The Bride's Kimono (4 page)

W
hy had I thought Takeo was giving me a ring? He’d never said that he loved me. For that matter, I hadn’t said this to him, either. I wasn’t sure how I felt, especially now. All I knew was that I hoped I wasn’t becoming as conventional as the stereotyped office lady with hopes of a wedding at the Prince Hotel and a honeymoon in Guam.

I shuddered as I gave Mr. Morita my carry-on to hold as we both went downstairs to pay departure tax and pass through customs. The process was as smooth as silk. Mr. Morita presented the papers from the Morioka, and the customs official greeted him, if not as an old friend, at least as a business acquaintance who he knew and trusted. The papers were stamped, and Mr. Morita zipped them carefully into the outer pocket of my carry-on bag, for me to present at Dulles Airport customs when I arrived. That was it.

As we waited in the airline’s lounge for the plane to board, Mr. Morita acknowledged that the seats I’d booked in the 747’s upper compartment were a good out-of-the-way place to sit. He reminded me not to tell anyone what I was carrying. If a flight attendant challenged the fact that I had the boxes seat-belted into the seat next to me, I was to present her with a letter explaining the importance of my mission. This way I would not have to speak, and nobody would overhear anything about the items I was carrying.

When the call came in the passenger lounge for the preboarding of small children or those needing special assistance, I rose to my feet and bid the customs broker good-bye. As I walked down the runway, I realized that it had been over a year since I’d last been on a plane. A smell of plane air—a mixture of new-car scent mixed with fuel and something stale and indescribably unpleasant—wafted out to me.

“Do you need help taking your carry-ons upstairs?” a flight attendant asked instantly upon seeing me laboring under the two boxes and backpack.

“I’d better not,” I said, climbing the spiral staircase precariously with the two boxes in my arms. I knew that I couldn’t let anyone else hold the boxes. The brief episode with Takeo had made Mr. Morita frown. I
hoped he wouldn’t repeat the story about Takeo touching the box to Mr. Nishio.

When I was safely at the top, I found my two seats. I stacked the boxes in the seat by the window, wrapping a seat belt around them so they sat up straight and securely. Then I began rifling through my backpack for my lecture notes. If I got tired of practicing my talk, I would read my dog-eared copy of
The Makioka Sisters
. I’d finally finished
Tale of the Genji
and had moved on to this classic early-twentieth-century novel about an Osaka family’s four daughters, two of whom were married and respectable and two others who were in need of suitable partners. The subtle humor and domestic details in this book were delicious, but it was still a dense, slow read.

“You’re in my seat.” The words were spoken slowly and spaced apart, as if the talker, speaking American English, thought I wouldn’t understand. I looked up at one of the American men with marine haircuts that I’d seen at the departure gate.

“I believe this is
my
seat,” I replied politely in English. “I bet you’re in the row ahead of me. It’s sometimes hard to match the numbers overhead with the seats below, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so. I’m 28A.” He stared me down in a belligerent way. Somehow, a name flashed into my mind—Lieutenant Commander Ashburton. The American who’d tricked the Otani family into giving him a superb kimono collection for a winter’s worth of rice and coal.

“That’s my seat number as well. Hmm, the airlines must have made a mistake.” I was still trying to keep things harmonious; how Japanese I’d become.

“Can I see your ticket?” he demanded. I sighed heavily and fished around in the outer pocket of my back-
pack to find my boarding pass. Yes, it said 28A. I handed it to him, and his jaw began working.

“Damn it,” he said. “If I don’t get out of this country within an hour, I’m going to go nuts.”

“Don’t worry. I overheard that the flight isn’t that crowded.”

“Yeah, but I want this seat. I used to fly fighter planes. I like being up high. Tell you what—why don’t you take the seat next to me? Then you can work it out with whoever else might come along.”

I was losing my patience. I said, “Actually, I’m booked in these two seats.”

“Whaddaya mean, booked into two seats?”

“I have the seat that I’m in, and the boxes are riding in the window seat.”

“I thought all baggage had to be safely stowed underneath the seat or in the overhead compartment. FAA regulations!” he added nastily.

I wasn’t going to explain that I was a fine-art courier to the man; he was probably the kind of person that museum people worried about. I pressed the bell for a flight attendant, and the woman who had helped me with the boxes came halfway up the stairs.

“Hello,” I called out to her. “There seems to be a mix-up with our seat assignments.”

“She’s in my seat,” the military man said. “I got assigned 28A, and I need to stay here. I used to fly fighter planes and I like being up high.”

“Well, I paid for two seats to be together because of my special baggage.” I handed her the letter Mr. Morita had given me.

The flight attendant read the note and looked anxiously at me. “Madam, I understand your need for two seats, and the flight’s not completely full. Let me find another seat for you, please.”

I spoke to her in Japanese, keeping my tone light and pleasant so the man would have no idea of what was going on. “Why would you suggest moving me and my boxes—two seats’ worth of travelers—and leave him behind with an empty seat next to him? You’ll have to do much more work. I was in the seat first, anyway. Remember how much trouble it was to move all the boxes up here? The gentleman is the one who should move.”

“Madam, I can tell from your ticket that you booked with See America Travel. Most of the tour group is sitting below. I’d like to find two seats for you there, among the ladies, who are very pleasant. Please wait just a moment while I clear two seats for you. Miss Kimi, please give both customers a glass of Dom Pérignon.”

“I don’t want champagne,” I said. “All I want is a seat for myself and for my boxes.”

“Shh, shh. We’ll take care of you.” Kimi lifted the boxes out of my arms and set them securely atop a cart. I kept my eyes on them until the lead flight attendant returned. She was smiling at me.

“There is room for you in the central cabin,” she said. “One of the passengers has volunteered to move so that your boxes can have the window seat. The center seat was open anyway, so you can sit there.”

“Is it business class?” I asked pointedly.

“No, but I’m so sorry about everything, I can give you a coupon entitling you to an upgrade to business on your return trip—that was supposed to be economy,
neh?
”

I felt jerked around, but at the same time I was glad to be getting away from the man; I wouldn’t be able to close my eyes for a minute with him next to me and my precious boxes. Especially after knowing what had hap
pened to the Otani kimono collection, thanks to an enterprising military man.

Downstairs in the main cabin, most of the passengers had their eyes shut and were sleeping. It was just like the Tokyo subway. The flight attendant pointed to the area where she hoped to place me. As she’d promised, the center and window seat next to a young woman were free. I’d noticed her when we were checking in, because she’d had a Walkman on, and her eyes were closed as if in rapture. Her hair was obviously dyed, a chestnut brown a few shades lighter than my natural brownish-black color. The woman’s eyes were circled with eerie, glittery eye shadow that gave her the look of a raccoon—a rather trendy look for teens and young twentysomethings. I’d seen the look on members of Morning Musume, a popular all-girl singing group whose CD case she was opening up as I squeezed past her with the boxes to sit down.

When I’d gotten settled and the flight attendant had left, the girl turned to me. “Are you on the See America shopping tour?”

“Yes. There was a mix-up about the seats. I hope you don’t mind my coming in next to you.”

“It doesn’t matter. My friend from the office who came with me got to go into first class, where the food’s supposed to be really good. And maybe she’ll pick up a rich businessman, too—she could use some company!”

“Oh, really?” I laughed uneasily.

“Yeah. By the way, my name is Hana Matsura. What’s yours?”

“Rei Shimura. Thank you so much for letting me come into this row, Matsura-san. You gave up space to have me here; I feel like I owe you a glass of wine.”

“Call me Hana. That’s what they do in America, right? Everyone calls by the first names. And I already
have a drink.” Hana grinned, toasting me with the half-full glass of red wine that had been on her tray. “Should I call the hostess to get you a glass?”

“No, I’ll just get some when they serve dinner.”

“What’s in the boxes?” Hana looked eagerly at the stack on the window seat.

“Just some souvenirs for my family.”

“They’re such nice, big boxes. I guess you can use them to bring home any extra clothes that don’t fit in your luggage.”

“Yes,” I answered, thinking this girl was exactly the kind of person Takeo couldn’t stand. “I take it that you’re going to spend a lot of time at the Nation’s Place mall?”

“I am. It’s my last trip before my wedding next month.”

“Congratulations. What a happy time it must be,” I said, thinking that the last thing I’d want to do is take a transatlantic trip before a wedding. It seemed like a stressful, tiring action.

“I never thought I’d find a man like my fiancé.”

Again, a reference to men. I knew she wanted to keep talking, so I said, “What is he like?”

“Well, Yoshiki is about five feet ten inches tall, and he has very nice hazel eyes—about the color of my hair, actually. He grew up in Yokohama, like I did, and he went to Keio University. He’s been at Sony in the marketing department ever since college graduation. He likes to drive cars, watch television, and sing karaoke in his free time.”

“Does he like international travel, too?”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t want him along on this trip. I’ve only known him a few months.”

“And you just decided to get married?”

“No, we made the plan the third time we met. Our marriage is
o-miai,
if you hadn’t already guessed.”

She was talking about arranged marriage. While plenty of people in Japan had love marriages, unions arranged by parents or professional matchmakers were still popular. I couldn’t quite understand it.

“You look so modern and with it,” I said, gesturing toward her brilliant makeup. “I’m surprised you’d agree to
o-miai
.”

“It’s boring at my company. Marriage will give me the freedom to do whatever I like when Yoshi is not eating or sleeping.”

“Are you going to live with your in-laws?” I asked, thinking to myself that her plan might not be so appealing to the older generation.

“No. Yoshi has been with his company eight years now, so he’s got a decent salary. We’re going to buy an apartment. I’m so excited about that! I can see it in my mind—a tall white building, a high-class one, where nobody can hang out shabby futons. I’ll have lots of windows and an all-white interior. Everything new.”

“Maybe you can buy a nice white wedding dress while you’re in the States,” I said.

“I don’t need to. I’m renting all that stuff. What I’m going to buy in Washington are purses and shoes. Accessories are the most important investment a woman can make.”

“I never thought of accessories as investments,” I mused. So this was what was driving Japanese women to shop so hard—a dream of private investment. A way to achieve power when nobody took them seriously.

“Accessories are important,” Hana said firmly. “But don’t worry, I won’t be working too hard at shopping. I also will find a playboy. Hopefully one in Washington, and one in Los Angeles—we are stopping there for shopping on the way back.”

I was confused again. “You mean…you’re looking for a magazine to bring back to your boyfriend?”

“I’m looking for a guy to sleep with. You know, my last fling before I get married.” She laughed at my expression. “What do you think our fathers and bosses are doing on their business trips to Thailand? They’re looking at more than their companies’ factories. If men can stretch their wings, why can’t women?”

“But you found someone to
marry
. How good can it feel to have sex without emotion?” I was thinking about how things had gotten with Takeo lately.

Hana smiled at me. “Don’t worry about me. You are a good girl, aren’t you? I can tell by the way you’re taking such special care of your parents’ presents.”

My back prickled at her mention of my packages. Was I just being paranoid?

“What are you thinking about?” Hana asked.

“Oh, just that you’re funny and not at all shy,” I said quickly. “You’ll do well on this trip to America.”

“I speak English, too. Want to hear? ‘Hello, sexy. Your place or mine?’” Hana yawned and stood up. “I’m going to the toilet anyway. Wine runs right through me.”

She wandered off, and I opened my notebooks and began the task of running through the translated notes about the kimono. They were all about thread content; not the information that I thought would really interest people. I would keep my fingers crossed that at the museum libraries in Washington, I might locate sources of information about the lives of Tokugawa women and Ai Otani.

“Still working on your papers?” Hana asked when she came back.

“Mmm-hmm,” I said, closing up the work I was doing.

“What’s your job, by the way?” she asked, sounding casual. It was a personal question, though; people didn’t ask such things upon first meetings in Japan. They relied on learning the truth through a business card.

“I deal in clothing,” I said, thinking that that word was less provocative than “antiques.”

“Wow! Are you a department-store buyer? Will you buy clothes wholesale in the U.S. to sell back in Japan?”

“No. I’m doing—research.”