The Bride's Kimono (5 page)

“That’s still cool. Do you work for a store or a private company?” Hana asked, settling back down into her seat.

“I’m self-employed.”

Hana moaned in a theatrical way. “You don’t have a boss, you don’t live with your parents, and nobody’s making you get married. You’re lucky to have such a life.”

“Well, I’m not being supported by anyone, so I have to take whatever work comes my way,” I said. “Also, this kind of profession doesn’t look good to the authorities. It’s very hard for me to get any kind of bank loans.”

“Nevertheless, I’d trade my life for yours anytime,” Hana said, and I realized now that the reason she’d been sounding so dramatic was that she was drunk. There were two empty mini-bottles on her tray.

I wasn’t going to get any more work done right now, but I was betting that I would be able to finish up later, after Hana had fallen into a wine-induced slumber. “So,” I asked, smiling at her, “if you were your own boss, what would you do?”

“I’d have my own karaoke box,” she said. “You know, those little booths that you rent out to people who want to sing with friends.”

“What a fun idea,” I said, unable to hide a shudder. I
couldn’t carry a tune, so I was perpetually trying to avoid the chance to sing in front of friends or colleagues in Tokyo’s many karaoke bars and karaoke boxes. “So, what does Yoshi think about you working after marriage?”

Hana bit her lip, smearing purplish lipstick over her teeth. “Um, we haven’t discussed it beyond what date I should quit. Three weeks before the wedding, I said. After that, I’ll stay home. I’m sure that’s what he wants.”

Despite Hana’s talk about wanting to be a self-employed karaoke entrepreneur, I was getting the feeling that she wasn’t very serious about it. She was a party girl, pure and simple. I said, “Well, you’d be surprised what men might think. You should talk about it with him. I guess you’ll have more time for that after marriage.”

“He’s not much of a talker,” Hana said. “Can you give me some advice? What should I say to the men in America if I want to meet them for a short experience?”

“I don’t know. I think they’ll be surprised. Usually, if American women want to have a fling before they get married, they go to see men dance or they go have some nice beauty treatments with their girlfriends at a spa—”

“I like beauty treatments, too. What’s that cool brown lipstick you’re wearing?”

“Actually, it’s an American brand called MAC,” I said, surprised there was something about my own simple makeup style that would appeal to Hana. “I’m sure you can find it at the mall. I’m going to stock up, too.”

“Thanks for the tip. Hey, do you want to go to the spa at the mall and have a makeover with me?”

“My work schedule is extremely demanding. Why don’t you go with your girlfriend?”

“We had a little argument earlier today. Actually, that’s the reason she was willing to change seats with
you. Even though Kyoko and I both work as office ladies at the same place, I don’t think we’ll be socializing much on this tour.”

Hana sounded so downcast that I took pity on her. I said, “I’m sure we can get over there for a little time together. I need to buy some shoes.”

“Shoes! Me, too. What do you think about Nordstrom versus Saks?”

The flight attendants called for everyone to put down their shades, but it was still hard for me to sleep. Hana didn’t have a problem, though. She snored delicately, her small chest rising and falling with every breath. She really was a pretty young woman, though I didn’t like the fact that she’d dyed her hair.

I closed my eyes, and my worries about Hana turned into worries about the kimono lectures. I thought more about the information gap—that I’d have to explain why I was showing such splendid kimono worn by a tea merchant’s wife during a time that the Shogun didn’t allow commoners to dress better than aristocrats did. I drifted off, laying my head against the boxes strapped in the window seat. This way, if anyone tried to take them, I’d feel it.

When I awoke, the flight attendants were serving dinner. I finally had a little wine with my meal, seeing how well it had made Hana sleep. We chatted a little more during supper, and then we both must have gone to sleep. The next thing I knew I was feeling a series of hard bumps. We’d touched down at Dulles Airport in Virginia. I was back on home ground.

J
ust as at Narita Airport, the ritual at Dulles Airport’s customs went off without a hitch. As I entered the area, I saw all the different customs booths ahead of me, but next to one stood a thin woman holding a sign that read
REI SHIMURA
. She had to be the customs broker waiting for me. I got into the line heading her way, and when I reached the agent, I handed over my passport and the papers and identified myself to her in a low voice. She nodded at me and pulled out her own set of papers for the customs official. Everything was in order, so he waved us on. I reset my watch two hours back; it was two o’clock in the afternoon, and still Monday, since I’d traveled back across the international date line.

I exited customs and followed the red, white, and blue flag to where See America Travel had assembled, with the female customs broker in my wake.

“Where are you going?” asked the woman.

“I heard there’s a free shuttle to the hotel, provided by See America Travel.” I could see the tour group leader, a middle-aged lady holding the tour’s official flag, surrounded by a growing number of office-lady travelers.

“Are you a first-time courier?”

I nodded, feeling a flush of embarrassment.

“That must be why you don’t know about the transport. I’m Joan Forster of Fine Arts International.” She reached into a Coach handbag and took out a business card, as well as a driver’s license, as well as an employee ID with photograph.

“Okay, Miss Forster, I see you’re who you say you are,” I said, examining the ID pieces as best I could from behind the two boxes I was carrying.

“Joan, please. You’re back in America, remember?” She cracked a smile that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Now, Allison at the Museum of Asian Arts should have explained that you are to proceed directly to the museum to have the packages checked in. I know you must be tired, and we have about an hour of travel ahead of us. But the legal agreement stipulates we must bring the boxes immediately to the museum, where Allison is waiting. After that, I’ll say good-bye to you and have the limo take you to your hotel.”

“I see,” I said, understanding the logic of what she was saying but still feeling a bit nervous about going into a private car. “Do you mind…if I just stop at a phone booth to call Allison first?”

“Of course. If you like, you can use my cell phone,” Joan Forster said dryly.

The truth was, I didn’t have any American coins yet. I took the Nokia she handed me and dialed the museum’s main number, followed by Allison’s extension. I recognized her voice when she picked up on the second ring.

“It’s Rei Shimura. I’m here at Dulles and was met by Joan Forster. I’m calling to check that you want me to travel in a limousine Joan brought. I wasn’t expecting such—generosity,” I said quickly, trying to make it seem as if I wasn’t so distrustful of Joan. But I had to know.

“Yes, it’s all part of the package deal. It went smoothly at customs, then? You didn’t have to open anything?”

“No. Will we be doing all the examination of the textiles this afternoon?”

“No, we’ll do the examination tomorrow morning. That is, if you’re not too tired.”

I assured her that I wasn’t, and I hung up and handed the phone back to Joan.

“You’re doing a good job to be so cautious,” she said. “Come on, our guy’s waiting at the curb.”

The car was an unmarked black Toyota Camry; I had the back with the boxes, while Joan sat up front with the driver, a man in a dull brown suit. When the vehicle started up, I forgot about them and stared out the window. My first view of America in two years, and it was of a part of the country I hadn’t seen for six years. We were on a toll road that was relatively empty in the direction we were moving in—though the other side was packed with an unmoving line of cars. On either side of the freeway there was an imposing array of shiny sterile buildings. So this was the new suburban landscape. I was glad we were going to get out of it fast and into the city.

We hit some traffic as we entered Washington, D.C., so it was an hour and a half until we reached Kalorama, the elegant Northwest neighborhood of diplomatic residences and homes of the rich where the Museum of Asian Arts was located, along with a number of other small museums like the Textile Museum, the Woodrow Wilson House, and the Phillips Gallery. I didn’t look too closely, because my tired eyelids kept closing. The car pulled into a circular driveway outside a large brick town house and stopped.

“Here we are,” Joan said, and she sprang out and opened the door for me. “You can carry the boxes in,
and I’ll carry in your personal luggage if you don’t feel comfortable having it stay with the driver for the time that we’ll be inside.”

“Just my backpack,” I said, taking my first real footsteps on Washington soil. Pebbles, to be exact—the driveway in front of the museum had been paved with the kind of river stones that were popular in Japan.

Joan walked straight into the lobby, and I followed her, carrying the boxes. I recognized immediately the hall laid with black-and-white tiles: this was the museum I’d visited so enjoyably when I was in college.

“Joan Forster, Fine Arts International—” Joan again whipped out her identification pieces for a guard standing in the lobby.

“Of course. I’m Major Andrews. And this is the courier we’ve been expecting?” The guard, an older Caucasian man with silver hair and a trim frame, smiled at both of us. “Come into the lobby and have a seat while I call Allison.”

I barely had time to sit down on a bench upholstered in Indian sari silk before a tall woman came rapidly down the staircase.

“Joan, thanks for another job well done. And Rei! You look utterly exhausted. I promise to keep you only half a minute.”

I looked into the beaming face of a woman in her fifties with blond hair held back with a velvet head-band. Allison Powell was a lot the way I expected, though she was a touch heavy for someone who sounded like one of my mother’s tennis league friends. It didn’t matter. She carried the weight well, dressed in a stylish black tunic and matching slacks.

“Here’s all the paperwork. We’ll take the courier back to her hotel.” Joan handed Allison a sheaf of documents.

“Very good. Where are you staying?” Allison turned her smile on me.

“It’s called the Washington Suites.”

“Washington Suites? I’ve never heard of that one. Most of our visitors stay at the Sofitel, just a few blocks away.”

“We know the Washington Suites,” Joan said. “It’s a budget place close to Dulles.”

“But Dulles Airport is in Northern Virginia!” I said.

“Yes, that’s where the hotel is located. Haley Heights, Virginia.”

No wonder the price was so cheap. I cursed Richard for his savvy travel tip; he’d been more interested in having me close to a shopping mall than to the place where I’d be working.

“Never mind, you’ll find your way in to us,” Allison said. “Now, let me sign these papers for you, Rei, and be sure to keep them with your valuables. I’ll see you tomorrow around ten. Again, I’m glad you’re here, and I offer you congratulations on a courier job well done.”

I was handed back the papers, and next thing I knew, Joan was waving good-bye to me and I was in the limousine heading out of the city. I closed my eyes, finally able to relax. The boxes had been delivered. Now I could really sleep.

The limousine stopped almost two hours later at the Washington Suites, time that had passed with excruciating slowness because of the long lines of unmoving traffic around us. I was so relieved when I reached the hotel that I was almost ready to overlook the fact that it looked like a cheaper version of a Days Inn. The parking lot full of tourist buses and minivans with out-of-state plates furthered my impression I was not in a place where I’d be pampered. At least the Japanese of
fice ladies would be there to add a bit of class to the place.

I thanked the driver for the ride and lugged my backpack and suitcase into the lobby, which was deserted. Apparently all the See America Travel tourists had checked in. A key card to Room 410, as well as a lengthy, unintelligible note in Japanese from Mrs. Chiyoda, proprietor of See America Travel, were waiting for me at the front desk.

I got myself into the elevator and up to a room that seemed palatial to me. Two double-sized beds and a bathroom with a walk-in shower and a tub—that definitely made up for the hotel’s disappointing exterior. I hadn’t seen such luxury for a while. I crawled into bed, trying not to notice the ugly faux-pastoral painting over it or the scratchy polyester-blend sheets. These were minor in comparison to the plumbing and the space.

I shut out the light, aware that in the hallway, some sort of a party was in progress. It was somebody screaming the word
Chippenderu! Chippenderu!

I stuck my head out into the hall. “Um, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to sleep.”

Hana, the girl who’d sat next to me on the plane, was pouring champagne for a small circle of women. She looked over at me and grinned. “Sorry to bother you, Rei-san. We’ll go into our room now. We got excited because there is a paper in our room promising every guest a chance to reproduce with
Chippenderu
dancers!”

“What?” I went back into my room and grabbed the vinyl-coated guest information folio. I flipped through it, and pretty soon I saw what Hana had misread.

“They’re talking about the furniture style, Hana.”

“Heh?”

“The chairs. The brochure here says every guest room
has reproduction Chippendale furnishings. They don’t mean dancers. Here, let me show you.” I waved Hana and her friend into my doorway and pointed to the mahogany-stained console table, desk, and chair. All had the signature curvy Chippendale styling, though they looked as if they’d been slapped together quickly in North Carolina last year instead of in England 250 years ago.

“Baka, ne!”
Hana groaned. In Japanese, that was the way a woman said “damn.” Then she and her friends laughed even more loudly than before.

My body told me I’d been sleeping for only a few hours, but the clock radio set to an alternative rock station went off at six
A.M
. I got up and did a few prerunning stretches to Cibo Matto’s upbeat song “Working for Vacation,” before remembering that I hadn’t brought my Asics. One of the missions of the trip was to buy new running shoes at a good price to take back to Japan.

Instead of pushing my body, I rewarded it with a long, hot shower. During my years in Japan, I’d grown weary of the handheld shower attachment in my bathroom, so the hotel shower’s stationary head was a special treat. I washed my hair using a tiny sample of a eucalyptus-scented shampoo and conditioner that seemed so much more exotic than my flowery-smelling Kanebo brand. After toweling off, I continued my grooming frenzy by actually blow-drying my hair, putting on eye makeup, and using the hotel’s tiny iron and board to iron the microscopic wrinkles out of my slacks. There was even a tiny coffeemaker that I used to brew a cup of Folger’s.

My grooming and coffee drinking had been fun, but
it was eight o’clock by the time I left the room. In the sun-filled lobby, Mrs. Chiyoda of See America Tours was up and talking with the concierge, a young woman with a brown cardboard coffee cup in her hand. The cup read
STARBUCKS
, which seemed a fanciful, almost Japanese-designed name; I liked it. But she had an anxious expression on her face, and as I got closer, I understood she was having a difficult conversation with Mrs. Chiyoda. “You
know
we can only provide two bus runs an hour,” the concierge was saying to Mrs. Chiyoda. With her free hand, she held up two fingers, as if she thought Mrs. Chiyoda didn’t understand English. “Two buses. It cannot change.”

“Excuse me for interrupting, but I have a quick question about transportation—” “There are two bus runs an hour,” the concierge repeated.

“No, I’m not interested in the mall,” I said. “I have to go into D.C. Can you call a taxi for me?”

“You want to take a taxi into the District during rush hour?” The concierge shook her head. “That’ll be almost a two-hour trip, depending on where you’re going. Washington Flyer is the only cab company in this area, and they charge over forty-five dollars for a trip to the District. One-way and that’s without the meter ticking up extra costs for waiting in traffic.”

At that rate, I’d go through my budget in six days and save nothing. “Can you suggest any other way for me to reach the Kalorama area?”

“Why don’t you take the Metro? It’s about thirty-five minutes from West Falls Church Station to Dupont Circle. You’re going to have to change at Metro Center, but that’s easy. After that, depending on where you’re going in Kalorama, it’s about a fifteen-minute walk.”

“Public transportation is not safe,” Mrs. Chiyoda muttered in Japanese to me. “And don’t go walking in
the city. You could be mugged. I wrote that to you in the note I left with your key, since you missed our tour orientation in the lobby yesterday afternoon.”

“Sorry about that,” I said, thinking happily about the subway. How had I forgotten Washington had the Metro system? I’d used it a few times to get around when I was visiting the city with college friends. This would be perfect for my budget.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman emerge from the hotel’s restaurant and amble toward us. It was Hana, dressed in a pair of black leather jeans and a T-shirt that could only have been made in Asia. The English lettering across Hana’s chest read:
PRETTY LITTLE BUMBLE
.
SINCE
1987. There was an appliqué design of a bee pollinating a flower. Although
hana
meant “flower” in Japanese, it was easier to picture her as the bee, given what she had told me about her romantic aspirations while in the United States. Hana had a black quilted coat slung over her arm, and atop her head was a red cowboy hat that matched the color of the tiny Kate Spade canvas handbag swinging from her hand.

“What about our makeovers? Shall we do it this morning?” Hana called out.

“I wish I could, but I have business in the city.” I smiled at her, unable to resist her sweet enthusiasm, then turned to the concierge again with my dreary question. “How can I get to the Metro station?”