The Bride's Kimono Read online

  Sujata Massey

  The Bride’s Kimono

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Cast of Characters

  1

  For most people, a telephone ringing in the middle of…

  2

  “Honey, I wouldn’t trust you to carry my favorite vintage…

  3

  “So, how much do you think it would cost me…

  4

  The last days dwindled as I worked on my research…

  5

  Just as at Narita Airport, the ritual at Dulles Airport’s…

  6

  I found a taxi parked outside the hotel entrance. Five…

  7

  At four-thirty I was on my second glass of Chardonnay…

  8

  In my hotel room, the telephone’s message light was blinking.

  9

  I did the illogical thing first—yanked open the door and…

  10

  I said a quick good-bye to Kyoko. As I emerged…

  11

  When I peered at the clock radio the next morning…

  12

  I arrived close to one so, unlike the previous day,…

  13

  In the gentlest way possible, the librarian urged me out…

  14

  It was time for the See America Travel tour to…

  15

  “Good evening to everyone, especially His Excellency Ambassador Miura and…

  16

  “Did you see that man waiting for me?” I said…

  17

  It had to be Hana. I sank down on the…

  18

  Thursday morning, I was dragged out of a dream that…

  19

  I had the impulse to go around the mall to…

  20

  “A prostitute?” I exhaled sharply. “You suspect that’s one of…

  21

  Back in Room 605, my mother was lying on the…

  22

  “Let’s eat downstairs,” I said to my mother when I…

  23

  The embassy of Japan was, to my eyes, the most…

  24

  Kyoko and Yoshi were in the lobby talking to Hugh…

  25

  Kyoko eventually came back, and not another word was said…

  26

  The morning after, with Hugh. In Japan, it usually meant…

  27

  Since I was late, I decided to telephone Takeo with…

  28

  It was five o’clock, and my parents were drinking coffee…

  29

  “I love him. He’s handsome, cultured, and obviously wild for…

  30

  My parents were cuddled up close on Jamie’s sofa when…

  31

  “Hugh!”

  32

  It was one o’clock, and nobody had eaten, but dropping…

  33

  There seemed to be a collective sigh of relief from…

  34

  Mr. Shima had moved past me and into the back…

  35

  Hugh hugged me first, wordlessly. His face was as wet…

  The World of Sujata Massey

  The Salaryman’s Wife

  Zen Attitude

  The Flower Master

  The Floating Girl

  Watch For Sujata Massey’s New Hardcover, The Daimyo’s Daughter

  Acknowledgments

  Praise

  Other Books by Sujata Massey

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Cast of Characters

  REI SHIMURA, the Tokyo-based daughter of a cross-cultural couple, TOSHIRO and CATHERINE SHIMURA of San Francisco. Toshiro’s sister-in-law, NORIE SHIMURA, watches out for Rei.

  RICHARD RANDALL, an English teacher living in Japan who is Rei’s best friend.

  TAKEO KAYAMA, the Tokyo heartthrob who replaced Rei’s ex-boyfriend, HUGH GLENDINNING.

  ALLISON POWELL, curator of the Museum of Asian Arts in Washington, D.C.

  JAMIE STEVENSON, conservator at the Museum of Asian Arts.

  MR. SHIMA, registrar of the Morioka Museum in Tokyo, who works closely with textile curator, MR. NISHIO. Both are supervised by the museum’s director, MR. ITO.

  KOICHI OTANI, a Kawasaki businessman who is a descendant of an important Osaka tea merchant.

  DICK JEMSHAW, chair of the advisory committee at the Museum of Asian Arts.

  MRS. CHIYODA, director of See America Travel.

  BRIAN HUNTER, night manager at the Washington Suites hotel.

  MARK LEESE, security chief at the Washington Suites.

  HANA MATSURA, office lady with a yen for shopping. She is traveling with a friend from work named KYOKO OMORI.

  YOSHIKI “YOSHI” WATANABE, Hana’s fiancé.

  JAMES HARRIS, homicide detective who works in cooperation with LILY GARCIA, a patrol officer.

  1

  For most people, a telephone ringing in the middle of the night is a bad omen.

  In my case, it is business as usual. The caller could be an overseas client ignorant of the time difference between New York and Japan, or he could be my best friend, Richard Randall, stranded after the subway’s close and in need of a place to crash. There is always a reason to fumble for the phone sandwiched between my futon and the old lacquered tray that serves as my nightstand.

  “Rei Shimura Antiques,” I croaked, unsure if I was awake or still dreaming.

  “Is this Rei?” The voice on the other end sounded like my mother’s, but she should have known about the time difference.

  “Yes, Mom.” I sighed heavily, trying to give her the message that I’d been asleep.

  “Actually, I’m not your mother—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.” What I had caught on to was that I’d been fooled by the super-modulated, almost English, but really American accent. Flowing into my eardrum at two-forty in the Tokyo morning, it rang with a surreal clarity.

  “My name is Allison Powell. I’m the textile curator at the Museum of Asian Arts in Washington, D.C. I don’t know if you’ve heard of us.”

  “Of course I have,” I said, coming fully awake. I’d made a few visits to the museum near Embassy Row when I was a college student. I remembered the charming black-and-white marble-tiled foyer and a pleasant collection of Utamaro woodblock prints on the walls. There were other wonderful Asian antiquities, too: Chinese terra-cotta figures, Korean celadon-glazed pots, and Kashmiri shawls. It was the kind of place that had served as inspiration for my own fledgling business in Japanese antiques.

  “Can you give me a few minutes? I have a proposition for you.”

  I had a suspicion that all Allison wanted was a guided tour on her next trip to Japan. The previous month an unknown Los Angeles woman had landed on my doorstep and asked me to escort her round-trip to Kyoto—going Dutch, of course.

  Trying not to sound too rude, I said, “Well, let me guess. You’re coming to Japan and need to be shown around? I can recommend a wonderful English-speaking guide—”

  “No, I actually want to give you the chance to take a trip,” Allison said brightly. “You see, we are about to launch an exhibit on Edo-period kimono. I know it’s short notice, but I want you to join us for the opening festivities a month from today.”

  “Are you sure that my mother didn’t put you up to this?” I was suspicious, because my mother had been badgering me to come home to the United States to visit her and my father for the last year.

  “I don’t know your mother, but I do know about your expertise in Japanese textiles.”

  “Thank you,” I said, still feeling paranoid. “I’m wondering who gave you my personal phone number, bec
ause it wasn’t in any of my articles.”

  “A member of our advisory committee had the information. I do apologize for the short notice, Rei. We were supposed to have a speaker from the Morioka Museum, but he canceled at the last minute, so that’s why we’re so desperate to get someone like you. We can pay an honorarium, per diem, and your travel expenses.”

  “Oh, really?” So I was a second choice. Still, I might as well hear about the money.

  “Three thousand is what we were going to pay Mr. Nishio,” Allison purred.

  “That’s barely going to cover the cost of a night in a place like D.C.—” Three thousand yen was about thirty dollars.

  “Well, three thousand dollars is a bit higher than what an American courier would typically get for a ten-day visit. However, I know you’re not on salary from a Japanese museum, so I could see if I can swing an extra five hundred. Would that suit?”

  She’d been thinking in dollars, not yen. I said, “I don’t understand. What is the money supposed to take care of?”

  “Seven days’ worth of hotel, food, city transportation, and incidentals—we budgeted that at two thousand and were planning to give a thousand dollars in honorarium for two brief talks on kimono of the late Edo period. The plane tickets will be arranged out of a separate budget—”

  “I can do that for you,” I said quickly. I knew I could get a much cheaper round-trip flight through my Tokyo connections.

  “You could do that and keep the difference, if there’s any, as long as you fly business when you’re carrying the kimono. Economy class on the way back is fine. You see, the kimono will stay in the U.S. with us for three months. At the end of it, we could possibly hire you again to do a pickup of the goods, if you’re interested…”

  Allison chattered on, but I was busy making my own happy, rapid calculations. Not even factoring in airfare, I was being offered a budget of $500 a day. It was an outrageous amount. I could do the Washington gig and profit.

  “I’m going to have to check my calendar,” I said, snapping on the electrified antique lantern next to my bed. “Why don’t I write down your phone number right now, just in case we get disconnected—” Or if I wake up and worry this was a dream.

  “Certainly.” Allison rattled off a number with a 202 area code, then gave me her fax number and an e-mail address.

  “Um, I don’t e-mail.”

  There was a pause. “No e-mail?”

  “E-mail came to Japan a little later than in the States. I haven’t signed up yet.” The truth was, Internet access in Japan was much more expensive than in the U.S., and the idea of communicating by e-mail, rather than by voice or letter, made me uncomfortable. It all seemed so—temporary. My boyfriend, Takeo, swore by it—he spent a couple of hours a day with his laptop, but he couldn’t get me to do more than glance at the thing.

  “You sound like a real antiquarian.” Allison laughed lightly. “Never mind, I’ll send things to you the old-fashioned way. I think I have your fax number already.” She rattled it off, startling me. I couldn’t afford to advertise my antique shopping business in any international arts journals, so I could only assume Allison had a network of excellent contacts in Japan.

  After hanging up, I was too excited to go right back to sleep, so I bounded out of bed to make a cup of chamomile tea. If I could get by spending only $500 for the week—rather than per day—I could bring back $3,000 to put in the bank. My savings account was quite low, because in the past year, I’d lost the steady income I’d had from writing an arts-and-antiques column for the Gaijin Times. I needed to cobble together all kinds of odd, antiques-related work in order to make my rent. Traveling overseas and speaking about Japanese antiques was something I’d never done—and I had to admit, despite my being the museum’s second choice, this would be a great boon.

  I finally went back to bed and, two hours later, woke again when the fax machine in the corner of my bedroom started grunting. Allison had been true to her word and had sent a proposed agenda for my visit, as well as a contact name and number at the Morioka Museum in West Tokyo, which, the fax explained, was the institution that owned the kimono that I’d be carrying with me.

  I blinked and read the line again. That’s right, she’d said very quickly when she was talking about timing that I needed to come early so that the kimono could be installed. She wanted me not only to speak, but to bring a small collection of Edo-period kimono on the plane. That’s why I was flying business class to America, and economy on the way back.

  I knew that the transportation of museum pieces was something that took place daily at airports around the world—but I’d never done it. Would the Japanese museum trust me?

  Looking into the mirror at my tousled early-morning appearance, I shook my head. No. Not this shaggy-haired, almond-eyed American citizen who had been around a few too many dead bodies. Add in the fact that I was twenty-eight and unattached: a rootless, untrustworthy woman who needed a cosigner for every financial or real-estate move she made. Allison Powell might be willing to give me a chance, but she didn’t know my full story the way people in Japan did. If she had known, she wouldn’t have called.

  2

  “Honey, I wouldn’t trust you to carry my favorite vintage Levi’s out of my apartment. And you’re saying that you’re going to carry a collection of antique kimonos out of the country?” Richard Randall, the twenty-five-year-old Canadian who was my best friend in Tokyo, shook his head as he stirred sugar into a tiny cup of coffee.

  “‘Kimono’ is the preferred form of the plural for scholars,” I said frostily. We were at Appetito, my favorite sanduitto—the Japanese interpretation of sandwich shop. Lunch together at Appetito had become a Friday tradition because Richard had a shorter teaching day at It’s Happening! Language School, where he was a full-time English teacher.

  “Kimono, then. Whatever! You aren’t going anywhere with them, babe.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Well, it was a nice fantasy while it lasted.” I was depressed that Richard also agreed that I’d not be able to get antiques out of Japan. In the last few days, I’d worked myself into a frenzy of wanting to go. Looking at the odd little pastry called a “cheezu bagel” sitting on my lunch tray, I added, “I’m dying for an American bagel. Not to mention real cheese. Do you know how tired I am of going to over-priced foreigner supermarkets here and finding nothing but Kraft singles?”

  “You are a Kraft single,” Richard cackled. “That’s the problem. Who would trust a young single woman without Japanese citizenship to be responsible for Japanese cultural treasures? And why has the American museum asked you instead of someone from the Morioka to carry the goods? It all sounds fishy.”

  “The Morioka guy said he couldn’t possibly travel, so the American museum is desperate. They want certain kimono from that museum. It would be difficult—from a manners standpoint—to ask a Japanese textile curator from a different museum to carry things from the Morioka. Anyway, that’s my guess. Maybe I’ll find out more today.” I was scheduled to be at the Morioka Museum in an hour and a half for an interview with the museum’s director, its textile curator, and its registrar.

  “But you’ve never worked at a museum,” Richard said.

  “Allison told me I’ve got a reputation for my knowledge of Japanese textiles. If it’s really true that I’m a known person, the people at the Morioka might have a favorable impression of me already.”

  “Come on, girlfriend. The only reputation you have is for making it into tabloids.”

  “Those pictures were taken just because of Takeo,” I protested. For the last half year, I’d been dating a rather dashing man my age named Takeo Kayama. Takeo was an odd sort, spending his days mulling over the rehabilitation of historic Japanese houses and advising various ecology groups. Because Takeo was the son of a famous flower-arranging-school headmaster, his moves were reported with some interest, especially when he did bizarre things like show up for a black-tie flower-arranging gala wearing jeans and a Greenpeace
T-shirt. I hadn’t cared about what Takeo wore that night, but I was mortified when our long good-night kiss at a taxi stand wound up being circulated to a million readers. Since then, Takeo and I hadn’t dared to go out together in public. Now we spent most of our time together at his country house, doing about the only thing possible in a place without a television set.

  “Ha. I wonder if they’ll do an Internet search on you and come up with pictures of the boyfriend before him.”

  “Don’t remind me.” I didn’t want to recall Hugh Glendinning, the Scottish lawyer who’d walked out of my life a little more than a year ago. When Takeo had come along, I’d decided that it was in my best interest to get involved with a Japanese man. Who else could I count on to want to live in my favorite city with me? Not that Takeo and I had reached the point of living together, or getting married. Takeo came from a prominent family, and I suspected that it would look better to his father if I were on firmer financial footing before we got really serious.

  Feeling invigorated by thoughts of how powerful an alliance with a Japanese museum might be for my career, I parted with my best friend and walked to my appointment. Twenty minutes later I’d made my way through the boutique-lined streets of Omote-Sando and arrived at the entrance to the Morioka Museum, a small, elegant stucco building that had survived the World War II bombs and been home, for the last thirty years, to many of Japan’s great textile treasures.