my hair in a pony-tail, and walked around the neighborhood looking for ice cream. The cool, dainty scoops didn’t seem like enough on the hot September evening, so I ate three.
The next day Ms. Uno told me that we wouldn’t be going to visit the Nerima apartment because her boss had decided I didn’t have to live there. Arrangements would be made to rent the apartment I had found.
My new apartment wasn’t quite finished when I moved in one Saturday morning with two large suitcases. The apartment was on the first floor of my landlord’s house. Like many homeowners in Tokyo who wanted to profit from high real estate prices, the family had recently renovated their lower floor into two small apartments.
The apartment had two rooms, which were measured using the standard dimensions of a tatami mat. A single mat is about three feet by six feet, making it easy for me to fit my whole body into the space of a single mat. The front room had a blond hardwood floor and was measured as a six-mat room. The other room was four-and a-half mats and had a tatami floor.
I sat in the tatami room enjoying the quiet and sunshine that filled the apartment. Sliding paper screens softened the light coming through the windows, and the brand-new mats smelled green and fresh. All morning, workmen and the landlord’s children had been trekking in and out of the front door, which still didn’t have a lock. It was lunchtime and everyone had taken a break, including me. The landlord’s sister had brought me some food, which I laid out on top of a blue suitcase like a picnic: seaweed-covered rice balls, glazed doughnuts, and a can of iced coffee.
I looked around and admired the space—the hardwood floor was flawless and the kitchen gleamed. Next week I would pick out furniture from a leasing company. I would also be getting the equivalent of $2,000 from the company to buy dishes, appliances, and other start-up items. It seemed like so much money.
Just by moving to Japan I got a fifteen-percent raise and a per-diem allowance. I knew the raise was given to any employee who accepted a foreign assignment, but I didn’t feel that I had done anything to earn it. The extra money was supposed to compensate for the sacrifice of living overseas, but I wanted to live here.
It wasn’t as though Japan was a Third World, hardship assignment where I couldn’t drink the water or get medicine. In many ways Japan seemed more advanced than America. The streets were safe for a single woman at night. Subways and trains were clean and ran on time. The taxis were impeccable—drivers wore white gloves and covered their car seats with lace doilies. Even the bathrooms at headquarters were exceptional: every sink had a mouthwash fountain and many toilets were equipped with an electronic bidet. I liked the polite way salesclerks treated me even in places like the drugstore where I had gone to buy powdered aspirin. The clerk had said, “Please take care of your health.” I felt my living standard had improved.
A man from the Administration Department accompanied me to the Tokyo Lease Company. I paged through several brochures, examining tables and refrigerators. It was hard to make choices because I didn’t know exactly how much I was allowed to spend. The Honda man would not tell me what the limit was. He weaseled his way around my questions, holding his authority like the gavel of a parent who makes all final decisions. I didn’t understand his attitude. He acted as though I couldn’t be trusted to make my own choices.
While I was looking at a low Japanese tea table with two floor chairs without legs called zaisu, I heard the Honda man discussing my situation with the man from Tokyo Lease. Suddenly the two of them were deciding what items I should have. I couldn’t believe it. Ignoring me, they made a list and even started to decide what color scheme would be best. My stomach tightened. Maybe they thought I didn’t understand. Maybe they thought that I wanted their help, but they didn’t even look at me, let alone ask for my opinion.
I wasn’t sure how much authority I had. I felt my cheeks getting warm. “Excuse me,” I said, interrupting them. “I think that maybe I would like to make some suggestions.” The Honda man looked shocked, as though he wasn’t used to having a woman tell him what she thought.
The first thing on their list was a bed. “I don’t have room for a bed,” I told them. “I’m going to sleep on a futon.” They were both incredulous: an American sleeping on the floor? “It is much more practical for the space I have,” I explained. The Honda man acted as though I needed his approval for every item. I finally persuaded him that I was going to buy a futon, but I had to agree to lease a sofa that opened into a mattress just in case. We haggled over the number of chairs and where to fit in a washing machine. I insisted on having a clothes dryer, which the Honda man felt wasn’t necessary. He was crazy if he thought I was going to hang my laundry out to dry like a virtuous Japanese housewife who fervently believed there was some inherent value in clothing dried naturally by the sun. I felt like telling him to shut up. If I wanted to have an apartment without a single chair, or a dryer instead of a microwave, then it was up to me.
When I showed them the picture of the tea table they both laughed. “You want zaisu?” the Honda man asked, as though I had requested a water bed filled with goldfish. “It will fit perfectly in the tatami room,” I told him. He acted as though without black hair and hundreds of years of Japanese ancestors, I couldn’t really want to sit on a zaisu or sleep on a futon.
I exhausted my immediate cash supply after buying a few things for the apartment. My bank account wasn’t set up for international transfers and I hadn’t received the $2,000 setup allowance yet, so I found myself with less than ¥5,000 (the equivalent of about $35 at the time) to last for two weeks before my first monthly paycheck. I had already purchased a train pass so I could get to work; I really only needed money for food. I asked Ms. Uno if it would be possible for me to get an advance on my next paycheck. She didn’t know and said I should ask her boss directly.
“Be very polite when you ask him,” she counseled. The thought of imitating Ms. Uno’s obedient posture and subservient behavior made me feel ill, but he was the only one who could authorize my request. Ms. Uno helped me practice the solicitous words, “Mōshiwake gozaimasen ga, chotto onegai ga arimasu keredomo …”
When I saw her boss hunched over his desk I felt like abandoning my plan. The thought of surviving on $35 for the next two weeks seemed like a more appealing option. By going to him I felt as though I would be admitting my unworthiness as a responsible adult, that my request would prove I was incapable of making good decisions or budgeting money. Approaching him made me feel like a little girl asking for a nickel to buy some candy. I heard myself reciting the words and conforming to the role.
“I’m sorry to be such an inconvenience, but I’ve run out of money and I would like to make a request for a small advance on my next paycheck.”
He thought about it for a moment, shook his head, and said, “That would be very difficult.” It was the Japanese equivalent of saying no.
I felt like an idiot, but I didn’t know what to do. My anger got confused with doubt, and I simply bowed and thanked him for his time. I had been selfish, I told myself. I couldn’t depend on the company to always bail me out. His cursory indifference immediately erased my earlier feeling that I deserved some credit, and even a little respect, for getting this far on my own. Instead I started to feel like he had been treating me—like my voice didn’t matter.
Later in the day, after I got over feeling foolish, I approached one of Ms. Uno’s colleagues, who was the most popular man in the department because he was so genuinely friendly. When I told him about my predicament he immediately checked the petty cash supply and graciously offered me ¥70,000 (about $490 at the time), asking if that was enough.
One evening I made a delightful discovery—a sentō, or public bathhouse, just blocks away from headquarters. The small building was stuck between small wooden homes. I was astonished to find an area still untouched by modernization
