The Typhoon Lover (2 page)

The crowd was screaming for me and Chika to take it off, too, and I felt a twinge of nervousness. I’d brought it on myself, I knew, but suddenly I felt that my navel ring was more than I wished anyone had seen.

“I’m stepping down!” I shouted to Chika as “Lips Like Sugar” drew to a close.

“Okay, I’ll come along,” she shouted back. “That girl is crazy!”

After we made it offstage, Chika asked me where we could get water. I was parched, too. I glanced back and saw that Kendall had started working on the top button of her jeans.

“Where’s Hugh-san? I’d like to say hello to him—he was so kind to give me the ticket. Business class, even!” Chika’s happy chatter brought me back to the reality that I was with her, and life wasn’t as out of control as I’d feared.

“The last place I saw Hugh was the bar,” I said, leading my cousin along. But he wasn’t there. After Chika and I each bought a bottle of water, we threaded through the crowd to the back, where Andrea was standing at the door, checking names against a guest list. She was being very hard-hearted with a group of Georgetown students who were claiming they should be on the guest list.

“But I know Rei,” one of them was saying. “She’s, like, my best friend.”

“Do you know this girl?” Andrea, her arms folded over a skintight “Power to the People” T-shirt, appeared ready to grind the girl under the her six-inch boot heels.

“Sure. Let them all in. Hey, have you seen Hugh?”

“Last time I saw him he was buying drinks for all his rugby friends. Are you loving your party?”

“Very much so,” I said, and gave Andrea a quick hug before going back into the depths of the club.

“Is that Hugh-san?” Chika tugged my hand and I followed her down a hall lit only by a sign for an emergency exit. There, one of the suits was vomiting over a trash can.

“Oh, no!” I said, because I recognized the suit. It was Hugh’s.

“What did he eat for dinner?” Chika asked in a horrified voice.

“I don’t think it was the dinner.” I’d tried everything Hugh had eaten, and the restaurant had an impeccable reputation. Hugh must have been done in by the bottle of wine chased by whisky followed by the lager. It wasn’t really his fault—he’d once been able to drink like that and hold his ground, but now he was thirty-two. Perhaps his metabolism had changed—as mine would, too.

I sent Chika into the ladies’ room to bring back both wet and dry paper towels, while I helped Hugh through the end of his agony.

“Sorry,” he said, sounding weaker than I’d ever heard.

“Don’t be.” I stroked back his hair, examining him. The charming Scot who’d toasted me with champagne a few hours earlier had been replaced by a red-eyed stand-in who had almost lost his accent. It was getting exhausting, living like this. Just two nights before that he’d gotten sick after a dinner party in Kalorama. I reminded myself that this was the same man who’d loved me enough to let me live in his apartment, who hauled antiques without complaint, who made a pot of tea for me every morning.

“I’m missing a great show, aren’t I?” he asked, sounding pitiful.

“Angus and the band are amazing,” I said. “But you’ll hear them again.”

“Yes. He’s coming home with us.” Hugh sat down on the floor, his back against the wall for support.

“That’s right, but a little later on. I’ll figure everything out. We’ll have to take a taxi home, because I can’t drive either.”

“Don’t take me home,” he said. “You’re having a—grand time—a birthday time—”

I shook my head. “Staying here doesn’t matter. I’m as trashed as you are, practically. I’m beat.”

It was true. Three years earlier, I would have stayed the whole night. But now I just felt exhausted.

My twenties were over. Thirty had already taken a very dirty toll.

The claim I’d made about a morning meeting had been all too true. I woke up at eight-fifteen with a pounding headache, knowing that I had to be at the Smithsonian within seventy-five minutes.

I dragged myself into the bathroom, where Hugh was sleeping in the tub. I pulled the shower curtain to give myself privacy while I used the facilities. I would have loved a shower, but it wasn’t worth drowning Hugh.

I felt bad that he’d slept there. But he’d been sleepy enough to drop anywhere, and the spare bedroom and living room were filled not only with Angus’s bandmates but with two roadies as well. In the bedroom I usually shared with Hugh, I’d placed Chika, who was still sleeping facedown in her tiny chemise. Before I’d gone into the bathroom, I pulled the sheet over her, just in case anyone stumbled into the room. I also wrote DO NOT DISTURB! on a Glaswegian Hangover flyer and taped it to the door.

How my head hurt! I would never drink like that again. I’d recklessly chased one glass of wine with another at dinner, then spent the rest of the night slamming down hard liquor. The evidence was all over the place—red pupils, triple creases under the eyes, and a greenish tint to my skin.

After gulping down two Aleve tablets and patting on a bit of makeup, I dressed in dark blue Donna Karan suit handed down from my mother, which I’d laid out the day before. I had a bit of panic when I couldn’t find my panty hose, but they turned out to be on my dresser, coiled underneath a potted bonsai tree—yet another birthday gift that had appeared in the foyer the night before. I lifted the pot up and gingerly pulled out the stockings, praying they hadn’t been torn. They were fine. I took this as a good omen—the only thing, maybe, that I had going for me on such a challenging morning.

I wasn’t quite sure how the Sackler had located me, because I hadn’t applied for any job there except for a college internship that never happened. Of course, I sent out résumés all the time, so when a brisk-sounding woman had called the week before, asking me to come to discuss a potential consulting job, I’d immediately said yes. Any offer of steady employment would be fantastic, given that I’d finished a big restaurant decorating project and was at loose ends.

I stepped into the Bally alligator pumps I’d gotten at the San Francisco Opera thrift shop the last time I’d been home, visiting my parents. Then I returned to the bathroom to bring Hugh clothes for his own workday.

“Who bashed in my head?” he muttered.

“You did it to yourself,” I said, then relented. “You must feel awful. And I’m sorry we put you in the tub last night to sleep, but I needed a bed for Chika—she’s sleeping in our room right now, so I brought you some clothes.”

“Oh.” He yawned. “Where are you going so early in the morning?”

“It’s already eight-forty and I have that meeting at the Smithsonian in less than an hour.”

“Sorry about last night.” He sighed. “And I—lost it, didn’t I? You saw me at my worst.”

“You’ve seen me sick, too.” But compared with him, I was the picture of blooming health. “It was a wild night. Parts of it were wonderful.”

“I swear that I just had a whisky and a lager or two—”

“You also had a half-bottle of wine and a glass of champagne at the restaurant.” I began brushing my teeth at the bathroom sink.

“Right. We drove from there—My car! Where is it?”

“I’m sure it’s still wherever the valets put it yesterday evening. I can swing by after my meeting to retrieve it.”

“No, no, I’ll do it. I’ll take care of it today. That shall be my penance,” Hugh said darkly.

It was a twenty-minute walk to Dupont Circle, plenty of time to get the blood moving. I had a skim latte with four sugars in hand that I’d carried out from Urban Grounds. I’d have to finish drinking it before I entered the Metro, which had a strict prohibition against food and drink. As I sipped, I considered the situation ahead of me. I’d have to present myself to strangers, without knowing what they were after. But they had thought enough of me to seek me out. That was something I could cling to, with hope.

I regretfully tossed my half-full coffee and boarded the train. I held my bag closely against me, protecting it from the crush of people. Inside the bag were two different résumés. The first one presented my work as an antiques buyer; it focused on freelance work I’d done for a restaurant in Washington and private clients in Tokyo. The second résumé made me look more like a scholar—citing a sale that I’d made years ago to a folk craft museum and the writing I’d published about a historic collection of Japanese flower-arranging vessels. There were a few flamboyant successes on both résumés, but sadly, no evidence of a real job anywhere. The longest job that I’d had since getting my master’s degree was working as an English teacher in Japan, and that, I sensed, was totally unrelated to anything the Smithsonian might want me for.

I hopped out at Gallery Place–Chinatown, but instead of turning toward the restaurant district as I did for my last job, I walked the few long blocks to the Mall. The sun had broken out at last. It was a day on which, if I hadn’t had a headache, I might have jogged to the gym where Hugh and I shared a membership. I’d become addicted to gym classes, especially the ones that featured weight lifting, yoga, and ballet. It sounded like over-the-top fusion cooking, but I was happy with the new, sinewy muscles that had emerged in my arms and shoulders. Hugh said the best part of it was that I could now move heavy furniture without his help.

Well, today wasn’t a weight-lifting day, but at least my posture was better than it used to be. I sucked in my abdominals a touch as I passed the majestic, redbrick Gothic castle that housed the Smithsonian’s administrative offices, and kept them in place as I entered the circular glass atrium entrance of the Freer Museum’s Ripley Center, which led in turn to the Sackler Gallery, a few flights down.

I’d sworn I wasn’t going to look around, but I had to pause for a second glance at an impressive art installation right inside the entrance. A modern Chinese artist had dredged up the hull of an old wooden Japanese fishing boat and perched it atop thousands of pieces of broken white porcelain cups and saucers. A boat afloat on china; I loved the metaphor, but cringed at the thought of all the pottery smashing that had gone on.

“Ma’am? The museum doesn’t open until ten.”

The security guard who’d been at the desk was suddenly at my side. I’d gotten too close to the artwork. I apologized and told the guard that I was a few minutes early for my appointment in the administrative offices with Michael Hendricks.

“We have nobody working in our museum with that name,” she said, frowning at me again. “Are you sure he isn’t a part-time volunteer?”

“I don’t think so.” I scrambled through my bag for the paper where I’d written down the few details I’d been given. “A woman called me back as well. Her name is Elizabeth Cameron—”

“She’s the ancient Near Eastern curator.” The receptionist flipped through some papers. “She left a message about someone coming to a nine o’clock meeting.”

“That might be me. My name is Rei Shimura.” I felt uneasy, because I didn’t think ancient Near Eastern art was anything I could take a stab at. Also, the timing of the meeting was off. Michael Hendricks had said nine-thirty, or so I’d thought.

But it turned out that the security guard’s message had my name on it, so she called another guard to escort me through the labyrinth of dimly lit galleries to the administrative section.

Not an auspicious start, I thought as we rode down the elevator to the second floor, where the administrative offices lay. I was stupid to have arrived late and without knowing more about why I was being interviewed. Perhaps they’d made a mistake calling me in. I knew about the art of the Far East, not the Near East or Mesopotamia, as it used to be called. I would make that clear right away, I decided, and I’d be out the door fast—before nine-fifteen, probably. I would be able to make a ten o’clock Pilates class at the gym, if I hustled enough.

Huge double doors to the administrative section were locked, but the guard unlocked them for me. Right behind them there was someone waiting, a tall, slender African-American woman in her fifties. The green skirted uniform that she wore had silver oak leaves on the shoulders; her black name tag read simply “Martin.”

“Are you Rei Shimura?” the woman officer asked.

I nodded, surprised that she not only knew my name but had pronounced it correctly. Rei rhymes with X-ray—which was what she seemed to be doing as she surveyed me all the way from my conservative pumps up to my bed-head hairstyle and bloodshot eyes. It seemed, from the tightness of her expression, that she could guess the kind of night I’d been through.

“You may come in, Miss Shimura. We’re all here.”

The guard departed and I followed the woman along a wide, carpeted hall and into a large room where a few people were sitting. The woman locked the door behind her, and I gulped.

I surveyed what lay before me: a windowless room decorated with a few framed posters from past exhibitions at the Sackler, and a huge film screen similar to the ones I remembered from college lecture halls. The room was filled with a long, teak table, a much larger table than was needed for the one woman and two men sitting at it. One of the men was a distinguished-looking, older Japanese; the other an athletically built man with hair cropped as closely as a soldier’s. He was wearing what seemed to be the official D.C. uniform: a Brooks Brothers suit, the all-American label that Hugh, who wore only European designer suits, abhorred.

“Coffee?” The woman who had been seated at the table spoke to me gently, as if she realized I needed special handling. I nodded gratefully, even though I’d already had a huge dose of caffeine. As she moved to a coffeemaker set up on a side table, I checked her out—brunette pageboy hairstyle and a hip-length, hand-knit olive green sweater over a calf-length black skirt. Very artsy; perhaps she was the curator?

“Sugar? Cream? I’m Elizabeth Cameron, the one who called you.” The woman confirmed my thoughts. “I’m so glad you could join us.”

“I’ll take both,” I said. “And I’m glad to be here too.” The last was a slight exaggeration, given the locked doors and serious faces. I knew that this was going to be like no interview I’d ever had before.

“I’m Michael Hendricks, from the Japan desk at State. Senator Snowden gave me your name.” The guy in Brooks had taken the coffee from Elizabeth Cameron and handed it to me. He had an accent that I couldn’t place, as clipped and correct as his military haircut. On second glance I realized that his hair, which I’d first thought was brown, was actually a salt-and-pepper mix of brown and silver. Men could gray prematurely and look fabulous, I thought sourly. At least, I thought it was premature graying. I couldn’t guess his age at all, just as I couldn’t make out the details of where he worked on the ID tag that hung from a chain around his neck. My eyes were simply too tired.

I turned from him to the Japanese-looking man, who was wearing a conservative dark blue suit. He was a guest here, too, I thought. I wasn’t sure what to do until he bowed to me slightly; I bowed back more deeply. He smiled, and in that moment I knew I’d seen him somewhere. But my brain was too frazzled to make the connection.

I hesitated, holding my coffee, not wanting to be too presumptuous about my next movement—or any movement at all.

Michael Hendricks said, “We have a place set up for you on the other side.” I tripped slightly in my awkwardness to get around the table.

“
Kiotsukute kudasai
,” the Japanese man said.
Be careful, please
.

“Gomen nasai,”
I apologized back to him, then said in English to the others, “I’m a little uncoordinated,” as I sat down gingerly on an unholstered chair.

“Oh, I don’t think so. You danced pretty well last night.” Michael Hendricks smiled easily. “I apologize for not introducing myself, but it was hard to get through the throng.”

Could this be some game of Hugh’s—a faux interview on the tail of a wild night? Was the military officer going to slide out of her uniform, any minute? Confusion washed over me. Carefully, I said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand what this meeting’s about.”

“I’ll start by introducing the remaining people. Now, you’ve spoken with Elizabeth on the phone already, I understand, and you just met Colonel Martin, who came in from Baghdad a few days ago to join us.”

Brenda Martin nodded at me and sat down next to Hendricks as he continued his introductions.

“I’m grateful that Mr. Yukio Watanabe, the Japanese consul general, was able to take time away from his responsibilities at the embassy to join us.” Michael paused. “Everything that we say must be kept confidential, Miss Shimura. Are you comfortable with that?”

Feeling flabbergasted by both the power of Mr. Watanabe and the demand being put on me, I said, “I could give you an answer if I knew what this was about.”

“It’s about considering you for a job,” Michael Hendricks said.

“In that case, of course I’ll maintain confidentiality. And I’ve brought my résumé.” I extracted the résumé with the scholarly focus and slid it onto the table. Nobody picked it up. Feeling awkward again, I asked, “Does the job relate to Japanese art or antiques?”

“Not exactly.” Michael Hendricks leaned back in his chair, studying me with eyes the color of a cold fall sky. “This mission involves ancient Near Eastern art. Even though this isn’t an area you’ve worked in during the past, we believe you are qualified to handle this assignment.”

“Dancing and all?” I thought I’d make a joke to relieve my nerves, but nobody smiled.

“I think we can all safely agree that dancing doesn’t hurt anyone or anything. And now, we’re running a few minutes late, so I’ll get right to the presentation.” As he spoke, I finally placed Michael’s accent: eastern-educated—absent of slang and regional influences. He’d probably attended Andover, Exeter, or a similar northeastern boarding school.

The lights went out, and slowly the film screen at the end of the room lit up with the glow from a projector.
REI SHIMURA BACK
GROUND,
the screen said. The words vanished and there was a photograph of me, a reproduced photo clipped from the Japanese newspaper
Asahi Shimbun.
I straightened up a little, because I’d always liked this shot, in which I appeared stunningly slender in an Azzedine Alaia dress a girlfriend had lent me to wear to a party at the Tokyo American Club. The Japanese paparazzi had snapped me because of a murder investigation I was peripherally involved in—something that had fortunately come out all right in the end.