About the Book

I think of my Rei Shimura mysteries as a series of adventures. With each book, there's an opportunity for me to explore different elements of Japanese culture. In The Salaryman's Wife, I wrote about the social impact of the US occupation on Japanese women. Zen Attitude focused on Japanese antiques, and The Flower Master illuminated Japanese flower arranging. I move out of the past with my fourth mystery, The Floating Girl, which centers on modern Japanese comics.

When I lived in Japan, I couldn't get through a day without seeing cartoon characters. The trains were full of salarymen reading comics about men much like themselves. Teen-agers posed for instant pictures against backdrops painted with their favorite characters. Children as young as two wore backpacks decorated with cute animation figures. I'd snap on the TV looking for something I could understand and the screen would fill with Doraemon, the adorable blue robot-cat.

One of the best ways I found to study Japanese was through magazines like Hiragana Times and Mangajin, which publish excerpts of high quality Japanese comics in translation. Reading these magazines, I became fascinated by the story-lines of some of comics about young people and the pressures of their lives in modern Japan. I also became intrigued by the concept of doujinshi, series drawn by creative amateur artists that are inspired by mainstream series.

About two years ago, I began thinking: what if Rei, with her love of Japanese woodblock prints, became interested in an amateur comic with significant artistic merit? And what if the artwork in the series illustrated a murder that would later happen, sending Rei on the trail of its artist — and the possible murderer?

Cos-play Japanese anime fans near Omote-sande station in Tokyo.

All these questions percolated as I spent many research hours in Japanese anime kissa-coffee-shops where one can read comics while drinking small cups of extremely strong coffee. I shopped for manga in popular Tokyo and Yokohama shops, and I interviewed young people dressed in fabulous cos-play drag outfits. I attended Otakon, an animation convention held in Baltimore, where I discovered that Americans are as crazy about Japanese animation as the Japanese.

Is The Floating Girl entirely about Japanese comics? No. Rei's also a bit preoccupied with her amorous new boyfriend; a moody Japanese gal-pal; a trio of artistic college students; and a yakuza boss who's following her every move. In the course of solving the mystery, Rei roams from the sexy women's-only clubs of Shibuya to the beautiful beach near the Emperor's summer villa in Hayama, a seaside village I used to call home. She even gets in the water, something not entirely advisable as she's about as strong a swimmer as I am (sidestroke and backstroke only)!

It took me about a year to write The Floating Girl, and when it was through, I felt jubilant. I'd had a chance to return to the Japanese settings I love dearly, but also to explore new ground by creating my very own original comic book within the space of a novel. I had a blast writing The Floating Girl. I hope you'll read it!

Excerpt

"Is the pain killing you? Shall I stop?"

I shook my head because the pain had eased temporarily. Miss Kumiko sighed, and stroked more sticky warmth over my inner thigh — a deceptively pleasant sensation. I knew that six more inches needed to be cleared. The aesthetician pressed a strip of cotton over my thigh, and I sucked in my breath as she began to pull.

"Oh!" I gasped as she yanked at least one hundred hairs from their follicles.

"Japanese women don't like to cry out," Miss Kumiko said brightly. "Not even when delivering babies. When my niece was born, my sister was silent. At moments of severe pain, she bit a handkerchief. Would you like a handkerchief?"

"No thank you, and this is hardly childbirth. It's a bikini wax!" Damn my American half for making the process necessary. If I'd been fully Japanese, I would have inherited the hairless gene. But I was a hafu or hanbujin or konketsujin or whatever name Miss Kumiko secretly used for mixed race people. It was my own stupid vanity that had brought me into Power Princess Spa before the start of the July beach season. I had one final business appointment that afternoon, and then a drive the next day to the beach. But first, I had to get through the pain.

"Madam, it is not that I mind, but the manicurist in the next cubicle has problems," Miss Kumiko whispered. "Surprise screams from customers can cause her to lose rhythm."

"Maybe there's a reason your customers scream," I said.

"Ja, we are all done!" Miss Kumiko made a series of light slaps against my groin. This was more kinky than I'd expected, but then again, this was my first experience with waxing in Tokyo. I would live and learn.

I put on my skirt and limped out to the stylish black-and-white reception area.

"Rei Shimura?" The salon's bleached blond receptionist called me up to her stylish chrome desk.

"Yes?" I continued at my slow pace, thighs sticking together because of a few remnants of wax.

"We have two kinds of bikini wax, large and small," she announced so clearly that some of the other customers in the waiting area looked up from their magazines. "When we spoke on the phone, we thought you were a typical Japanese, so we quoted you the price for a small wax. However, Miss Kumiko reports that you required the large wax. Therefore the fee is a bit higher: six thousand yen. Is that fine?"

The entire reception room seemed to be leaning close to hear my embarrassed answer.

"Fine," I said glumly. With an exchange rate was about 120 yen to the dollar, making the price of hair removal about $50, twice the going rate in the United States. I paid up, thinking the only silver lining was that Miss Kumiko wouldn't require a tip. This was Japan, where you never paid extra for good service. It was expected.

I walk this uneasy line between pleasure and pain — and understanding and confusion — almost daily. Four years ago, I emigrated from San Francisco to Tokyo seeking a job working with Japanese antiques. Nobody would hire me, so I had to establish my own business. It's been a struggle at times, but I'm proud to say that at last I've leaped the poverty line. Miss Kumiko would not think of asking me to find her an antique chest, but plenty of older, wealthy Japanese have done that. Even in an economic downturn, I'd had some very lucky breaks.

As I struggled out of the Power Princess Spa, I was headed toward my latest lucky spot: the Gaijin Times, an English-language magazine aimed at foreigners living in Tokyo. Their editor, an ambitious young woman journalist called Whitney Talbot, hunted me down after she'd read my article on ceramics for a Japanese antiques magazine. Whitney had asked me to write similar articles with, as she put it, "an element of street sass." I was apprehensive, but when she named a price for a monthly column, I decided I had to try. My first article was a guide to haggling for antiques at the weekend flea markets held at Tokyo's Shinto shrines. It was supposed to be a do-it-yourself article, but my phone started ringing off the hook with insecure foreigners willing to pay me to haggle for them. It had become very good business.

I put my quick rush of pride away as I entered the narrow sliver of a building that was home to the Sanno Advertising Agency and the Gaijin Times. I rode the elevator up to the third floor and a hall painted a dull beige.

Throbbing music coming from speakers stationed on either side of the Gaijin Times office door was the first indicator that the magazine was striving to break free from a beige mold. Inside were chocolate-colored walls, chocolate brown tables, and a gray lump lying across the chocolate and strawberry print carpet.

I drew closer to the lump to identify it. Alec Tampole, an Australian who edited the magazine's copious nightclub listings, was stretched out on the floor, arms angled out from his side in an A shape, his knees curled snugly against his chest.

"What's wrong?" I asked, hurrying over.

"I'm doing some Pilates exercises. I forgot you were coming in today, Rye." He pushed his legs over his head in a move that looked like the yoga plow.

"My name is actually pronounced Rei. As in Sugar Ray," I said, striving for a pop music reference that he would understand.

"Come closer so I can hear you over the music—" Alec slowly lowered his legs, grunting with exertion.

I stood as closely to his ear as possible and shouted the correct pronunciation.

He laughed. "Right, Rye. Had an accident coming over?"

"No, what do you mean? Is something going on outside?"

"That's not the kind of accident I'm talking about. What's that gunk on your knickers?"

"You bastard!" I realized belatedly that the music maven had been angling himself for a perfect view up my skirt. I leaped away from him.

"Heh, heh. Had a hot wax for a hot date, eh?" As he swung his hips over his head once again, I kicked his large, khaki-clad behind. His anguished yelp was music to my ears as I left the reception area, heading into the tiny warren of offices and my next assignment.

Return to top of page

All content © 1998-2008 Sujata Massey.
Photo of Sujata by Jim Burger.