A guard showed me down a hall and into the reception room of the director’s office. The room was decorated with framed posters of the museum’s past exhibitions. Its furniture was modern rosewood: a matching group of four chairs, each with a tiny table in front of it. Three of the chairs faced one. I could tell right away where I was supposed to sit.
Mr. Shima, the museum’s registrar, urged me to sit down right away, but I knew better: I shouldn’t appear to make myself comfortable until his boss had come. I wondered how much he really knew about textiles, judging from the boring gray wool-blend suit that he’d chosen to wear. It was interesting that the Morioka had a registrar, an administrative position that involved keeping a careful tally of the museum’s holdings. Most American museums had them, but in Japan, the job was still fairly rare; the Morioka obviously took its collections quite seriously to have established the office of registrar. I thought it was interesting, too, that Mr. Shima didn’t have the stereotyped geeky museum-employee appearance. He was in his mid-forties and looked fit. His hair was cut short in a fashionable style. His age meant that he was probably married, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he went to hostess bars or had a girlfriend on the side, from the way he had checked me out when I’d had to bend over for a second to get my business cards out of my backpack.
I was actually quite modestly dressed. I’d decided that to subtly show my passion for Japanese textiles, I would wear one. Thus I had layered an early-twentieth-century haori coat patterned with pink and orange ikat arrows over a simple black dress that went right to the knee. It seemed a better option than a skirted suit, not to mention that my suits were all out of style—the early-1990s Talbots vintage.
I bowed deeply when Mr. Shima introduced me to his boss, Mr. Ito. The museum’s director was as round as a Buddha, an interesting effect with a salaryman-blue suit stretched over his girth. It was hard to assign an age to the man, but I guessed that he was in his sixties. I couldn’t sense how he felt about meeting me, so I trotted out my Japanese etiquette again and apologized profusely for taking him away from his management concerns.
Mr. Nishio, the textile curator who was supposed to have traveled to the U.S., swept in five minutes later. He made brief apologies to both Mr. Shima and Mr. Ito before bowing to me in a slight movement that didn’t communicate much respect. He seemed to be studying my clothing with an incredulous expression. Now I wished I had dressed more conservatively. Mr. Nishio might think that a woman who’d wear an antique haori with impunity would take it upon herself to slip into one of their antique kimono when nobody was looking.
I handed Mr. Nishio my business card, just as I’d handed cards to the two other men, but instead of reading it, he stuffed it into his pocket like a gum wrapper he would later discard.
Well, Mr. Nishio wasn’t the big boss, I told myself. He might be tense because he hadn’t really wanted to cancel his trip to Washington, D.C. People usually relished opportunities to shop abroad and buy luxury goods, like the Hermès tie he was wearing, for a lower price than in Japan.
We finally sat down, the three of them in the row of chairs facing me, as I’d expected. I sat on the lone chair on the west side of the table, pulling at the edge of my haori coat to cover the slight bit of thigh that was exposed. An office lady my age wafted in with a trayful of small cups of green tea. She served me first, as was customary since I was a guest, but I was careful not to sip before the men did.
“So you would like to take Nishio-san’s place as the lecturer in Washington,” Mr. Shima, the registrar, said. The way he phrased it let me know he was already offended at the prospect of my going to Washington.
“I’m not trying to take his place, exactly. I was told that he could not travel,” I said.
“Actually, we were both to have traveled together,” Mr. Shima said. “As registrar, I am accountable for the safety of our possessions. Nishio-san is the textile curator, with a subspecialty in traditional religious garments. We traveled together four years earlier to bring some altar cloths for an exhibition at the Museum of Asian Arts.”
“Ah, what a beautiful exhibition that must have been. I will do my best to follow you. You may have heard of my specialty in Japanese antique furniture, but I did write a paper on kimono while in the master’s program at the University of California at Berkeley.”
“So you’re a Californian?” The question came from Mr. Ito.
“I was born there, but my father’s from Yokohama,” I said, as always trying to qualify myself as Japanese.
“So you don’t really know Washington, D.C.” Mr. Ito’s voice was flat.
I’d stressed the wrong part of my identity. Now I quickly said, “I do! As an undergraduate, I visited the Museum of Asian Arts to do research. And my mother’s family is in the area—”
“How well do you know the staff?” Mr. Ito asked pointedly.
Damn it, I shouldn’t have mentioned my mother. Too unprofessional. In a more subdued voice, I said, “I have spoken several times with Powell-san, and I think we have a good working relationship.”
“Powell-san mentioned that you plan to remove some treasures from our collection to exhibit in Washington.” Mr. Shima spoke up.
“I have been requested by the Asian Arts Museum to bring some items, yes.” I fumbled for a rejoinder and came up with, “I understand that you had already approved a specific group of textiles that could travel.”
“This is a very last-minute request for a courier. That makes it…difficult,” Mr. Shima said, looking sideways at his boss, Mr. Ito.
Aha. Now I sensed what was going on. The museum’s administration had decided against participating in the Museum of Asian Arts exhibit. Mr. Ito, the museum director, was the good cop, Mr. Shima was the bad one, and Mr. Nishio was the mute. The important thing was, they were all against me.
I fixed my attention on all three men and said: “As someone who grew up in the United States, I would like to explain something about the nature of American museum culture. American museums promote their programs many months in advance. The highlights of the exhibits are described in magazines and newspapers. Powell-san has planned an opening reception for six hundred guests—including high Japanese government dignitaries from the Japanese embassy. She believes up to ten thousand visitors will come to admire the kimono during their three-month exhibition. The visitors hope to see the treasures of the Morioka. If you withdraw, the American museum may be so injured by loss of status that it will not recover.”
“You really think…our kosode will be the highlight?” Mr. Ito said, after a pause.
“Absolutely! The centerpiece! And the talk I’ll give—why, I’ll go beyond discussing just the textiles you’ve brought, but bring attention to the importance of the Morioka as Japan’s leading textile museum.”
I sensed I was gaining ground until Mr. Nishio finally spoke. “I understand you have a good feeling for American museums, even though you’ve never worked in one. But surely you must admit that it is unusual for the museum to ask a freelance antiques buyer—someone who doesn’t have her own shop, not to mention museum ties here—to be the speaker.”
Smiling apologetically, I said, “I know that I am young and not as experienced as you. I imagine they chose me in part for my bilingual ability.”
“What makes you think there are no skilled English speakers here?” Mr. Shima demanded.
It was the Morioka’s policy to hire only native Japanese; I was told that when I was turned down for an internship four years ago. But I couldn’t say that; it was too combative. Instead, I widened my eyes and said, “I understand Mr. Nishio was the first choice, but apparently he told them that he could not go?”
Mr. Ito shot a surprised look at Mr. Shima, and Mr. Nishio looked down at the floor.
Mr. Shima said, “That’s right. He is needed here to do work on our next exhibition, and to oversee some of my work during my vacation. I’m very sorry that I must go—”
“Completely understandable,” Mr. Ito
said in a brisk voice. “Shima-san has not taken a day off in five years. The Japanese government has asked managers to encourage all employees to take their vacation times so they will not die of heart attacks from overworking.”
Mr. Shima coughed. “I feel guilty about the loss of service to my museum, as well as the American museum being inconvenienced. Perhaps we should present the prospect of Miss Shimura’s travel plan at our committee next week.”
Enough of all the fake apologies. I looked straight at each man again and said, “The problem is that I’m scheduled to travel twenty days from now. If you’re not interested in having your kimono included, I must warn Miss Powell so she may organize with another museum.” This was a bluff, because I knew Allison wanted kimono only from the Morioka—and it would be impossible to organize a kimono loan elsewhere.
There was silence, and I wondered if I’d gone too far.
“Regarding the Asian Arts Museum travel plan, we will try to give an answer as soon as possible,” Mr. Ito said. “But please understand that Japanese museums make plans carefully.”
“American ones do, too,” I said. “This exhibit was two years in the making. It’s sad that because of some last-minute employee-scheduling conflict, the centerpiece might be missing.”
We all said a few more things, none of them constructive. I left the museum with nothing but Mr. Ito’s hollow promise that one of his men would call me. Yeah, sure. I’d heard that one before.
3
“So, how much do you think it would cost me to have a sex change?” I asked Takeo Kayama, from my position curled up near the space heater in the traditional living room of his country house in Hayama the next evening. We had been eating our supper of an octopus-and-corn pizza on a short-legged kotatsu table that had a tiny heater underneath it, to warm our feet. There was nothing else in the room except for the zabuton cushions we sat on and a casual arrangement of pampas grass and bittersweet in a vase in the room’s ceremonial alcove.
“Well, you’d lose the chance to sleep with me,” said Takeo. He was lounging on the tatami-mat floor looking like a handsome cat burglar in his black cashmere turtleneck and jeans. The only thing marring his elegant appearance was a pair of thick ragg wool socks on his feet, necessary protection against the cold.
“Now, if I were a Japanese man, the Morioka Museum would without question let me take the kimono to America. I wouldn’t have lost a night of sleep worrying.” I didn’t think I’d get much more sleep at Takeo’s place. The shoji screens were rattling fiercely from the strong winds that went with the onset of typhoon season.
“I’m glad you’re not going to America. I’d rather have you around here.” Takeo smiled lazily at me, and pulled me against his body.
“Well, what if I do get permission to go? Would you come with me? It would be about a week to ten days.” I knew that he’d be free, because Takeo didn’t really have a job. He sat on a few environmental organizations’ boards, worked on and off on the restoration of his family’s country house, and arranged flowers and gardened.
“I haven’t been back to the U.S. since I graduated from Santa Cruz. What was that, six years ago?”
“Well, maybe it’s time. You could come to California with me when I’m visiting my parents at the tail end of the trip. Before that, you’d be in Washington, D.C., the nation’s capital—there’s an arboretum and a botanical garden you might like.”
Takeo snorted. “I can’t think of worse torture than going back to the country where ketchup is a vegetable and anyone can buy a gun. I don’t like the thought of you being anywhere outside the museum, your hotel, and your parents’ place. It’s simply too dangerous.”
“Okay,” I said, “I disinvite you, then—if ‘disinvite’ is a word. I’ve been away from my own country so long I’ve practically forgotten the language.” I rolled away from him, and waited for him to come after me. He didn’t, so I spoke again. “You know, Takeo, what you say about the world being dangerous bothers me. I miss going out. I can hardly remember the last time we went to the Kabuki theater or saw a foreign film at the Yebisu Garden Cinema or even had dinner at Aunt Norie’s house—”
“Everything you mention relates to consumption. You want to go places and spend money.”
“Not at my aunt’s.”
“Well, we’ve got to take her some kind of gourmet gift.”
“I always buy the gift,” I said pointedly.
“I wish you wouldn’t harp on this. When we started seeing each other, I was impressed because you seemed to be the one woman who didn’t want things from me. Now you want to trot me out everywhere like a showpiece.”
“So you think I’m causing the tabloid problems? Actually, if you hadn’t been so overly passionate with me on the street, we wouldn’t have been photographed.”
“It bothers me that you believe the tabloid invasion came about because of me. I think you are the one they’re really interested in.”
“Me? The daughter of a little-known interior decorator and a professor of psychiatry? I’m hardly as fascinating as the young heir to the eighth-richest man in Japan.” I could have bitten my tongue after the words came out, because I didn’t mean to rub Takeo’s father in his face.
“Your parents don’t matter, but you do,” Takeo accused. “For the last two years the papers have been full of tiny but perfectly placed mentions of Rei Shimura. You’ve helped the police solve murders, you’ve rescued long-lost historic treasures, and you’d go dancing every night if the clubs you favored didn’t keep getting raided.”
“If that’s supposed to be a compliment, I’m not taking it,” I said tightly. “In fact, I’m not going to stay here. There are still a couple of trains back to the city tonight.”
Takeo shrugged. “It’s your choice.”
“Thanks for the pizza and your extreme kindness.” I used the super-polite Japanese phrase with deep sarcasm. I’d expected to be defeated by the men at the Morioka, but not by the boyfriend who’d been intimate with me an hour earlier. The trickling, sinking feeling I had as I left Takeo’s house that night was not a good one.
The next week, I heard nothing from Takeo, even though I’d called to leave a message, and nothing from the museum. Thursday evening I went to have dinner with my aunt Norie, and she spent half the time trying to figure out why Takeo wasn’t with me. I couldn’t possibly tell her that he’d rather just have sex with me in his house than eat shabu-shabu with all of us.
On Friday morning, my telephone finally rang. Mr. Shima told me the museum’s high committee had ruled that I could carry seven robes to the Museum of Asian Arts—not the original eight, because upon recent examination, one was deemed too fragile.
I hung up the phone and screamed. I’d won! Even though I could take only seven robes instead of eight, I was back to Washington on $500 a day.
I returned to the Morioka the following Monday to look at the kimono. Mr. Shima met me with a weak smile.
“Shimura-san, I’m pleased that we can allow you to carry the collection of kosode.”
“I am, too. Thank you for your generous consideration,” I said, wondering if Mr. Shima was really glad or employing tatamae—the surface courtesy that made Japanese social encounters as smooth as raked sand in a Zen garden. Some foreigners railed against tatamae: they called it phony and insincere. I thought tatamae prevented fights and ugly situations, and it also enabled people who had disagreed to find their way to compromise and take care of business as needed.
Mr. Nishio still didn’t look happy to see me. Silently, he slipped on a pair of spotless cotton gloves and opened a long acid-free cardboard box. He withdrew a flat rectangle wrapped in tissue paper: the identical manner in which my aunt and I stored our own kimono. The acid-free tissue paper, as well as a stronger external rice-paper wrapper, protected against the pervasive moisture in Japanese air, although I also imagined that the museum’s storage was climate-controlled.
Mr. Nishio unfolded the kimono and laid it out on a long t
able covered by a clean muslin cloth. The garment was a dramatic red silk furisode, the name for any woman’s kimono that had very long sleeves. The kimono had been decorated with an elegant design of palace curtains, clouds, and fans using shibori and yuzen dyeing techniques, appliqué, and silk thread and metallic thread embroidery. Its style was exuberant and exquisite all at once.
“This kimono has not seen light for more than thirty years,” Mr. Shima commented. “I’m pleased to see that its condition has stayed constant. We have a climate-controlled storage, of course, but one always worries.”
“What an outstanding example of Edo-period design.” I stretched out my hand toward a sleeve, then pulled it back. What was I doing, trying to touch a museum object that was so fragile?
“Don’t touch without gloves,” Mr. Nishio said sharply.
“Actually, she will need to touch when she hands the items over,” Mr. Shima said in an almost apologetic voice to his colleague. “Why don’t we give her a pair of gloves?”
“Are you sure? Thanks,” I said, putting on the gloves and lightly touching the embroidery. “I’ve never seen one so lovely as this. The embroidery is completely intact, and the design is so bold—that’s nuishime shibori,” I said, mentioning a style of tie-dyeing that became very popular during the Edo period.
“The tie-dyeing techniques are kanoko and nuishime shibori,” Mr. Shima said. “Now Nishio-san will show you our technique for refolding the kimono; we fold sleeves in the opposite direction, using acid-free tissue paper as cushioning in order to avoid degradation of the fibers. You will need to do this in case you are asked to unfold some of the robes at customs.”
The Bride's Kimono Page 2