. “If all you’re going to do is complain, why don’t you just do it yourself?” In no time at all, everything was back to how it had been before Satoko went into the hospital.
No one was more pleased about that than Fumitaka. He’d lost ten pounds while Naho was in charge of the cooking. Now that Satoko was back in the kitchen, he was starting to put the weight back on.
“By the way, you are going to your beauty school, aren’t you?” Fumitaka asked Naho. “You’re not cutting classes?”
“Of course not, Dad. Today’s a school holiday. That’s why I’m at home.”
“That’s all right, then.”
“My little Naho, a hairdresser. I really hope you can make the grade.”
“Of course I will.” Naho glared at her grandmother. She could hardly come out and say that she’d had to skip several days of school because of her grandmother’s condition.
“The important thing is for you to learn to stand on your own two feet, so you can earn money and take of yourself,” said Fumitaka. “I know I’ve said this before, but—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a million times. ‘People who don’t work have no right to eat.’”
2
Naho had started beauty school in April. She’d completed her enrollment and had been looking forward to classes when Satoko was hospitalized. As a result, she’d fallen far behind and only recently caught up. She’d dreamed of becoming a hairdresser since elementary school. The idea of going to college never once crossed her mind.
The family business wasn’t doing very well. They were just about scraping by. Satoko wasn’t getting any younger, and Fumitaka’s health would give out at some point too. Naho knew she would have to step into the breach one day; that was why she was eager to be financially independent as soon as possible.
Classes at the beauty school went on until four. As usual, Naho caught the subway home at 4:20. She got off at Hamacho Station, passed in front of the theater, crossed Kiyosubashi Boulevard, and headed home. On the way, she noticed several men walking in the opposite direction with their jackets slung over their shoulders. It was a scorcher of a day.
Omakara, the rice cracker shop that doubled as Naho’s family home, was on Amazake Alley, a narrow shopping street.
No one could possibly accuse the street of being trendy. The clothes displayed in the shop windows were for middle-aged and elderly women, and at lunchtime the sidewalks were overrun by office workers dislodging food from between their teeth with toothpicks. The only thing to be said in the area’s favor was that it retained something of the atmosphere of the Edo period — premodern Tokyo. It had taken Naho a while to realize that few other districts in the capital had shops that specialized in wicker suitcases or shamisen lutes.
Naho was walking past Hozukiya, a handicrafts shop with wooden spinning tops and Japanese pellet drums displayed out front, when a figure in an apron shouted hello from inside. It was Misaki Sugawara, the part-time shop assistant at Hozukiya. She was a year older than Naho, and the two had recently become friends.
“How’s things at the beauty school?”
“Not too bad.”
“Great. You stick with it now.”
“Thanks,” said Naho, raising her hand to say goodbye.
Omakara was three shops farther down. As she approached, Naho noticed three men standing in the street right in front of the store. Two wore suits; one was more casually dressed in a short-sleeved checked shirt with a T-shirt underneath.
Nearly all of their customers were female, so Naho assumed the men weren’t planning to go in, but just as she reached out to push open the store’s glass door, the man in the short-sleeved shirt did the same thing. If he hadn’t taken a step back, they would have collided.
“I’m sorry. After you.” The man motioned for her to go in. He smiled broadly.
“No, you first. I work here.”
The man nodded at her.
“Oh, do you? Well, that’s good timing, then,” he said as he stepped inside.
Inside the shop, Fumitaka looked at the two of them with a mildly puzzled expression on his face.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said. The man waved his hand deprecatingly and gave a slightly shamefaced grin.
“I’m afraid I’m not here to buy rice crackers. I’m actually from the local police station.” He pulled out his badge wallet from the pocket of his pants, opened it, and showed them his ID.
To the best of Naho’s knowledge, this was the first time the police had ever visited the store. She peered at the ID and read the name: Detective Kyoichiro Kaga.
She tried guessing the man’s age. Definitely in his thirties, she reckoned, but she couldn’t tell if he was above or below the halfway mark.
“Did a Mr. Takura visit yesterday? Let’s see now. His full name is Mr. Shinichi Takura of New City Life Insurance.”
The question startled Naho.
“Yes, he was here,” she stammered back.