Girl in a Box by Sujata Massey Page B

“My family and friends call me reliable. I value punctuality and kindness to others, and I delight in helping people of all ages.”
    We went through the whole application like that. By three o’clock, we had all the words in place in Japanese. I began to painstakingly write the answers in Japanese on a photocopy of the master form, but Mrs. Taki stopped me. “I’m sorry, Rei-san, but your handwriting, it still is a little like a schoolchild’s.”
    â€œI don’t know what I can do about it at this late date,” I said as I heard the slight click of the front door opening. Michael had arrived. “I mean, I would have loved to stay longer at Monterey to work on writing, but I had to leave.”
    â€œHow about if I write out the application? What do you think, Michael-san?” Mrs. Taki asked as he entered the room.
    Michael came over to where we were working, looked at the application for a minute, and frowned. “What if she has to write something down while she’s at the store? I worry about a discrepancy in the handwriting and somebody accusing her of forging her application.”
    â€œThe application will be filed away at personnel. She’ll be on the sales floor. She won’t write anything at all—she’ll just be punching codes into a computer,” Mrs. Taki said.
    I turned to my boss. “Perhaps it is better if Taki-san does the actual writing. The Japanese consider handwriting a mirror of the soul.”
    â€œThat’s what we’ll do, then,” Michael said. “And Taki-san, if you don’t mind, I’ll let you take the work home. May I drop by at five to pick it up?”
    â€œFive o’clock? It’ll be ready in less than an hour. I’ll do it here.”
    So Taki-san worked while Michael punched furiously at his computer and shot me glances from time to time. He clearly had something important to say, in private.
    Taki-san finally left, satisfied with the look of the paperwork. When the elevator doors had closed behind her, and both of us had double-checked that the office door was locked, Michael got down to business. He unpacked a good-smelling shopping bag that held two super-long rectangular boxes. I opened mine and found the largest, thinnest golden-brown crepe I’d ever seen.
    â€œWow. What is it?”
    â€œ Dosa from Woodlands. It’s a really great Indian restaurant out in the suburbs, and I was coming through, on my way back.”
    â€œIt’s great,” I said, between bites. There was potato and green pea curry inside, a true vegetarian delight.
    â€œWould have been even better right off the griddle,” Michael said. “Well, anyway, the pause while Mrs. Taki remained here gave me time to think.”
    â€œAbout what happened at Langley?” I was hoping against hope that I was still in.
    â€œYou want to know what they said?” Michael paused. “Well, to sum things up, they’re more annoyed with me than you, which is the way it should be.”
    â€œBut what did you do wrong—other than stay too long in the powder room reading the New York Times ?” I couldn’t resist getting in a dig.
    â€œWhen a ship runs aground, it’s always the captain’s fault.” Michael’s voice was somber. “A principle to live by that my father hammered into me since I was old enough to handle an oar.”
    â€œDoes that mean they’re going to fire you?” I asked.
    â€œNo, although you can imagine I’m going to be under a microscope for the rest of my career. But we deleted the bugs before anything dangerous was leaked; there’s no known loss of information. And I’m happy to say that you’re still going to Japan.”
    â€œGreat.” I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath; now I let it out in relief.
    â€œThe break-in’s goosed them enough to want you out there faster than before. It’s a good