The Bride's Kimono (13 page)

I wasn’t safe to ride a private form of transportation with Hugh Glendinning at any time of day or night—I knew that from past experience.

“I want to take the Metro,” I said. “It’s always faster.”

“I’ll walk you there, then.” Hugh put money down on the table and waved good-bye to his restaurant friends as we left. “Chocolate first?”

“I changed my mind. I’m not hungry,” I said glumly.

“I can’t believe how badly your visit is turning out. I’m really sorry.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, too,” I said, not looking at him as we
walked along. Seeing Hugh had screwed everything up. Because he’d come to my room, and I hadn’t felt comfortable talking there, I’d left the kimono unattended. And though that in itself should have made me furious with him, spending time with him was stirring up all kinds of old romantic memories that I wanted to forget.

“I’d better put you in a cab,” Hugh said. “You’re obviously too tired to walk.”

I pushed away the five-dollar bill he tried to give me when a cab pulled up the instant after he’d waved for it. “I don’t want anything more from you, okay? I shouldn’t even have accepted those tapas.”

Hugh put the money back in his pocket and said, “Go to the Woodley Park Metro: it’s the closest station. You shouldn’t pay more than four dollars.”

I got in the cab and told the driver to go to Woodley Park.

“I heard that already. I will not cheat you, okay?” The driver sounded as if he had African origins—he was a foreigner, just like me.

I turned around in the cab as it started to move, to see which way Hugh had gone.

He hadn’t moved. He’d stayed in place, watching. He had the same expression on his face that he’d had the previous evening when he’d stretched out his hands to me and I’d stopped him.

A car moved in behind us, and then I couldn’t see him anymore.

I
t was time for the See America Travel tour to move on to California. The next morning the lobby was buzzing with talk about shopping at the Beverly Center as the office ladies loaded their suitcases onto a series of luggage trolleys. I kept my eye out for Kyoko, who hadn’t answered her phone when I’d called the room. Finally, at five minutes before the planned time of departure, she appeared, dressed in a Burberry raincoat over jeans.

“There you are, Rei-san,” she said. “I tried to telephone your room a few hours ago.”

“Sorry. I accidentally had it off the hook.” I’d kept on telephoning the Morioka the previous night, and hanging up in fear after one ring. At last, I’d fallen asleep with the receiver on my pillow.

“I reported Hana’s absence to Mrs. Chiyoda, and she has made a call to Hana’s emergency contact number—her parents. I guess they’ll decide what to do next.” Kyoko paused, then continued in a lower voice. “I want to tell you something else. It’s about Hana’s luggage. One of her suitcases is not in our closet, I realized. I think she might have gone traveling.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“I was too distracted to realize it. Then yesterday, when you suggested I look at the things in our room, I
noticed that there was only one suitcase of hers left behind—the empty one she’d intended to fill with shopping. She took away the suitcase with her own clothes.”

This news—that Hana had split with her luggage, the perfect way to carry the kimono—made me all the more anxious.

“Kyoko,” I said, “if you see Hana on the plane, or in California or back in Japan, will you please call me?”

“Of course. I know that you’re worried.”

“Yes, I am. But please don’t let her know that you’re contacting me. I want it to remain—private.”

“Why?” Kyoko asked.

“I don’t know how to say this without upsetting you. I don’t have any proof, but—”

“Oh dear! Are you thinking she was involved—took—the kimono?”

I studied Kyoko. Her face looked worried but not tense. If she had taken the kimono herself, she was doing a masterful job of appearing innocent.

“Perhaps,” I said. “What do you think?”

“The bus will be leaving in five minutes!” Mrs. Chiyoda broke into our conversation.

“I don’t like to think that Hana would have done that…but I don’t know. I promise to call if I see her. And we should talk again, when we are both back in Japan,” Kyoko said as Mrs. Chiyoda started dragging her suitcase off.

“I’d like that,” I said, but they were already too far away for her to hear.

I
watched the tour bus pull away and felt wistful. The office ladies were going for a couple of days to Los Angeles and then home to Japan, where things were safe, where everything worked. I was stuck in a country that
was supposedly my homeland but had brought me nothing but trouble. On top of it, I no longer had a passport or ticket to help me exit.

I turned from the foyer and began the walk back to my room. Julie, the blonde who was the daytime front-desk manager, was smiling and waving at me. “I have something you’re waiting for!”

I rushed toward her and said, “The kimono?”

“Well, according to the contents slip on this overseas express package, there are three.” She smiled brightly. “Funny, isn’t it? Most people come here to buy things. They don’t have them sent from Japan.”

So Aunt Norie’s kimono had arrived. I took them upstairs, realizing that I’d almost forgotten I was going to give a speech in a few hours. I was going to have to get dressed without anyone around who could help me. Kimono dressing was something I’d regularly practiced since I was fourteen—but still, it was a lengthy, challenging activity.

In my room, I slashed at the tape on the outside edges of the box with my nail scissors—angry at the fact I was going to unwrap a modern kimono, when all I wanted to have was a particular old one. But once I got the lid off the box, time seemed to stand still.

The first kimono Aunt Norie had sent was a rich reddish orange—the color of cayenne pepper. I unfolded the kimono and found it had graceful sleeves that stretched almost to my ankles. Norie must have worn it before she married and switched over to more appropriate shorter-sleeved robes.

This red kimono, handwoven out of a sumptuous
rinzu
silk, was decorated with
yuzen
-dyed cranes rising up from the hem. Cranes were a symbol of good luck and of long life, often, but not exclusively, appearing on garments worn by brides. The
obi
she’d sent along as its
companion was a black silk brocade woven with red, orange, and yellow octagons.

The second kimono was subtler—a gold-and-cream-patterned
shibori
tie-dyed silk. I closely examined the tiny, puckered, irregular circles forming the shapes of different flowers and leaves; there was very slight variation, which told me the work had been done by hand. The
obi
was red-and-brown-striped silk overlaid with a pattern of gold rondels.

The final kimono she’d sent was a mossy green, about the color of Hugh Glendinning’s eyes. A scene of the moon, stars, and long autumnal grasses was etched in gold and black along the left front hem; the same theme was reprised at the kimono’s shoulders. The coordinating
obi
was black, with a repeating pattern of teahouses woven in gold.

In addition to the kimono and
obi,
Aunt Norie had included brand-new gold-and-black thong slippers, two pairs of
tabi
—white superfine cotton socks with a separation for the big toe—and an underrobe for each kimono, one cotton gauze half-slip and undershirt, small clips, and a dozen assorted sashes and waisttying devices that would give me a properly cylindrical shape. I was familiar with all the underkimono apparatuses from my kimono school course, but there was one final element that surprised me: a bizarre ponytail elastic holder that was completely covered by short wispy lengths of black hair—hair that felt quite real to me as I fingered it. I experimented in front of the mirror and, lo and behold, found that tucking my short lengths of hair into it resulted in the illusion that I had more hair than I did—enough to make a nice low bun at the nape of my neck. It was a great device—I could see using it in my daily life when I wanted to change my look.

I spread out the red kimono on my bed and put the others back into their box. As I did this, my hand touched a card made of
washi
paper and decorated with golden ribbon. It was written in
hiragana,
the phonetic alphabet that I could read.

I smiled for the first time that morning. It was like having my aunt in the room. Between the lines, I could hear her saying:
This evening is important. Even though you may have troubles, you must hide them away. Stand
straight, because you will be watched, and you will be listened to.

I
stayed in the hotel room all day, using the time to harass the front desk every other hour about their fruitless search. Then I began a search of my own, calling airlines to see if anyone named Rei Shimura had traveled to Japan or California. When a few airline employees were suspicious enough to ask why I wanted to know, I answered straightforwardly that my passport and ticket had been stolen. Most of them said they couldn’t help me and that I should call the police. All Nippon Airways did confirm for me that my ticket had not yet been turned in. They’d take custody of it if anyone presented it at a counter.

“Take custody of her, too. Don’t let her get away if you see her,” I said. I hadn’t received any word from Kyoko about whether Hana was on the See America plane or not. I wondered why she hadn’t called; maybe there had been interference in the airspace, making a call impossible. Or if Hana had shown up, there had been no way for Kyoko to call me without being noticed. In any event, I would have to wait for news.

I wanted to discuss these new worries with Hugh, but I figured he was annoyed enough with my behavior the previous evening not to want to speak to me. I doubted I’d see him at the lecture in the evening. I had told him that I wanted to be on my own. Now I was alone, and it didn’t feel good.

I gave myself a full hour to dress in Norie’s kimono. Everything went on carefully, in the prescribed arrangement: first the silk socks, then my own best silk lingerie, covered by a thin, gauzy cotton undershirt and half-slip, followed by a luscious green silk underkimono, which I fastened around my waist with a snug braided cord.
Once that was on, things got more tricky. I slipped into the red kimono and pulled the left side snugly over the right; then I pulled the thirteen-foot-long
obi
sash around my waist and tied it almost, but not completely, tight. The next part was inserting a slightly curved rectangular piece of cotton-covered plastic underneath the front of the
obi
and then pulling the sash totally snug. Japanese women sometimes joked that this technique was like an instant diet, because it constricted the waist so much. I always felt skinny when wearing kimono, though when I looked in the mirror, I could see that I didn’t look that way at all. I could have exchanged my 110-pound body with my aunt Norie’s 130 pounds—and you couldn’t have told the difference if we were in kimono. The robe, and all its trappings, took over a woman’s body—redefined it into something that was no longer sexual but highly decorative.

Kimono could be sexy, I reflected as I folded the
obi
into a smooth, tailored style that Aunt Norie often wore, then checked the result in the full-length mirror. To wear a kimono for seduction meant draping the back of the collar enough to reveal the nape of the neck in an enticing manner and tying the kimono loosely enough to reveal the underrobe, or a bit of the rich lining, when you walked. I knew these intimate ways to wear kimono, but I would never have dreamed of trying any seductive moves at the Museum of Asian Arts.

At the very end, I slipped into the
zori
sandals. They were about a size too small for my feet, but that was correct. It would keep them on tightly and foster the mincing gait that was part of kimono dressing.

At the Metro station, I began the slow ride down the escalator to the platforms, trying to act as if it was completely normal for a woman to be catching a subway at five
P.M
. dressed in a kimono. For the first time since I’d
arrived in America, I was being stared at—by women and men both. As I waited on the platform, a young man sidled up to ask the name of the restaurant where I worked.

Instead of taking offense, I gave a short pitch for my free public talk at the museum on Friday. My train came and I shuffled on, my toes pointing neatly inward, aware that I had already stepped into the footprints of the alien woman I’d be for the evening. I would be gracious and calm. I would present the full glory of the world of kimono and, for a few hours, forget about the nightmare of the missing kimono.

From Dupont Circle, I cut through the side streets over to S Street. It was dusk, so some of the turn-of-the-century town houses had their windows lit, and I could see charming domestic scenes: a woman chopping onions in a cheerful red-and-green-tiled kitchen in one house, a man lying on his sofa reading the newspaper in another. As I proceeded toward the museum, the houses became even grander; many of them were diplomatic residences. These house windows were more likely to be covered with chintz draperies than open for my inspection, but I caught a few glimpses of shimmering chandeliers and handsome furniture and paintings. Washington was an interesting place—so much more aesthetically pleasing than the area around Nation’s Place mall. If only I’d stayed in some little bed-and-breakfast in Dupont Circle, someplace where a sharp-eyed, quick-fingered office lady would never have ventured.

I took a couple of deep breaths as I approached the Museum of Asian Arts. Major Andrews, the guard I’d seen on my first night, opened it with a flourish. I moved through the crowded lobby and up to the grand staircase, which I climbed carefully. Museum employees
were running up and down the stairs around me, carrying things, talking on cell phones. I’d never seen the place as busy as it was tonight.

“Rei! Oh, how wonderful you look!” Allison came swinging out of her office in a calf-length dark blue-and-purple
shibori
tie-dyed silk dress.

“Thanks. You look great in those colors.”

“I don’t feel great,” Allison said. “It’s been a very stressful day. The chef wanted to substitute California roll for grilled eel—can you imagine? If we served California roll, people would think we just ran out to the supermarket for the buffet.”

“Really,” I said. “Actually, I’ve had a stressful day and night, too.”

“Please tell me after it’s all over, dear. I just want to get through our talk in one piece. Now, don’t worry about a thing—your slides are in order, your notes are at the podium. Right now people are having the first drinks and walking through the exhibition, so they’ll be all excited to hear your comments about it. At six, Dick Jemshaw will give the opening remarks, and then I’ll follow with my pitch, and then you’re on for the last half hour. Ciao, darling, I’ve got to finish up a few last details. I’ll look for you near the side of the stage when I’m finishing my remarks.”