I took a deep drink of water, then put my glass down. “I can’t explain all the details, but believe me, they’ll know. I must go alone.”
“What do you mean, they’ll know?” Hugh sounded impatient. “And who the hell cares, anyhow? Rei, I want to go to Japan with you. You’re the one who made me fall in love with the country, and it’s just not been the same going on business there without you. You know how to read street signs and order theater tickets and all the—” he stopped, as if he’d finally noticed how grave my expression had become.
“I must go alone,” I repeated. “It will only be for a week, two weeks at the most. And if all goes well, I’ll get my visa status changed so I can return again, as much as I like and with you. We’re used to separations, sweetheart. I think we can manage.”
“I wish you’d let me go with you, but if it means that much to you that you go alone…I understand. Yes,” he said, his voice growing stronger, “I’ll keep the home fires burning. I’ll take a break from gadding about and put some extra energy into researching the case, which you know is greatly overdue.”
I looked at him, blinking back the tears that I felt. He was really hurt. I said, “You’re being very tolerant of the situation. Thank you.”
He snorted and said, “Well, the bosses you’ve got sound just the opposite, if they’ve made you this agitated and uptight about the trip. I certainly hope they’re paying you a living wage.”
“They’re sparing no expense, flying me over business class. You’ll have to give me tips, so I can fully take advantage of the situation—”
Hugh frowned. “The government doesn’t usually fly its employees business class.”
“Well, this is a special branch of the government. I mean,” I amended hastily, “because I’m a consultant from the outside, and not a federal employee, I get some perks.”
“Ask them to put you on one of the planes that have the seats that recline back like beds. If there’s fresh-squeezed orange juice, drink it. And don’t forget to bring home the comfort kit.”
The comfort kit. It would probably contain a little black eye mask like the one I’d been given on my birthday, a mask designed to help a person get some sleep—or to block out the truth about what she would have to do.
The next few days passed in a blur of travel and talk. I saw Chika off to visit my parents, and that very afternoon I took the Delta shuttle to New York, where I stayed overnight in the apartment of an old college friend before my big day at the Met.
There, I was able to look at and touch more Mesopotamian pottery, and I received an in-depth tutorial on the hand-shaping of vessels before I boarded the Metroliner to continue my journey. At the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the curator turned out to know all about color, and we had a delightful two hours going through the museum’s exquisite collections. By the time I showed up at the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore the next day, I was thrilled to examine an ibex pitcher that was a little bit younger than one missing from the museum in Iraq. Everywhere, people seemed surprised that they’d never heard of my being at the Sackler, but grudgingly came to accept that I was a new employee preparing to work on a forthcoming exhibition.
My time had gone so well that I was bolstered with enough confidence to spontaneously telephone my grandmother Howard, who lived in Baltimore, to say hello, and tell her I’d just been in town at the Walters. Grandmother Howard—Grand, as she wanted me to call her—was not easily impressed, but she was on the museum board, so I guessed that my visit there would please her. She was surprised but cordial when I called, and commanded me to meet her for lunch within the hour.
It was the first time I’d seen my grandmother in almost a year, I realized as I entered her favorite luncheon place, which was located in a pretty nineteenth-century town house just two blocks south of the museum on Charles Street. Grand looked just the same, with her fluffy white hair and a violet wool bouclé St. John suit. I hadn’t known that we’d be dining together, so I’d worn pants—but very nice pants, part of a fawn-colored Jil Sander suit that my mother had passed on to me.
My sharp-eyed grandmother immediately recognized the pants as my mother’s castoffs. After she had let me kiss her cool, powdered cheek she’d said, “I’d take you shopping for some new clothes, Rei, but the problem is that all the department stores have deserted downtown. Supposedly our new city government is putting on a renaissance, but how can you talk about renaissance when you can’t buy a decent pair of shoes or a skirt in a city?”
I smiled, thinking how like my mother she was at that moment—and also, how like me. I’d been frustrated with the shopping in Washington until a branch of the European retailer H&M had opened downtown. Aside from a Thomas Pink boutique in the Mayflower Hotel, there wasn’t much shopping for Hugh, either.
“Well, downtown Baltimore doesn’t look too bad, aside from the streets being torn up. This restaurant, for example, seems greatly improved,” I said, looking around at the restaurant, which still had its original black-and-white checkerboard floor, but repainted walls and an upgraded menu—a shift to mixed baby green salads with goat cheese from the molded chicken salad and tomato aspic platters that I recalled from childhood.
“I miss the aspic,” my grandmother said. “At least we have some of the same waitresses who’ve been here since the late fifties, which is a comfort. Now, tell me about your browse through the Walters. I hope you caught the Renoir exhibition because it’s only here another week.”
“It was my first time there since they opened the Asian wing, so I spent all my time there,” I said.
“The Asian wing. Yes, I suppose you would like that best.” Grand sounded disappointed in me, as always.
“I’d love to hear about what you’ve been doing at the museum, and your other civic involvements.” I wanted to change a loaded topic.
“Fund-raising and more fund-raising! It’s supposed to be fun to give money away, but the situation’s gotten bad in the last few years. Museums, theaters, all the places devoted to culture are falling by the wayside.” She sighed. “So you said to me on the telephone your visit here was because of your new position at the Smithsonian?”
“Technically I’m a consultant,” I said, “not a regular staffer. If this first assignment goes well, perhaps they’ll ask me to do more.”
“It’s good for a woman to have a flexible kind of job, especially after marriage,” Grand said. “And that wedding of yours, it was supposed to happen a few months ago, wasn’t it? Your mother told me that something came up, but I’m afraid I never understood the real reason.”
“We both got cold feet.”
“So, has Hugh returned to his home in Scotland?” Grand raised the thin, silver shadows that were her eyebrows.
“No. Despite the canceled wedding, we’re still together.”
“Still together? But the engagement’s broken, you said. I’m afraid that I don’t understand.” My grandmother pressed her thin, peach-glossed lips together.
“There’s no more to understand than that. We choose to live together, in Washington, for the time being.” I was trying to remain patient, but I had an urge to flee.
Grand shot me a look over the menu and said, “It’s a question of morals, don’t you think?”
“My morals are fine. In fact, I’m feeling so moral today that I think I’ll start with the morel mushroom soup. What are you having, Grand?”
Later that evening, when I was telling Hugh about my experience over a quick supper of scrambled eggs, he was more charitable toward my grandmother than I’d been.
“Just think of the disappointments in life she’s suffered, Rei. Her only daughter went on to move so far away, and now her grand-daughter’s showed up so terribly briefly—and cheated her of the fun of a wedding where half the gents would be wearing kilts.”
“I haven’t seen you in your kilt for a long time,” I said, looking at him.
“Perhaps I’ll break it out of the mothballs while you’re away and go dancing,�
� Hugh said, picking up our used plates and putting them in the sink.
“Sure. I’ll get it for you when I’m in the storage closet hunting for my suitcase.”
“A suitcase? Can’t you do with a carry-on if the trip’s just a week?”
“There’s never enough room for shoes and clothes in a carry-on,” I said. Actually, my carry-on would be jammed with all the important things related to the job—a tiny handheld computer capable of wirelessly connecting to the Internet, a miniature digital camera, an entire dossier of papers and pictures related to the ibex vessel, and the itinerary for my stay. I also was carrying reference books and the Meiwashima auction catalog, because I’d be attending the auction to evaluate Japanese antiques for sale as part of my cover.
“I’ll lend you my new carry-on, then. I managed to cram it with three suits, a pair of wingtips, and my trainers on my last trip to Asia. I’m an expert at packing.”
“Yes, you are,” I answered, knowing that I could not let him anywhere near my luggage. Subterfuge was difficult, I decided as I brought over to the sink the last few dishes from the table. “Speaking of travel, have you heard from Angus?”
“Yes. He’s added another week of shows before flying on to Asia,” Hugh said. “All things considered, he’s had a good experience in the states. Thank God he wasn’t arrested that night. I still can’t believe the cops let them off.”
“Justice works oddly in our nation’s capital.” I yawned, thinking that I’d finally found the right place for the bugged bonsai: the fire escape, where it would have good sun and could pick up the sounds of burglars, not us. Michael had agreed to take the bug off Hugh’s phone once I’d left for Japan. I was pleased at how readily he’d agreed to that until I realized there were almost certainly listening privileges attached to the cellular phone he’d given me.
“I’m worn out from my travels. I think I’m going to bed,” I said.
“How tired, exactly? Shall I draw us a bath?” Hugh turned off the sink and put his arms around me. I lay with my head against his chest for a minute, enjoying the feeling of warmth and strength. It was nice to rest quietly for a minute, knowing nobody else was in the apartment. I could have easily just gone to sleep, but I had a sense Hugh had different plans.
Hugh slipped into the bath after me, and made it clear quickly that he intended to turn it into an outpost of a Japanese soapland. But it was easy to be seduced this way: pretty soon we’d tumbled out and had utterly soaked the sheets of the bed. I closed my eyes as his mouth began a familiar southward trek. In the span of a few minutes, all the city-to-city rushing and the long plane flight ahead of me were no longer things I was worrying about.
I twisted away from his mouth and climbed on top, the perfect position to take what I wanted. And Hugh loved it, too—I caught him watching me intently as I moved through the paces of pleasure.
“I’m memorizing you,” he said, his hands tracing my breasts. “I don’t ever want to forget this.”
“Don’t, then,” I whispered just before I came, the pleasure radiating outward like a stone dropped from tremendous heights into a quiet lake. Afterward, I lay with one leg crooked over him, thinking about going to the bathroom to clean up, but feeling too weary and relaxed to move. “That was different.”
“How so?” Hugh stroked my hair.
“You never talked about memorizing me before.”
I felt his body stiffen against me, slightly, although his voice remained as warm as ever. “I’m sorry, darling. It’s just that I have a rather melancholy feeling tonight.”
“I’m sorry. I thought it was good for you, too.” As I spoke, a chill settled across my skin, raising goose bumps. Could he have seen through my half-lies and figured out the truth about the creepy job I was going to perform?
Hugh took a deep breath and said, “I have a feeling that you might not—return to me.”
“But of course I’m coming back! I have a round-trip ticket, open return, but you can imagine what the museum would do if I just went over there and blew them off.”
“Right,” Hugh said absently.
I hadn’t understood his fear, obviously. “Do you mean—you have a fear that my plane’s going to crash?”
“No, no, no! I’m sorry to be such a fool about it.” Hugh slipped his hands over my buttocks, pressing me closer to him. “I suppose I’m anxious because this is new for me, being left behind. I don’t want to stop you from going.”
“I will come back to you,” I said firmly. “And you’d better believe that this was not the last time for us in bed or I’ll—have to put you through the drill again, right now.”
“Heaven help me,” Hugh said, sounding happier. “Give me a break, Rei. There are four more nights.”
Four more nights.
We used them all.
9
The situation at Dulles Airport was chaotic, with my navel ring setting off the metal detector. This, in turn, inspired a pat-down body search and the unpacking of my luggage. I was very glad that I hadn’t packed the Gorgonzola cheese that my aunt had wanted me to bring to her, because I could only imagine what the Japanese authorities would think when I arrived, eighteen hours later, smelling like it. Michael had cautioned me that an official passport was not a diplomatic passport; I was subject to search just like anyone else.
By the time I reached the departure gate, I found out that they’d given my business class seat to a salesman cashing in his frequent-flier upgrade. I started arguing with the flight attendant about the loss of my originally designated seat, not understanding that they’d put me in first class.
“Listen to me, Miss Shimura,” the flight attendant said, as slowly as if she were talking to a child. “You go two rows up front, you get the ice cream sundae. You get the champagne. You get any damn thing you want, practically, but you do not have the right to yell at me.”
I looked at her, a blond woman about ten years my senior, but made up to look twenty years younger. Was this my future? I thought bleakly as she waved dramatically at the first-class cabin where a few Japanese and American businessmen sat in solitary splendor. So, it was a perk; maybe because there was something special about my ticket, or maybe because I had come off like a cranky old lady.
As I settled in, the Japanese businessman who’d had a newspaper on the empty seat next to him looked disappointed to be losing the space.
How much did a seat like this cost? I wondered if there was some kind of State Department code in my passenger profile. The seat had been booked by an agency called S.A.T.O., which sounded Japanese, but turned out to have something to do with the government. Well, it was an agency I’d have to try to use again—if I had the chance.
I took a long, full sip of Veuve Cliquot and watched Virginia drop away below me. The sky was deep pink, darkening to purple. By the time we got to Tokyo, it would be eighteen hours later, and then, I was sure, the luxury would end—I would strap my suitcase onto the wheeled carry-on and hazard my way into Tokyo on a rush hour train. I’d be exhausted, but I’d be in the country I loved most. That was something to drink to any day.
I slept, surprising myself. When I awoke, the businessman was staring at me. He looked away quickly, then returned his gaze.
“Did you take a good rest?”
I nodded. I didn’t usually talk to people on planes, given the trouble talking had caused me in the past. This man—round-faced; sleepy-eyed; wearing an expensive, conservative business suit—didn’t seem like my cup of tea, especially since he reeked of whisky. I looked away, but still he persisted. “You sleep six hours, I think. We are only two hours from Tokyo, now.”
“Isn’t that nice,” I said in Japanese and opened my Meiwashima catalog.
His eyelashes fluttered. “You speak Japanese?”
Welcome to the land of lost identity, I said to myself. In the United States, if people didn’t think I was from Japan, it was because they knew for sure I was from China or Korea. To Americans, my identity was clearly Asian,
never mind the half of me that was as WASP as Grand’s favorite tomato aspic. It was the same in Japan; even after I’d spoken, I was always pegged a foreigner.
“A little,” I replied, because I realized that now he really might not let me alone. I stuck my face back in the Meiwashima catalog, which of course was in Japanese, with only about ten percent of its written material comprehensible to me. My aim had been to study the catalog with a kanji dictionary at my side, decoding the information on the artworks that looked sufficiently superb to consider bidding on. But now I realized I’d have a helper hovering nearby who would wind up making me feel embarrassed about what I didn’t know.
“Ara, Meiwashima. That’s a fancy sale,” he said. “But everything is—old! Do you like old Japanese things?”
“A little,” I repeated, but this time in English—increasing my distance. “Excuse me, please. I would like to get up for a minute.”
He got up with a creak and let me past, but when I came back from the spotless first-class lavatory, he made me step over his legs. I knew the trick—a chance to fully evaluate, and perhaps bump into, a woman’s nether parts—so I made a point of going in face forward, and turning around in my seat.
“Can you read those kanji? Most foreigners cannot read,” he said when I picked up the catalog again.
“The truth is, not very much. I may just put it away and sleep some more.”
I slapped my CD player headphones on my ears and turned on my Rilo Kiley CD. Then I closed my eyes and listened to “Portions for Foxes” over and over until I fell asleep. When I finally opened my eyes again, the music was over and a bell was dinging overhead. The Japanese businessman and the nine other male passengers in first class were rising up into the aisle, collecting briefcases from overhead. I looked out the window into the grayness of Tokyo. It was late afternoon, the same time as when I’d left, but it was a new day.
Everywhere, the customs lines were long, except for the one that I was going to—an almost empty channel reserved for diplomats, or people like me who were lucky enough to have passports with a visa inside detailing an attachment to the American Embassy in Tokyo.
The Typhoon Lover Page 7