her first name Yumi.” Another list showed the codes for all thirty-seven directors. Ms. Ogi explained that the secretaries used the codes for all interoffice memos because writing the full names took too long.
“Of course, you need to have a code name too,” Ms. Ogi said. I wondered if I should tell her I already had a code name in Japanese—Kiki. But this was the professional world, and Kiki sounded silly to me. The uniform alone took away much of the professional image I had hoped to present. I was already resigned to being called Rora, so I agreed when Ms. Ogi suggested using the phonetic symbol for “RO,” which was one of the easiest in the language, a simple square. In Japanese kanji characters the square symbolized mouth. She pulled out a scrap of paper and handed me a pencil. I drew a small square and circled it.
“That’s it,” Ms. Ogi said. “I’ll make a memo and pass it around the office to tell everyone that you are
I decided to host a Halloween party for the group, thinking that it would help me get to know more about my colleagues than just their names. When I passed out invitations everyone immediately accepted. My dilemma of what to cook was solved by El Paso taco supplies from the international grocery store, which were twice the price of the same thing in America, but worth it because I wanted to prepare something unusual. I used every dish and plate and maneuvered my few furniture items to make sitting room for eleven on the floor.
All the secretaries, except for Ms. Mori, arrived together on a Friday after work. I was shocked to see how sophisticated the women looked wearing dresses and skirts—an improvement over the juvenile uniforms. Everyone brought a mask or hat as a costume, except for Ms. Shoji who was in full costume with a frilly white maid’s apron and hat. Ms. Ogi wore a cone-shaped orange paper hat and a gold mask.
Everyone was curious about my apartment, especially since most of them lived with their parents. Even though the space was so small that a full tour could be given by standing in one place, it was roomy by Tokyo standards. The kitchen area was against the wall of the entryway, but space was so limited that the mini refrigerator was in the living room right next to the television. As in most Japanese homes, the toilet was located in its own closet-sized space, and the shower and ofuro bathtub were next to it in a small, tiled room.
Someone made the suggestion of removing the sliding door that separated the two main rooms. Sitting on cushions around two low tables, we drank wine out of paper cups and tried to eat tacos with chopsticks. We took turns trying on each other’s masks and hats. I passed around a pair of glasses with an enormous nose and bushy eyebrows and mustache attached. My prim colleagues were transformed into something that resembled Groucho Marx in Japanese drag.
We talked about Halloween in Japan. Although everyone had heard of it, they didn’t really understand its significance. I explained the custom of dressing up and trick-or-treating; it was a practice completely foreign to Japan. Halloween had been imported via Hallmark in the recent past and was aggressively marketed with jack-o-lanterns and skeleton costumes hanging in shop windows.
After about an hour, Ms. Mori showed up.
“I’m sorry; I had to work late,” she said with contrived fatigue. Everyone rushed to greet her and offer pity, but something bothered me about her. I had noticed something different about her compared to the other women, but I couldn’t name it. It seemed rather cynical of me, but I sensed that she had created the overtime excuse as a way to get attention.
As part of the trick-or-treat theme each woman brought a treat to share. We settled in the tatami room with tea and a table full of desserts—an Oreo cookie pie, gourmet chocolates, sweet potato cakes, and rice crackers. I lit candles and put on some James Taylor music. Our festive mood mellowed, and soon we were talking about men and who we thought was good-looking at the headquarters building.
“Rora-san, who do you think is handsome?” Ms. Ogi asked me.
“I haven’t seen too many men under fifty years old,” I joked. “You’re right. The only men we get to meet on the tenth floor are the senior citizens in the company who come to see the executives,” Ms. Shoji replied.
“That’s why we’re all still single,” Ms. Ogi added, and everyone laughed.
Someone suggested the name of a man in the Overseas Service Department and everyone agreed he was handsome.
“And he’s not married,” another woman offered, and they all giggled. I got the impression that they didn’t often talk about things like this with one another.
Questions about boyfriends were bounced around the circle. No one had a boyfriend, or admitted to having one. The atmosphere was so warm and intimate I almost wanted to make up some romantic long-distance love affair to share.
Finally the question came around to one of the senior members, Sashi. She was in her late twenties and as petite as a twelveyear-old girl. Even in high heels she wasn’t five feet tall.
“Hmm, well . . . ,” Sashi said to the group. Everyone became very quiet. “To tell you the truth, I do have a boyfriend.” Squeals of discovery and delight exploded from the group. “Really? Who is it? Does he work at Honda?” The questions poured forth and Sashi put her head down, covering her face with both hands in embarrassment. “Come on, tell us! How serious is it?” The enthusiasm was palpable. I sensed that her confession was unplanned.
“Well,” she continued, as if in pain, “actually, we’ve recently decided to get married.” The room again exploded with mirthful glee, and I thought Sashi would jump out the window to escape. “Tell us how you met him. Who is he?” the group demanded.
“Well, we met picking strawberries.”
“How romantic. How sweet!” chorused her envious colleagues. “It was a company event last year. He works in Research and Development. His name is Nakata.” A few women nodded in recognition.
I noticed that she wasn’t wearing an engagement ring and asked if she had one.
“Oh, yes, I have one, but I’m much too embarrassed to wear it,” she told me. “What would the directors say?”
It was after eleven when I saw Ms. Ogi reach for Ms. Shoji’s maid hat. She put it on her head and started to gather dishes. Without a word, the other women stood up and began cleaning. An assembly line formed in the kitchen to wash, dry, and put away the dishes. Others wiped tables, shook out floor pillows, and put the leftover food in plastic containers. I moved around answering polite questions. “Rora-san, where do you put the bowls? Do you have any empty grocery bags?”
Two women replaced the sliding doors; another found the vacuum cleaner and swept the tatami floor just like my host mother used to do each night before rolling out the futon sleeping mats. I looked at the small entryway that had been filled with a pile of shoes and saw that all eleven pairs had been reorganized in pairs and reversed so that the toes pointed toward the door. Three white bags of garbage were lined up neatly against the washing machine, tied with exacting knots, waiting to be taken out on trash day. My apartment looked better than before the women had arrived. Even outside the tenth floor the group proved they worked well as a team, but it was odd to me that they seemed to know little about each other’s lives.
The Halloween party helped me understand more about the organizing principle of our office—hierarchy. It was evident in the way people treated the symbolic leader of the secretaries, Ms. Mori. At the age of twenty-nine, she had worked for Honda for eight years and had the most seniority in the secretariat. She was as thin as a bird. Her shiny black hair hung straight to her shoulders and feathered bangs crowned her forehead. With traditional Japanese beauty traits—almond-shaped eyes and a smallish mouth—she was considered one of the most beautiful women at headquarters. Like all the other secretaries, Ms. Mori was single, but unlike the others, she lived alone.
Sitting at the reception desk with my back to the group, I could hear Ms. Mori’s