The Flower Master (Rei Shimura #3) (8 page)

"Your work is extraordinary," I said, wishing there were American-style assertiveness-training courses in Tokyo that Mari could benefit from. "If you made more of them, I'm sure lots of people would buy them."

"Ceramics is just a hobby," she demurred.

"You're more of a professional than a hobbyist," I insisted.

"Not many people share your opinion." Mari kept winding the vines as if she wanted to avoid my eyes. "Actually, I don't feel like talking today. I am mourning Sakura-san's passing."

Sakura had been so unfriendly to Mari, but I could understand why she was upset. I was apologizing for my intrusion into her grief when Aunt Norie suddenly appeared.

"Your friend Eriko hasn't arrived yet," I said.

"Then that leaves the two of us!" Norie said. "I'm so glad you came to help."

"If there is anything I can do, please tell me," Mari said. "My work is almost finished, and I have plenty of vines."

"We'll see," Norie said, striding back to our designated site. Once there, she bowed and greeted all the women working around her. She was making a tremendous effort to appear normal, and it was all for nothing. All the women bowed back, but they didn't answer her with any customary pleasantries.

"I don't like these lilies," Aunt Norie said to me when it became clear that nobody was going to talk to her. "They look too old. I'm glad I brought some extra flowers from my garden."

She showed me a pail of Japanese irises: dark, velvety purple blossoms still tightly furled. I breathed a sigh of relief at not having to work with the yellow lilies from my bad dream. But first we had to thoroughly wash the bamboo, then cut each stalk to a prescribed length, removing the membrane inside so it could be filled with water. It was two hours of backbreaking work in a large tub set up in a staging area behind the main gallery, but at least it put us out of the eyes of the silent flower arrangers working around us.

When we came back to the front of the room, we arranged the bamboo in an upright semicircle, and I used an electric saw to trim the bamboo into a wave- shaped design. The easy part would be to fill each bamboo stalk with irises, then add a few harmonizing curves of Mari's vines.

"This isn't what you planned, is it?" Natsumi Kayama pointed a French-manicured fingernail at the rippling lines of bamboo. "Koda-san told me about your original plan, but this is different."

"The florist sent lilies that were not worthy of the exhibition, so we have improvised," Norie said in the falsely cheerful voice that had been driving me crazy.

"Somebody's going to have to rewrite the place card going in front of the flowers, because it says lilies, while you're really working with rabbit-ear irises." Natsumi sounded aggrieved.

"Actually, the flower is roof irises," Aunt Norie corrected.

"How many kinds of irises are there?" I was amazed.

"Our school's ikebana handbook lists seven. There is dwarf iris, and fringed iris, and Dutch, German, and Japanese varieties," my aunt counted. "Anyway, I will take care of changing the place card."

"Oh, no, the calligraphy must be consistent!" Natsumi would not relent. When I'd first met her and she clued me in on my ruined stockings, I'd thought she was being kind. Perhaps she'd done it because she delighted in pointing out flaws or was obsessive-compulsive.

Striving to distract her, I said, "You have so much to do, Natsumi-san. It must be really tiring to be here after all your hard work in the women's designer section."

"The Nicole Miller dress display." She made a face. "The bouquets I made for it are supposed to make shoppers aware of the exhibition. It's rather pointless work."

"I don't think so!" Norie said, as if to make amends.

"Young women aren't going to want to spend the time or money to walk around our exhibit." Natsumi was filling out a new place card for our installation, drawing clear kanji characters with a green marker. "They'd rather spend a thousand yen at Mister Donut."

I thought of my own recent meal at the local chain. Was Natsumi also a fan of their French crullers? Her stomach was so flat, it didn't look as if there was room for even one.

"Attracting young students is a challenge," Aunt Norie conceded. "In my generation, most girls in their twenties had to study ikebana."

"That was because they had to get married," Natsumi said. "Didn't you study in order to catch your husband? And then once you had your children, you stopped. Because your nest is finally empty, you've come back like all the others."

"I have always loved ikebana." Aunt Norie's voice shook slightly. She was not afraid to show her displeasure with me, but it seemed that she was being very careful with Natsumi Kayama. "Even when I could not travel to the school, I practiced at home."

"My aunt has her own group of students," I said, feeling defensive of Norie. "Several women come to her house to study each week. She's a real professional."

Professional. I had just used the word with Mari Kumamori. Even though Mari and Aunt Norie were called housewives, they were certified teachers of flower arranging. The problem was that they gave the token payments from their students straight to the Kayama School. From listening to some of the other flower arrangers' conversation, I'd learned that everyone making flower arrangements in the exhibition had paid a fifteen-thousand-yen "creative fee" to the school. I would have to figure out a way to reimburse Aunt Norie, who had paid my fee in advance. It pained me to think she had spent close to $250 just to be twitted by this bitchy young woman into whose pocket the money was headed.

* * *

Leaving Mitsutan an hour later, I caught a glimpse of a TV camera crew outside the main doors. They must have been denied access upstairs and were simply waiting for Kayama School flower arrangers to emerge. Fortunately, my cousin Tom had brought the family car to the store's underground parking lot. I said good-bye to him and Aunt Norie, sure that they'd escaped media scrutiny.

Now it was my turn to be evasive. I turned around from the main entrance and found a discreet employees-only exit.

"No hablo Japones," I said loudly, deciding to pass as a Japanese Latina when the guard tried to stop me. I was in a Latin mood, thinking of my plans for the evening. Richard had insisted we meet at Salsa Salsa, a Brazilian bar that had just opened on the edge of Nishi-Azabu, a posh neighborhood slightly east of Roppongi. At home I changed into a short, flaring red slip dress appropriate for Salsa Salsa, if not my emotional state. I hunted for a pair of sheer stockings without any snags; not finding any, I went bare-legged. This was a bit unusual for Tokyo, where women wear pantyhose under shorts in ninety-degree summer heat. The temperature had gone down into the fifties, so my legs were chilled, and my bare feet stuck to the lining of the black patent sling-back pumps, making squishy sounds as I walked. With luck, the bar would be noisy and nobody would hear.

Salsa Salsa was in the basement of a dull, boxy retail structure that looked like many other buildings on the southeast side of Roppongi-dori. Stuffed parrots guarded the turquoise doorway, which was appropriate given that the band playing that night was called the Lovely Parrots. A Japanese Latino man looked me over before waving me inside. The cover charge was normally two thousand yen, so I was glad to get in free. Entering the room, which was gaily decorated with bright wooden carved animals, I pressed my way past the salsa band and through the mix of good-looking, young Japanese career people and foreigners.

At the small, polished teak bar, Richard was talking animatedly to a handsome bartender who looked barely twenty-one. There was a queue of people waiting to place drink orders, but the bartender's ear remained close to Richard's mouth.

"You're early, Shimura." Richard looked annoyed when I gave him a friendly punch in the biceps. "You're also wearing my favorite dress. You must want something from me."

I ignored his meaningless flirtation and asked, "What's good to drink here?"

"The Caipirinha. It's a Brazilian drink made with lemon and sugar and lots of love, right, Enrique?" Richard spoke in Japanese to his new friend.

"The liquor is called cachaca." Enrique shook his head, making the large gold hoops in both ears dance.

"Do you speak Spanish or Portuguese? I asked Enrique in Spanish.

He looked surprised. "Spanish. I'm from Peru, not Brazil."

"That makes you a Perujin, doesn't it, Enrique?" Richard asked.

"They call me nikkei Perujin—Japan-related Peruvian. I'm not a regular gaijin like you, little blond one."

"I find dark men attractive. Rei doesn't. For her, it's always been the whiter the better."

"That's not true! I've had three Japanese boyfriends, but none of them worked out," I explained to Enrique in my high-school Spanish. "May I have a Caipirinha as well?"

"A good stiff drink after finding a good stiff body," Richard said to me in English. "You told me that was a cutthroat class, but I didn't know you were speaking literally."

"Let's discuss it elsewhere." I didn't want the whole bar to hear my sad story.

"He doesn't speak much English. Just Japanese."

Enrique went to the other end of the bar to get lemons and was immediately accosted by his long- suffering line of customers. Richard gave me a quick embrace.

"Sorry. I joke like that, you know, to make things seem better."

I let myself be held for a minute, relishing the human contact that I had so infrequently these days. "Well, things are terrible. And as for my aunt—you should see how she's covering things up, coasting along and insisting on taking part in that ikebana exhibition at Mitsutan."

"That sounds smart," Richard said. "What do you want her to do, hide in the suburbs? If she stays isolated, she could have a nervous breakdown."

The Lovely Parrots were doing a loud cover of "Macarena." A group of office ladies jumped into a line and began dancing in front of the band. The young salarymen at the bar surveyed the women moving like a line of matched dolls, arms rising and falling to reveal perfect bosoms, bodies turning to show off slim behinds. They watched without approaching. Only a gauche foreigner with a telltale Marine crew-cut dared to jump in the middle of the girls and dance along.

"Norie's all alone out there. My Uncle Hiroshi is still in Osaka, and my cousin Tom's always busy at the hospital. I invited Aunt Norie to stay with me," I told Richard.

"She'll drive you crazy!"

"Well, she's not coming. She thinks it will draw the press to me, and she's probably right. Tom drove her home from the Mitsutan exhibition. I can only hope they don't get ambushed."

"Did they attack you?" Richard gestured to my hands, which he had been stroking. They were crisscrossed with tiny scratches I'd received while stripping the bamboo.

"No, this is from working with bamboo. I need to go back tomorrow to make sure the arrangement still looks okay."

"Poor baby. You shouldn't let your aunt boss you into doing things like that."

"In a Japanese family, you have to listen to your elders," I reminded him.

"I don't let my family control me," Richard said.

"Oh, really? Then why does your cousin Lila Braithwaite think you're straight?"

Richard flushed deeply but didn't say anything. When Enrique came back with the drinks, Richard began whispering in his ear. Feeling like the proverbial third wheel, I gazed around the room until I caught a glimpse of a booth with a coat peg on the side. Hanging from the peg was a denim jacket decorated with distinctive embroidery. I craned my neck and saw the environmental activist Che Fujisawa sitting in the booth, staring at, but not touching, a plate of food in front of him.

I stared at Che, thinking about how he had criticized my aunt for being a member of the Japanese bourgeoisie. According to the menu, the rice and beans he was going to eat cost twenty-three hundred yen. He was a real hypocrite. All thoughts of social class faded when I saw Che rise and greet the person he was going to have dinner with—someone I'd considered his enemy.

Takeo Kayama wasn't in his corporate drag, but a black T-shirt and what looked like 1950s Levis—the kind Japanese people pay $700 for. Being in the antiques business, I could evaluate old textiles pretty well. As Che filled Takeo's glass with beer, I watched incredulously. Then I realized I'd better get out.

I nudged Richard, who was writing down Enrique s phone number on the back of his hand. "I've got to go. I see two men who mustn't see me." I envisioned Che leaping up and coming after me, and Takeo sneering at the ensuing melee.

"Which men?" At last Richard raised his head. "You haven't dated in months. Of course you should let these men see you."

"Adios," I said, standing up.

"No, I'm not letting this opportunity slip by. Enrique and I will make you look popular." Richard slid off his barstool and grabbed me around the waist. "Recognize the song?"

"I don't know how to do the Lambada. Seriously!" The only thing worse than having Che and Takeo see me hanging out at the bar was being spotted making a fool of myself.

"I adore serious, clumsy girls. Enrique, can you help?" Richard curled his index finger toward the bartender.

"He's working," I pointed out.

"This is my break time for relax." Enrique laid his cocktail shaker aside and swept out from the bar to join Richard and me.

"Oh, good." Before I knew it, they were sandwiched on either side of me in the middle of the dance floor. As they gyrated toward each other, grinding me in between, some of the office ladies looked envious. I looked stupid standing still, so I danced awkwardly on my three-inch-high patent leather pumps.

I tried to escape when the song ended, but another one began. Enrique tried to teach us both the mMerengue, holding hands with Richard and trapping me in the middle. The other customers were laughing and clapping. Then the music changed abruptly to U2. Or rather, the Lovely Parrots slowed down and began singing 'Discotheque' in a mixture of English and Spanish. The shift in rhythm gave me a chance to slide out from between Richard and Enrique's sweaty bodies. Richard pinched my arm hard but whispered in my ear, "Good luck. Now you're the belle of the ball."