Chapter 30

Monday, December 23

1:00 P.M.

Yumi

“I can’t leave until six, when I find out if I’m the high bidder or not,” Coco said, the clickety-click of keys telling Yumi that her friend was upping the ante at the net café where she’d parked herself. “Why don’t you come here? I had to rent a double cubicle anyway, because all the singles were taken.”

“Okay,” Yumi said, “Where?”

Coco gave her directions to the deluxe Bagus Gran Cyber Café near Shibuya Station.

Yumi ended the call and wondered what Coco wanted so badly that she’d called in sick to work and was camping at a net café for five hours to get it. A limited-edition Prada handbag? A “barely worn” pair of red-soled Louboutin high heels? Since Coco had been working at the Queen of Hearts, she’d been sporting the kind of accessories no shopgirl could afford.

A Yamanote Line train eased to a stop, and Yumi stepped aboard. There was one seat left. She grabbed it, across from a tall man who reminded her of Kenji.

Hurt and sorrow swamped her again as she remembered the photo he had shoved in her face. It had blasted a big empty hole inside of her, and all kinds of feelings were trying to fill it.

Had Ichiro ever intended to be faithful? Was everything he’d said to her a lie? She should be relieved fate had stepped in before she stamped her hanko at the Ward Office, but she couldn’t help but mourn the death of the dream that she and Ichiro would learn to love each other, that their life together would be built on something more solid than mere attraction.

If she confronted Ichiro with the picture, would he try to deny it? Or would he tell her she’d been naive to think that having an arranged marriage meant he’d be faithful unto death? If he refused to call off the marriage and she was the one to break the engagement, what would happen to her father’s professorship? Would Ichiro’s father stop funding the chair the minute there was no longer a connection between the two families?

And then there was the shame. Yumi cheeks burned, remembering how Kenji had watched as she recognized the lovers in the photo. Then she’d made it even worse by accusing him of stalking, and she’d thrown his phone on the ground. What if she’d broken it?

The train came to a stop at Ikebukuro Station a little abruptly and the standing passengers staggered. She looked up, noticing that the woman in front of her had a cane and was clutching the commuter strap with white knuckles. Quickly, Yumi offered her seat, ashamed she hadn’t noticed the woman earlier. She made her way closer to the doors as the train eased away.

Tomorrow she had to go to the Mitsuyamas’ house to get her things. What would she say to Ichiro’s mother? Her Americanized side wanted to have a frank conversation, tell her about Ichiro and Ami, find out whether the Mitsuyamas would let her out of the engagement without endangering her father’s job.

But her Japanese side recognized that for the impossible fantasy it was. If Yumi asked the kind of straightforward questions that were perfectly acceptable in America, they’d be met with polite sidestepping that hid what Mrs. Mitsuyama would really be feeling. She’d be shocked and offended that her intended daughter-in-law had committed the double sin of telling her something unpleasant she didn’t know, and asking her to respond to it without discussing it first with her husband and son.

No, Yumi told herself, it was better to be patient and see which way the wind was blowing, then decide what to do.

The doors eased open at Shibuya and she streamed off with the other passengers, flowing to the right toward the Hachiko exit. Down the stairs, through the ticket gate, out into the plaza crowded with the young and beautiful, all waiting on the shore of the giant five-way intersection. The light changed, and over a thousand people flowed across in all directions. Yumi veered left toward the 109 Building, looking for the plate-glass window featuring the trendy fake-fur miniskirts that Coco had described. The Bagus Gran Cyber Café was upstairs. Entering the elevator, she punched 7.

The doors opened on a sleek reception desk that was all gray Formica curves. Spotlights beamed down on three cashiers. A pair of otakus stood at the first one, their backpacks dripping with One Piece keychains. Next to them, three high school boys with untucked white shirts hanging out over their gray-flannel uniform pants, cutting cram school. On the far end, a salaryman, probably planning to job hunt from a computer that didn’t belong to his company.

She knew the line would be considerably longer after midnight, when commuters who’d failed to make the last train showed up to rent cubicles where they could cheaply pass out in semiprivacy after a night of work-related drinking. For less than ¥2,000, they could park their disheveled bodies until the first trains left the station at 5:00 A.M.

She called Coco to let her know she’d arrived, and a minute later her friend emerged from a corridor lined floor to ceiling with Japanese comic books. Coco told the pigtailed girl behind the counter that Yumi was going to share her “pair.”

“Kashiko-marimashita,” the cashier sang. Your wish is my command. She handed Yumi a slip of paper clamped to a narrow clipboard, imprinted with a time stamp and the number of Coco’s cubicle. It was going to cost Yumi ¥500 to pour out her heart today.

Today Coco was wearing over-the-knee suede boots with her cutoffs and tights, the wide neck of her fluffy purple sweater falling off one shoulder to reveal the black tank top she wore beneath.

Yumi followed as she clicked down the hall past a rank of vending machines that promised to deliver everything from French fries to hot ramen.

“Want some ice cream?” Coco pointed to a machine dispensing vanilla on one side and chocolate on the other. “Or a soft drink? It’s free, comes with the cubicle . . . ?”

Yumi shook her head, and they continued their zigzag through comic-book-lined corridors, deep into the net café. The hallway ended at a vast room without windows, painted a vague brownish-grayish color, the shadowy pipes and wiring above concealed in murky shadow. The only light was the blue TV-like flicker that escaped from the warren of cubicles.

Near the end of the farthest aisle, Coco ushered Yumi through a chin-height door labeled I-5. Slipping off her shoes, Yumi stepped into a tight cubicle with a computer shelf running the width of it. Two padded “executive-style” brown leatherette desk chairs sat before the shelf, matching footstools crouching beneath, headphones hung on pegs to either side. She moved Coco’s voluminous Gucci bag onto the shelf next to the computer and settled herself into the chair it had been occupying.

On the cubicle’s monitor, an auction site’s familiar logo presided over a photograph of a photograph. In the picture, a figure bent over a guitar sat in front of a microphone, spiky black hair falling in the musician’s closed eyes. It looked like the snapshot was mounted in an album, old-fashioned black triangles holding it in place against a heathery-gray page. One photo corner was missing.

“Wasn’t she adorable?” Coco gushed, sliding into her own chair.

“Who?”

“Flame!”

“That’s Flame?”

Yumi zoomed in on the photo. The guitarist was wearing long sleeves, but sure enough, her teenage hand was sheathed in a dark fingerless glove.

“Who’s the seller?”

“They’re using the name FlameFan,” Coco said. “But it must be a relative or a close family friend, don’t you think? I mean, look at the other pictures in the set.” Coco paged through the seller’s offering, twelve pictures in all. The final four were different from the family snapshots. They were recording session blowups of a young Flame without her stage makeup, bleached hair bundled atop her head in a clip. The series caught her wearing giant headphones, fingers blurry on the guitar strings in a white lace glove, her eyes locked on Nana as the vocalist made love to a microphone.

Coco said, “Whoever the seller is, they probably saw how much that kid who works at Big Echo was getting for the dirty glass Flame supposedly used, and realized the baby pix would be worth a bundle.”

“That’s awful. What kind of person would do that?”

“I bet it’s her mom,” Coco speculated. “Flame ran away from home when she was fifteen. Don’t you think that the kind of mom who was so bad she made you run away might be the kind who’d have no problem cashing in on your tragic death?” Coco picked up her soft-drink cup and pulled a sip through the striped pink straw.

“How much are you bidding?” Yumi asked. She peered at the screen. “Fifty thousand yen?” she gasped, turning to her friend, openmouthed.

“I can always resell it if I need the money,” Coco said defensively. “I mean, it’s a collector’s item, right?”

“How do you even know it’s legit?” Yumi asked.

“Because of this,” Coco said, clicking through to the Q&A section.

Q. Who are you?

A. A relative.

Q. How did you get these photos?

A. They were in the family.

Q. Do her parents know you’re selling these?

A. They’re fine with it.

Q. How do I know these are real pictures of Flame?

A. Would I have this if they weren’t?

The seller had uploaded a picture. It was date stamped the day after the earthquake, and showed a photo album open to two of the photos being offered for sale, sitting next to an angular Lucite trophy with Flame’s name on it. The items were arranged on a kitchen table. In the background, a sink under a window.

“These have gotta be the real thing,” Coco said. “Because that’s the Oricon Award the VuDu Dolls won for ‘Don’t Need You.’”

Yumi peered at the photo. “Hey, where was this was taken?” She pointed to the window above the sink in the background. “Can you zoom in?”

Coco zoomed.

“See that tiled roof through the trees?” Yumi said. “Doesn’t that look like it could be the storehouse at the Tabata Shrine?”

“The place you were supposed to get hitched?” Coco asked.

“Yeah. The weird thing is, Flame apparently knew the head priest there. Kenji Nakamura texted me, asking for background on the VuDu Dolls. He said they found her fingerprints in the house where the head priest was killed.”

“Really? Why?”

“They don’t know. But if a relative of hers lives nearby, maybe that’s the connection.”

“So . . . speaking of you getting hitched, what’s happening with that?” Coco asked.

Yumi was silent.

“Uh-oh, trouble in paradise,” her friend said, hanging up her headphones and pushing back her chair. She picked up her empty drink cup. “Let me run to the ladies’, then you can give me all the gory details.”