The Bride's Kimono (6 page)

“Well, as I’ve been saying, we have a shuttle bus that runs to the Metro station and the mall twice an hour, but it just left. You could either walk or take a taxi. It’s about a mile from here.”

“Oh. Will I see you again?” Hana asked plaintively.

“Of course. I’m sure I’ll be back by four.”

“Can you meet me in the bar at four-thirty? We can go to happy hour somewhere.”

“Yes, happy hour is a tour option,” Mrs. Chiyoda cut in. “But please sign up in advance,
neh
?”

“Let’s find a bar that’s not connected to the tour,” I said to Hana. “
Ja, mata!
See you later.”

“See you later, alligator!” Hana replied, waving her handbag at me.

I found a taxi parked outside the hotel entrance. Five dollars to ride three minutes was an outrage, but at least I was on my way. In the light of day, I could see the landscape around me was even worse than what I’d seen in the evening. There were large plastic signs for steakhouses and massage parlors interspersed with office buildings. We passed a residential area completely made up of large new houses covered with aluminum siding. There were no trees.

The West Falls Church Metro Station looked about ten years old—big, brown, and boxy like everything else around the area. I had to admit I liked being able to ride an escalator down to the platform—in Tokyo subway stations, there were very few escalators. I spent a few dollars to buy a fare card I could use to get home, and I picked up a map to study during the ride into the city.

We were far enough out in the suburbs that the train was still not crowded when I boarded. I sat, marveling at the people around me. The houses in northern Virginia might have been homogeneous, but the people who lived in them weren’t. I was surrounded by every imaginable gradation of skin hue, and hair that ranged from ramrod straight East Asian to dyed purple to dreadlocks.

Following the concierge’s advice, I changed trains to the Red Line at a stop called Metro Center. Here the crowds were larger, and I had to squeeze my way up a short flight of stairs to the platform where Red Line trains ran. As I waited, I glanced at a giant television screen hanging over the platform. The screen said:
METRO POLICE FOLLOW ZERO TOLERANCE AND DO NOT ISSUE WARNINGS BEFORE MAKING ARRESTS
. I’d never heard of any ideology called Zero Tolerance. It seemed strange that police would advertise the fact that they were intolerant. What had happened in the years since I’d been away from America? In Japan, there were TV screens over train platforms, too, but their purpose was not to scare commuters, just to announce the trains and their destinations.

I made it onto the train without incident and got out two stops later at Dupont Circle without having witnessed any crimes. Still, the warnings on the TV screen made me feel relieved that I hadn’t had to carry the kimono with me on the Metro. They were safe with Allison Powell, and I’d be seeing them again in a few minutes’ time.

From Dupont Circle, I took a very long and steep escalator upward to Connecticut Avenue, which was jammed with every sort of store imaginable: bookstores, cafés, boutiques, art galleries. There was even a large store with a green awning that read
STARBUCKS
, the brand of coffee the hotel concierge had been drinking. Now I recalled that I had seen Starbucks in Japan, but I always figured it was too expensive to go in.

I turned my attention from the pleasant window scene of people drinking coffee and reading newspapers, in order to concentrate on finding Florida Avenue, where I needed to take a left. From Florida Avenue it was a short jog onto S Street, and then I was in the
Kalorama neighborhood, full of majestic early-twentieth-century town houses and tall, old trees in lush fall colors. Many of the houses seemed to have been converted into embassies or diplomatic residences; I could tell from the flags flying over porticoes and the people standing outside who looked like guards.

As I passed the embassy of Pakistan, I smiled at the mustachioed man pacing back and forth before the entrance, but he didn’t break his intense gaze. He was obviously keeping a lookout for terrorists. I hadn’t thought I looked like one. I was wearing sleek black Japanese pants that ended a few fashionable inches above my ankles, and black suede platform shoes. On top I wore a black-and-green bouclé St. John jacket my mother had handed down to me. The jacket was a little warm for the temperature, which was in the sixties, but I thought it was very ladylike—just right for the first meeting with Allison Powell.

I recognized the Museum of Asian Arts’ handsome brick town house from the night before. It was five to ten, so the huge mahogany door was still locked. Remembering what Joan had done the previous evening, I rang a buzzer and rapped hard on the brass knocker. After a minute, I saw a beefy pink face appear in one of the long leaded-glass windows that flanked the door.

“Are you expected?” the man asked. He was a different guard from the previous evening.

“Yes, I’m Rei Shimura, here to see Ms. Powell—”

Before I could finish, I could hear the man sliding the door’s bolt. “Fine. You can wait here and I’ll call her.”

“How was the ride in?” Allison called as she came downstairs.

“The Metro was great. From my experience in the limo last night, I get the feeling that driving around here is a nightmare.”

“Yes, yes, especially on the Beltway, the highway that
circles the city. How’s your hotel?” As she spoke, Allison beckoned me to follow her up the curving staircase to an area that was off-limits to the public. I assumed this was where the administrative offices were.

“Well, I’d hoped the Washington Suites was in the District, but aside from that disappointment, it’s fine. There’s a lot more greenery outside the Beltway.” Not to mention Kentucky Fried Chicken, McDonald’s, and Chi-Chi’s.

“Well, I can understand you putting your heart and curiosity into travel.” Allison sighed heavily. “I used to travel all the time, but I don’t anymore. It’s my job to stay here, take care of the textiles. In fact, we may as well get on with the routine of inspecting the kimono.”

“By the way, I don’t know if they told you that at the last minute they decided one of the kimono was too fragile to travel,” I said. “We made what I think is an excellent substitution.”

“No, they didn’t tell me anything; communication has always been a sore point between Mr. Nishio and myself, which is why I was relieved to get you as the go-between. Well, let’s open up what you’ve brought. The faster we get it all unpacked and documented, the quicker we can get it in the freezer.”

“Excuse me? Did you say the kimono would be frozen?”

“Yes. Jamie, who is our conservator, freezes every incoming textile for forty-eight hours, and then we gently vacuum it. The process usually kills any insects that might be present in the fabric.” As I gaped, she added, “We do this for
everything
. Not just items from overseas.”

“Do you think the Morioka Museum people approve of this technique? They’re awfully particular.”

“I know, low light, controlled humidity, all that. We
had to explain about the freezing a few years ago when Mr. Nishio and Mr. Shima came over with some other kimono. They understood. Anyway, our procedures were spelled out on the loan receipt. I assume they signed it and you’ve brought it with you?”

“Of course.” I handed her the envelope stuffed with documents as I began to open the boxes that she’d placed on a long table in her office. Wearing the cloth gloves that I’d brought from Japan, I showed Allison all Ai Otani’s
furisode
and the wedding kimono, and then brought out the kimono belonging to Mrs. Tokugawa and her daughter.

“So whose daughter was she really?” Allison raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “One never really knows, with these extended families and courtesan situations in old Japan. Maybe you’ve brought clothing that’s evidence of an early-nineteenth-century love triangle.”

“You and I might call it that, but the Japanese wouldn’t.” I perked up at her reaction, because I believed that clothes with an exciting personal story behind them would be good for the lecture. “I have a feeling there’s an interesting social history behind Ai Otani’s kimono, but the problem was, I didn’t find out much before I left Japan. I was thinking of going to the Smithsonian Institutions to do some research—”

“We have more on Japanese textiles than they do,” Allison said swiftly, and I realized I’d offended her.

After we’d both looked at the garments, I began to explain the kind of lectures I hoped to present. I asked, “Can you lend me a mannequin to dress while I give the lecture? I know you plan to hang the kimono that I brought, but if you can lend me a kimono from your collection, I could demonstrate kimono dressing for the audience.”

“Don’t tell me you can tie an
obi
in one of those huge butterfly bows?”

“Sure I can. I studied kimono dressing for a year at an academy in Tokyo. I can dress myself, too.”

“Fabulous. Wearing a kimono, you’ll be much more attractive than that stiff old Mr. Nishio could ever be. He was here once and he wore a very drab suit.”

“Did the Morioka ever tell you why Mr. Nishio couldn’t come?”

“They said something about needing to cover for another employee who’d be away on vacation. They were so terribly vague, and I couldn’t get anything more out of them. Did you hear something else?” She looked as if she’d pounce on me if I had.

“No, I didn’t. And I’m going to have to disappoint you about my wearing a kimono. I didn’t bring any of my own kimono to wear, just a suit for the daytime lecture and a little black dress for the VIP reception.”

“Oh, that won’t work at all.” Allison clucked her tongue. “The reason I wanted a young Japanese woman lecturer is that you can actually
be
what you’re talking about. Could you borrow a kimono from a relative?”

So she wanted me to present the stereotyped image of a proper Japanese lady—even though it was the twenty-first century, and only a small fraction of Japanese women wore kimono. Now I was starting to realize what I was being paid for. And if I wanted the money, I had to be agreeable. “I’ll check if I can have something sent from Japan. But it will take at least two days to get here, even with express mail.”

“Since the party’s in two days, you’d better call right away,” Allison said. “Please use my phone; we’ll happily take care of the long-distance charges, too. I’ll just call Jamie to check the condition of the kimono herself before putting them in the freezer.”

It was almost midnight in Japan, but that was no deterrent to telephoning. Everyone there seemed to stay up past midnight. Since there was a strong chance my friend Richard hadn’t made it home from the clubs yet, I decided to try my aunt Norie. She would be more reliable at putting together a kimono outfit that matched, and getting it quickly into the mail.

“Hai?” Yes,
my aunt answered on the second ring.

“I hope I’m not waking you.” I explained the situation, including that I would reimburse her for all the overnight mailing charges.

“What a lovely idea for you to dress in a kimono! But why don’t you wear some of my kimono? I have more than fifty resting in perfect condition in my
tansu
. Some of them haven’t been worn since I was a young woman, and the colors are just right for you—splendid purples and greens and reds. I have
obi,
underrobes, petticoats, everything you need. I think you left a pair of
zori
here after a tea party last summer. If they don’t match the kimono that I choose, I’ll buy you new ones. I remember you take the largest size.” My aunt sounded as if she were rummaging through her
tansu
full of kimono as we spoke.

I paused, deciding. My kimono collection dated primarily from the 1920s; all were historically interesting. However, these kimono had mostly been bought without coordinating sashes. When I wore them in public, with the various
obi
I’d bought at the flea markets, I’d occasionally get compliments on the rare mix of fibers and patterns, but I knew the Japanese thought my kimono were extremely odd. Buying a new set with everything coordinating cost upwards of $12,000, which was out of the question for my budget.

“That is really, really kind of you,” I said to my aunt. “If it’s not too much hassle, could you send me more than one kimono, just to be sure I have a backup? I’ll
pay whatever it costs for overnight shipment, plus insurance. And please be sure that what you send is formal—”

“Rei-chan, do not have a moment of worry. I even own a few
uchikake
robes formal enough for you to wear for your wedding with Takeo Kayama.”

“Um, isn’t it best to tap a stone bridge before crossing it?” I reminded my aunt of the popular proverb that urged Japanese to proceed with caution.

“Flowers on a high peak are still nice to pick,” Norie said, answering me with a favorite of her own. “Dearest niece, don’t imagine for a minute that I’ll send you a wedding kimono. Instead, I’ll send you three long-sleeved robes—
furisode
—suitable for formal occasions. How I wish I could see you dress like this more often, Rei-chan. Please have someone take a photograph,
neh?
”

We ironed out a few more details, and I was glad my aunt had offered to send three instead of two—this way, I would have a really good choice. When I hung up Allison Powell looked me over with a hard eye and said, “Your Japanese is excellent. Jamie had said the advisory committee member who recommended you told her you were fluent, but I know, from experience, that résumés often stretch the truth.”

“Do you speak Japanese?” I wondered how much she’d understood of my talk with my aunt.

“Oh, just enough to say hello to the ambassador. Which reminds me. In his entourage, there are a number of people who are less comfortable with English, so it would be lovely if you could speak both languages during your presentation.”

“I’d be happy to do that.”

The museum’s conservator, Jamie, turned out to be a strikingly pretty young woman with close-cropped blond hair. She was wearing a square-necked plain
black cashmere sweater with a matching skirt that showed off her flat stomach. What looked like Wolfords stockings covered her long slender legs—I was instantly jealous, because I knew the hosiery alone probably cost fifty dollars.

As if unaware of my inspection, Jamie looked over the kimono that I’d brought, then read the loan receipt.

“That bridal kimono you brought—it’s not on the loan receipt,” she said, sounding triumphant.

“I know that,” I said. “I already explained to Allison that one of the original kimono she wanted couldn’t be released, so I picked another one that worked in beautifully with the talk.”

“I don’t think John would like it,” Jamie said to Allison.