The Flower Master (Rei Shimura #3) (26 page)

"The celadon is marvelous," I said. "And you've got so much variety in color. Was that difficult to achieve?"

"Some parts of the kiln are hotter than others, and that affects the color. I used the very same glaze for all of them." She gave me a nervous half smile.

"May I show you what I've brought?" I unwrapped one of Mrs. Morita's plates.

"This looks like a sometsuke porcelain dinner plate. Do you have more?"

"Three more, all identical. None of them has a stamp on the bottom. Do you think it looks like it's from Imari?" I inquired.

"Yes. It's definitely Imari made during the Meiji period. I think that it should retail for about fifteen thousand yen per plate. If only you have ten. You could sell such a set for at least one hundred and eighty thousand."

"How do you know that?" I was amazed at the way Mari had ticked everything off so quickly.

"I grew up near Imari village on Kyushu. My family has been potters for six generations. We don't make blue and white porcelain, though; we specialize in celadon."

"Koreans are famous for celadon," I said, a bit confused.

"We are the ones who brought the tradition to Japan." Mari had opened up the box she'd carried in and taken out a long sausage of wet clay. She stood at her worktable, wedging the clay as she spoke. "The potters were kidnapped from Korea and set up in villages in Kyushu, where they were forced to make pottery for their Japanese lords."

"And your family learned the art from the Korean potters?" I sensed that she was deeply sympathetic to the group.

Mari continued pressing and turning the clay, fashioning it into a shape that looked something like a chrysanthemum. "We are Korean. Didn't you know?"

I was thrown for a loop. "But your name is Japanese."

Mari shrugged. "My married name. And I don't even speak Korean. Yet I was fingerprinted in childhood. I don't have a regular passport. And I never could rent an apartment or buy a house without a Japanese guarantor."

These were the same hassles I went through as a foreigner in Japan. But Mari had been born in Japan, so it seemed blatantly unfair. "What's your maiden name?" I asked.

"Nagai. My family took a Japanese name, and throughout the years we have intermarried with some Japanese. But the government still has records showing our family line is Korean. I met a fully Japanese man who fell in love with me when he was on vacation in our region. We married and I moved to Tokyo. His family would not allow my name to be listed in their family registry. So even though I'm called Kumamori, it's not really official. And it's why I haven't had children. Because of his parents' feelings, they would not be allowed into the family register."

Mari's story about unfriendly in-laws was similar to Aunt Norie's. However, because Norie was pure Japanese, her story had a happy ending. Now I wondered why my aunt, who had never said anything against Mari, yet wasn't her friend. Could she be prejudiced?

"Shimura-san, don't look so sad." Mari seemed to sense my discomfort, because she smiled at me. "I'm proud to be a Korean Japanese. That's why I make celadon porcelain. It relaxes me, brings me closer to my family so far away."

"You've never brought the celadon to ikebana class."

"No. I bring the dull-colored stoneware ones that fit the motto 'Truth in Nature.'"

Catching the resentment in Mari's voice, I ventured, "Do you think things at the school are different for you because you're Korean?"

Mari slapped the clay hard. "Sakura never liked me, and I guess that she heard rumors or did some research. She asked me to stay after class one day two years ago. She told me that I should drop out and switch to one of the other schools because the Kayamas had never granted a teaching certificate to a Korean. Then she added something like, 'It's a matter of kindness that I'm sharing this information with you. I don't want you to waste your time.'"

"You could have gone to Mrs. Koda."

"Koda-san comes from an old samurai family. She feels the same way about Koreans as Sakura-san."

"But you're so good—and the higher you rise in the school, theoretically the more money you bring to the Kayamas. Which student level are you?"

She smiled tightly and said, "The final stage before the teacher's certificate. In fact, during the past two years, I have been repeating the lessons in book four. At the end of the lessons comes the examination for a teaching certificate. I've taken the exam three times but have never passed it."

"Is this the exam where one's arrangement is identified only by number? Where one stands waiting outside the classroom while the teachers examine the flower arrangements?"

"That's just how it's done." Mari sounded glum. "The strange thing is that when I returned to the classroom after waiting outside, I saw that the flowers in my vase looked even worse than I remembered. Somebody tampered with the arrangement so that I wouldn't pass."

"Do you think it was Sakura?" I remembered how she had rearranged my own awkward attempts with cherry blossoms and made the arrangement truly awful.

"Of course I've thought of it. But I had no proof." Mari took a rolling pin and began rolling out her clay. "And now, since she's dead, things might change for me. I could take the examination in two months if I wanted to."

I did not like to think that Mari might have wanted the chance to take the test so much that she'd kill Sakura. Fearful of my face giving me away, I changed the subject. "Did you ever hear of a type of ceramic called Kayama ware? Some containers were made in the 1930s for the school."

"I've never heard of it." She didn't raise her eyes from the container she was hand-building. "Did you bring an example?"

"No," I said, not wanting to tell her too much. "I think this kind of ware is more colorful than the containers the headmaster prefers us to use. You might like it."

"My pottery is influenced by many periods, but the twentieth century is not one of them." She placed the container—a long, narrow vessel that reminded me of a canoe—on a plaster board and went to a sink to wash her hands. "If you like, I'II show you what I have in the house."

We left the pottery and went into the house through an unlocked back door. The interior was not as gaudily Western as the exterior. I noticed handsome Korean tansu chests with typical butterfly metalwork in the living room. I had been thinking about collecting Korean furniture, but didn't have much more room in my apartment.

"I really like this furniture. Are they your family's pieces?"

"Some of them. Others we bought. Fortunately, my husband also really likes Korean furniture." She slid open the door to one tansu to reveal tidy rows of old cups, plates, and bowls. Some of them were celadon; others blue-and-white. It was a smaller collection than I had, but much older and finer.

"You chose these yourself?" I asked.

"Yes. You will notice there aren't any sets. I buy singles, which are more affordable." She reached into the back and pulled out a plate that was similar but not identical to Mrs. Morita's. "This is the other reason I'm so sure of the age of the plate you brought me. "

"Too bad it doesn't match. We could make a larger set and sell it for a bit more money," I mused.

"I'm not interested in money," Mari reminded me.

"How admirable." Suddenly I felt embarrassed that I'd made the suggestion. She was different, far less materialistic than I.

"Your mission to see me was not very successful," Mari said. "I'm very sorry."

"Actually, I learned a lot. And don't worry about my problem with the Imari plates. I think I'll return the unlucky consignment to its owner."

"Won't you have a cup of tea before you leave?" Mari asked.

Something about the way she kept glancing out to the kiln told me that she was anxious to get her containers fired. I shook my head and said, "You've been very kind. I'll just see myself out through the garden."

On the way out I passed the little shrine with the ceramic bears. When I'd first looked at them I thought they were smiling, but on reexamination they looked as if they were snarling. Or maybe it was just my paranoia.

Back home in Yanaka, I popped into the Family Mart to see Mr. Waka. As I came through the door, he looked up from restocking the Lotte gum display and smiled.

"Busy last night, neh? I hear you solved a crime."

"Who told you that?" There had been nothing in the papers. One car colliding with a light pole didn't warrant a story.

"Some policemen came into the shop to ask about a towing service. I told them about my brother, of course. While they waited, they discussed among themselves how you had identified sharp tacks lying on the street. The litterbugs in this city are becoming a real menace!"

"Whoever dropped the tacks wanted Takeo Kayama to crash his car. Did the police talk about that?"

"They were arguing about that idea. One policeman said he thought so, but the others thought it was just chinpira playing." He tore open a pack of strawberry- flavored gum and gave me a stick.

Chinpira were junior gangsters, the kind who were trying to become full-fledged members of the yakuza. I said, "If they were chinpira, they were hired by somebody to do the job."

He raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps. Between crime fighting and haiku study, I don't know how you have time for your antiques business."

"I don't. It's a problem." I chewed the sickeningly sweet gum, wishing I could take it out of my mouth but not wanting to offend him.

"So, what's the new haiku? The one you telephoned me about?"

I didn't have the poem with me, but I knew the words and recited them.

"Oh, the old poem about the girl who gets caught up in the wind. I believe the poet might be Gyoutai. He lived in the eighteenth century and is not as popular as Basho."

I filed this away for follow up. "Tell me, do you find the line
'the girl is pushed
' to be ominous?"

Mr. Waka paused, then shook his head. "No, the poet means she is pushed by the wind. It means her hair and kimono were disorganized."

"Is that a normal poetic metaphor?" I pressed. "Might it have another meaning?"

"These poems are very common, as I told you before. They're in schoolbooks. Now, if you want to learn more haiku, you should take a night class at our community center!" Mr. Waka's eyes glowed. "My brother is on the board and can give me a schedule."

"Thanks. Well, I'm sure I'll have another haiku to ask you about in a few days."

"What does that mean, in a few days? That's not a serious study plan. You must work at haiku every day. I would like to hear your own verses."

"Someday," I promised, thinking I'd be as likely to compose a poem about blossoms as to write an article on Kayama ware for
Straight Bamboo
magazine. In other words, not likely at all.

* * *

A new letter had been slid under the door of my apartment. I felt unnerved, because now it seemed certain that I was the intended recipient, and not my aunt. But I could cross Mari Kumamori off the list of suspects. It was not likely that she had raced me back to Tokyo to plant the letter while I was spending five minutes with Mr. Waka.

I put on my gloves, opened the envelope and read:

Gaikotsu no
Ue wo yosoute
Hana-mi kana

This haiku could have been written in homage to the innocent cherry blossom-viewing taking place at Yanaka Cemetery. But I found it chilling.

Viewing the blossoms
Spread in festive apparel
Above the dead bones.

I placed the poem and its envelope into the plastic bag that held the earlier haiku about the beautiful girl being pushed. I didn't need help from Mr. Waka for this one. I thought of my other old friend, who needed my help: Mr. Ishida. I dialed Ishida Antiques once more, hoping that he would have recovered enough to answer. He did.

"You're home safely!" I said.

"More or less. My eye is going to be fine. I have a corneal scratch, which is very painful, but with time it should improve. I am very glad, because for someone who makes his living with a magnifying glass, the loss of an eye would be catastrophic."

"I'm very sorry I dragged you out last night. If I had left well enough alone, nothing would have happened."

"It was the right thing," Mr. Ishida replied. "When Kayama-san says that his family's Kayama ware is gone, I believe him. On the other hand, it could be true that the consignor brought me Kayama ware that was not from the school's archive. I need an official registry of the collection to make sure that I am not making a mistake."

"Why don't you just let Takeo buy the containers? He doesn't care what it costs to get the containers back."

"It would be unethical for me to sell to him, Shimura-san. How could I expect a crime victim to pay for goods stolen from his own home?"

After more discussion, there was still no way out of this etiquette conundrum. I said good-bye. Then I telephoned one of the funeral florists in my neighborhood and asked them to deliver to Mr. Ishida a springtime arrangement that did not look funereal, with a get-well card from Takeo and me. Four thousand yen poorer, I made myself a cup of beefsteak-plant tea and brooded.

I needed money. Although I still had the equivalent of ten thousand dollars in my savings account, and much more in the untouchable Hugh Glendinning furniture fund, I hadn't earned money since my poisoning. I hadn't seen any private antiques buyers, and the antiques shop owners I'd talked to hadn't been interested in my inventory.

The Sunday morning shrine sale might be a good place to sell my wares directly to the public. I didn't really want to do it, because if my acquaintances saw me selling my wares from a tarpaulin laid out on the sidewalk, I could be pigeonholed as a lower-class dealer. My business card described myself as a purveyor of fine antiques, not flea-market goods.

I looked at my calendar. This weekend the traveling association of dealers who ran the sale was going to be at the Togo Shrine, a prime location near the international neighborhood of Omote-sando. If I could get in touch with the organizers, I might be able to make the Sunday sale.