“Well, I must be going, Ms. Mizuni.” The people in the background were partying back. Once in a while James Globe would glance at Longsfellow, sneeringly. Longsfellow hated Globe, who’d made a career as a neoconservative hatchet man, bashing black and women’s studies. Why, the man actually believed that there were intellectuals in Chicago! Must be some move on his part to get a grant, Longsfellow thought. Today’s generation was so market oriented. Cared little about aesthetics. He was attending parties with Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir when James Globe was in grammar school. Mr. Longsfellow headed out of the Algonquin and into the snowy New York streets. A young blonde, sables around her ankles, was holding up her date, a man dressed in a smart camel’s hair overcoat and white scarf; he was wearing a tuxedo and black shoes, and was trying to blow on a party horn. Down the block Longsfellow could see a homeless person wrapped up in bundles, crouched in the doorway of a dilapidated hotel.
“Mr. Longsfellow, please wait.” Beechiko had followed him out of the hotel.
“Yes, Ms. Mizuni.” For Mr. Longsfellow it was an effort to get the words out. He preferred Mrs. and Miss.
“I … didn’t want to tell you this, but I’ve quit Organic Society magazine. I just don’t want to stay on without your editorial guidance. I just received a one hundred thousand dollar advance to do a book on Japanese-American male chauvinism. You know, their Samurai Complex. I won’t be working on it all of the time, and so I was wondering, since your wife died and all, maybe — maybe I could work for you?”
“But I couldn’t afford — I mean, the Slutts may be unscrupulous dilettantes but they gave me a price for the magazine that should enable me to continue living the kind of life I’m accustomed to. I don’t think I can afford your services.”
“I’ll do it for free,” Beechiko said. “For you, Mr. Longsfellow, I’ll do it for free.”
Mr. Longsfellow was so touched that he almost cried. He embraced Beechiko, laying his head on her shoulder. She ran her fingers across the back of his neck. Under a lamppost near the end of the corner, a group of carolers began to assemble. The Salvation Army trumpet started up: “Joy to the World.”
21
It didn’t take long for Beechiko to establish herself in Longsfellow’s Greenwich Village four-story brownstone. She supervised the housecleaning, which was done by Samantha and Teddy Crawford, a black couple from Saint Albans. She nearly drove them crazy. Pointing out dust under the bed, and on the living room furniture they’d missed. Demanding that they clean the stove every week. Insisting that they do windows. Sometimes she would entertain Mr. Longsfellow’s guests after they’d had their brandy and conversation, usually dealing with the lowering of cultural standards in the United States, or as one of their intellectual heroes said, the descent into the primeval slime. She would sing ancient songs accompanying herself on the koto, and for very special occasions she would entertain Mr. Longsfellow’s gentlemen friends with Shirabyoshi dances which dated to the reign of the Emperor Toba (1107–1123). The men would applaud politely and Beechiko would serve the white men tea. She was happy serving Mr. Longsfellow and writing, in the evening, her second book about the treatment of Japanese women in the novels of Japanese men. Having indicted most of the Japanese male writers in history, she was completing her last chapter on sexism. Her first book was receiving good reviews. The publisher had hailed it as a New Year’s Eve for Japanese-American women, and the Japanese men who criticized the book were dismissed as mysogynists.
Mr. Longsfellow enjoyed her too. They spent until the early mornings discussing John Updike’s theology, and V.S. Naipaul’s trenchant comments about the Third World. She was having the time of her life except for two things. Her appearance. She’d tried to do something about her eyes, you know, well, to make them more modern. She hated what for her was an ugly Japanese face. But that didn’t bother her as much as the fact that she wasn’t a blonde. Another famous editor she’d had a crush on had already run away with a big old blonde. Mr. Longsfellow had married a blonde shiksa too. His first wife gazed down at her from an oil portrait that hung on the wall above the staircase. She hated her features. Sometimes she’d cry herself to sleep, wishing that she was a blonde. Her second problem was the Crawfords. They were insolent. Always muttering under their breaths.
One day they had it out. It was late morning, and Mr. Longsfellow had been up all night with some friends, discussing Great Books, and the Crawfords were preparing breakfast. Beechiko was already upset. She had an early morning conference with her editor, and had returned to the Village on the subway. There was a handsome couple sitting across from her. The man looked like Martin Sheen; the woman resembled Christie Brinkley; the child was the most beautiful kid you’d ever want to see, and she started playing with the child. The couple wouldn’t give her the time of day. Wouldn’t even look in her direction. She had been so hurt.
“I told you that Mr. Longsfellow wouldn’t be eating that sort of breakfast anymore.”
“Don’t tell me, Beechiko, or whatever your name is. Mr. Longsfellow has been drinking coffee for thirty years. He loves bacon and eggs. Everything was fine till you come here, you old two-dollar whore,” Samantha said, slamming the utensils on the table.
“You ain’t doing nothing but gettin’ in the way. I have a good mind to take my fist and jam it in your jaw,” her husband threatened.
“That’s it. Resort to violence. I’ve read a lot of books about your type. Besides, I’m looking after Mr. Longsfellow’s welfare. He is a man who, as you know, has very high standards. You call this breakfast?” She picked up the bacon and held it close to her face. “Look at this grease.” She turned up her nose.
Beechiko took the plate and started to dump the eggs, hash browns, ham, and bacon into the trash can. Crawford grabbed her while Samantha took over the plate. Beechiko flipped Crawford’s 230 pounds over her shoulder and then, using the bacon, began a pulling contest with Samantha. That’s how Longsfellow found them, yelling and screaming at the top of their lungs. He was dressed in a kimono that she’d bought for him. He wore fur-lined slippers whose exquisite leather bore a brilliant sheen. How handsome he looks, Beechiko thought.
“Here, here what’s the matter?” Mr. Longsfellow said, looking from one to the other.
“She come in here giving orders. Samantha and I have been serving you for thirty years now, Mr. Longsfellow. We served your wife. I sho do miss her,” Crawford said. Mr. Longsfellow lowered his head.
“Me too,” Samantha said. “Sweet as she could be. Long blonde hair,” Samantha said, looking toward Beechiko with an evil grin.
“She whatun nothin’ like this old yellow bitch. Who ever named her Beechiko named her right, cause she ain’t nothin’ but a bitch, old skinny evil thing.”
“That’s not called for, Samantha. Crawford. We’ll be civil in my house, and I don’t want to ever hear you call Beechiko that name again, do you hear?” Beechiko folded her arms and smiled.
“Yes, Mr. Longsfellow,” the Crawfords said, unanimously.
“Now my bedroom needs straightening up. Get to it.”
“Yes, Mr. Longsfellow.” The Crawfords exited, glancing over their shoulders at Beechiko, who was enjoying herself. Longsfellow lowered his white-haired head again and hobbled toward the breakfast table. He sat down, and Beechiko began serving him tea.
“I’m just looking out for your welfare, Mr. Longsfellow. The bacon is full of sodium nitrite.”