“What’s happening with that?”
“Well, as you might have guessed, the hotel staff hasn’t found it.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
“Not yet. I want to have a chance to check things out with Hana, the Japanese girl I mentioned to you. She’s simply got to come back tonight, since the tour leaves tomorrow morning.”
“What? You mean to say the office ladies arrived on a Monday night and are leaving on a Thursday morning?” Hugh looked at me incredulously. “They don’t even have time to get over their jet lag.”
“Well, the whole purpose of the tour was shopping. You don’t need more than two days to shop this region. On the way back, they’re stopping on the West Coast to go to a mall in southern California. Two days there, and then they’ll be back in Tokyo on a Sunday, ready to go to work the next day.”
“What if Hana remains on the lam?”
“Then I’ll have good reason to believe she robbed me. I’ll assume that she’s traveled on to another place using my passport, and that she plans to sell the kimono. I was thinking that it might actually be easier for the police to track her if I get them in gear tomorrow. She could very well have used my name to obtain her seat on a plane, and that kind of information could be accessed by the police—”
“Rei, you’re stalling. I don’t understand.”
I looked at Hugh. How well he knew me. “I’m not in a rush to do it because…” I paused, realizing that Takeo’s advice was the chief reason I’d not yet let the Morioka Museum know about the theft. I didn’t want to go into the topic of Takeo Kayama with Hugh.
“Because you’re nervous?” Hugh finished for me.
“That’s part of it. The bride’s kimono wasn’t insured, so they might choose to hit me up for its value, since no insurance company’s going to pay them. I don’t even know what the value is. I imagine they can charge whatever they like, especially after I give my talk and reveal that Ai Otani was a much more interesting figure than previously thought.”
“We don’t know what they’ll do until they have a chance to respond,” Hugh said. “Don’t lose sleep over that point.”
“How can I not lose sleep when I’m still on Japanese time? Anyway, this evening with you has made me feel better, but once I leave this restaurant, I have to face reality. I’ll call the Morioka Museum.” I drained my wineglass regretfully. “I probably should go home now.”
“You’re in no state to be walking about in the dark,” Hugh said. “Let’s go around the corner to the patisserie, and then I’ll drive you back to Northern Virginia. Don’t worry, I’m safe to drive. I’ve only had one glass.”
I wasn’t safe to ride a private form of transportation with Hugh Glendinning at any time of day or night—I knew that from past experience.
“I want to take the Metro,” I said. “It’s always faster.”
“I’ll walk you there, then.” Hugh put money down on the table and waved good-bye to his restaurant friends as we left. “Chocolate first?”
“I changed my mind. I’m not hungry,” I said glumly.
“I can’t believe how badly your visit is turning out. I’m really sorry.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, too,” I said, not looking at him as we walked along. Seeing Hugh had screwed everything up. Because he’d come to my room, and I hadn’t felt comfortable talking there, I’d left the kimono unattended. And though that in itself should have made me furious with him, spending time with him was stirring up all kinds of old romantic memories that I wanted to forget.
“I’d better put you in a cab,” Hugh said. “You’re obviously too tired to walk.”
I pushed away the five-dollar bill he tried to give me when a cab pulled up the instant after he’d waved for it. “I don’t want anything more from you, okay? I shouldn’t even have accepted those tapas.”
Hugh put the money back in his pocket and said, “Go to the Woodley Park Metro: it’s the closest station. You shouldn’t pay more than four dollars.”
I got in the cab and told the driver to go to Woodley Park.
“I heard that already. I will not cheat you, okay?” The driver sounded as if he had African origins—he was a foreigner, just like me.
I turned around in the cab as it started to move, to see which way Hugh had gone.
He hadn’t moved. He’d stayed in place, watching. He had the same expression on his face that he’d had the previous evening when he’d stretched out his hands to me and I’d stopped him.
A car moved in behind us, and then I couldn’t see him anymore.
14
It was time for the See America Travel tour to move on to California. The next morning the lobby was buzzing with talk about shopping at the Beverly Center as the office ladies loaded their suitcases onto a series of luggage trolleys. I kept my eye out for Kyoko, who hadn’t answered her phone when I’d called the room. Finally, at five minutes before the planned time of departure, she appeared, dressed in a Burberry raincoat over jeans.
“There you are, Rei-san,” she said. “I tried to telephone your room a few hours ago.”
“Sorry. I accidentally had it off the hook.” I’d kept on telephoning the Morioka the previous night, and hanging up in fear after one ring. At last, I’d fallen asleep with the receiver on my pillow.
“I reported Hana’s absence to Mrs. Chiyoda, and she has made a call to Hana’s emergency contact number—her parents. I guess they’ll decide what to do next.” Kyoko paused, then continued in a lower voice. “I want to tell you something else. It’s about Hana’s luggage. One of her suitcases is not in our closet, I realized. I think she might have gone traveling.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“I was too distracted to realize it. Then yesterday, when you suggested I look at the things in our room, I noticed that there was only one suitcase of hers left behind—the empty one she’d intended to fill with shopping. She took away the suitcase with her own clothes.”
This news—that Hana had split with her luggage, the perfect way to carry the kimono—made me all the more anxious.
“Kyoko,” I said, “if you see Hana on the plane, or in California or back in Japan, will you please call me?”
“Of course. I know that you’re worried.”
“Yes, I am. But please don’t let her know that you’re contacting me. I want it to remain—private.”
“Why?” Kyoko asked.
“I don’t know how to say this without upsetting you. I don’t have any proof, but—”
“Oh dear! Are you thinking she was involved—took—the kimono?”
I studied Kyoko. Her face looked worried but not tense. If she had taken the kimono herself, she was doing a masterful job of appearing innocent.
“Perhaps,” I said. “What do you think?”
“The bus will be leaving in five minutes!” Mrs. Chiyoda broke into our conversation.
“I don’t like to think that Hana would have done that…but I don’t know. I promise to call if I see her. And we should talk again, when we are both back in Japan,” Kyoko said as Mrs. Chiyoda started dragging her suitcase off.
“I’d like that,” I said, but they were already too far away for her to hear.
I watched the tour bus pull away and felt wistful. The office ladies were going for a couple of days to Los Angeles and then home to Japan, where things were safe, where everything worked. I was stuck in a country that was supposedly my homeland but had brought me nothing but trouble. On top of it, I no longer had a passport or ticket to help me exit.
I turned from the foyer and began the walk back to my room. Julie, the blonde who was the daytime front-desk manager, was smiling and waving at me. “I have something you’re waiting for!”
I rushed toward her and said, “The kimono?”
“Well, according to the contents slip on this overseas express package, there are three.” She smiled brightly. “Funny, isn’t it? Most people come here to buy things. They don’t hav
e them sent from Japan.”
So Aunt Norie’s kimono had arrived. I took them upstairs, realizing that I’d almost forgotten I was going to give a speech in a few hours. I was going to have to get dressed without anyone around who could help me. Kimono dressing was something I’d regularly practiced since I was fourteen—but still, it was a lengthy, challenging activity.
In my room, I slashed at the tape on the outside edges of the box with my nail scissors—angry at the fact I was going to unwrap a modern kimono, when all I wanted to have was a particular old one. But once I got the lid off the box, time seemed to stand still.
The first kimono Aunt Norie had sent was a rich reddish orange—the color of cayenne pepper. I unfolded the kimono and found it had graceful sleeves that stretched almost to my ankles. Norie must have worn it before she married and switched over to more appropriate shorter-sleeved robes.
This red kimono, handwoven out of a sumptuous rinzu silk, was decorated with yuzen-dyed cranes rising up from the hem. Cranes were a symbol of good luck and of long life, often, but not exclusively, appearing on garments worn by brides. The obi she’d sent along as its companion was a black silk brocade woven with red, orange, and yellow octagons.
The second kimono was subtler—a gold-and-cream-patterned shibori tie-dyed silk. I closely examined the tiny, puckered, irregular circles forming the shapes of different flowers and leaves; there was very slight variation, which told me the work had been done by hand. The obi was red-and-brown-striped silk overlaid with a pattern of gold rondels.
The final kimono she’d sent was a mossy green, about the color of Hugh Glendinning’s eyes. A scene of the moon, stars, and long autumnal grasses was etched in gold and black along the left front hem; the same theme was reprised at the kimono’s shoulders. The coordinating obi was black, with a repeating pattern of teahouses woven in gold.
In addition to the kimono and obi, Aunt Norie had included brand-new gold-and-black thong slippers, two pairs of tabi—white superfine cotton socks with a separation for the big toe—and an underrobe for each kimono, one cotton gauze half-slip and undershirt, small clips, and a dozen assorted sashes and waisttying devices that would give me a properly cylindrical shape. I was familiar with all the underkimono apparatuses from my kimono school course, but there was one final element that surprised me: a bizarre ponytail elastic holder that was completely covered by short wispy lengths of black hair—hair that felt quite real to me as I fingered it. I experimented in front of the mirror and, lo and behold, found that tucking my short lengths of hair into it resulted in the illusion that I had more hair than I did—enough to make a nice low bun at the nape of my neck. It was a great device—I could see using it in my daily life when I wanted to change my look.
I spread out the red kimono on my bed and put the others back into their box. As I did this, my hand touched a card made of washi paper and decorated with golden ribbon. It was written in hiragana, the phonetic alphabet that I could read.
Rei-chan:
Packing these kimono for you, I was overcome with a rush of nostalgia. I wore the red one to a dance where I met your uncle; the green one to a very important ikebana exhibition; and the gold one to a wedding. I enjoyed these kimono, and I hope that you will, too. It is crucial that you wear the kimono as tightly as possible; I know that you are a girl who loves most of all to be comfortable, but please try your hardest to wrap the kimono so it makes a slim line. Remember the size and shape of your obi bow will reflect on you. As a woman of twenty-eight, you must wear a bow that is not extravagantly girlish. You must wear makeup, but it should be powder and a light, pretty lipstick, and very natural-looking mascara. Please practice the essentials of good kimono posture: straight back, with shoulders relaxed and chin down. And most important, walk with small steps, and your toes pointing inward. There is no point in wearing a kimono if you are going to walk like a man.
—Your loving aunt
I smiled for the first time that morning. It was like having my aunt in the room. Between the lines, I could hear her saying: This evening is important. Even though you may have troubles, you must hide them away. Stand straight, because you will be watched, and you will be listened to.
I stayed in the hotel room all day, using the time to harass the front desk every other hour about their fruitless search. Then I began a search of my own, calling airlines to see if anyone named Rei Shimura had traveled to Japan or California. When a few airline employees were suspicious enough to ask why I wanted to know, I answered straightforwardly that my passport and ticket had been stolen. Most of them said they couldn’t help me and that I should call the police. All Nippon Airways did confirm for me that my ticket had not yet been turned in. They’d take custody of it if anyone presented it at a counter.
“Take custody of her, too. Don’t let her get away if you see her,” I said. I hadn’t received any word from Kyoko about whether Hana was on the See America plane or not. I wondered why she hadn’t called; maybe there had been interference in the airspace, making a call impossible. Or if Hana had shown up, there had been no way for Kyoko to call me without being noticed. In any event, I would have to wait for news.
I wanted to discuss these new worries with Hugh, but I figured he was annoyed enough with my behavior the previous evening not to want to speak to me. I doubted I’d see him at the lecture in the evening. I had told him that I wanted to be on my own. Now I was alone, and it didn’t feel good.
I gave myself a full hour to dress in Norie’s kimono. Everything went on carefully, in the prescribed arrangement: first the silk socks, then my own best silk lingerie, covered by a thin, gauzy cotton undershirt and half-slip, followed by a luscious green silk underkimono, which I fastened around my waist with a snug braided cord. Once that was on, things got more tricky. I slipped into the red kimono and pulled the left side snugly over the right; then I pulled the thirteen-foot-long obi sash around my waist and tied it almost, but not completely, tight. The next part was inserting a slightly curved rectangular piece of cotton-covered plastic underneath the front of the obi and then pulling the sash totally snug. Japanese women sometimes joked that this technique was like an instant diet, because it constricted the waist so much. I always felt skinny when wearing kimono, though when I looked in the mirror, I could see that I didn’t look that way at all. I could have exchanged my 110-pound body with my aunt Norie’s 130 pounds—and you couldn’t have told the difference if we were in kimono. The robe, and all its trappings, took over a woman’s body—redefined it into something that was no longer sexual but highly decorative.
Kimono could be sexy, I reflected as I folded the obi into a smooth, tailored style that Aunt Norie often wore, then checked the result in the full-length mirror. To wear a kimono for seduction meant draping the back of the collar enough to reveal the nape of the neck in an enticing manner and tying the kimono loosely enough to reveal the underrobe, or a bit of the rich lining, when you walked. I knew these intimate ways to wear kimono, but I would never have dreamed of trying any seductive moves at the Museum of Asian Arts.
At the very end, I slipped into the zori sandals. They were about a size too small for my feet, but that was correct. It would keep them on tightly and foster the mincing gait that was part of kimono dressing.
At the Metro station, I began the slow ride down the escalator to the platforms, trying to act as if it was completely normal for a woman to be catching a subway at five P.M. dressed in a kimono. For the first time since I’d arrived in America, I was being stared at—by women and men both. As I waited on the platform, a young man sidled up to ask the name of the restaurant where I worked.
Instead of taking offense, I gave a short pitch for my free public talk at the museum on Friday. My train came and I shuffled on, my toes pointing neatly inward, aware that I had already stepped into the footprints of the alien woman I’d be for the evening. I would be gracious and calm. I would present the full glory of the world of kimono and, for a few hours, forget about the nightmare
of the missing kimono.
From Dupont Circle, I cut through the side streets over to S Street. It was dusk, so some of the turn-of-the-century town houses had their windows lit, and I could see charming domestic scenes: a woman chopping onions in a cheerful red-and-green-tiled kitchen in one house, a man lying on his sofa reading the newspaper in another. As I proceeded toward the museum, the houses became even grander; many of them were diplomatic residences. These house windows were more likely to be covered with chintz draperies than open for my inspection, but I caught a few glimpses of shimmering chandeliers and handsome furniture and paintings. Washington was an interesting place—so much more aesthetically pleasing than the area around Nation’s Place mall. If only I’d stayed in some little bed-and-breakfast in Dupont Circle, someplace where a sharp-eyed, quick-fingered office lady would never have ventured.
I took a couple of deep breaths as I approached the Museum of Asian Arts. Major Andrews, the guard I’d seen on my first night, opened it with a flourish. I moved through the crowded lobby and up to the grand staircase, which I climbed carefully. Museum employees were running up and down the stairs around me, carrying things, talking on cell phones. I’d never seen the place as busy as it was tonight.
“Rei! Oh, how wonderful you look!” Allison came swinging out of her office in a calf-length dark blue-and-purple shibori tie-dyed silk dress.
“Thanks. You look great in those colors.”
“I don’t feel great,” Allison said. “It’s been a very stressful day. The chef wanted to substitute California roll for grilled eel—can you imagine? If we served California roll, people would think we just ran out to the supermarket for the buffet.”
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