The Typhoon Lover

by Sujata Massey

  “He has a number, yes! And here is your paddle!” the clerk answered brightly.

  “Sorry to bother you, but what is his number?” I said, slowly taking the paddle numbered 53.

  “It’s not a problem for Kayama-san; he already knows the number. He already registered,” the clerk answered.

  “We are old friends, and I do not want to bid against him. For that reason I would like to know whether he’s placed any absentee bids on any of the items in today’s sale.”

  “Yes, he has. But it’s against the rules of our auction house to give direct information on a particular customer’s interests.”

  “Oh, is that so? I apologize. Well, then, if you don’t mind, I’ll take my paddle.”

  “You already have it, Shimura-san. And why don’t I give you this brochure, which explains our company rules in detail.”

  I turned away, not wanting them to see the blood that had rushed to my face. I’d screwed up in front of gossipy antiques people. I’d come in looking so proper, wearing the claret-color St. John suit Grand had sent from Neiman’s right before the trip; the suit was so grown-up it made me look over thirty, which actually was my goal. But now—I’d lost my advantage by behaving like a kid.

  The setup for the auction was a high stage with multiple televisions suspended from the ceiling over it, for close-up views of the items to be auctioned. There was a table where small items would be placed for viewing, and a podium on which the auctioneer would stand. In front of the stage, tight rows of small gilt chairs waited for the audience. Most of the seats were filled; I realized that because of the long time I’d spent in line, it was only twenty minutes until the auction started.

  Mr. Watanabe walked along the side of the room, as if unaware of my presence, though I knew, from a cell phone call I’d gotten while waiting in line, that he’d seen me. I made a slow circle around the room’s perimeter, seeking out the items that had the highest estimated values in the catalog. Takeo wouldn’t bother with little things, and neither would someone who was supposedly buying for the Sackler.

  One of the most confusing elements of the viewing—something I anticipated because of my past experience at Meiwashima—was that not all the items for sale were Japanese. For instance, there was a huge, fantastically carved four-poster bed—Chinese, I’d figured out from the catalog copy, although to me it looked like the stuff of fantasy in an Arabian Nights.

  I moved on to ceramics. My interest was caught by a graceful Momoyama period vase with a mottled gray finish. This was the kind of thing that I should be interested in.

  I asked a young man wearing the severe black suit that was the auction house’s uniform to open the case. He paused until I reminded him that the house rules stated that auction attendees were allowed close examinations of goods for sale before the actual event took place. Apparently not many of the shop owners bothered.

  The young man’s eyes were wary as he placed the vase on the examination table in front of the case. I sank into a deep squat, a posture of which my fitness instructor would have approved, and took out the tiny digital camera-phone, but before I could use it, the man stopped me. Apparently, I was breaking another one of the rules.

  I put away the camera, feeling irritated and deciding that I wasn’t certain the piece in front of me was as old as estimated. Although the Tokyo antiques-dealing community had an overall good reputation for honesty, some Japanese potters were so traditional in their approach to hand-shaping and firing that it would be quite possible to pass off something newer as older. Only very subtle clues could tell me whether the vase was likely to be as old as the catalog said.

  I stared at the vase, and in my long moment of indecision someone brushed past, causing me to lose balance and pitch forward.

  My life flashed before my eyes as I struggled to keep myself from knocking against the vase. But the young man had it in his hands. All was saved, though I looked undignified on my hands and knees on the carpet.

  “My God!” I exclaimed, so discombobulated that I accidentally lapsed into English. Immediately, I switched to a Japanese apology.

  “It’s okay,” the young man said, his voice shaky. “That other customer was hurrying by very quickly. It was not your fault.”

  I slowly came up to a standing position. My dodgy right knee was going to trouble me for the next few days, after the way I’d smashed onto the floor. No more runs through the city for a while, but that was a small price to pay in exchange for not being responsible to Meiwashima Auction Gallery for $50,000 worth of damage.

  “Do you still want to examine it?” the man asked, as if he’d noticed that I was backing away from the vase.

  “No, thank you,” I said faintly. I’d had enough excitement, and I planned on taking a seat, one close to the back of the room, to watch the proceedings. But as I headed toward my seat, I shot a glance toward the young woman who’d almost caused the accident. Too young to be a buyer, she was probably somebody’s clueless child, I thought with irritation. She was tiny—barely five feet tall, I thought, and absolutely adorable in one of the new Pucci print dresses that I’d seen in magazines—far too expensive for me to ever contemplate buying. She must have had it altered to fit her tiny frame. I watched her raise an arm as long and thin as a Pocky Stick pretzel to wave.

  I followed the direction of her wave but couldn’t figure out to whom she was beckoning. But then my attention was suddenly drawn away, because among the people seating themselves in the audience, I’d caught a glimpse of a familiar profile.

  I had already seated myself in one of the few single seats left—this one between an elderly couple there to see the sale of a prized family heirloom, and a flinty dealer from Kawasaki. For this reason, I was hesitant to leave my seat, but I strained for a better view of the man in question. Not until he turned his head, so that I could see his face in full, did I recognize Takeo pointing to the seat next to him.

  Suddenly, I felt very hot. My sweat glands had gone into over-drive. Why would Takeo be coaxing me over? Had he learned that I was asking after him, and actually been pleased?

  “Meiwashima Auction Number Fifty-seven is about to commence,” a voice droned over the speaker system. “Our staff respectfully requests that you make sure that you bring your paddle with you and that your financial details are registered with the office before you sit down.”

  Takeo’s expression was almost affectionate, a surprise to me given the way we’d parted. The warmth made him look even more handsome than he’d appeared at first glance. My job was going to be difficult indeed, with Takeo still shooting me such a sexy come-hither look.

  I had just gathered up my bag when I noticed that the girl who’d tripped me had entered Takeo’s row. Mouthing obvious apologies, the girl slowly proceeded along the line of patrons, all of whom stood up for her in a massive show of Japanese courtesy. At one point, she stumbled slightly against an older lady. Perhaps her collision with me had been not a matter of carelessness but a lack of coordination. But then all my theories vanished, replaced by shock as the girl settled happily into the place that I’d mistakenly thought Takeo was saving for me.

  11

  Takeo had a girl.

  Friend?

  No, I decided as I saw his arm slip around her shoulders.

  Girlfriend!

  I thanked God for the second time in ten minutes, but this time silently. Thank God I hadn’t embarrassed myself by trying to take her seat. From my spot, I watched the girl tilt her face up to Takeo and giggle about something, to which he gave a gentle, reproving shake of the head.

  The auction was starting, so I tried to concentrate on the point of the evening—making an appearance as a serious potential buyer. It was advantageous that Takeo would see me in this light, especially if Takeo wanted the vase. My interest in it—perhaps bidding for it at the start, then gracefully giving up—would be at least a conversation opener for the two of us.

  Three hundred items were listed for sale, and the wait for item
159 was long. The auctioneer’s pace was considerably slower, and more genteel, than what I was accustomed to in the American auction houses that I frequented. Still, it was a good thing I was there for the whole auction, because just thirty items in, Takeo’s girlfriend started whispering to him, and he put his hand up for the Chinese bed.

  I sucked in my breath. What was Takeo, who always had been happy with a basic futon, doing buying a bed? Was he—buying it for her? Various confusing scenarios ran through my mind as Takeo kept his hand up while the bed’s price rose from 200,000 yen to 1 million. He was the only one left at that price, plus the auction house premium of ten percent. As the auctioneer called out that the item was sold at 1 million yen plus ten percent commission, Takeo’s girlfriend bounced excitedly in her chair.

  I’d thought I’d been through enough surprises, but five minutes later, a regal, blue-and-gold export Imari dinner service for twenty set off more tugging and whispering. Takeo’s hand rose again. He got it for 500,000—a steal, but then, not many Japanese gave big dinner parties. I didn’t understand why Takeo, always so private, would want to buy a restaurant’s worth of matching china. It had to be for the girl, not for him.

  An intermission after the first 100 items gave me a chance to make my move. Takeo and his young friend had risen, too. She was tugging at his hand, as if she wanted him to go back to the display cases, so I headed that way, too. As I walked, I tried to look as if I were immersed in the catalog, so it seemed natural for me to almost, but not quite, bump into them.

  “Pardon me—oh, hello!” I exclaimed, feigning surprise. “It’s been a long time.”

  Instead of answering me, Takeo walked past, dragging his girlfriend along with him.

  Maybe he hadn’t realized I was speaking to him. I hurried after the couple, and tried again. “Takeo-san, I don’t know if you, ah, recognized me—”

  My use of his first name couldn’t be ignored. The girl’s mouth hung open in a little violet O while Takeo answered.

  “Shimura-san, of course I recognize you. I’m a little busy right now, though. Will you excuse me?” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket.

  “No telephone use allowed in the auction house except for employees,” one of the auction helpers said, miraculously materializing. For the first time that evening, I thanked the powers behind the Meiwashima Auction Gallery for the rules.

  Takeo snapped his phone shut. He looked from me to the girlfriend, and then back at me, obviously unhappy.

  “I’m back from the United States.” I’d decided to play the part of an old friend to the hilt. “It’s so good to see you! I’d love to catch up on old times—”

  “Circumstances make that difficult,” Takeo said coldly.

  “Really? What’s going on with you these days, besides taking over your father’s flower-arranging school?”

  “I’m getting married. My fiancée and I are just picking out a few items for the house.”

  I was aware that Takeo was watching me closely for a reaction. I was determined not to look as pained as I felt. I unclenched my jaw and offered congratulations.

  “I’m surprised you were allowed back into Japan so quickly,” Takeo said, his words cutting. He knew what had happened, even though he and I hadn’t seen each other at all during that last time in the city.

  I shrugged, trying to seem casual. “Well, my client has some clout—the Sackler Gallery. Do you remember? It’s part of our group of national museums that you visited when you were in Washington—”

  Takeo interrupted me swiftly. “Unfortunately, we must excuse ourselves, Shimura-san. Good luck.”

  “What do you mean? The sale isn’t over yet—” Takeo’s fiancée began in a baby-pitched voice.

  “Dinner with your parents, remember? I was just about to call them to find out where they are. Let’s go outside to make the call.”

  The princess was digging her long, lavender-glossed nails into Takeo’s arm. “But I want to stay longer. We need a few more things.”

  “Your father wants to pick us up early. He’s anticipating traffic problems because of the rain.” Takeo smiled at her in a way that made it seem like the sun breaking out over Mount Fuji. I looked away from that smile, just as I had looked away from the great, glaring diamond on the girl’s tiny hand.

  “But we at least have to pay for the bed and the china,” she pointed out.

  “I’ll do it by telephone. Oh, I see your parents already.” I followed his gaze to a couple in the doorway. The woman was stout for a Japanese woman, but elegantly dressed in a tweed suit, with a frozen-in-place, slightly bouffant shoulder-length hairdo that I’d noticed diplomatic wives seemed to favor. She bowed slightly as she approached us. The man at her side was about the same height—about five-six, a standard height for Japanese men of the older generation, and thin. He wore thick glasses and a dark suit. He didn’t look glamorous at all, but he was obviously well known to the Meiwashima staff because the people who had checked my name against a list were bowing deeply and ushering him in.

  I could have stayed and forced Takeo to introduce me, but I could imagine how awkward things would get. And the fact was that Mr. Watanabe was heading toward the parents, smiling and nodding.

  Remembering what Mr. Watanabe had said about keeping away from each other, I took this as my cue to leave. I made my bows to the betrothed couple and quickly passed by the parents and went out of the auction.

  I’d gone so hastily and in such a state of confusion that it wasn’t until half a block later, when I was soaked in pouring rain, that I realized I needed an umbrella.

  12

  Mr. Watanabe caught up with me a few minutes later in the alley where we had arranged, over the phone the previous evening, to meet after the sale. He appeared under a large black umbrella, which he held over me as we spoke. He was being so gallant that I was ashamed to even begin to tell him about my breach of etiquette, but I did, sparing no details. When I was done, Mr. Watanabe didn’t immediately comment, but instead told me about the girl and her family.

  Takeo’s fiancée was Emi Harada, daughter of Kenichi Harada, the recently appointed minister for the environment. He was also a former diplomat, so the two men had crossed paths before and had exchanged greetings at the sale. Yasuko Harada, Kenichi’s wife, was an active flower arranger and the patron of many social welfare causes. As her daughter would soon be, I thought to myself. Takeo, despite his radical tendencies, had chosen for his bride what Japanese for centuries had wanted: the youngest, purest woman with the most elite pedigree. But I should have known all this. I asked Mr. Watanabe why I hadn’t been warned about Takeo’s engagement.

  “Unfortunately, her name never appeared in any information I received,” Watanabe said, his eyes wide. “And, when I was speaking with her father just now, he said nothing about the engagement to me. Are you sure it’s the truth?”

  “She was wearing a huge diamond ring on her left hand,” I said. “Surely there must have been an announcement of it somewhere, in the newspapers or something—”

  “I don’t think so. Can you read Japanese newspapers?”

  Of course I couldn’t. I stood there, the rain hammering my umbrella, hammering me with the realization that I’d forgotten how everything worked in Japan, from buying fish to auction rules and relationships.

  “I suppose you’ll have to make a meeting with him again,” Mr. Watanabe said.

  I would have thrown up my hands if they hadn’t been engaged with the umbrella and my backpack. “It seems impossible. I explained to you already that he was very unfriendly.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s not the case. This was just a first meeting. I’m sure the next one will be more harmonious.”

  “It won’t work. He’s moved on, and I’m just a reminder of old times he’d rather forget.”

  Mr. Watanabe looked grave. “Do you feel that you cannot do the job that you said you would?”

  I looked down at the pavement. How fast would he fly me out of Japan—
on the next day’s flight? It was entirely possible. I breathed deeply and said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t effective tonight. I’ll try again.”

  “Gambatte!” he commanded, then tapped the end of his umbrella on the concrete, and walked on.

  Later, as I sat at the Brazilian mahogany bar in Salsa Salsa watching my old friend Enrique muddle together lime and rum to make a welcome-home mojito, I thought about the significance of Mr. Watanabe’s parting command: gambatte, the imperative form of a uniquely Japanese word, gambarimasu, which meant “give it your all.” People said Gambatte to you before a test or a sporting event. Gambatte was about responsibility to someone else, your parents or your teammates or your school. And, in this case, both the U.S. and Japanese governments.

  I sighed and pulled the tiny telephone camera out of my purse. First, I entered the password I’d come up with—TAKE0, in honor of the mission. The zero I’d used at the end instead of the letter O escaped my mind on the first try; but then I remembered it and entered the password again, and the screen flashed “ready.”

  Time to practice. I aimed the instrument at Enrique and punched buttons until I saw his smiling image appear on the tiny screen. After I’d taken the picture, I admired it for a while. I’d gotten him dead center, and with his eyes open. For me, this was a very good first photo, with a machine that had seemed unfathomably complex during the hour that Michael Hendricks had attempted to explain its use. I remained confused by the many buttons on the tiny camera. In fact, I wasn’t sure if I’d just saved Enrique’s photo or deleted it when it abruptly disappeared from the screen.

  “That’s a cool phone. Or is it a camera?” A strange accent on my left made me jump, and I turned to see one of the backpackers from a group that had been sitting together. I’d noticed them when I’d come in and made the mistake of smiling a brief hello.