The Bride's Kimono (14 page)

I went downstairs and saw that in the few minutes we’d talked, a great number of people had arrived. About half the American guests were in smart business attire; the rest were fashion mavens wearing the Issey Miyake and Rei Kawakubo style of excessively baggy clothing, as well as artsy types in vintage Japanese
haori
coats and indigo cotton vests. The Japanese-embassy guests had their own distinct look: the men were in dark suits, the ladies almost all in very fine kimono, but none in red like me. My stomach tightened under the rigid
plastic board that helped my
obi
keep its shape. Should I have worn the softer gold or green? Would they think I was
iroppoi
—too bold and colorful? Would they sense immediately that I was twenty-eight and should have found a husband, and a quieter kimono style, three years ago?

I wandered into the gallery where the kimono were on display. As I began making my way through to check that all the labels were right, Jamie came up to say hello. She was wearing a long-sleeved black lace shirt with slim black trousers and black patent-leather pumps that made her look even taller, and thinner, than she was.

“What do you think?” Jamie asked, sweeping her hand toward the kimono in the gallery.

“It looks beautiful,” I said. “When did they go up?”

“Well, I was done with vacuuming them by four-thirty, but hanging the kimono and checking the labels took a while—I think Allison and I worked till eleven. Major Andrews was bummed out having to wait so long for us to leave, and I was worried I wouldn’t make it to the Metro before it shut down for the night. Fortunately, I got in.”

“Sounds like a rough night.”

“Yes, you should be glad you chose a freelance career instead of a museum job. You could set your hours the way you like—and make good money.” There was a slight bitterness to Jamie’s voice, and I could imagine what she was earning as a young museum professional.

“Actually, Jamie, I’m not rolling in money. I cleared fifteen thousand during my first year. I still have trouble knowing that I’ll make my rent—it’s a very difficult business.” I was thinking about telling her how I was now responsible for the loss of the uninsured bride’s kimono, but I held off. I couldn’t say anything before I spoke to Allison—it wouldn’t be correct.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude about your job. It’s just that—sometimes it’s so hard here.” Her back was to me, and she was hugging herself.

I walked around to face her, and I saw that she appeared to be on the verge of tears.

“What’s going on?”

“Oh, just personal stuff. Once we get through tonight, it should be better.” Jamie sniffled and looked at her watch. “The presentation’s started. Shouldn’t you be in there already?”

“I suppose so,” I said, a brief stab of stage fright gripping my stomach. “By the way, I want to thank you for that tip about Dunstan Lanning’s book.”

“Oh, did you get something useful for the lecture?”

“I’d say so. I want to talk to you about it later.”

T
here had to be four hundred people downstairs now—I could barely make my way into the gallery, where folding chairs made of gilded bamboo had been placed. Dick Jemshaw was making his opening remarks. He delivered something that sounded as if it had been canned ten years ago, speaking of his happiness to be opening an exhibition that would bring together two great democracies, and how, through appreciation of past traditions, we would all build toward a secure future. Dick thanked Ambassador Miura for being present, and the ambassador himself, flanked by two guards, came forward to acknowledge the applause and accept a certificate framed in kimono silk. Dick closed by citing Honda Motors for its generous sponsorship of the exhibition.

Allison ascended the speaking platform and thanked the museum’s associates, donors, and friends. Then she began her comments by saying how unfortunate it was
that Western society did not understand until recently that objects worn or used in daily life could also be works of art. In Japan, she pointed out, there was never a difference in status between a kimono artisan or a painter—both were celebrated. The Japanese understood from the advent of their civilization that artistic and useful items could be one and the same. The kimono was one of the world’s greatest art forms, and the Edo-period robes on exhibit in the galleries were a tribute to a lost age in which beauty and idealism reigned supreme.

Even though Allison wasn’t saying anything particularly compelling, she was a good public speaker. Her voice carried beautifully, and she smiled and made eye contact, using her hands gracefully to make emphatic points. I could see that a lot of people in the audience approved. When she moved on to introduce me, her voice kept the same caressing tone.

“Rei Shimura has come to us from Japan, where she is chief executive officer of her own firm devoted to the restoration and sale of Japanese antiques. In addition to searching out antiques for private clients, she has sold important Japanese decorative art pieces to some major Japanese museums and temples. She’s also published articles in the journals
Daruma
,
Arts of Asia
, and
Guide to Ceramics
.

“We asked Rei to share with you a few of the most notable treasures from the kimono collection at Tokyo’s esteemed Morioka Museum. Tonight, Rei will talk about Edo-period kimono designs for women. Please join me in welcoming our lovely, honored guest.”

I moved forward to the podium, thinking I had not been so nervous in a long time. Allison shook my hand, beamed for the cameras that were clicking, and then walked off the stage. I adjusted the microphone down
to my height just as Hugh Glendinning stepped into the room’s doorway.

I hadn’t wanted him to come, but he was there. He smiled at me rather tentatively. I gave him the tiniest nod and felt a strength pass between us. No matter how crazy the last few days had been, I was in charge of my talk.

It would go well.

It had to.

“G
ood evening to everyone, especially His Excellency Ambassador Miura and Madame Miura. Just like the languages I’ll speak tonight, the kimono is of two worlds. It was born as a simple garment worn by farmers, but graduated into a garment worn by the upper class. Today it is a garment so expensive and special that it is usually worn only on special occasions.”

I glanced around the room and saw significant numbers of people chatting to each other. If I didn’t catch their attention now, they might very well wander out of the room.

I touched what I was wearing and said, “I selected this kimono to wear for you tonight because I want to communicate the fact that the kimono is more than just a historical outfit—it’s a living symbol of social identity.” I smiled at Allison, but she looked back rather cagily—what I was saying hadn’t been in the script. “So, I’m curious about your skills of detection. Can anyone here guess what the style of kimono I’m wearing says about me?”

For a few painful seconds there was no reaction. Finally a Japanese woman raised her hand. She was wearing a dark green kimono and wore her salt-and-pepper hair in a smooth bun. Her eyes were sharp, and had a sparkle that made me feel I was in for something.

“Shimura-san, I would be honored to make an analysis,” the Japanese woman said in English. “But please turn yourself around. I noticed something strange earlier and would like to see it.”

The crowd stirred—this was interesting to them, but suddenly I was struck with paranoia. What was wrong? Had I sat on a wad of chewed gum? But slowly I turned, hoping for the best.

“Yes, it is a most interesting situation. Miss Shimura’s kimono is red, a happy color that young ladies wear mostly for special occasions. The scene of cranes hand-painted on the robe’s hem is a classic motif, though the style of painting is a bit—what is the word, nostalgic?”

“The robe belongs to my aunt! It’s actually thirty years old!” I stage-whispered in Japanese and then English. This brought a tiny ripple of laughter.

“Now, the situation that is confusing is the
obi,
” the woman from the Japanese embassy went on. “The
obi
is a sharply contrasting pattern to the kimono, which was more common in the old days than the new, which makes sense if the kimono belongs to Miss Shimura’s aunt. But what seems strange is the
obi
knot. Why has a young unmarried lady not worn her
obi
tied in a fancy bow? Miss Shimura has chosen the sober
obi
style of a wife. It is not possible to be married and single at once—at least not in Japan.”

Now the crowd was roaring. I laughed, too, but inside I was cringing. The simple truth was that I knew that while single women were certainly entitled to wear the simple bow, it wasn’t what people expected. In the interest of making a bow without any possibility of its falling apart, I’d decided to copy something I’d seen Aunt Norie do.

“You caught me,” I said, smiling as best I could. “You figured out that I am an unmarried girl who
yearns to be otherwise.” As the crowd laughed again, I stole a quick glance in Hugh’s direction, but he was no longer in the doorway. Either he’d left because he was embarrassed for me, or he’d found a seat. I couldn’t worry about it. I continued, “This painful dissection of my sartorial style brings me to the topic of Edo-period kimono. I’ve brought a collection of
kosode
—the robes that are ancestors to the modern kimono—from one of Tokyo’s greatest museums. This is a collection that has never been seen outside of the Morioka Museum, and what’s special about it is that the pieces belong together—they tell a story of two women, who shared good taste as well as a passion for the same man. One would get him; one wouldn’t. But who would be the victor when it came to style?”

I clicked the remote control for the slide projector and showed the first slide: the red
furisode
decorated with palace curtains, clouds, and fans. The crowd had quieted down; I could see they were interested. Even Allison Powell was smiling.

“Images of the Floating World; palace curtains that close lovers off from those who pry; clouds, to carry bodies to the point of ecstasy; fans, to hide coyly behind, or to relieve the overheated.” I knew I was dramatic, but this audience, most of whom had already enjoyed a few glasses of wine, seemed receptive. “This kimono most likely belonged to Ai, a lovely and highly intellectual woman living in the pleasure quarter of Tokyo between 1820 and 1827. Ai’s chief patron was Ryohei Tokugawa, a cousin of the Shogun. Ryohei paid for Ai’s fine clothing collection, almost all of which she was intensely involved in helping design—although, of course, the weaving, embroidery, appliqué, and sewing were carried out by professional craftsmen. In this kimono, the patterns on the fans were executed by
shi
bori,
a painstaking tie-dyeing technique. After that, she commissioned a renowned painter to
yuzen
-dye the curtains and fans on this kimono and asked three court nobles, including her lover, to inscribe original poetry in calligraphy on sections of the robe. The results were breathtaking enough to have framed as a hanging scroll, but Ai had no intention of doing anything so wasteful. She had the cloth made into a
kosode
for herself.”

I smiled at the audience. “You see, a woman’s worth was judged by her clothing. A smart, high-class woman couldn’t read
kanji;
she couldn’t be an artist or hold any kind of job. But she could commission beautiful clothing—paid for by her
shujin,
the word that means both husband and master. In the Edo period, wealthy wives and mistresses sponsored a renaissance in extravagant clothing design.”

I went on for fifteen more minutes, talking about each kimono from the Morioka and the theories behind the design preferences of both the Tokugawa wife and Ai. I tried to pay equal attention to both women, but as I began the question-and-answer portion, people seemed fascinated by the idea of Ai. As I was retelling Dunstan Lanning’s account of how Mrs. Tokugawa had forced her husband to give up Miss Love, I heard a loud voice in the rear of the room. Someone was interrupting before I was finished. I stopped talking and realized that it was a Scottish voice: clear, loud, and frantic.

Hugh Glendinning was speaking to someone at the door. I couldn’t catch all of what he said, except for the last two sentences: “Where’s the guard for the kimono gallery? We need someone there now!”

I
wanted to drop my microphone and race to the gallery when I heard the urgency in Hugh’s voice. I was
wearing kimono and
zori,
though, which made that kind of physical impulsiveness ridiculous. Furthermore, since I was the speaker, I was in danger of inciting pandemonium.

So, into the microphone, I said, “I’d like to forward the request we’ve overheard for added security patrol to the kimono galleries. After they’ve gotten to their posts, you’ll have plenty of time to get in there, too, and look at the kimono. Please take the time to visit the reception line in the foyer with Ambassador Miura, and don’t miss the glorious food in Pan Asia. I’d suggest that you move to these places slowly, since there are so many of us here. Thank you again for your enthusiasm.”

I stepped down, hearing the applause but concentrating on what was going on outside the room. The kimono gallery was across the foyer and up a few stairs. I could barely keep to my aunt’s prescribed kimono waddle; it wasn’t doing me any good against the dozens of people crowding the way.

There were two guards at the entrance when I reached it, and a quick glance revealed that all the Morioka kimono were hanging in place. Hugh was in the back corner, speaking rapidly to Allison. I started toward them, then stopped, remembering that I was supposed to barely know Hugh. I took a deep breath. The Morioka kimono were safe. My speech was over. I’d wait to hear what happened.

I went back into the foyer, and a waiter said, “Are you Miss Shimura?”

I nodded.

He pressed a glass into my hand. “Someone wanted me to give you this.”

I thanked him and took the glass of champagne, with its base wrapped in a paper napkin. The napkin had been scrawled on in large, looping handwriting I recog
nized as Hugh’s. I unfolded it to read:
I’ll meet you on the Spanish Steps and explain.

The Spanish Steps were a charming, thoroughly impractical flagstone stairway two blocks north of the museum. They started up high on S Street and ended low on Decatur Place. I’d seen them from the second-floor window in Allison and Jamie’s office.

Hugh hadn’t given me a time, so I kept an eye on him throughout the evening, feeling somewhat relieved that we had a plan. It turned out that the talk had gone better than I’d thought. At least a dozen people pressed business cards on me, hoping to meet later for consultations. I’d forgotten how forthcoming Americans were—I glowed in their friendly enthusiasm. The embassy crowd was nice, too. After I’d finished my glass of champagne and chatted with a few more guests, I saw Allison trying to catch my eye. I made my excuses and went to her.

“You were charming,” Allison said. “I wasn’t sure what you were doing at the beginning, but it worked out fine, though I wish you hadn’t said anything about the kimono gallery at the end of your talk—”

“But I was worried! What happened there?”

“One of our guests sounded a false alarm. He thought a guest was moving too close to the kimono. This kind of thing happens all the time; it’s really nothing to get in a tizzy about. Anyway, by the time the guard arrived, the troublesome guest had gone away.”

“Why wasn’t a guard in the gallery in the first place?”

“We told them they could go one by one to use the rest room or take whatever break was needed while everyone was listening to the lecture. Later on it would be too busy for that. I’d arranged to have Jamie in there while they left, but obviously, she must have had to step out for some reason.”

“Don’t you think your insurance company would want to have guards in the gallery at all times?”

“Relax,” Allison said sharply. “There’s no reason to worry about insurance that you’re not even paying for.”

I put my glass down on a Korean chest that I probably shouldn’t have touched—or so I guessed from the way Allison’s eyes lingered on my hand. I picked up the glass again and said in a tight voice, “There is reason to worry. You’ve got to have security in there at all times. Do you remember the bridal kimono you didn’t want to keep in the museum? The one you said I had to take responsibility for? Well, it was stolen from my room.”

“Oh,” Allison said, her face seeming to pale. “Oh—”

“Yes, it’s awful, isn’t it?”

“It’s—appalling news. But tell me, why did you risk leaving the kimono in your hotel room? I told you to find a safe location!”

“The only safe location I had access to was a hotel safety-deposit box, and the kimono was too big. I was going to ask you for an alternate suggestion, but the kimono never survived the night.”

“There’s no need to point fingers,” Allison said coolly. “I empathize with you, and I’m sorry. Sorry that I didn’t explain more to you about the minimum standards of care one employs when carrying museum pieces. I just didn’t know. Sometimes you seem sharp, but other times, a little inexperienced.”

I felt myself start to choke up. No, I wouldn’t let myself lose control in the gallery the way Jamie had been on the verge of doing.

“I’m going out for a little while,” I said, turning away.

“But we need you in the receiving line!”

I shook my head. “You asked me to deliver a lecture. I did that already. What I do now is up to me—just as the security of the kimono collection is up to you.”

I clip-clopped quickly in my sandals up S Street to the top of the Spanish Steps. I looked down the charming, irregular staircase, and under the glow of a dim streetlight, I saw Hugh waiting. His body was shrouded by shadows and his head was turned away, as if he were studying the row of beautiful houses on Decatur Place.

“Hugh, I’m here!” I whispered loudly as I started down the steps. He raised a hand in greeting, and I hurried a bit faster.

In the canon of Japanese ghost stories, there are plenty of accounts of demonic spirits who manifest themselves in beautiful human forms and seduce, but later destroy, the innocent or silly person who falls under their spell. I’d felt a surge of goodwill when I saw Hugh earlier in the evening, but now, as I took tiny steps down the steep flight, I felt some trepidation. Maybe it was because of the fog, and the way the steps reminded me of those that were shown in an advertisement for
The Exorcist,
the 1970s horror movie that had recently been rereleased.

“Rei?” I heard Hugh’s voice coming from the wrong direction. What was going on? I stopped my descent down the steps for a second.

“Wait for me,” came Hugh’s voice again. It really was like a ghost story; his voice and quick footsteps seemed to be behind me. I turned around and saw Hugh. I whipped my body back in the other direction to gaze down the length of the steps. The person who’d been waiting for me had taken off. He ran a short distance down the street, and at the same time a truck that had been parked with its lights off suddenly started. There was a slam of a door, and the truck lurched off in the darkness.