The Typhoon Lover

by Sujata Massey

  “We weren’t the problem,” Sridhar said, staring at me in a way that seemed almost reproachful. “You were.”

  “Oh,” I said, starting to feel worried. If my face was in the paper, it would probably fan the flame of the man who was chasing me, and any of his colleagues as well. But who would have photographed me? “Did somebody take a picture of us standing around that poor girl who was passed out on the street?”

  “I can’t believe you haven’t guessed.” Sridhar’s tone had turned from cool to frigid.

  “I don’t want to guess. Let me see!” Suddenly, I was frantic.

  “Yeah, where’s the infamous snap?” Angus was rummaging through his own copy, a perplexed look on his face. Apparently he hadn’t known that in Japan, the back page of the paper is the front.

  “Page three,” I said, feeling dead. “That’s usually where the scandal stories and photos are placed.”

  “Bingo,” Angus said as I leaned in to inspect the close-up black-and-white photo of a man and woman.

  It was bad. The couple in the picture were Takeo Kayama and myself, at the very moment at which Takeo had tripped toward the duck pond and I’d attempted to stop him and wound up in the water, too. The photographer had captured the two of us in each other’s arms, laughing, and improbably surrounded by fluttering ducks. I didn’t have enough time to decipher all the writing underneath, but I did make out my name and Takeo’s, both spelled correctly.

  “Who’s the arsehole?” Angus finally said.

  “His name is Takeo Kayama. He’s an old friend.”

  “A boyfriend, according to the papers,” Sridhar chimed in. “Son of the eighth richest man in Japan, who only the day before was mourning the death of his fiancée.”

  “I didn’t know you could read Japanese,” I said.

  “I can’t!” Sridhar retorted. “Chika translated the story for me over the phone.”

  “I had no idea someone was watching us with a camera,” I said. “If only they’d come up and asked for an interview, I could have easily explained. We weren’t hugging. It was actually an accident—he, we, fell into the pond. The ducks took off because of a light—damn it, that probably was the first camera flash! I remember more light going off when we were in the water, but I just didn’t make the connection.”

  “Why were you having a walkie-walk by a duck pond with a guy who just lost his fiancée?” Angus demanded. “You’re making a bloody fool of my brother, not to mention yourself.”

  “Takeo needed help, Angus. I’d just gone there to help him. And this picture—well, it will be even worse for him than me, if you can believe it.” I put my face in my hands, wishing everything would go away.

  “Go on, hide your face!” said Sridhar. “I would too if I committed such a devious deception!”

  “The way Hugh talked about you to us…” Angus drifted off, sounding heartbroken. “He loved you more than life itself, and I know he thought you were going to Japan to work, not to become a total slapper!”

  I looked at both of them, knowing the worst part was that I couldn’t protest. There had been a one-night stand, and that was essentially the same thing as an affair. I stood up and attempted a wry half smile. “I never thought I’d get a moral lecture from two guys in a rock band. Sumimasen. I’ll just get this crap out of my hair and I’ll leave.”

  “So, where are you going?” Angus asked. “To this Takeo dude?”

  I wiped away a bit of the foamy substance that had dripped underneath the shower cap onto my forehead. “No, I’m actually leaving town for a while. This kind of—misunderstanding—and the snap judgments of people I considered my friends make me realize I’d rather not stay around. I’ll—I’ll just go into the bathroom and rinse this stuff out—I’m supposed to rinse it out, right?”

  “Yeah,” Angus answered, not even looking at me.

  “So that’s why you’re changing your hair color.” Sridhar snapped his fingers. “New bloke, new look, eh?”

  “It’s not because of him.”

  “Like I said before, I liked your hair the way it was,” Angus said.

  When I came out of the bathroom again, they were gone: to Sridhar’s room, maybe; or to one of the other guys, I wasn’t masochistic enough to hunt them down to say good-bye.

  Aunt Norie silently answered the door when I rang. I’d said “Tadaima,” the phrase that meant, “I’ve returned home,” but she had not answered with the corresponding “Okaeri nasai.” I was not welcome. My suitcase had been packed and was standing next to the front door.

  “You changed your hair color,” my aunt said dully. It figured that even if she didn’t want to talk to me, she couldn’t resist criticizing my appearance.

  “I did it because of the man who followed me last night. It’s supposed to wash out after a week or two.” I hadn’t left the color in long enough, or combed it through right, because the end result was a horrible hodgepodge of black and red chunks.

  “Oh? You mean you didn’t do it because of what’s in the papers and on television?”

  “Obasan, please understand that Takeo and I are not in a relationship,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “We had met at the park to chat and didn’t know we were being followed by a paparazzo. I was trying to help Takeo when he tripped into a pond, and that’s all the picture shows.”

  “On the TV news this morning, they called you the ducky lovers,” Norie said, her distaste clear. “A reporter even interviewed the taxi driver who took us to Emi’s memorial service. He said you and Takeo had a passionate discussion right outside the family house!”

  “I didn’t want to keep that driver waiting around. I knew he was a gossip—”

  “Oh, don’t blame him. It would come out anyway that you were the girl who was banned from Japan, the girl whose return resulted in the death of a young bride-to-be—”

  “I didn’t kill Emi,” I said, my heart pounding. “Is that what they’re saying?”

  “No, but it’s just a matter of time before someone asks. That policeman yesterday evening was probably genuinely looking for you to question.”

  “Maybe so, but I doubt it. And the truth is, through this all I was only trying to help—”

  “To think that I let you convince me to arrange a meeting with Takeo-san at his office, which started all the trouble!” Aunt Norie’s voice rose into hysteria. “I’ve already spoken with your uncle and cousin about this. I fear we’ll never be received socially again, and it could affect their jobs—”

  The sad thing was that she was right. “Well, there’s one way Japanese people have always survived socially, when a family member misbehaves.”

  “I’m not going to kill myself over your—your ridiculous actions.”

  “Of course you won’t,” I said. “But you can cut me off. Disown me. Not have me as a niece anymore.”

  Norie blinked, and I could see tears in her eyes. “I would never do that.”

  “I think you should if things are as bad for you as you’ve just said.”

  “Rei-chan.” My aunt took a shuddering breath and seemed to calm down slightly. “I didn’t intend to speak so sharply. You are one who makes mistakes. But you weren’t brought up here. There’s so much we should have taught you, that we haven’t done.”

  “It’s not your fault. And I’m sorry I dragged you into the matter with Takeo.” I picked up my suitcase. “Do you know if my passport’s in here?”

  “I double-checked that it’s in the front pocket. But where are you going? Not back into Tokyo, I hope, because that’s where the press is crawling, looking for another chance to catch you doing something silly.”

  “I’ll be miles away, where nobody expects to see me,” I assured her. “And when I come back, I promise that I’ll figure out a way to make things right.”

  35

  When I first visited the island of Kyushu, I was on a holiday with my parents, buying pottery. The part of the daylong train ride I remembered best was passing Mount Fuji—how the faraway
snow-capped mountain grew in size as I badgered my parents about getting out to climb it. But the train raced by, Fuji was gone, and I was heartbroken. So all the time we’d been in Kyushu, wandering through tiny, one-restaurant villages that did not serve the Italian pasta I craved, I’d griped to my parents about not stopping at Fuji-san to climb it. With the typical hubris of a seven-year-old, I was certain that I could make it to the top—and I wanted the walking stick, stamped with the milestones, that each successful climber brought home.

  As the All Nippon Airways jet passed near Japan’s most revered landmark, the pilot encouraged us to look for it through the windows on the left side of the cabin. I strained my eyes but couldn’t see Fuji. The season was cold enough for snow to have covered the mountain, making it difficult to spot against the thick white clouds that enveloped it.

  I was looking for something that, just like Fuji and its cloudy cloak, was masked by cloud cover. But I was highly doubtful that my trip to Kyushu would result in a revelation. I’d meet the potter, if I was lucky, and perhaps he could tell me something about how Mr. Harada had paid for his artwork. That’s all I might gain: a little more information on how the sophisticated collector did business, a tiny glimpse through the clouds.

  The touchdown in Fukuoka was smooth, and my passage through the airport was just as uneventful. Nobody was on the lookout for me here, I realized with relief as I made my connection at Hakata station to a limited express train bound for Karatsu, the famous pottery region. A train attendant hawked copies of all the national papers, including Tokyo Supootsu, along with little cans of coffee, beer, and bento box lunches, but nobody who bought a paper glanced accusingly at me.

  When the attendant came to me, I bought a lunch. Quickly, I demolished the picture-book arrangement of rice, sake-glazed salmon, and pickled bamboo shoots. I’d eaten nothing until now, and so I had been dangerously nauseated on the plane. I’d survived that flight, but barely, and now I was determined to arrive in Umeda in good condition. I’d taken the time, back at the airport, to change my clothes; now I was wearing Grand’s smart St. John suit, which seemed a little incongruous with my hair but was the best thing I had in my suitcase. I also had a large box of Belgian Leonidas chocolates, which I’d bought for the equivalent of $100. That’s what my expense account was for: I had to present Kazu Sakurai with a valuable gift that he couldn’t possibly find locally. Judging from the tourist materials I’d picked up in Fukuoka, there wasn’t much shopping near Umeda. Sakurai’s pottery studio was the entire shopping scene.

  My phone vibrated. I picked it up reluctantly and, remembering what I knew about phone etiquette on trains, answered in a low voice.

  “Rei-san! What’s wrong with you?”

  It was Chika.

  “It’s not the way it looks,” I said. “And I wish you hadn’t gotten the boys all upset for nothing—”

  “Hugh’s wonderful. How can you do such a thing to him?” Chika was crying.

  “It was a picture taken out of context—”

  “Lie to him, but not to me.” Chika’s voice was hard.

  “You’re as tough as your mother,” I said.

  “And you—you’re just—American!” Chika hung up after that.

  Trying to calm myself, I read the artist’s brochure, which was illustrated with color photos and had text in English, German, and Japanese. Kazu Sakurai was the ranking descendant in a family of pottery artisans—pre-Christian potters, if one was to believe the claims in the brochure.

  I was skeptical about some of what I was reading, but not all. The history of Japanese pottery, I knew from my studies, originated in Kyushu as early as 10,000 BC. Kyushu potters made cooking vessels and female figurines that were different from the pottery found by archaeologists in other parts of Asia. This pottery style most probably came from Mongolia; thus, the early Kyushu pottery had more in common with Middle Eastern work than with what was commonly regarded as Japanese. Sakurai, the brochure told me, had spent twenty years studying the archaeological fragments of these pots, and had experimented with firing methods. When he felt he could produce pots that were almost identical to the earliest, lost works, he produced a collection of urns that won the grand prize in Japan’s foremost pottery competition. After that, he turned away from the sophisticated glazes of his father and grandfather in favor of rustic historic forms. His fame grew, and within a few years he was designated a Living National Treasure, recieving an annual stipend to pay his apprentices’ salaries.

  There was nothing as tacky—or helpful—as a price list in the slick brochure. I figured that if you had to ask what it cost, you clearly couldn’t afford it. The brochure explained that visitors would be granted access only to the studio shop. Should someone wish an audience with the master, he or she was advised to secure an appointment.

  So I needed an appointment, I thought with a sinking feeling. At least I had the benefit of a little more than $9,000 in my backpack. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to blow it all. I took out my cell phone, studiously bypassing the announcement of accumulated voice mail messages from Chika, Hugh, and Michael Hendricks. They were all probably calling to criticize me for my photographed embrace with Takeo. It was the last thing I wanted to discuss in a quiet train compartment.

  A woman who sounded a good deal older than me answered the phone. I pitched my voice into the high, polite register, saying that I was in from Tokyo and needed to see the master for guidance on choosing a piece of pottery.

  “I’m very sorry, but my master is not available on short notice. However, I am happy to offer you personal assistance while you visit us. Is it a wedding gift that you seek?”

  Why had she asked about a wedding? The thought of Emi and Takeo made me press my lips together. Then I remembered that I’d pitched my voice to resemble a Tokyo office lady’s. She’d probably assumed that I was unmarried and had pooled resources with my colleagues to be able to afford something from a Living National Treasure.

  “I’m not sure if it’s going to be a present or not. But I do want to shop.”

  “Ah so desu ka,” she said gently. “Well, perhaps I can give you some ideas about what we have in your particular price range.”

  “Thanks. Is there anything for about fifty thousand yen?” That was just a bit less than $500, and seemed a generous starting point.

  “I’m so sorry, but at that price there is only one item we have: a hashi-oki service for five. And it would be made by an apprentice in our workshop who is under my master’s direction, but not, you understand, custom-made…”

  I winced. She was talking about chopstick rests, little pieces of porcelain used to hold the business end of chopsticks during a meal. “Did I say fifty thousand? I meant to say five hundred thousand.”

  “Oh.” She laughed lightly. “In that case, you have another choice. We have at the moment a set of teacups made in the ancient style. And if you have a bit more flexibility in price, you will have the chance to commission something specially, though you said you needed to buy quickly.”

  “I don’t know,” I confessed. “What I really would like is to see what is in the studio, and humbly request your master’s advice.”

  “Yes, I understand your wish. My master would like to meet with everyone who comes through the studio, but regrettably, in order to meet customers’ deadlines he cannot do that. And since the typhoon, we have been very busy repairing the property.”

  “It’s such a shame. I heard lovely things about the esteemed master from Harada-san, and that’s why I was interested in a commission.”

  “Harada Kenichi-sama? The minister for the environment?” Her voice warmed.

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, he is a very special friend to the studio. I think—my master may want to send his greetings to him. Your name is…”

  “Matsuda Reiko,” I said sweetly, taking the name from a real estate ad pasted near the train’s ceiling. Matsuda was a very common name; if word of my visit reached Mr. Harada, he would probably scrat
ch his head and remember a Matsuda from somewhere.

  “Matsuda-san, we are delighted to hear from a friend of our honorable customer. I am Sakurai Nobuko. I apologize for not introducing myself earlier.”

  The potter’s wife? I sucked in my breath because all through the conversation, I’d thought she was some kind of employee. Nobuko Sakurai had consistently referred to her husband with the feudal term danna-sama, which literally meant “master,” and that could have been a term used by an employee instead of a wife. I understand now what people had told me about southern Japan—it was more antiquated than anywhere else in the country. In fact, as the train had passed the gardens of small houses, I’d seen men’s and women’s clothes hung on separate lines, something I’d heard was done so that the male garments would avoid contagion from the inferior female clothing.

  “Well, I must prepare something for you to bring to Harada-san,” Mrs. Sakurai said. “At what time would you like to visit the studio?”

  I looked at my watch. “I’m about two hours away. Would a four o’clock visit be inconvenient, though?”

  “Oh, no. Four is usually the time for our tea break, anyway. You must join us.”

  After hanging up, I tried to put my worries aside for a few minutes and take in Kyushu, one of Japan’s most famously beautiful islands. It had been devastated by the typhoon, even in the inland area where we were traveling. Citrus groves were littered with fallen mikan tangerines, and the rice paddies were brimming with muddy brown water. Almost every tiled roof had large blocks missing, and downed power lines were everywhere. The damage here, while similar to what I’d seen in Tokyo and Hayama, was worse for the local residents because so many of them were farmers. Mrs. Sakurai had said the pottery studio had suffered damage, too. No wonder she had warmed up when I’d talked about spending half a million yen. Visitors to Kyushu would be fewer, and times harder, in the winter ahead.

  The stationmaster at the closest town to Umeda advised me to take the number 8 bus, which was just about to depart, so I did. Once aboard, I thought about whether I should have taken a taxi; I had the funds. No, I thought, taxi drivers talked. Taking the bus would make me less memorable. I’d already begun to regret dyeing my hair, because while the streaky look was common in Tokyo, it wasn’t in the village of Kyushu.