was located in its own closet-sized space, and the shower and ofuro bathtub were next to it in a small, tiled room.
Someone made the suggestion of removing the sliding door that separated the two main rooms. Sitting on cushions around two low tables, we drank wine out of paper cups and tried to eat tacos with chopsticks. We took turns trying on each other’s masks and hats. I passed around a pair of glasses with an enormous nose and bushy eyebrows and mustache attached. My prim colleagues were transformed into something that resembled Groucho Marx in Japanese drag.
We talked about Halloween in Japan. Although everyone had heard of it, they didn’t really understand its significance. I explained the custom of dressing up and trick-or-treating; it was a practice completely foreign to Japan. Halloween had been imported via Hallmark in the recent past and was aggressively marketed with jack-o-lanterns and skeleton costumes hanging in shop windows.
After about an hour, Ms. Mori showed up.
“I’m sorry; I had to work late,” she said with contrived fatigue. Everyone rushed to greet her and offer pity, but something bothered me about her. I had noticed something different about her compared to the other women, but I couldn’t name it. It seemed rather cynical of me, but I sensed that she had created the overtime excuse as a way to get attention.
As part of the trick-or-treat theme each woman brought a treat to share. We settled in the tatami room with tea and a table full of desserts—an Oreo cookie pie, gourmet chocolates, sweet potato cakes, and rice crackers. I lit candles and put on some James Taylor music. Our festive mood mellowed, and soon we were talking about men and who we thought was good-looking at the headquarters building.
“Rora-san, who do you think is handsome?” Ms. Ogi asked me.
“I haven’t seen too many men under fifty years old,” I joked. “You’re right. The only men we get to meet on the tenth floor are the senior citizens in the company who come to see the executives,” Ms. Shoji replied.
“That’s why we’re all still single,” Ms. Ogi added, and everyone laughed.
Someone suggested the name of a man in the Overseas Service Department and everyone agreed he was handsome.
“And he’s not married,” another woman offered, and they all giggled. I got the impression that they didn’t often talk about things like this with one another.
Questions about boyfriends were bounced around the circle. No one had a boyfriend, or admitted to having one. The atmosphere was so warm and intimate I almost wanted to make up some romantic long-distance love affair to share.
Finally the question came around to one of the senior members, Sashi. She was in her late twenties and as petite as a twelveyear-old girl. Even in high heels she wasn’t five feet tall.
“Hmm, well . . . ,” Sashi said to the group. Everyone became very quiet. “To tell you the truth, I do have a boyfriend.” Squeals of discovery and delight exploded from the group. “Really? Who is it? Does he work at Honda?” The questions poured forth and Sashi put her head down, covering her face with both hands in embarrassment. “Come on, tell us! How serious is it?” The enthusiasm was palpable. I sensed that her confession was unplanned.
“Well,” she continued, as if in pain, “actually, we’ve recently decided to get married.” The room again exploded with mirthful glee, and I thought Sashi would jump out the window to escape. “Tell us how you met him. Who is he?” the group demanded.
“Well, we met picking strawberries.”
“How romantic. How sweet!” chorused her envious colleagues. “It was a company event last year. He works in Research and Development. His name is Nakata.” A few women nodded in recognition.
I noticed that she wasn’t wearing an engagement ring and asked if she had one.
“Oh, yes, I have one, but I’m much too embarrassed to wear it,” she told me. “What would the directors say?”
It was after eleven when I saw Ms. Ogi reach for Ms. Shoji’s maid hat. She put it on her head and started to gather dishes. Without a word, the other women stood up and began cleaning. An assembly line formed in the kitchen to wash, dry, and put away the dishes. Others wiped tables, shook out floor pillows, and put the leftover food in plastic containers. I moved around answering polite questions. “Rora-san, where do you put the bowls? Do you have any empty grocery bags?”
Two women replaced the sliding doors; another found the vacuum cleaner and swept the tatami floor just like my host mother used to do each night before rolling out the futon sleeping mats. I looked at the small entryway that had been filled with a pile of shoes and saw that all eleven pairs had been reorganized in pairs and reversed so that the toes pointed toward the door. Three white bags of garbage were lined up neatly against the washing machine, tied with exacting knots, waiting to be taken out on trash day. My apartment looked better than before the women had arrived. Even outside the tenth floor the group proved they worked well as a team, but it was odd to me that they seemed to know little about each other’s lives.
The Halloween party helped me understand more about the organizing principle of our office—hierarchy. It was evident in the way people treated the symbolic leader of the secretaries, Ms. Mori. At the age of twenty-nine, she had worked for Honda for eight years and had the most seniority in the secretariat. She was as thin as a bird. Her shiny black hair hung straight to her shoulders and feathered bangs crowned her forehead. With traditional Japanese beauty traits—almond-shaped eyes and a smallish mouth—she was considered one of the most beautiful women at headquarters. Like all the other secretaries, Ms. Mori was single, but unlike the others, she lived alone.
Sitting at the reception desk with my back to the group, I could hear Ms. Mori’s shrill voice above all the others. When she called to the other secretaries for information it came across as a demand rather than a request. Her use of polite language sounded sarcastic. She didn’t speak rudely or make directly condescending remarks; rather, her disdainful tone seemed to say, “I have the most seniority here and everyone will acknowledge it.”
As secretary to the chairman, Ms. Mori held one of the most prestigious positions for a woman in the company. In fact, her role was unprecedented. Ms. Shoji told me that no woman had ever before directly assisted a chairman. When the current chairman had been promoted he had specifically requested that Ms. Mori continue as his secretary. Tom Umeno accompanied him to events and out of the country, but Ms. Mori was his main support.
To the directors Ms. Mori always offered a pleasing smile and graceful compliance, but among the secretaries she maintained an air of superiority. She didn’t easily give away favors to her colleagues. She was clever and bright, and I admired the way she dealt with many of the management-level men in our company who could be boorish and sometimes treated the secretaries poorly. She had an amazing knack for disguising her demands in polite language, as if to subtly remind them that she was their link to power.
A secretary could make things difficult for middle managers who needed access to the executives. A secretary could also do helpful things—like making a phone call to warn a department manager that an executive was on his way down for an impromptu visit. The smarter managers gave Ms. Mori regular attention and often complimented her when they visited our office.
According to Mr. Higuchi’s plan, I would eventually take over Ms. Mori’s position as Mr. Chino’s secretary. Even though she would still be managing three other directors, I guessed that she might
