The Bride's Kimono Read online

  “Oh, no!” I hadn’t seen what my father had taken in so quickly. Well, he was a psychiatrist who’d done lots of therapy with patients who had troubled relationships.

  “Anyone for a nightcap?” my mother said, opening the mini-bar and taking out a small bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream.

  “If there’s milk,” I said, settling down on the small couch in the suite’s sitting area.

  It was almost eleven, and I knew I’d need something to help me sleep. As my mother and I sipped our creamy cocktails, my father went into the bathroom for a soak. Like many Japanese, he was addicted to the ritual of an evening bath.

  “Just so you know—your father told me what the police said you did on the train. I understand it was just a heavy make-out session or whatever you call it these days,” my mother said, curling her stocking feet up under her on the couch. They kept a shoes-off household, as I did, wherever they went.

  “You both must be very disappointed in me,” I said, concentrating on her pedicured toenails rather than her face.

  My mother sighed. “If it was a new friend you’d met at a bar or someplace like that…yes, I guess I would be. But your father doesn’t think it’s the case. He thinks it’s an old friend. And I have a hunch who it might be.”

  “Really,” I said.

  “It’s Hugh, isn’t it? The older brother of that crazy Angus person who stayed with us for a little while two summers ago.”

  “What makes you think that? It’s an awfully long stretch from Scotland to Washington. Not to mention that you’ve never met Hugh—”

  “I know he’s in Washington. He called us up a few months ago, wondering if your last address was current. I told him yes, but that you had moved on and had a new boyfriend.”

  “How could you?” I said, mental wheels turning. Hugh had seemed so surprised when I’d mentioned Takeo. Had that just been a show?

  “Well, when you told me you were coming to this area to give a lecture, it was all I could do to control myself and not suggest you look him up. What a remarkable coincidence that you did meet, and on the subway at night—”

  “There had been a few previous meetings. I meant not to see him, but that turned out to be impossible.” The Bailey’s had loosened my tongue. “Each time I see him all the old feelings come back.”

  “Well, I would never presume to tell you the choice to make, but some people would envy your situation. Personally, I think it’s good for men not to be overly sure of themselves and their chances.”

  “Is that why you told Hugh not to contact me?”

  “Absolutely. I knew what he’d done to you—he’d left and stopped calling. He needed to know that you’d gone on to better things, which, in a sense, you have. Let’s face it—how many millions of Waspy lawyers are there—versus flower-loving Japanese men who happen to have a Fortune 500 rating?”

  “Mom, that’s so shallow! You remind me of that book that tells women who date that they have to follow a bunch of silly rules.”

  “Darling, I’m old enough now that I make my own rules. And my rule is, if my daughter refuses to let me meet her boyfriends, I’m going to make my judgments based on the few details she leaks. I happen to be predisposed to prefer men from Japan. Can you blame me?”

  “I’m glad you’re happy with Dad. But the truth is, Takeo is very different from Dad, and I don’t know that I’ll ever get to introduce you. He doesn’t like to travel to the States, and he’s not even very social in Japan.”

  “What? That sounds crazy. Some of our most wonderful reports on him were from Norie.”

  “Well, that was the old Takeo. The new one likes to stay home and eat corn-and-octopus pizza.” I couldn’t bring myself to confess what the rest of every date entailed. “Now that you know everything about my love life, are you still interested in hearing what I have to say about kimono? The lecture’s set for tomorrow at noon.”

  “You mean—you’re allowing us to go? You’d said something on the phone, but I thought you were likely to change your mind.”

  “Of course I want you there. Maybe you’ll get a chance to talk to Allison Powell, the curator. I want your opinion of her.”

  “Oh, really?” My mother leaned in, already interested. She loved giving opinions, and like most daughters, I usually didn’t welcome the opportunity.

  “There are things about her that are really odd. She’s a little too casual about the issue of the kimono collection’s safety. Because of that, we had an argument at the VIP reception.”

  “How awkward,” my mother said. “Well, maybe I can try and smooth things for you a little bit.”

  “It’s not that I want you to make things better for me. It’s just that I think you could do a more accurate reading of Allison because you come from the same place.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Wellesley. You’re class of ’sixty-eight and she’s class of ’seventy.” I’d taken in the framed diploma on the wall the first time I’d been in Allison’s office.

  “I see,” my mother said. “All right, I’ll speak with her. But the real reason I’m going is to see you shine.”

  22

  “Let’s eat downstairs,” I said to my mother when I called them the next morning promptly at eight. I was in the mood for something other than a bagel. Pancakes, maybe, or a fried egg with a side of vegetarian sausage.

  “Sweetie, it’s five A.M. for us. Can you give us a little more time to sleep?” my mother groaned.

  “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll see you later.” I called Kyoko and Yoshi’s suite next. “Are you two ready for breakfast?”

  “Um, uh, maybe in a little while.” Kyoko sounded distracted.

  I got to the business I didn’t have the opportunity to broach the previous evening. “I’ve got to warn you about something before you meet the local police. They have a crazy notion that Hana was a prostitute and I’m in the business. It makes me worry they might ask you, too, about that kind of work.”

  “But I know nothing about that—that kind of work—”

  “Of course you don’t. I wanted to warn you so that you could be ready to handle them.”

  “What—what do I say back?” Kyoko sounded panicky.

  “Just be your own gentle, natural self. I know that you’ll be able to convince them—but you probably shouldn’t mention that you’re sharing a suite with Yoshi. They might interpret that unfairly.”

  “Oh, dear. Now I wish I’d never agreed to come. I wish the horrible time was over—”

  “Let’s think of something to make up for it afterward. Would you and Yoshi be my guests for dinner tonight?” I asked.

  “I’d like it very much, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Not at all.” After I hung up, the phone rang again. It was Hugh, asking how the last night had gone.

  “Fine,” I said. “Kyoko and Yoshi got in. They’re sharing a suite.”

  “Hmm,” Hugh said. “Sounds as if they’re rather friendly.”

  “Yes. My father thinks deeply friendly, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh, that’s intriguing.” I could sense Hugh smiling on his end. “Your parents should be rested by now. Let’s all have dinner tonight.”

  “Well, I’ve actually just promised to entertain Yoshi and Kyoko.”

  “Let me come along. Please.”

  “But you don’t speak Japanese. I think you’ll be bored.”

  “I don’t care what language you’ll speak. Come on, Rei. I’m aching to see you.”

  “One question first. Did you speak to my mother on the phone a few months ago?”

  “I guess I did. She was pleasant as usual and had lots of questions about young Angus. Why?”

  “She told you that I had a boyfriend, didn’t she?” I paused. “That means you already knew about Takeo when you started feeling your way up my kimono sleeves—”

  “The truth is, she didn’t provide many details, so I privately decided that this so-called boyfriend could not be a serio
us one. And when you didn’t mention Takeo after I brought up my dream on my first night, I knew I’d guessed right.”

  “What unbelievable arrogance. Was the dream about me in the kimono even real?”

  “Of course! Rei, I may be an arrogant bastard but at least I’m honest—and completely uncreative. I couldn’t fabricate a dream like that one. That symbolic kind of stuff is completely your territory—”

  “Thanks very much, and let’s drop it. Now, on to our evening. Make a reservation for four—I’m thinking Italian. Japanese people usually like Italian food.” I wouldn’t mind some decent gnocchi myself.

  “I know just the place.” Hugh sounded happy again. “It’s a very fashionable northern Italian spot in Georgetown that has a chef with the hands of an angel. Lots of fresh snappy flavors to start, then lush creamy sauces, and finally, chocolate desserts so dark and dense that you’ll—”

  “Hugh, someone else is calling me. I’ve got to take it.”

  “I’ll pick you all up at seven. Bye, darling.”

  I clicked over to the other call. It was Allison Powell. “Rei, I’m just calling to check that you remembered the noon lecture is today.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to say that I was sorry for the way I left the museum the other evening.”

  “Oh, it’s all right. Those big evenings can be stressful. And I want you to know that the kimono collection is still hanging safely. No attempts at robbery. Mr. Shima walked through this morning, and he said he was satisfied with the security arrangement.”

  I caught my breath. “Are you talking about the registrar from the Morioka?”

  “Oh, yes. I should have told you that right away. When you told me that you’d lost the bridal kimono, I called the Morioka Museum to offer my condolences. They were a little surprised to hear it from me instead of you. I said that surely you’d tried to reach them, but must not have been able to get through or leave a message.”

  “When did Mr. Shima arrive?” I asked, feeling doomed. I’d been thinking about how I was going to break the news to him. Now it turned out that he already knew.

  “Yesterday evening. He called from Dulles Airport, asking where he should stay, and I told him to come to the Sofitel, where we could arrange a discount. We’re going to try to pay for his lodging ourselves out of the Honda grant, since he really did go to quite a bit of trouble. Apparently he wasn’t even on duty at the museum this week, but the people we spoke to managed to reach him by cell phone, and he immediately volunteered to come and see what he could do to help.”

  “How diligent,” I said, feeling as if I was in a bad dream.

  “Yes. He’s due at the museum this morning at nine, and I assume he’ll stay through your lecture. He’ll want to talk to you, I’m sure.”

  I was pacing my room in my kimono undergarments when my parents finally came to see me. It was ten o’clock.

  “Did you eat something?” my mother asked.

  I shook my head. “No. I had some bad news…so I forgot to eat. I haven’t even had morning coffee.”

  “Well, let’s place a room-service order before we do anything,” my mother said, getting on the phone to order three Japanese breakfasts plus an extra cappuccino for me.

  “Do you feel comfortable telling us what happened?” my father asked.

  “Well, I spoke to Allison, the curator from the Museum of Asian Arts. She telephoned the Morioka Museum and told them that I’d lost the bridal kimono. The museum is concerned enough that they sent their registrar, Mr. Shima. He arrived last night.”

  “Probably on the same flight as Kyoko and Yoshi,” my father said.

  “I’m scared that he’ll think I stole the kimono. He’s probably going to check with the police to find out if I even bothered to file a crime report. And then, if he contacts the police who know me, he’ll get a glowing report on the kind of girl they think I am.”

  My telephone rang, and I hesitated to pick it up. I didn’t want to talk to Hugh in front of my parents.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?” my mother said, making a move toward the telephone herself. I snatched it up. It was Kyoko Omori.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I had to tell you the sad news. I’m calling you from the Virginia Medical Examiner’s Office.” She carefully said the last four words in English.

  “Oh?” I waited.

  “Yoshi-san and I both recognized her—there was no argument. But oh, how she was killed! I cannot imagine anyone would be so inhumane.”

  “How?”

  “Well, they wouldn’t explain, but from the body, we could tell. There was a knife stab into the center of her throat. An instant death. So ruthless.”

  After I murmured a few words to Kyoko that I doubted offered much comfort, we hung up. Then I sat down, thinking.

  An instant death, so ruthless, so—historical. A stab through the throat in a position that caused instant artery damage was the way a samurai wife was trained to kill herself should her husband take his life or be killed. In the old days, aristocratic ladies carried knives tucked into their obi. Today, the ceremonial knives are worn like a fashion accessory on a Japanese bride’s wedding day, tucked into the cord that binds the obi.

  In the twenty-first century, there was no longer a threat of hostile warlords, but there was an increasing threat of divorce. A woman carrying a knife at her waist on the day of her wedding was declaring to the world that she’d rather kill herself than have her marriage dissolve. I considered it unlikely that the average American criminal would know about this stylized suicide method. Whoever killed Hana knew something about Japanese history—either an outsider’s scholarly perspective, or an insider’s cultural one.

  My mother helped me put on the gold-and-cream shibori kimono, but it turned out that my father was the one who could tie the perfect obi bow. From the memory of helping his cousin, he said, which led my mother to rib him a bit. The bow he tied for me was a bona fide single woman’s bow but rested at a cockeyed angle, the kind of bow that he thought was right for someone in her late twenties. I liked it.

  We got into the car to go to the museum at ten forty-five, but hit a bizarre slowdown on the Roosevelt Bridge. There was no accident or construction to pass—just a long stop-and-go period, during which my parents debated where to go to lunch while I obsessed over my lecture notes. I was planning to do a version of the same talk I’d delivered at the museum opening, but with the addition of wrapping a kimono on a mannequin.

  It was eleven-forty when we reached S Street, so I had my parents drop me off at the museum before they parked. Allison Powell was standing in the rear of the museum lobby, talking with a dark-haired man a little bit shorter than she. From the back, he could be anyone, but I knew that most likely it was Mr. Shima.

  “Hello,” I said, hesitant to break into their conversation but knowing that I had to.

  “Oh, hello, Rei. It’s good you’re here. This is the Japanese embassy’s cultural attaché, Mr. Morimoto.”

  I bowed to him, murmuring the polite words of introduction. So, my forthcoming humiliation in front of Mr. Shima would be delayed—just slightly.

  “We at the embassy are very sad, and worried, to hear about the loss of the important cultural property.”

  I came up from my bow to meet Mr. Morimoto’s thoroughly somber face. Oh, my God. I hadn’t thought a late-Edo-period kimono could possibly be designated an Important Cultural Property—an item held in such reverence by the Japanese people that it was registered with the government. Mr. Shima had said nothing about this to me, and now the piece had been lost.

  “I am very sad and worried, too,” I said. “I filed reports about the theft with the hotel security and the local police. I’m praying that they’ll be able to recover the kimono.”

  “My office, as well as that of the consul, would like to be involved. Can you come to the embassy for a conversation when you’re done with the talk?”

  Great. Another conversation with auth
ority figures that would no doubt end in my incriminating myself. “Fine,” I said.

  “If you can bring your own travel insurance papers, that would be most helpful.”

  “I—I didn’t carry them today. I was just focused on the lecture—”

  “We have the loan agreement, which includes details of insurance on the back. Would that suit you?” Allison said.

  Mr. Morimoto shook his head. “That’s not what I need to see. I’m interested in Miss Shimura’s traveler’s insurance.”

  “I’ll be glad to talk to you about it later. Right now I’d like to get settled at the podium. Is Jamie around? Maybe she can help me.” I’d not forgotten how upset Jamie had been the night of the reception—and how she might have been the one waiting for me at the foot of the Spanish Steps.

  “Jamie isn’t here today,” Allison said. “But since the crowd today is smaller, you’ll be speaking in the kimono gallery and we are going to have to eliminate the slide show.”

  “What?” This was a major change in plans.

  “Well, there’s not enough free wall space to use a screen. However, you can use the actual kosode on display to illustrate your points.”

  “I can’t touch them, though,” I said. “Do I still have a mannequin to demonstrate kimono dressing?”

  “Yes, it’s there along with a kimono and obi from our collection.”

  “Ooh, I’d better see what they’re like.” I bowed slightly to Mr. Morimoto and made my escape.

  Allison had not been exaggerating when she said today’s audience was smaller. There was no crowd whatsoever. Despite the write-up in the Post, I counted nine people in the gallery, and some of them were walking around and looked as if they weren’t staying for the lecture.

  Where were my parents? I wondered as I went to the small table and chair that had been set up for me. I laid down my notes and looked at the kimono and obi hanging on a lacquered stand, and an underrobe already in place on a mannequin. The kimono garments were all early twentieth-century pieces—nothing special. I guess that was what they trusted me with now.

  At two minutes past noon, Allison appeared in the gallery, flanked by Mr. Morimoto and Mr. Shima, who looked at me with such a stern expression that I felt like running and hiding. He sat down in the first row, next to Mr. Morimoto. The two were talking in voices so low I could hardly hear anything, though the words “hotel” and “police” floated out. Obviously Mr. Morimoto was telling him about the kimono theft.