The Typhoon Lover (16 page)

My aunt had no idea of what scandal was, I thought as we got off the train, located Tom looking grim in a black suit, and took a taxi driven by a white-gloved septugenarian to the Haradas’ house in Setagaya. As we rode along, Norie talked about the old Shimura family compound about a mile away, the house my grandparents had to give up after the war to American troops, and then never were able to afford to regain. Houses in the calm residential neighborhood filled with tall ginkgo trees were very expensive now—too expensive even for someone like Tom, a successful physician, to buy.

“Who lives here, then?” I asked, and to my surprise our gray-haired driver answered.

“Rich people! Television producers, senior government officials, actors. Do you know the actor in the Samurai Soap commercial? Yes? He lives the next street over. I have driven him once or twice.”

Aunt Norie, Tom, and I all exchanged a quick, amused glance, and the man kept up a pleasant patter until we came to a long white wall with a paper lantern outside marked with the
kanji
character for mourning.

“Oh, a funeral. I’m very sorry,” the driver said somberly.

“It’s actually a memorial service. And thank you,” Norie said, fumbling in her purse her reading glasses.

“Eight hundred yen only. And please tell me, when I shall return?”

“I’m not sure,” my aunt said. “I thought we would just telephone for taxi service in a while—”

“Very few available this evening. And you won’t want to inconvenience the mourning family by asking to use their telephone. Remember, not all the telephone lines are restored in this area.”

My hackles went up immediately; it didn’t make sense that this man wanted to take us back. But Norie exclaimed that it would be very kind if he came for us in an hour’s time.

After we’d gotten out and Tom had buzzed the entry button next to the gate, I whispered to my aunt that I thought we should use Tom’s cell phone to call for another taxi to pick us up.

“But why, Rei-chan? It makes sense to have a car waiting, especially in the evening hours. And that nice driver-san will be coming back. If we don’t come out for him, he’ll ring the bell and that will create a lot of trouble, you know, call attention to us.”

“It’s odd. I think he’s too interested in us. You never know who he might be,” I said as the gate swung open silently for us. A long walkway stretched ahead, with a few other black-clad mourners entering through a huge carved door that looked as if it had come from an Indian temple. It was unusual for a Japanese house, but then, so was the house itself—a newly built two-story cream stucco building with stained-glass windows. It looked like a cross between a church and a mosque, I thought, surveying the domed ceiling. No doubt the Haradas had chosen to re-create, in Japan, some of the things they’d admired most during their years abroad.

Inside, the memorial service was different too, chiefly because half the guests appeared to be twenty and under. Young women clutched each other and cried, too young to hide their emotions behind handkerchiefs. It seemed like a group, and I imagined most of them had gone to Tokyo International Girls School with Emi. One girl caught my eye, because she wasn’t as painfully thin as the others; she was plump, in fact, and the loose black dress she wore, which reached to mid-calf, only made her look larger. She sat alone on a carved rosewood chair, her reddened eyes darting toward the living room door as each person entered—as if, I thought, Emi might suddenly show up and change everything.

The grown-ups in attendance were, of course, colleagues of Emi’s parents. I recognized the chairman of one of Japan’s automobile manufacturers, as well as various politicians. Mr. Harada was at the center of them all, grave-faced, wearing a black suit and his old-fashioned black-rimmed spectacles. He was a blur of motion, nodding and bowing to the callers. It hit me that the same kind of mob scene would have taken place a few months later, for the wedding. But then, everyone would have been smiling.

Feeling sick, I turned away and focused my attention on the Haradas’ house. Like many upper-class Japanese homes, it had a number of square rooms that could be transformed into larger spaces by opening sliding wood-and-paper screens. But in this house, unlike the other Japanese homes I’d visited, the tatami flooring was covered with Oriental rugs—antique rugs, I realized, as I stooped down to pick up a card that I’d dropped on purpose, in order to get a close look. I couldn’t tell a Tabriz from a Kerman, but I could guess that these rugs cost a lot.

The rugs also provided a buffer layer so that the Haradas could use non-Japanese furniture, like the great walnut dining table stacked with
kouden
envelopes and overseen by two unsmiling men in black suits, one of whom I instantly recognized as the chauffeur. I turned away quickly and studied the framed photos of the family with notables. I identified Japan’s last prime minister and the host of the most conservative television news program. I thought about what was missing—regular family pictures. But maybe the Haradas didn’t think it was right to place casual family snapshots on the same level as their most honored contacts.

I squeezed my way into the kitchen, where half a dozen women wearing aprons and head scarves were arranging trays of food. Everything was rose marble; the appliances were stainless steel, typical in the West but unusual in Japan. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to affix photographs to the fridge, which I knew from experience was resistant to magnets. But here, in tiny frames, were the kind of family pictures I’d been looking for: a young father holding a chubby toddler girl on his shoulders. A round-faced schoolgirl in a black uniform standing by the Great Buddha of Kamakura. A plump teenager making rabbit ears over a friend’s head, as the two posed in front of the Sphinx.

I could see Emi’s big eyes and smile in each girl, but I was stunned by how chubby she’d once been. It was hard to believe, given the Pocky Stick frame she’d shrunk into. Had she developed an eating disorder—and if so, when? Surely it had happened before she’d met Takeo, I thought, remembering the recent school photograph of Emi that had appeared on the television news. She’d been thin then.

One of the caterers asked me what I needed, and I answered vaguely—too vaguely, because I was instructed in no uncertain terms that if I wanted something to eat, it was available in the dining room.

I went out, trying to steer clear of the chauffeur, yet somehow inspect the quality of the Haradas’ art and antiques. The problem was that there was almost too much to take note of: a ceramics collection that contained Korean celadon, Chinese blue-and-white and Japanese modern and antique pottery. I was drawn to a simple tea bowl made of a reddish clay that reminded me of the ibex vessel, and I gently lifted it to examine the bottom. Decoding pottery was, for me, much easier than decoding a newspaper; after about ten seconds’ study, I had figured out that the bowl had been shaped by Kazu Sakurai, a famous Kyushu artist whom the government had recently named a living national treasure. I put the bowl down carefully, and after I was sure it was settled back into its place, I turned to go into the next room.

Yasuko Harada—Emi’s mother—was regarding me with an uncertain expression. I hesitated, not knowing whether I should make some kind of explanation. But before I could do anything, two women descended on Mrs. Harada, bowing and murmuring. My opportunity was lost, but maybe that was a good thing. What could I possibly have said?

I walked purposefully into the next reception room, where a white brocade-covered coffin rested at the foot of a dais constructed in front of the
tokonoma,
the ceremonial alcove that was the focal point of the room. A type of altar had been made around a three-by three-foot framed photograph of Emi. Around it stood a sea of floral wreaths that all had identifying tags showing which company had given them.

I gazed at the portrait of Emi in a stiff brocade floral kimono, a kimono that I knew was typically given on a girl’s eighteenth birthday. This “coming-of-age day” kimono was expensive—usually costing between 5 and 15 million yen. In Emi’s case, I guessed it had been even more.

The young, sad girl I’d noticed when I’d entered the house was standing near me, looking at the picture of Emi. Then she knelt next to the coffin, folded her hands in prayer, and whispered something. In the end, she peered into the little window through which Emi’s face showed. She got up rapidly, and backed off.

I had been avoiding looking at the corpse, but I did look now. Emi’s eyes were closed, her long lashes lying neatly against her fair skin. She looked like a beautiful young girl asleep. I found myself having the same reaction as the other girl, leaving quickly. It was too sad to linger over this sleeping beauty who could never wake up.

“Did you know her from high school?” I asked the girl, when I caught up with her in the next room over the hors d’oeuvres table.

“Not really. I just started at Waseda, and she is—was not—in college.” The girl had been aiming her chopsticks toward a piece of deep-fried tofu, but suddenly changed direction to a piece of sashimi. Was it guilt, because I was standing near her?

“That tofu looks good,” I said mildly.

“Yes, but too oily.”

Just as I’d thought. “So, how did you know Emi-san?”

“My family lives nearby. We attended primary school and junior high together. Then she went away to Turkey, and came back last year. Her parents sent her to Tokyo International Girls School. That’s where those other girls are from.” She tilted her head toward the other room.

Often, when Japanese families took their children with them to live abroad for a while, they felt that they could never again enroll the children in a traditional Japanese school. At such a school, discrimination against a child who spoke English too well, and had gotten used to certain freedoms, was too likely. I imagined that the Haradas might have thought this way—but it didn’t quite jibe with what I’d expect from a family conservative enough to arrange a marriage for an eighteen-year-old daughter.

“How interesting,” I said. “Well, you must be a true friend to have stayed in touch. My name’s Rei Shimura. What’s yours?”

“Nagasa Fumiko.” She bobbed her head. “I would like to think she remained my friend, but I don’t know.”

“How so?” I asked gently.

“Well, Emi-san used to look more like I do. She became so—slim—in Turkey. And I think she was a little embarrassed to be seen with me.”

“Oh, no, you’re a lovely person—I envy your skin.” I’d had to think fast.

Fumiko shook her head. “Everything had to be perfect for her. Not just the face, but fashion, slimness, manners. Even before she became engaged to that
ikebana
headmaster.”

I noted the way she spoke about Takeo—rather flatly, with no special enthusiasm. Maybe she thought the arranged marriage was a bad idea. I wanted to ask her about it, but suddenly there was a swelling of noise in the next room, a raising of voices and the sound of someone male, shouting in poor Japanese. “Please. Just to see—”

The hubbub rose, and Fumiko and I exchanged glances. There was a sound of something breaking in the next room. I waved at her to follow me. If something was happening between people, maybe she could provide an explanation.

In one corner I saw a caterer bent over a smashed cocktail glass, and a huddle of women around her, trying to help. But all the action was heading out of the room toward the entryway. A beautiful foreign boy with dark curly hair, wearing a black shirt and black jeans, was being hustled out of the house by three smaller Japanese men, including the chauffeur. The boy’s full lips were twisted in a grimace and his eyes blazed with wetness—tears? I was stunned. The sight of such naked emotion made me want to draw back, as if I’d intruded.

“He’s here,” Fumiko murmured.

“Is that one of Emi’s old friends?”

She shook her head.

“Then who is he?” I persisted.

“I’m sorry.” She looked at me, and I saw a mixture of sorrow and panic on her face. “I have to leave.”

“I didn’t mean to—” I started to say, but Fumiko had pushed her way through the crowd as if she couldn’t get away quickly enough.

“Do you understand anything about what happened?” I asked Tom, when I’d squeezed my way through the throng to where he was standing.

“I don’t exactly know. I saw that foreigner talking to the other young people. Then those men asked him to leave, and he tried to resist.”

“Those were the men who guarded the
kouden
envelopes,” Norie interjected. “Maybe he was trying to take some money. Now, Rei-chan, tell me, are you enjoying yourself? The house is so beautiful!”

I looked at her. “It’s hard to have a nice time at a funeral.”

“True, true, it’s terribly sad, but the food is lovely. And I’ve gotten the chance to meet some nice young friends of Emi-san’s, a few of whom are thinking of enrolling to study
ikebana
in one of our holiday mini-courses.”

“Really.” My thoughts about the boy who’d been thrown out vanished.

I was making my way back to the mourning room when I spotted Takeo Kayama, looking right at me as he wove his way through the crowd.

I gave him a warning look and shook my head slightly, but he continued in my direction. I’d known he would be at the memorial, but I’d assumed he would use good sense and stay away from me. Well, I had some choices of my own, and my choice was not to talk to him.

I made it through the doorway before he did and, spying hall stairs carpeted with an Oriental runner, hurried up them. Nobody would think of going into private living quarters during a memorial. I crouched against the wall under a painting by the French artist Balthus of an Asian nude, despite the barking dog behind a nearby closed door.

A Balthus painting, come to think of it, was a very significant personal asset. I turned around in my crouch and tilted my head back so that I could study the oil painting of the Japanese-looking woman who was standing at a mirror, her robe open, with a malevolent-looking dwarf peeking through an opened door at her. It looked like the cousin to a very famous Balthus painting, which showed a half-dressed Japanese woman reclining in a bathroom with Turkish tiles, gazing at herself in a hand mirror.