The Floating Girl: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mystery #4) Read Free Page B

write something longer than I usually do. He even said to me later that he’d pay me more for it. He really wants some kind of article that gives manga credibility.”
    A toddler stumbled by, kicking up clods of dark brown sand. I readjusted the sun umbrella we’d rented for 5,000 yen, and reminded myself that the dirty-looking sand was that way for geological reasons. Isshiki Beach was supposed to be one of the cleanest beaches in the Tokyo area because of the proximity of the emperor’s summer villa. However, there was an ominous trickle coursing through the sand from the beach’s sole outhouse-style lavatory.
    “You don’t have to do it, but I think you’d have a good time,” Takeo said, resuming the discussion of my potential assignment. “All you have to do is read comic books for a few days, then sit down at the computer and type out your impressions of the comics versus what you know about wood-block prints.”
    “There are two problems with that,” I said. “The first one is that I know the wood-block artists are going to be far superior in terms of artistry and social relevance. It’s a foregone conclusion, and one Mr. Sanno won’t want to hear. The second problem is one that you know well. I can’t read much Japanese.” Adult manga were written almost completely in kanji, the vast system of pictographic symbols for words that had originated in China. At the beach snack shop, I’d paged through a magazine called Morning and found it almost indecipherable.
    “Hmmm, maybe this will get you to finally learn to read.” Takeo continued to massage my back.
    I was a nearly fluent speaker but was stymied at reading and writing—a great embarrassment for me. The only way to fix it was to seriously study kanji for a few hours a day, but at the end of the day, after having pounded the pavements of Tokyo looking for antiques and suitable homes for them to enter, all I wanted to do was read escapist English-language fiction.
    Takeo looked at me serenely. His complexion had tanned to copper from his work as a gardener, work that was extremely unusual for a man with his background, but something he’d chosen to do to get away from his father’s dictatorial ways. Takeo was only twenty-eight, but several months of labor under the sun had already carved a few lines around his eyes and built lean muscles that were noticeable as he crouched over me in nothing more than his black swimming trunks.
    “You know how hard reading is for me,” I began.
    “You always say that,” Takeo told me in a voice as warm as the day. “Just as I should be practicing English but have given up because you’re so good at speaking Japanese. But I don’t live in America, and you live here. I’ll help you learn to read. We’ll work on the manga together.”
    “But this should be a time for you to relax,” I said, feeling grateful but a little bit disappointed at the same time. I had hoped that this would be a special weekend for us to figure out where our relationship was really headed. Hence the no-telephone-contact-until-Monday message I’d left with my answering service. Hence the cooler I’d packed with the most delectable home cooking. Hence the bikini wax.
    As I lay in my twisted position, trying to sense Takeo’s feelings, a ping-pong ball smacked the center of his forehead. I gasped as a young man wearing a semi-obscene red nylon thong jogged over to retrieve the ball. He apologized with a flurry of bows and darted off, his muscular buttocks gleaming under a sheen of oil. It was amazing how young Japanese men had so little modesty about their nether regions. In a stark contrast, most of the beach’s females wore maillots, regarding their stomachs as an X-rated region. I was the only one in a Speedo bikini. It had been my bathing suit of choice for the last ten years because it kept my tummy in firm check and the top had straps that couldn’t be pulled down by waves.
    “Would you like to go for a