The Typhoon Lover (8 page)

“No, thank you,” I said faintly. I’d had enough excitement, and I planned on taking a seat, one close to the back of the room, to watch the proceedings. But as I headed toward my seat, I shot a glance toward the young woman who’d almost caused the accident. Too young to be a buyer, she was probably somebody’s clueless child, I thought with irritation. She was tiny—barely five feet tall, I thought, and absolutely adorable in one of the new Pucci print dresses that I’d seen in magazines—far too expensive for me to ever contemplate buying. She must have had it altered to fit her tiny frame. I watched her raise an arm as long and thin as a Pocky Stick pretzel to wave.

I followed the direction of her wave but couldn’t figure out to whom she was beckoning. But then my attention was suddenly drawn away, because among the people seating themselves in the audience, I’d caught a glimpse of a familiar profile.

I had already seated myself in one of the few single seats left—this one between an elderly couple there to see the sale of a prized family heirloom, and a flinty dealer from Kawasaki. For this reason, I was hesitant to leave my seat, but I strained for a better view of the man in question. Not until he turned his head, so that I could see his face in full, did I recognize Takeo pointing to the seat next to him.

Suddenly, I felt very hot. My sweat glands had gone into over-drive. Why would Takeo be coaxing me over? Had he learned that I was asking after him, and actually been pleased?

“Meiwashima Auction Number Fifty-seven is about to commence,” a voice droned over the speaker system. “Our staff respectfully requests that you make sure that you bring your paddle with you and that your financial details are registered with the office before you sit down.”

Takeo’s expression was almost affectionate, a surprise to me given the way we’d parted. The warmth made him look even more handsome than he’d appeared at first glance. My job was going to be difficult indeed, with Takeo still shooting me such a sexy come-hither look.

I had just gathered up my bag when I noticed that the girl who’d tripped me had entered Takeo’s row. Mouthing obvious apologies, the girl slowly proceeded along the line of patrons, all of whom stood up for her in a massive show of Japanese courtesy. At one point, she stumbled slightly against an older lady. Perhaps her collision with me had been not a matter of carelessness but a lack of coordination. But then all my theories vanished, replaced by shock as the girl settled happily into the place that I’d mistakenly thought Takeo was saving for me.

Takeo had a girl.

Friend?

No, I decided as I saw his arm slip around her shoulders.

Girlfriend!

I thanked God for the second time in ten minutes, but this time silently. Thank God I hadn’t embarrassed myself by trying to take her seat. From my spot, I watched the girl tilt her face up to Takeo and giggle about something, to which he gave a gentle, reproving shake of the head.

The auction was starting, so I tried to concentrate on the point of the evening—making an appearance as a serious potential buyer. It was advantageous that Takeo would see me in this light, especially if Takeo wanted the vase. My interest in it—perhaps bidding for it at the start, then gracefully giving up—would be at least a conversation opener for the two of us.

Three hundred items were listed for sale, and the wait for item 159 was long. The auctioneer’s pace was considerably slower, and more genteel, than what I was accustomed to in the American auction houses that I frequented. Still, it was a good thing I was there for the whole auction, because just thirty items in, Takeo’s girlfriend started whispering to him, and he put his hand up for the Chinese bed.

I sucked in my breath. What was Takeo, who always had been happy with a basic futon, doing buying a bed? Was he—buying it for her? Various confusing scenarios ran through my mind as Takeo kept his hand up while the bed’s price rose from 200,000 yen to 1 million. He was the only one left at that price, plus the auction house premium of ten percent. As the auctioneer called out that the item was sold at 1 million yen plus ten percent commission, Takeo’s girlfriend bounced excitedly in her chair.

I’d thought I’d been through enough surprises, but five minutes later, a regal, blue-and-gold export Imari dinner service for twenty set off more tugging and whispering. Takeo’s hand rose again. He got it for 500,000—a steal, but then, not many Japanese gave big dinner parties. I didn’t understand why Takeo, always so private, would want to buy a restaurant’s worth of matching china. It had to be for the girl, not for him.

An intermission after the first 100 items gave me a chance to make my move. Takeo and his young friend had risen, too. She was tugging at his hand, as if she wanted him to go back to the display cases, so I headed that way, too. As I walked, I tried to look as if I were immersed in the catalog, so it seemed natural for me to almost, but not quite, bump into them.

“Pardon me—oh, hello!” I exclaimed, feigning surprise. “It’s been a long time.”

Instead of answering me, Takeo walked past, dragging his girlfriend along with him.

Maybe he hadn’t realized I was speaking to him. I hurried after the couple, and tried again. “Takeo-san, I don’t know if you, ah, recognized me—”

My use of his first name couldn’t be ignored. The girl’s mouth hung open in a little violet O while Takeo answered.

“Shimura-san, of course I recognize you. I’m a little busy right now, though. Will you excuse me?” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket.

“No telephone use allowed in the auction house except for employees,” one of the auction helpers said, miraculously materializing. For the first time that evening, I thanked the powers behind the Meiwashima Auction Gallery for the rules.

Takeo snapped his phone shut. He looked from me to the girlfriend, and then back at me, obviously unhappy.

“I’m back from the United States.” I’d decided to play the part of an old friend to the hilt. “It’s so good to see you! I’d love to catch up on old times—”

“Circumstances make that difficult,” Takeo said coldly.

“Really? What’s going on with you these days, besides taking over your father’s flower-arranging school?”

“I’m getting married. My fiancée and I are just picking out a few items for the house.”

I was aware that Takeo was watching me closely for a reaction. I was determined not to look as pained as I felt. I unclenched my jaw and offered congratulations.

“I’m surprised you were allowed back into Japan so quickly,” Takeo said, his words cutting. He knew what had happened, even though he and I hadn’t seen each other at all during that last time in the city.

I shrugged, trying to seem casual. “Well, my client has some clout—the Sackler Gallery. Do you remember? It’s part of our group of national museums that you visited when you were in Washington—”

Takeo interrupted me swiftly. “Unfortunately, we must excuse ourselves, Shimura-san. Good luck.”

“What do you mean? The sale isn’t over yet—” Takeo’s fiancée began in a baby-pitched voice.

“Dinner with your parents, remember? I was just about to call them to find out where they are. Let’s go outside to make the call.”

The princess was digging her long, lavender-glossed nails into Takeo’s arm. “But I want to stay longer. We need a few more things.”

“Your father wants to pick us up early. He’s anticipating traffic problems because of the rain.” Takeo smiled at her in a way that made it seem like the sun breaking out over Mount Fuji. I looked away from that smile, just as I had looked away from the great, glaring diamond on the girl’s tiny hand.

“But we at least have to pay for the bed and the china,” she pointed out.

“I’ll do it by telephone. Oh, I see your parents already.” I followed his gaze to a couple in the doorway. The woman was stout for a Japanese woman, but elegantly dressed in a tweed suit, with a frozen-in-place, slightly bouffant shoulder-length hairdo that I’d noticed diplomatic wives seemed to favor. She bowed slightly as she approached us. The man at her side was about the same height—about five-six, a standard height for Japanese men of the older generation, and thin. He wore thick glasses and a dark suit. He didn’t look glamorous at all, but he was obviously well known to the Meiwashima staff because the people who had checked my name against a list were bowing deeply and ushering him in.

I could have stayed and forced Takeo to introduce me, but I could imagine how awkward things would get. And the fact was that Mr. Watanabe was heading toward the parents, smiling and nodding.

Remembering what Mr. Watanabe had said about keeping away from each other, I took this as my cue to leave. I made my bows to the betrothed couple and quickly passed by the parents and went out of the auction.

I’d gone so hastily and in such a state of confusion that it wasn’t until half a block later, when I was soaked in pouring rain, that I realized I needed an umbrella.

Mr. Watanabe caught up with me a few minutes later in the alley where we had arranged, over the phone the previous evening, to meet after the sale. He appeared under a large black umbrella, which he held over me as we spoke. He was being so gallant that I was ashamed to even begin to tell him about my breach of etiquette, but I did, sparing no details. When I was done, Mr. Watanabe didn’t immediately comment, but instead told me about the girl and her family.

Takeo’s fiancée was Emi Harada, daughter of Kenichi Harada, the recently appointed minister for the environment. He was also a former diplomat, so the two men had crossed paths before and had exchanged greetings at the sale. Yasuko Harada, Kenichi’s wife, was an active flower arranger and the patron of many social welfare causes.
As her daughter would soon be
, I thought to myself. Takeo, despite his radical tendencies, had chosen for his bride what Japanese for centuries had wanted: the youngest, purest woman with the most elite pedigree. But I should have known all this. I asked Mr. Watanabe why I hadn’t been warned about Takeo’s engagement.

“Unfortunately, her name never appeared in any information I received,” Watanabe said, his eyes wide. “And, when I was speaking with her father just now, he said nothing about the engagement to me. Are you sure it’s the truth?”

“She was wearing a huge diamond ring on her left hand,” I said. “Surely there must have been an announcement of it somewhere, in the newspapers or something—”

“I don’t think so. Can you read Japanese newspapers?”

Of course I couldn’t. I stood there, the rain hammering my umbrella, hammering me with the realization that I’d forgotten how everything worked in Japan, from buying fish to auction rules and relationships.

“I suppose you’ll have to make a meeting with him again,” Mr. Watanabe said.

I would have thrown up my hands if they hadn’t been engaged with the umbrella and my backpack. “It seems impossible. I explained to you already that he was very unfriendly.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not the case. This was just a first meeting. I’m sure the next one will be more harmonious.”

“It won’t work. He’s moved on, and I’m just a reminder of old times he’d rather forget.”

Mr. Watanabe looked grave. “Do you feel that you cannot do the job that you said you would?”

I looked down at the pavement. How fast would he fly me out of Japan—on the next day’s flight? It was entirely possible. I breathed deeply and said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t effective tonight. I’ll try again.”

“
Gambatte!
” he commanded, then tapped the end of his umbrella on the concrete, and walked on.

Later, as I sat at the Brazilian mahogany bar in Salsa Salsa watching my old friend Enrique muddle together lime and rum to make a welcome-home
mojito
, I thought about the significance of Mr. Watanabe’s parting command:
gambatte,
the imperative form of a uniquely Japanese word,
gambarimasu
, which meant “give it your all.” People said
Gambatte
to you before a test or a sporting event.
Gambatte
was about responsibility to someone else, your parents or your teammates or your school. And, in this case, both the U.S. and Japanese governments.

I sighed and pulled the tiny telephone camera out of my purse. First, I entered the password I’d come up with—TAKE0, in honor of the mission. The zero I’d used at the end instead of the letter
O
escaped my mind on the first try; but then I remembered it and entered the password again, and the screen flashed “ready.”

Time to practice. I aimed the instrument at Enrique and punched buttons until I saw his smiling image appear on the tiny screen. After I’d taken the picture, I admired it for a while. I’d gotten him dead center, and with his eyes open. For me, this was a very good first photo, with a machine that had seemed unfathomably complex during the hour that Michael Hendricks had attempted to explain its use. I remained confused by the many buttons on the tiny camera. In fact, I wasn’t sure if I’d just saved Enrique’s photo or deleted it when it abruptly disappeared from the screen.

“That’s a cool phone. Or is it a camera?” A strange accent on my left made me jump, and I turned to see one of the backpackers from a group that had been sitting together. I’d noticed them when I’d come in and made the mistake of smiling a brief hello.

“Both,” I said, looking at the speaker, who was somewhere around twenty-five, though it was hard to tell from his face, which was either really tanned or really dirty.

“May I see it? Where did you get it, Akibarra or—” He rolled his
r
’s like someone from Germany or a nearby country.

“The electronics district is called Akihabara, and sorry, but I can’t let you play around with this camera. I’m not the greatest technophile, so I don’t want to take the risk of changing any settings.”

“Hmm, I reckon you and I could have more fun playing around at something else! I’m Jürgen.” He grinned suavely, and I cursed myself for the expression I’d used.

“Acually, Jürgen, I’m not the best of company because I need to make a phone call at the moment—”

“Ach so! You must be some kind of spy girl with a Chames Bond camera not for sale in the shops—”

Damn it, but his voice was loud. I looked at him stonily and said, “It’s a gift from my boyfriend, who I was just about to phone.”

“Don’t you mean your husband?”

“What?” I looked at him warily.

“A woman your age would ordinarily be married, right?” He swung off with laughter and returned to his friends.

I’d had about enough of unruly men, but I really did want to speak to Hugh. And now it was early morning in Washington, time to catch him before he left for the office.

“Good morning, my sweet,” I said brightly after he finally picked up.

“Rei. So what’s, what time is it?” He sounded disjointed.

“I thought it was about eight-thirty in Washington. I’m sorry, you were probably up late last night painting the dining room.” I had made sure he had all the paint and supplies he needed before I’d left.

“Not quite. Damn, I have a meeting in half an hour.” He groaned. “I feel like hell.”

“Oh! I can get off the line if you need. I just wanted to let you know I was here and safe—”

“Don’t go,” Hugh said. “I’ll call my assistant to tell her to reschedule. She’s come up with more than a few excuses since my brother came back. And today’s the end of it. They’re flying out of Dulles for Singapore and then Tokyo.”

“But that sounds illogical, I mean, shouldn’t they have flown from California and gone to Tokyo first?”

“Nothing my brother does is logical. Including drinking. We closed the 9:30 Club last night, Rei. I’m knackered.”

“Aren’t you getting a little old for that?” He was never going to make partner if he kept coming to work late with a hangover.

He groaned. “I didn’t mean to. And now I’m so hungover I could kick myself. I must say, if you’d been here it probably wouldn’t have happened—”

“As if I have any impact at all,” I said, with heavy sarcasm. “Remember, I was there at Club Paradise when you were sick enough to lose it in a wastebasket.”

“So do you think I have a drinking problem?” Hugh’s voice crackled with anger.

“Not exactly. It’s just that—you seem to be losing count of your drinks, when you go out. You can’t blame me for being a little worried.” I eyed the
mojito
in front of me. I’d thought it was two-thirds empty, and was on the verge of ordering another. Now I decided it was actually one-third full, and I was going to slow down.

Hugh began to rail at me, and I saw no point in becoming involved in an argument that the rest of the bar would find amusing, so I simply hung up. Almost immediately the telephone rang again, and I switched it on, still exasperated, but determined to at least give Hugh a chance to apologize and redeem himself.

“Darling?” I said.

“What a nice greeting,” Michael Hendricks answered in his cool New England voice. “When I was in Japan before, it was just
moshi-moshi
. Perhaps times have changed.”

“Hello, Michael.” I paused to compose myself. “I apologize. I was expecting a call from someone else. Which reminds me—may I use this phone for personal calls?”

“You’re obviously doing so already, but don’t worry. Just remember to avoid saying things into the phone such as my name, and the names of others involved in our situation.”

“Sorry.” I took a swig of
mojito
.

“Can you explain who the man is in the picture you just sent? You didn’t include a text message.”

“He’s not of any significance to you! I was just practicing—” I paused. “How the hell did you get that picture?”

“You must have pressed ‘send.’ As I explained to you last week, the camera is wired to send files straight to my Blackberry. “

“Oh. I suppose you’re also interested in the bad news from Mr. Watanabe?”

Michael spoke rapidly, his anger practically flashing across the phone. “What bad news? I haven’t heard any news, and I don’t expect to get progress reports from him! You are the one I expect to hear from, and I wonder about the fact that you’ve been on location for over twenty-four hours and I haven’t heard a peep, just a photo of this Hispanic-looking guy holding a silver device that looks like a grenade—”

“It’s a cocktail shaker,” I said. “And Enrique’s a bartender, not anyone you need to worry about.”

“I see. So you’re in a bar again?”

“What do you mean by ‘again’?”

“Is it a situation where you can talk?”

I glanced around. At their table, the backpackers were giving a drink order to Enrique, so I told Michael about the auction, how I’d met Takeo but quickly learned about his engagement to the daughter of the minister of the environment.

“Aha. I know that name. He was in Japan’s diplomatic corps before. I ran into him once in the UAE.” Michael sounded as if his annoyance had ceased.

“UAE?” I asked.

“United Arab Emirates. It was during the first Gulf War,” Michael said. “And regarding this engagement, I’ll have our guys check it out. He might not really be engaged, but just trying to pull your chain.”

I snorted and said, “He declared the news right in front of Emi, and she certainly didn’t protest.”

“He spoke to you in Japanese?” Michael asked.

“No, he was speaking English, perhaps because he noticed that my Japanese isn’t as good as it was,” I said glumly. “But she seemed to understand completely. I also saw her ring and the way he looked at her.”

“And how did you feel about that?”

There was something in Michael’s tone that made me shiver, so I said briskly, “I’m upset because it greatly compromises my chances at succeeding. You know that I came here to do something, which I’ll still try to do, but with this gorgeous young girl around, the situation’s going to be little dicey—”

“On the contrary. Engaged men are easy marks.”

“Excuse me?”

“Men on the verge of losing their freedom do last-gasp, risky things. Why do you think bachelor nights are such an institution?”

Michael seemed as if he wanted to rattle on, but I noticed that Richard and Simone had entered the bar and were heading toward me. “Ah, I can’t really talk anymore.”

“Okay. Keep going, then, and make sure the next picture you send off into cyberspace is of something other than a frigging bartender.”

Very cranky
. I clicked off while Richard and Simone took off their raincoats glittering with water and came at me for a group hug that smelled of perfume and smoke, a strange kind of smoke I couldn’t identify.

“Rei, it’s been so looong,” Simone moaned in her pretty French accent and came in close to peck both sides of my cheeks. Then Richard rushed at me like a small blond whirlwind and kissed me long and hard on the lips.

“What was that about?” I pulled away, stunned by the unusual show of affection.

“Just trying to pull Enrique’s chain,” Richard said, smiling at his boyfriend, who was grinning at the three of us. “You’re a good kisser, Rei. We should do it again.”

“I’ll take a rain check,” I said uneasily, because Jürgen and his friends were watching with considerable interest.

“It’s the crystal,” Enrique said, coming in close and setting down a dubious-looking pink drink in front of Richard.

“Cristal? That doesn’t look like champagne.” I was confused by Enrique’s offering.

“Happy pills,” Richard said. “Also known as
shabu
or
yaba
around here. Enrique says I get wild when I pop one. But, ooh, is it fun. Teacher’s little helper!”

“It’s not an everyday thing,
chérie
,” said Simone, seeing the shock on my face. “But you know how it is. One of Richard’s students, he passed a tough English qualification exam, so he brought his sweet teacher a little presento.”

“I thought we could go dancing after this!” Richard bobbed his head back and forth. “Rei, I’ve missed you so much that I could almost jump your bones.”

“You’re gay, Richard,” I reminded my friend. Looking at him so ebullient and silly made me feel wretched. I’d missed Richard and longed many times for a heart-to-heart chat like those we’d once had as roommates in a shabby, cold apartment in Minami-Senju. Now, he had shown up for our reunion flying as high as a Boys’ Day kite. There would be no way to talk with him about the confusing situation I’d gotten into with Hugh, let alone anything else.

“Will you come dancing, Rei?” Simone purred. “Bar Isn’t It has a really good ladies’ night.”

“I just came in last evening. I don’t think I could make it, but you know, in a few days Angus Glendinning and his band will be here. Why don’t we go dancing that night?”

“Hugh has you by a ball and chain, huh?” Richard said. “I knew you should never have moved in with him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just I’m still going through jet lag and had hoped for a cozy night catching up.”

“Oh, of course! We don’t have to go dancing,” Simone said, shooting Richard a reproving look. “I have longed to talk with you, Rei, so many times. I don’t even understand what has brought you from Washington—”