Interpretation of the Law

“Really? I don’t like it. I want to wear the cap the men use.”

She says it with a hint of embarrassment.

“Nah. Well…”

I stop short of making an argument and switch lanes, asking a question instead.

“Given a choice, would you disarm a man through your uniform or your gun?”

“My uniform. I prefer not to shoot someone,” she says, with a bit of nervousness at the thought of ever being put in that situation.

“Rebels in society despise authority, and the male police cap puts them on their guard.”

I pause to make sure she understands my English, and she does. Then I glance at the guard standing behind her, and he does not.

“Your hat has a cute feature that brings a man’s guard down. Feminine features disarm a man,” I continue.

“Really?!” she exclaims, as if struck by an epiphany.

And if that doesn’t work, you’ve still got the gun, I think to myself.

“How is it that you speak such good English?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“I lived abroad for a couple of years,” she says, her tone carrying a hint of cherished memory.

Her mask denies me a face to the voice, but her eyes beam with life-a spirit that wants to live and enjoy every moment, even in a dangerous occupation.

“How long have you been an officer?” I ask.

“A couple of years,” she says.

“Are you assigned to this police station because you live nearby?”

“No, no, no, no, nooooo. You don’t get to pick. They pick for you, and that’s where you’re assigned,” she says, with a cloud of resignation-having accepted her fate.

“But because you live in Tokyo, you’re assigned to a police station in Tokyo?”

“Of course,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

I nod and let the silence between us speak for itself. It tells me to be careful with the guard. He may not understand English, but he’s reading my body language and listening to her tone of voice.

Although the cadet’s back is to the guard, the lull in conversation makes the atmosphere in the room uncomfortable for both of us. Her eyes wander around, impatiently waiting for her senpai to return.

“Are you originally from Tokyo?” I ask.

“No, I’m from Gunma,” she answers.

“Oh, you’re from Gunma?!”

“Yes. You know it? There’s nothing there!” she exclaims, a little embarrassed but no longer uncomfortable.

“There are a lot of Brazilians there,” I acknowledge.

“Yes, there are! Have you visited?”

Now she’s the one asking the questions.

“Gunma has very good camping places,” I add, hoping she’ll take some pride in her hometown.

“Wow, you know it very well,” she says, her voice full of surprise.

“Was it difficult to find an apartment in Tokyo?” I ask.

“Yes. It’s very expensive to get an apartment in Tokyo,” she exclaims, exaggerating her head nod in agreement.

She continues, “At the moment, I live in a women’s dormitory provided by the academy. When I save up enough money, I’ll get my own apartment.”

The guard shifts his weight from his right leg to his left-a slight movement, but it gives him a better angle on the cadet’s masked face when she looks in my direction. Perhaps he’s hoping to read the subtle muscle movements around her left eye and temple whenever she responds to me.

“Did you find it difficult to get an apartment when you first came here?” she asks me.

“I slept on the floor,” I reply, not looking at her.

Silence returns and she faces forward. I shift my posture toward the wall in front of me, leaning into the table and tilting my head so that only the guard can see my face.

“What do you enjoy doing when you’re not working?” I ask her.

“I like to cycle,” she says.

I think to myself, I like to motorcycle, but I keep that detail to myself.

She turns her palm upward, offering me a question.

“What about you? What do you like to do?”

“Besides dancing?” I remind her, a teasing smile tugging at my lips.

She nods, her eyes smiling. I take notice of them while carefully avoiding eye contact with the officer standing guard behind her.

“I like to cook,” I say.

“Really?! What do you cook?” she exclaims.

I was going to say Argentinian dishes, but instead I go with its closest relative.

“Italian food. Like gnocchi and pasta,” I say.

“Wow. I love Italian food. One of my favorite restaurants is an Italian place in Shinjuku,” she responds with enthusiasm.

As we talk about our favorite meals and places to have dinner, I sense the guard’s growing discomfort with every laugh and positive response she gives. There’s probably some unspoken rule or expectation that forbids their female counterpart from getting close to a foreigner-especially one in custody.

We continue to chat, and I adjust my body language to throw the guard off. My hands and movements become more like those of a professor explaining a lesson, rather than a gentleman flirting at a bar.

“May I use this pen? I’d like to write down the name of your favorite restaurant,” I explain.

“Sure,” she says.

I am paperless, so my only option is to write it on my hand. The expression on the visible parts of her face tells me she thinks I’m odd yet resourceful. She’s right on both counts. The conversation quickly turns into a tour guide of the best places to eat in Tokyo.

For reasons unclear to me, the guard steps out of the interrogation room, leaving us alone. Once again, we sit in silence. My attention shifts to any sound coming from outside the door. In the distance, I can hear the Dutchman arguing on my behalf.

“You know, at first I was really upset about this whole situation,” I tell her. “But things happen for a reason.”

She follows along, waiting for me to give her a reason.

“The reason I was brought in,” I pause, locking eyes with her, “was to meet you.”