7



The Happy Cleaners

*


And Kano Makes Her Entrance



I took a blouse and skirt of Kumiko's to the cleaner's by the station. Nor mally, I
brought our laundry to the cleaner's around the corner from us, not because I preferred it
but because it was closer. Kumiko sometimes used the station cleaner's in the course of
her commute. She'd drop something off in the morning on her way to the office and pick
it up on the way home. This place,was a little more expensive, but they did a better job
than the neighborhood cleaner's, according to Kumiko. And her better dresses she would
always bring there. Which is why on that particular day I decided to take my bike to the
station. I fig ured she would prefer to have her clothes done there.
I left the house carrying Kumiko's blouse and skirt and wearing a pair of thin green
cotton pants, my usual tennis shoes, and the yellow Van Halen promotional T-shirt that
Kumiko had received from a record company. The owner of the shop had his JVC boom
box turned up loud, as he had on my last trip. This morning it was an Andy Williams
tape. "Hawaiian Wedding Song" was just ending as I walked in, and "Canadian Sunset"
started. Whistling happily to the tune, the owner was writing in a notebook with a
ballpoint pen, his movements as energetic as before. In the pile of tapes on the shelf, I
spotted such names as Sergio Mendes, Bert Kaempfert, and 101 Strings. So he was an
easy- listenin' freak. It suddenly occurred to me that true believers in hard- driving jazz-
Albert Ayler, Don Cherry, Cecil Taylor- could never become owners of cleaning shops in
malls across from railroad stations. Or maybe they could. They just wouldn't be happy
cleaners.
When I put the gr een floral- pattern blouse and sage- colored skirt on the counter, he
spread them out for a quick inspection, then wrote on the receipt, "Blouse and Skirt." His
writing was clear and carefully formed. I like cleaners who write clearly. And if they like
Andy Williams, so much the better.
"Mr. Okada, right?" I said he was right. He wrote in my name, tore out the carbon
copy, and gave it to me. "They'll be ready next Tuesday, so don't forget to come and get
them this time. Mrs. Okada's?"
"Uh-huh."
"Very pretty," he said.
A dull layer of clouds filled the sky. The weather forecast had pre dicted rain. The
time was after nine - thirty, but there were still plenty of men with briefcases and folded
umbrellas hurrying toward the station steps. Late commuters. The morning was hot and
humid, but that made no difference to these men, all of whom were properly dressed in
suits and ties and black shoes. I saw lots of men my age, but not one of them wore a Van
Halen T- shirt. Each wore his company's lapel pin and clutched a cop y of the Nikkei News
under his arm. The bell rang, and a number of them dashed up the stairs. I hadn't seen
men like this for a long time.
Heading home on my bike, I found myself whistling "Canadian Sunset."




Malta Kano called at eleven o'clock. "Hello. I wonder if this might possibly be the
home of Mr. Toru Okada?" she asked.
"Yes, this is Toru Okada." I knew it was Malta Kano from the first hello.
"My name is Malta Kano. You were kind enough to see me the other day. Would you
happen to have any plans for this afternoon?"
None, I said. I had no more plans for the afternoon than a migrating bird has collateral
assets.
"In that case, my younger sister, Kano, will come to visit you at one o'clock."
" Kano?" I asked in a flat voice.
"Yes," said Malta Kano. "I believe I showed you her photograph the other day."
"I remember her, of course. It's just that- "
"Her name is Kano. She will come to visit you as my representative. Is one o'clock a
good time for you?"
"Fine," I said.
"She'll be there," said Malta Kano, and hung up.
Kano?
I vacuumed the floors and straightened the house. I tied our old newspapers in a
bundle and threw them in a closet. I put scattered cassette tapes back in their cases and
lined them up by the stereo. I washed the things piled in the kitchen. Then I washed
myself: shower, shampoo, clean clothes. I made fresh coffee and ate lunch: ham
sandwich and hard-boiled egg. I sat on the sofa, reading the Home Journal and
wondering what to make for dinner. I marked the recipe for Seaweed and Tofu Salad and
wrote the ingredients on a shopping list. I turned on the FM radio. Michael Jackson was
singing "Billy Jean." I thought about the sisters Malta Kano and Kano. What names for a
couple of sisters! They sounded like a comedy team. Malta Kano. Kano.
My life was heading in new directions, that was certain. The cat had run away.
Strange calls had come from a strange woman. I had met an odd girl and started visiting a
vacant house. Noboru Wataya had raped Kano. Malta Kano had predicted I'd find my
necktie. Kumiko had told me I didn't have to work.
I turned off the radio, returned the Home Journal to the bookshelf, and drank another
cup of coffee.



Kano rang the doorbell at one o'clock on the dot. She looked exactly like her picture:
a small woman in her early to mid -twenties, the quiet type. She did a remarkable job of
preserving the look of the early sixties. She wore her hair in the bouffant style I had seen
in the photo graph, the ends curled upward. The hair at the forehead was pulled straight
back and held in place by a large, glittering barrette. Her eye brows were sharply outlined
in pencil, mascara added mysterious shadows to her eyes, and her lipstick was a perfect
re-creation of the kind of color popular back then. She looked ready to belt out "Johnny
Angel" if you put a mike in her hand.
She dressed far more simply than she made herself up. Practical and businesslike, her
outfit had nothing idiosyncratic about it: a white blouse, a green tight skirt, and no
accessories to speak of. She had a white patent- leather bag tucked under her arm and
wore sharp-pointed white pumps. The shoes were tiny. Their heels thin and sharp as a

pencil lead, they looked like a doll's shoes. I almost wanted to congratulate her on having
made it this far on them.
So this was Kano. I showed her in, had her sit on the sofa, warmed the coffee, and
served her a cup. Had she eaten lunch yet? I asked. She looked hungry to me. No, she
said, she had not eaten.
"But don't bother about me," she hastened to add, "I don't eat much of anything for
lunch."
"Are you sure?" I asked. "It's nothing for me to fix a sandwich. Don't stand on
ceremony. I make snacks and things all the time. It's no trouble at all."
She responded with little shakes of the head. "It's very kind of you to offer, but I'm
fine, really. Don't bother. A cup of coffee is more than enough."
Still, I brought out a plate of cookies just in case. Kano ate four of them with obvious
pleasure. I ate two and drank my coffee.
She seemed somewhat more relaxed after the cookies and coffee. "I am here today as
the representative of my elder sister, Malta Kano," she said. " is not my real name, of
course. My real name is Setsuko. I took the name when I began working as my sister's
assistant. For professional purposes. is the ancient name for the island of Crete, but I
have no connection with Crete. I have never been there. My sister Malta chose the name
to go with her own. Have you been to the island of Crete, by any chance, Mr. Okada?"
Unfortunately not, I said. I had never been to Crete and had no plans to visit it in the
near future.
"I would like to go there sometime," said Kano, nodding, with a deadly serious look
on her face. "Crete is the Greek island closest to Africa. It' s a large island, and a great
civilization flourished there long ago. My sister Malta has been to Crete as well. She says
it's a wonderful place. The wind is strong, and the honey is delicious. I love honey." I
nodded. I'm not that crazy about honey.
"I came today to ask you a favor," said Kano. "I'd like to take a sample of the water
in your house."
"The water?" I asked. "You mean the water from the faucet?"
"That would be fine," she said. "And if there happens to be a well nearby, I would
like a sample of that water also."
"I don't think so. I mean, there is a well in the neighborhood, but it's on somebody
else's property, and it's dry. It doesn't produce water anymore."
Kano gave me a complicated look. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Are you sure it
doesn't have any water?"
I recalled the dry thud that the chunk of brick had made when the girl threw it down
the well at the vacant house. "Yes, it's dry, all right. I'm very sure."
"I see," said Kano. "That's fine. I'll just take a sample of the water from the faucet,
then, if you don't mind."
I showed her to the kitchen. From her white patent-leather bag she removed two small
bottles of the type that might be used for medicine. She filled one with water and
tightened the cap with great care. Then she said she wanted to take a sample from the line
supplying the bathtub. I showed her to the bathroom. Undistracted by all the underwear
and stockings that Kumiko had left drying in there, Kano turned on the faucet and filled
the other bottle. After capping it, she turned it upside down to make certain it didn't leak.
The bottle caps were color coded: blue for the bath water, and green for the kitchen

water.
Back on the living room sofa, she put the two vials into a small plas tic freezer bag
and sealed the zip lock. She placed the bag carefully in her white patent-leather bag, the
metal clasp of which closed with a dry click. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency.
She had obviously done this many times before.
"Thank you very much," said Kano.
"Is that all?" I asked.
"Yes, for today," she said. She smoothed her skirt, slipped her bag under her arm, and
made as if to stand up.
"Wait a minute," I said, with some confusion. I hadn't been expecting her to leave so
suddenly. "Wait just a minute, will you, please? My wife wants to know what's happened
with the cat. It's been gone for almost two weeks now. If you know anything at all, I'd
like you to share it with me."
Still clutching the white bag under her arm, Kano looked at me for a moment, then
she gave a few quick nods. When she moved her head, the curled-up ends of her hair
bobbed with an early- sixties lightness. Whenever she blinked, her long fake eyelashes
moved slowly up and down, like the long-handled fans operated by slaves in movies set
in ancient Egypt.
"To tell you the truth, my sister says that this will be a longer story than it seemed at
first."
"A longer story than it seemed?"
The phrase "a longer story" brought to mind a tall stake set in the desert, where
nothing else stood as far as the eye could see. As the sun began to sink, the shadow of the
stake grew longer and longer, until its tip was too far away to be seen by the naked eye.
"That's what she says," Kano continued. "This story will be about more than the
disappearance of a cat."
"I'm confused," I said. "All we're asking you to do is help us find the cat. Nothing
more. If the cat's dead, we want to know that for sure. Why does it have to be 'a longer
story'? I don't understand."
"Neither do I," she said. She brought her hand up to the shiny barrette on her head
and pushed it back a little. "But please put your faith in my sister. I'm not saying that she
knows everything. But if she says there will be a longer story, you can be sure there will
be a longer story."
I nodded without saying anything. There was nothing more I could say.
Looking directly into my eyes and speaking with a new formality, Creta Kano asked,
"Are you busy, Mr. Okada? Do you have any plans for the rest of the afternoon?" No, I
said, I had no plans.
"Would you mind, then, if I told you a few things about myself?" Creta Kano asked.
She put the white patent- leather bag she was holding down on the sofa and rested her
hands, one atop the other, on her tight green skirt, at the knees. Her nails had been done
in a lovely pink color. She wore no rings.
"Please," I said. "Tell me anything you'd like." And so the flow of my life-as had
been foretold from the moment Creta Kano rang my doorbell- was being led in ever
stranger directions.