The Bride's Kimono (3 page)

“Mr. Shima says for you to return to the conference room. He has retrieved the
uchikake
you were waiting to view,” the library clerk said after I’d been looking at things for about a half hour.

So he’d done it himself, and not waited for Mr. Nishio. That was kind, I thought, hurrying back to the office.

Mr. Shima already had the bridal kimono spread out on the table when I went in. I saw him before he saw me; he was bent over, studying the fabric. I could see tension on his face for the first time that day, and a ripple of nervousness went through me. Maybe the kimono was damaged or fragile. Every single stain, break in a fiber, loose stitch, crease, spot, snag, or tear would be documented—and I’d be responsible to see that there
was not a single bit of extra damage. If the kimono was in bad shape to begin with, it would make the likelihood of my getting to travel with it quite slim.

I coughed slightly so he would know I was there.

“Here you are, Miss Shimura. Interesting—I haven’t looked at this robe for quite a few years.”

I stood next to him and gazed down. Examining the robe in full, I could appreciate the details even more. The ducks were diving, playing, and flying over the water—almost all of them in pairs. Now I remembered the significance of mandarin ducks: they were symbols of marriage. That, paired with the good luck present in the cherry blossoms, made this a very auspicious robe for a woman to wear at a wedding. The condition looked excellent—colors were faded, here and there, but the stitches looked intact, and I didn’t see stains or any other obvious signs of damage.

“It’s very special,” I said. “It gives me a feeling for the romanticism, and the joy the woman marrying the tea merchant must have felt when she wore it.”

“We really can guess nothing of emotion,” Mr. Shima said. “And in my opinion, it’s a fine example, but not nearly as fine as some of the other garments.”

“You know so much about textiles themselves, Shima-san. You could be more than a registrar,
neh?
Perhaps a museum director, someday,” I said, flattering him. It was true that he was more forthcoming, and perhaps even more knowledgeable, about textiles than Mr. Nishio.

“It is kind of you to say, but my training is incomplete in that area,” he answered, but I could see he’d been pleased by my compliment.

“I’m sure you’ve also noticed that an
uchikake
is the one thing that’s missing from the group of kimono I’ll take to America. If I could bring this bridal kimono, it
would perfectly illustrate the life cycle of a family of women in Edo-period Japan.”

Mr. Shima looked at me as if I’d said something shocking. “But the Museum of Asian Arts didn’t request it.”

“They did not understand the connection,” I said. Realizing that I sounded perhaps too proud of my own scholarly abilities, I amended my words quickly. “What I mean to say is, they did not have the opportunity to sit with you, and learn from your scholarship the intricate histories of the garments. You’ve opened a special world to me, and for this, I am truly grateful.” I ended with a little bob of my head as an expression of a formal bow, without seeming too over-the-top.

Mr. Shima was silent for a minute and then sighed. “Well, I suppose I can give permission. After all, they were expecting eight robes, and we cut the total to seven. There is room in the box.”

“Thank you,” I said fervently. “This will be so appreciated by the audience there. It will allow me to give a talk that has some real substance.”

Mr. Shima took a piece of stationery from the table, and on it wrote the
uchikake
’s item number and a few lines of Japanese. I imagined they were a description of the item, because I recognized the
kanji
characters for “Edo period,” “red,” and “duck.” Then he marked the paper with his personal seal and stapled it to the loan slip.

“I hope the museum will appreciate it as much as you. May I tell you something personal, Miss Shimura?” Mr. Shima said.

I nodded, unsure of what was coming.

“I did not believe you had any knowledge of historic textiles when you first approached the museum. But now I’ve seen you have studied, and even more impor
tantly, you have an appreciation for these antique robes. I am pleasantly surprised, but I think things may work out well for everyone concerned.”

I wanted to hug him, but that would have been out of line.

I bowed deeply instead.

T
he last days dwindled as I worked on my research into the Tokugawa and Otani kimono and double-checked the itinerary that Mr. Shima at the Morioka organized for me. I would be flying All Nippon Airways to Washington in a business-class seat, with a second seat next to me reserved for the two boxes of kimono, since the museum did not approve of the climate, or the security, of any jet’s baggage compartment. I’d found the cheap price on two business tickets through a ticket wholesaler who did a lot of business with Richard Randall’s language-school students.

Part of the cheap airfare deal included a choice of a few hotels; I went with the cheapest one, called the Washington Suites. The air-hotel package included a handful of coupons to use at a nearby shopping mall. I decided to budget $500 for shoes and clothing, things I could barely afford to buy in Japan. I made up a shopping list for America: running shoes, black everyday pumps, black evening pumps, strappy sandals. I also longed for a suit that was current. I’d probably have done better if I’d had such a suit when I went to visit the Otani family, whom I’d finally tracked down living in a spacious house in the suburbs of Kawasaki.

“So pleased to meet you,” Koichi Otani, the silver-
haired patriarch of the family, had said, glancing skeptically over me in the favorite
haori
coat I’d chosen again to wear with my basic black dress.

“I’m very glad to meet you,” I said, following him into a pristine all-white living room. I stuck out like a pink-and-red arrow—but an arrow without a real direction, I thought to myself. I sensed he had information that could help me learn about the kimono collection’s history, but I had no idea how to proceed. Blandly, I said, “I was so impressed with the collection that your family once owned.”

“Do you think it’s worth more than we sold it for?” Mr. Otani asked. He was an ex-stockbroker, I’d found out when I’d called after having traced him through the Japanese government’s notoriously accurate family registry. I’d been thrilled with the details of what he’d told me over the phone—that the kimono collection was chiefly made up of garments worn by his great-great-great-grandmother, who had been named Ai, and married into the Otani family in 1850.

“I’m almost certain it is. Is there a record of what the American officer paid your father for the kimono in 1948?” I asked.

“He didn’t pay with money, just rice and charcoal. He gave enough to last one winter.”

I flushed, feeling guilty about the acquisitive nature of Americans abroad. After all, when I shopped at the Tokyo flea markets, I tried to get the best deal for myself. That’s what the officer had done. “I’ve only seen four of the kimono that belonged to Ai. The three that were formally appraised were valued together at a little over twenty million yen.” Two hundred thousand dollars, that was.

“Ah. I believe my father gave a total of fifteen kimono. What a great value he gave away. The house was
pleasantly warm that winter, though, I remember. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?” He smiled, but his eyes remained sad.

Things were going to be difficult. I began, “Um, Mr. Otani, I wanted to say…in looking at the kimono that were worn by your great-great-great-grandmother, a few questions come to mind. They are so lavish and exquisite…especially the ones with longer sleeves, which were worn before Ai-san married. The themes are also very splendid. I don’t know if you’ve seen these kimono?”

“They were always wrapped up in rice paper and stacked in a
tansu
in the family storehouse. I was a small boy. I wasn’t interested.”

“The themes deal with court life. It makes me wonder whether you know anything about what Ai-san did before she got married.”

“What she
did
? Young ladies of the day did not have careers. It’s not like the women’s liberation of today.”

“In those days, some women who worked as—courtesans.” I settled on that word because it was milder than “prostitutes.” “Some women lived in the Yoshiwara Pleasure Quarter, and some were in the court of Tokugawa Shogun.”

“Are you saying—are you saying that my great-great-great-grandfather married a prostitute?” Mr. Otani sank down on a white velour-covered chair, leaving me standing awkwardly in front of him.

“It could be, of course, that Ai-san was just a wealthy girl who preferred kimono with themes that were also popular in the floating world—” I sputtered a bit in my haste to save the situation.

Mr. Otani shook his head. “We’re Osaka people. It’s impossible that my ancestor was in Yoshiwara, or the Shogun’s court.”

“Very well,” I said, realizing the door had been closed. “I’m very excited about the kimono. As I told you on the phone, your family’s kimono were sought out by a top American museum because they are so splendid.”

“Don’t call them my family’s kimono,” Mr. Otani snapped. “They belonged to a Lieutenant Commander Ashburn. He’s the one who made the profit.”

“If it’s any consolation, in the sixties he couldn’t have possibly gotten what they’re worth now,” I said.

“He received more than a winter’s worth of coal, I imagine.”

I couldn’t disagree.

M
r. Otani never came through with more information about Ai, but then, I hadn’t thought he really would. Maybe I’d been crazy to try to find out more about the Otani kimono. The truth was, I had precious little about their history on paper from the Morioka Museum, even after I’d pored over the translated documents I’d been given. I might be able to do a little research in Washington, at the Textile Museum or the Smithsonian Institutions. At the moment my most serious task was getting all the kimono out of Japan without losing my cool.

The morning of my departure, I went to the Morioka Museum to pick up the two five-foot-long acid-free cardboard boxes packed with kimono. Mr. Shima had already gone away on his vacation, so Mr. Nishio was the one who opened the boxes with me for the final condition analysis and count. Watching alongside us was a man called Mr. Morita in a plain gray suit. He was the customs broker, a representative of Nippon Shipping, who would escort me all the way from the museum to
Narita Airport, where he would present the proper papers to the customs officials and watch me until I boarded the plane.

“At the museum, you must check the number of kimono again. Don’t forget!” Mr. Nishio added the last as an order in an impolite verb form—something he must have been sure I’d be offended by.

“I won’t. I feel very fortunate for this opportunity,” I said, although I knew quite well that he had nothing to do with the decision for me to leave.

“You have a very serious responsibility. I see that Shima-san has substituted a wedding kimono for the other one originally on the loan receipt. I’m a little concerned about it,” Mr. Nishio added, mainly addressing Mr. Morita, the customs broker. Mr. Morita shook his head, muttered something under his breath, and looked unhappy.

If only I could read the Japanese paper that Mr. Shima had given me. I was beginning to get the idea that Mr. Nishio wanted to screw up my trip in any way possible. I stuck to my guns and said, “I’ve got Mr. Shima’s seal on a document approving the loan. Please don’t worry. I’ll treat this kimono with the same care as the others.”

Mr. Nishio didn’t wish me bon voyage, so I didn’t say much more to him when I left. Because the customs broker was involved, we went by a private limousine. This was an uncommonly luxurious—though not necessarily speedy—way of leaving Tokyo. As we rode along, Mr. Morita snored. I wondered whether it was Mr. Nishio’s idea that I be so closely supervised by the customs broker. I supposed I should feel glad to have an extra person to help me get two five-foot-long boxes to the airport, but Mr. Morita hadn’t been particularly helpful getting the luggage into the car. The taxi driver loaded my luggage in the car’s trunk while I had to fit the two
giant boxes, and myself, in the backseat. The customs broker sat up front and, once the car was on the move, shut his eyes and went to sleep, as if he were a salaryman on the Tokyo subway.

After an hour, the car had made it out of the city and into the Japanese farmland that surrounded Narita. Mid-autumn in Japan meant that dark orange persimmons were bobbing from trees, and the air smelled deliciously of roasted sweet potatoes and chestnuts. It was hard to leave this world, even for a week. In Japan, one felt the seasons so strongly; persimmons were celebrated as gladly as cherry blossoms. In America, seasonal decorations meant Christmas lights going up sometime around Halloween.

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.