The Bride's Kimono Read online

  To my surprise, Mr. Morita woke up promptly as we took the freeway exit for Narita Airport, and turned into a considerably more active man. He loaded the boxes onto a cart and let me follow carrying my luggage as we navigated our way through the packed terrain of Narita’s old terminal. When we had to pass the boxes through a metal detector, and the guard manning it asked for one of the boxes to be opened for direct inspection, Mr. Morita said a few quiet words and we were waved through. Good. Even though I’d been instructed how to refold the kimono and retape the box, I didn’t want to do it in front of an audience of thousands.

  Now the boxes were cleared and we were off to check in at See America Travel, the tour group that had disbursed my airline tickets. Its counter was decorated with tiny American flags and cardboard cutouts of the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and the famous Hollywood sign. Hollywood? I guessed some of their travelers would be stopping in Los Angeles. Maybe that was why the agency had been so flexible about my adding a stop in California on the way home. I was going to fly for free to Los Angeles, and after that, it would be up to me to pay the added airfare for a commuter flight to San Francisco.

  A man in a red blazer carrying the travel-agency flag told me that I had to give up my luggage trolley, since it was taking up too much room. Mr. Morita wordlessly complied, but I was annoyed because I’d been balancing the boxes on top of the suitcases while I was waiting, which was a nice break after having carried them so long.

  “I have a rather large number of small pieces,” I said. “I have to keep them together and off the ground. It’s a special circumstance.”

  The man frowned. “In the literature all customers were sent, we explain the luggage limit is two pieces to check in the baggage compartment, plus a carry-on to bring on the plane. You have three carry-on items and only one suitcase for the baggage compartment. That’s not allowed.”

  “I bought an extra ticket,” I said, waving it at him. But it wasn’t until Mr. Morita introduced himself that the travel-agency man quieted down and agreed I could take everything on board. I supposed I should have been grateful to have Mr. Morita there, but I found it was only making me annoyed. I was used to taking care of myself, fighting my own battles. What was happening to me was only feeding into my new theory that single women in Japan received less respect than anyone else.

  Unwilling to give things up to Mr. Morita, I tried to balance the two huge boxes atop my slim suitcase, but one fell off.

  “Careful,” a husky male voice said. Before I had time to snap at the new chauvinist in my life, I realized that my box had been caught by a good-looking young guy who looked very much like Takeo Kayama.

  It was Takeo. He handed the box back to me with a smile.

  “How’d you know I’d be here?” I said, after reassuring Mr. Morita that Takeo was not a robber.

  “I telephoned your friend Richard. I would have driven you in, if you’d wanted it.”

  “How thoughtful of you.” I was stunned that Takeo had come all the way to the airport. Narita was about a two-hour drive from the city, and it was a tough drive filled with traffic, lane changes, and tension.

  “Well, let me hold the boxes while you wait.”

  “I better not,” I said, seeing Mr. Morita looking unhappily at the two of us. I didn’t want him reporting back to the Morioka that the courier was a social butterfly.

  “I came because I want you to have a good trip, and to come back to me safely. I’ve got a little present for you. Can you reach in my pocket?”

  “Okay,” I said, handing the boxes to Mr. Morita and mumbling, “This is a friend of mine; can you hold my place in line for a minute?”

  Before Mr. Morita could protest, I stepped a few paces away from him and the line. I didn’t want whatever Takeo was giving me to be noticed by everyone. Keeping my eyes on Mr. Morita, I reached into the pocket of Takeo’s baggy jean jacket and pulled out a small box exquisitely wrapped in green washi paper—green, the color signifying a gift from the heart.

  “Oh, my,” I said in English, forgetting myself for a minute. Then I switched back to Japanese. “Should I wait to open this when we have a little more privacy? Say, downstairs in the lounge?”

  “They only allow passengers downstairs,” Takeo said. “Just open it now.”

  I unwrapped the paper with suddenly clumsy fingers. This was the moment for which my aunt had been waiting but that I wasn’t sure I really wanted.

  The box underneath the paper was small and black and made of wood—not velvet, as you’d expect for a jewelry box. Trust Takeo to find an organic material, I thought, looking at him shyly.

  “You seem nervous,” Takeo said.

  “I am,” I said. “I have to say, the timing is a bit odd.”

  “I wanted you to have this before you left.”

  I opened the box and stared down at a small, rectangular piece of red brocade embroidered in gold. Slightly confused, I wondered if this was the padding that the ring sat on. With careful fingers, I picked up the small piece of fabric and heard the jingling sound of a tiny bell. I turned the fabric over and saw, in gold, the embroidered phrase SAFETY TRAVEL.

  “It’s a safety amulet for your trip,” Takeo said. “I always carry one during plane travel. In fact, this belonged to me. But now it’s yours.”

  “Thank you,” I said faintly. I had been incredibly naive to think, for the space of a few seconds, that Takeo wanted to marry me.

  “You’re very welcome. Hey, the clerk is ready for the boxes. You’d better go back to that unpleasant man holding them. I’ve got to run, because I’m parked illegally. Give a great talk, have a great time, and don’t forget me.” Takeo blew a kiss, and then was gone.

  Why had I thought Takeo was giving me a ring? He’d never said that he loved me. For that matter, I hadn’t said this to him, either. I wasn’t sure how I felt, especially now. All I knew was that I hoped I wasn’t becoming as conventional as the stereotyped office lady with hopes of a wedding at the Prince Hotel and a honeymoon in Guam.

  I shuddered as I gave Mr. Morita my carry-on to hold as we both went downstairs to pay departure tax and pass through customs. The process was as smooth as silk. Mr. Morita presented the papers from the Morioka, and the customs official greeted him, if not as an old friend, at least as a business acquaintance who he knew and trusted. The papers were stamped, and Mr. Morita zipped them carefully into the outer pocket of my carry-on bag, for me to present at Dulles Airport customs when I arrived. That was it.

  As we waited in the airline’s lounge for the plane to board, Mr. Morita acknowledged that the seats I’d booked in the 747’s upper compartment were a good out-of-the-way place to sit. He reminded me not to tell anyone what I was carrying. If a flight attendant challenged the fact that I had the boxes seat-belted into the seat next to me, I was to present her with a letter explaining the importance of my mission. This way I would not have to speak, and nobody would overhear anything about the items I was carrying.

  When the call came in the passenger lounge for the preboarding of small children or those needing special assistance, I rose to my feet and bid the customs broker good-bye. As I walked down the runway, I realized that it had been over a year since I’d last been on a plane. A smell of plane air—a mixture of new-car scent mixed with fuel and something stale and indescribably unpleasant—wafted out to me.

  “Do you need help taking your carry-ons upstairs?” a flight attendant asked instantly upon seeing me laboring under the two boxes and backpack.

  “I’d better not,” I said, climbing the spiral staircase precariously with the two boxes in my arms. I knew that I couldn’t let anyone else hold the boxes. The brief episode with Takeo had made Mr. Morita frown. I hoped he wouldn’t repeat the story about Takeo touching the box to Mr. Nishio.

  When I was safely at the top, I found my two seats. I stacked the boxes in the seat by the window, wrapping a seat belt around them so they sat up straight and securely. Then I began rifling through my bac
kpack for my lecture notes. If I got tired of practicing my talk, I would read my dog-eared copy of The Makioka Sisters. I’d finally finished Tale of the Genji and had moved on to this classic early-twentieth-century novel about an Osaka family’s four daughters, two of whom were married and respectable and two others who were in need of suitable partners. The subtle humor and domestic details in this book were delicious, but it was still a dense, slow read.

  “You’re in my seat.” The words were spoken slowly and spaced apart, as if the talker, speaking American English, thought I wouldn’t understand. I looked up at one of the American men with marine haircuts that I’d seen at the departure gate.

  “I believe this is my seat,” I replied politely in English. “I bet you’re in the row ahead of me. It’s sometimes hard to match the numbers overhead with the seats below, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m 28A.” He stared me down in a belligerent way. Somehow, a name flashed into my mind—Lieutenant Commander Ashburton. The American who’d tricked the Otani family into giving him a superb kimono collection for a winter’s worth of rice and coal.

  “That’s my seat number as well. Hmm, the airlines must have made a mistake.” I was still trying to keep things harmonious; how Japanese I’d become.

  “Can I see your ticket?” he demanded. I sighed heavily and fished around in the outer pocket of my backpack to find my boarding pass. Yes, it said 28A. I handed it to him, and his jaw began working.

  “Damn it,” he said. “If I don’t get out of this country within an hour, I’m going to go nuts.”

  “Don’t worry. I overheard that the flight isn’t that crowded.”

  “Yeah, but I want this seat. I used to fly fighter planes. I like being up high. Tell you what—why don’t you take the seat next to me? Then you can work it out with whoever else might come along.”

  I was losing my patience. I said, “Actually, I’m booked in these two seats.”

  “Whaddaya mean, booked into two seats?”

  “I have the seat that I’m in, and the boxes are riding in the window seat.”

  “I thought all baggage had to be safely stowed underneath the seat or in the overhead compartment. FAA regulations!” he added nastily.

  I wasn’t going to explain that I was a fine-art courier to the man; he was probably the kind of person that museum people worried about. I pressed the bell for a flight attendant, and the woman who had helped me with the boxes came halfway up the stairs.

  “Hello,” I called out to her. “There seems to be a mix-up with our seat assignments.”

  “She’s in my seat,” the military man said. “I got assigned 28A, and I need to stay here. I used to fly fighter planes and I like being up high.”

  “Well, I paid for two seats to be together because of my special baggage.” I handed her the letter Mr. Morita had given me.

  The flight attendant read the note and looked anxiously at me. “Madam, I understand your need for two seats, and the flight’s not completely full. Let me find another seat for you, please.”

  I spoke to her in Japanese, keeping my tone light and pleasant so the man would have no idea of what was going on. “Why would you suggest moving me and my boxes—two seats’ worth of travelers—and leave him behind with an empty seat next to him? You’ll have to do much more work. I was in the seat first, anyway. Remember how much trouble it was to move all the boxes up here? The gentleman is the one who should move.”

  “Madam, I can tell from your ticket that you booked with See America Travel. Most of the tour group is sitting below. I’d like to find two seats for you there, among the ladies, who are very pleasant. Please wait just a moment while I clear two seats for you. Miss Kimi, please give both customers a glass of Dom Pérignon.”

  “I don’t want champagne,” I said. “All I want is a seat for myself and for my boxes.”

  “Shh, shh. We’ll take care of you.” Kimi lifted the boxes out of my arms and set them securely atop a cart. I kept my eyes on them until the lead flight attendant returned. She was smiling at me.

  “There is room for you in the central cabin,” she said. “One of the passengers has volunteered to move so that your boxes can have the window seat. The center seat was open anyway, so you can sit there.”

  “Is it business class?” I asked pointedly.

  “No, but I’m so sorry about everything, I can give you a coupon entitling you to an upgrade to business on your return trip—that was supposed to be economy, neh?”

  I felt jerked around, but at the same time I was glad to be getting away from the man; I wouldn’t be able to close my eyes for a minute with him next to me and my precious boxes. Especially after knowing what had happened to the Otani kimono collection, thanks to an enterprising military man.

  Downstairs in the main cabin, most of the passengers had their eyes shut and were sleeping. It was just like the Tokyo subway. The flight attendant pointed to the area where she hoped to place me. As she’d promised, the center and window seat next to a young woman were free. I’d noticed her when we were checking in, because she’d had a Walkman on, and her eyes were closed as if in rapture. Her hair was obviously dyed, a chestnut brown a few shades lighter than my natural brownish-black color. The woman’s eyes were circled with eerie, glittery eye shadow that gave her the look of a raccoon—a rather trendy look for teens and young twentysomethings. I’d seen the look on members of Morning Musume, a popular all-girl singing group whose CD case she was opening up as I squeezed past her with the boxes to sit down.

  When I’d gotten settled and the flight attendant had left, the girl turned to me. “Are you on the See America shopping tour?”

  “Yes. There was a mix-up about the seats. I hope you don’t mind my coming in next to you.”

  “It doesn’t matter. My friend from the office who came with me got to go into first class, where the food’s supposed to be really good. And maybe she’ll pick up a rich businessman, too—she could use some company!”

  “Oh, really?” I laughed uneasily.

  “Yeah. By the way, my name is Hana Matsura. What’s yours?”

  “Rei Shimura. Thank you so much for letting me come into this row, Matsura-san. You gave up space to have me here; I feel like I owe you a glass of wine.”

  “Call me Hana. That’s what they do in America, right? Everyone calls by the first names. And I already have a drink.” Hana grinned, toasting me with the half-full glass of red wine that had been on her tray. “Should I call the hostess to get you a glass?”

  “No, I’ll just get some when they serve dinner.”

  “What’s in the boxes?” Hana looked eagerly at the stack on the window seat.

  “Just some souvenirs for my family.”

  “They’re such nice, big boxes. I guess you can use them to bring home any extra clothes that don’t fit in your luggage.”

  “Yes,” I answered, thinking this girl was exactly the kind of person Takeo couldn’t stand. “I take it that you’re going to spend a lot of time at the Nation’s Place mall?”

  “I am. It’s my last trip before my wedding next month.”

  “Congratulations. What a happy time it must be,” I said, thinking that the last thing I’d want to do is take a transatlantic trip before a wedding. It seemed like a stressful, tiring action.

  “I never thought I’d find a man like my fiancé.”

  Again, a reference to men. I knew she wanted to keep talking, so I said, “What is he like?”

  “Well, Yoshiki is about five feet ten inches tall, and he has very nice hazel eyes—about the color of my hair, actually. He grew up in Yokohama, like I did, and he went to Keio University. He’s been at Sony in the marketing department ever since college graduation. He likes to drive cars, watch television, and sing karaoke in his free time.”

  “Does he like international travel, too?”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t want him along on this trip. I’ve only known him a few months.”

  “And you just decid
ed to get married?”

  “No, we made the plan the third time we met. Our marriage is o-miai, if you hadn’t already guessed.”

  She was talking about arranged marriage. While plenty of people in Japan had love marriages, unions arranged by parents or professional matchmakers were still popular. I couldn’t quite understand it.

  “You look so modern and with it,” I said, gesturing toward her brilliant makeup. “I’m surprised you’d agree to o-miai.”

  “It’s boring at my company. Marriage will give me the freedom to do whatever I like when Yoshi is not eating or sleeping.”

  “Are you going to live with your in-laws?” I asked, thinking to myself that her plan might not be so appealing to the older generation.

  “No. Yoshi has been with his company eight years now, so he’s got a decent salary. We’re going to buy an apartment. I’m so excited about that! I can see it in my mind—a tall white building, a high-class one, where nobody can hang out shabby futons. I’ll have lots of windows and an all-white interior. Everything new.”

  “Maybe you can buy a nice white wedding dress while you’re in the States,” I said.

  “I don’t need to. I’m renting all that stuff. What I’m going to buy in Washington are purses and shoes. Accessories are the most important investment a woman can make.”

  “I never thought of accessories as investments,” I mused. So this was what was driving Japanese women to shop so hard—a dream of private investment. A way to achieve power when nobody took them seriously.

  “Accessories are important,” Hana said firmly. “But don’t worry, I won’t be working too hard at shopping. I also will find a playboy. Hopefully one in Washington, and one in Los Angeles—we are stopping there for shopping on the way back.”