I sat up straight again. “It would be easy if you could blame it all on me: what a clever way to wrap up the sad story of a lost national treasure and a dead young woman. If this happened in Japan, you could have had the police hold me in prison for days without a warrant.”
“What’s the point of what you are saying?” Mr. Yashiro sounded bored.
I’d been speaking Japanese, but now I switched to English. “This is my country, and I know my rights. One of them is the right to due process. I’ve given you some very useful information, but apparently, you’ve already made up your minds. All I can say is that if you remain trapped inside your tiny box of stereotypes, you’ll never find the kimono.”
Because of my attire, I couldn’t storm out. I rose awkwardly from my chair and made a slow, awkward exit because of the tightness of the kimono and the flopping zori on my feet. Despite my appearance as a traditional Japanese girl, I couldn’t mask the woman I’d become during my lean and desperate years in Japan—and, even more unsettling, the woman the American police, and Japanese government, suspected I’d become.
My parents were buying Hmong Christmas-tree ornaments in the gift shop when I found them. I assured them that nothing disastrous had happened during my time at the embassy, and that I was ready to go back to the hotel and change my clothes. I was tired of being a Japanese doll.
My mother started talking to me about Allison Powell as soon as we hit S Street.
“Rei, she’s divorced,” my mother said.
“So what? Aren’t three-quarters of my friends’ parents divorced?”
“This is quite a divorce,” my mother said. “Her husband was some muckety-muck at the World Bank. She used to live right in Kalorama. But he got the house—to live in with the second missus. I got the feeling that she’s very frustrated and short on cash. She could very well have needed that bridal kimono for more than aesthetic reasons.”
“I don’t know how she dragged out so many personal details,” my father said. “I can’t get so far with some patients after six months.”
“I can’t believe it either,” I said. “Allison was very casual and impersonal with me.”
“You’re her junior, sweetie, but we went to school together. When I was going into my unconventional marriage, my own mother once came to me, waving the Wellesley alumnae magazine, asking why I couldn’t just marry a nice American banker like the other girls were doing. The alumnae note she was pointing to was about Allison, ironically.”
I bit my lip, thinking of my conventional Scottish lawyer, the one who’d suddenly turned into the bad catch—the dangerous one, the one who made my heart ache. Who would have known?
“Rei, I think your mother should have married James Bond,” my father said. “The way she conducted covert intelligence on this woman was so disturbing that I felt I had to leave. I spent the rest of the time looking at Korean pottery.”
My mother beamed. “After you left, darling, we had some wine and got even deeper in conversation. I told her all about how disappointed I was that Rei had chosen to work in Japan, where things are so difficult. Allison said then that she was very sorry she hadn’t been able to keep that bride’s kimono you lost—I mean, that was stolen.”
“She said that I lost it?”
“Yes,” my mother said after a moment’s reflection. “I think she said it was a lost kimono. Anyway, she told me the bride’s kimono hadn’t been insured under her museum’s policy, so it seemed as if you might be held responsible for the loss to the Morioka. She was feeling around, I think, to see if Daddy and I would be willing to help you financially. She was worried for you, she said.”
“I don’t think I’m in that much danger,” I said, steadfastly refusing to think about the tense conversation at the embassy of Japan. “You see, the museum in Japan released it to me without bothering to check about insurance. A lawyer told me that that could be counted as negligence on the Moriokas’ part.”
“A lawyer?” my mother said, looking at me closely.
“Okay, it was Hugh. But the important thing you’ve found out for me is that Allison must have heard from Mr. Shima that the Morioka Museum may sue. Even if I win the case, as Hugh thinks I might, it would be a disaster for my reputation. I could hardly work in Japan again.”
“Oh, really?” my mother said, a gleam in her eye. “Then you’d have to work here! If you don’t want to be so close to Daddy and me in California, your grandmother has enough connections to help you find a nice job in Baltimore or Washington. Why don’t you come with us to Baltimore for dinner this evening? There’s plenty of room at Grandmother’s for all of us to stay overnight.”
“Sorry, but I committed to taking out Kyoko and Yoshi this evening, since they’re all alone and have been through such a nightmare.” I didn’t mention that Hugh Glendinning was coming along. I wanted to make it sound like all work and no pleasure.
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” my father said. “You can see your grandmother later during our visit.”
“Great,” I said, feeling faint. My solo trip to the United States was turning out to be full of friends and relatives. How ironic it was that as the well-wishers closed me in a tight embrace, I had never felt more alone.
24
Kyoko and Yoshi were in the lobby talking to Hugh when I came downstairs a few hours later. They seemed to be doing all right. I watched Hugh, his head cocked attentively as he listened to Yoshi, never interrupting. Hugh had spent two years as a lawyer working inside a Japanese company; he couldn’t speak the language, but he knew how to handle himself.
Yoshi was wearing a jacket and tie, just like Hugh. Kyoko wore a sober black dress that I doubted had come from the mall. I had decided on the red dress from BCBG. Red, I figured, would hide Italian food stains, and worse.
“Very pretty,” Kyoko said, sounding wistful as she looked at me. Yoshi’s eyes passed over me without a reaction—typical good manners for a Japanese man. Hugh liked the dress, I guessed from the way he looked away from it quickly—as if he might get burned.
“I don’t think it fits well. In fact, perhaps I should change,” I said to Kyoko, suddenly nervous that I’d gone too glam.
“No, no! Please don’t go to any trouble. Your friend Hugh-san was telling us that we need to get to the restaurant on time, because it is very popular,” Kyoko said.
“I am very fascinated by Italian food,” Yoshi told us. “One of my hobbies is cooking pasta sauces. We received a pasta bowl as a wedding present…”
“Really?” Hugh said, smiling at the two of them.
“I think Yoshi-san means that he and Hana received the bowl as a gift. It’s unusual to get presents instead of money at wedding time in Japan—isn’t it?” I asked. Hugh was acting as if he’d forgotten that Yoshi was Hana’s fiancé. I didn’t want to be cruel to Yoshi, but I was interested in what his reaction would be. Kyoko, I could tell, was feeling sad—but I didn’t know about Hana’s ex.
“Yes, it is unusual,” Yoshi said. “But between friends in the younger generation, presents are becoming more common.”
A mundane response, devoid of emotion. Did Yoshi merely have good Japanese manners, or was he completely cool about Hana’s death?
“Shall we go to the car? It’s parked just outside,” Hugh said.
“Let’s go,” I agreed, thinking that while Yoshi seemed calm over the pasta-bowl comment, Kyoko appeared slightly shaken. I was beginning to realize that my proposed double date, made up of four people who should not be dating—by any society’s rules—was going to be awkward.
“Yoshi, why don’t you sit in the front seat, since it’s your first time in the U.S. I want you to see the sights as we enter Washington,” I said, sliding in next to Kyoko in the backseat of Hugh’s black Lexus.
“Nice car,” Yoshi said, settling in next to Hugh without further ado. It was common, after all, for men in Japan to take the best seats in the car. “This interior is quite similar to the Toyota Windom.”
; “The Lexus is the same car as the Windom, just renamed to suit American taste,” Hugh said, sounding happy again. “I drove a Windom in Tokyo, so I decided to lease something to remind me of the old times.”
Yoshi and Hugh continued their conversation about cars, and I recalled how Hana had told me that Yoshi loved driving. Her parents thought they drove all night, when in reality, they stopped at a love hotel. Hana and Yoshi were both attractive, with healthy sexual appetites—why had they decided to have an arranged marriage? And why would Hana cheat on this man?
The music Hugh was playing over the stereo made me feel like moving—something I’d never heard before, a mix of the symphonic dance club sound that I loved overlaid with what seemed to be old recordings of American gospel. It was provocative, mournful, groovy, and upbeat all at once.
“What are you playing?” I asked Hugh.
“It’s Moby’s last album, Play,” Hugh said.
“You haven’t heard Moby before? His music is popular in Tokyo clubs,” Yoshi said.
“I guess I don’t get out much anymore,” I said, feeling sorry for myself. Then I looked over at Kyoko, sitting silently and staring out the window, and felt the weight of her much heavier grief take over.
“It’s been a hard day for you,” I said to Kyoko.
“Yes, a very hard day. Coming out with you tonight and listening to music is a good change.”
“Since we can’t really talk about it over dinner—can you tell me some more about the autopsy?” I asked Kyoko in a low voice.
“We each went in separately to see the body. I went first. After I came back with the answer, the police told Yoshi that he didn’t have to look, after all. The identification had been made. But Yoshi said that he had traveled so far that he wanted to know for himself.”
In conversation with me, Kyoko was calling him Yoshi, not Mr. Watanabe, as she’d done the night before. Had something changed since they’d shared a suite?
“How did he handle the viewing?” I asked. “Did he break down?”
“Not at all. He handled things well. Even when the police tried to ask if he was something called a pimp—absolutely ridiculous! We both showed our business cards, and that was that. After we came back to the hotel, Yoshi telephoned Hana’s family to give them the news and hear what they want done. He was quite firm about wanting to do this himself.”
“What did her parents say?”
“Mrs. Matsura cried. I could hear it clearly, even though Yoshi was the one on the telephone. Then Mr. Matsura took over the conversation. He requested that we make the arrangements to bring the body back on the plane. The medical examiner’s assistant told us that after Hana’s parents send a fax asking for her body’s release, she will be treated by a mortician and packed in dry ice and put in a special box. We will have that box as extra baggage when we fly back.”
A special box—just like the one that held the antique kimono. How ironic. I said, “This all sounds terribly expensive.”
“Well, it’s strange. Mrs. Chiyoda must have felt badly that this happened on her tour, because she gave me the ticket to travel. Yoshi paid for his own ticket, I know. It wouldn’t be fitting for him to do anything else—especially since he’s not going to be marrying into Hana’s family, after all.”
“I still don’t understand why the Matsuras didn’t come. Wouldn’t they want to know for themselves that their daughter had really died?”
We were on the Roosevelt Bridge at this point, and had been traveling at a sedate sixty miles an hour, when Hugh suddenly dropped to forty.
“What’s going on?” I abandoned thoughts of Hana’s family for a moment.
“A car has been tailing us for the last ten minutes. I’m trying to see if it’s there for a reason.”
Kyoko and I both turned around and looked at the bright blue compact car that had braked to avoid hitting us but remained on our tail.
“Hugh, you’re paranoid,” I said, but still felt a little uneasy.
“Isn’t that a Geo?” Yoshi asked. “What a funny car to be making a chase: it’s not capable of very high speeds. Hugh-san, why don’t you take the next exit and see if they follow after?”
“I’m going to go downtown first and then circle back to Georgetown,” Hugh said. “I’ve got to warn you, I don’t know all the roads, and Washington’s a damn difficult city to navigate. It makes Tokyo look like Disneyland.”
“Disneyland is actually outside of Tokyo,” Yoshi said. “It’s a crazy place. Very crowded.”
I kept my eyes on the blue car. Yes, it had no intention of passing us. I wished I could see the face of the driver, but in the dark, it was impossible to tell even how many people were in the car.
“I wonder if it’s car-jackers,” I said.
“Hope not,” Hugh said, sliding into the fast lane and speeding up to seventy. Then, driving from one lane to the other on the northbound side of Constitution, he wove between vehicles and took a sharp left onto Seventeenth Street. A few more turns and the blue car was not with us anymore.
“On to Georgetown,” Hugh said, sounding confident again.
“Well done,” Yoshi congratulated, but I didn’t say anything. I felt as if I’d come close to disaster and been pulled away at the last minute. We shouldn’t have gotten away, but we did.
The Italian restaurant was called Café Milano, on Prospect Street in Georgetown, the almost too-cute-to-be-real neighborhood where many of the streets were still paved with rosy old bricks. Georgetown’s large town houses, built in the early nineteenth century, were maintained with a fastidious fervor, with gleaming brass knockers on the gaily colored doors, and the window boxes overflowing with geraniums and chrysanthemums.
Still, there was an edge to the neighborhood—as Hugh began a careful backward swing into a tight parking spot on Thirty-third Street, a man in a soiled Bob Marley T-shirt and army pants emerged out of nowhere, halting the endless traffic in the road with an upheld hand.
“Do you see that man? He is going to help you!” Yoshi said.
“Damn, he’s going to want a parking fee,” Hugh muttered.
“What parking fee? This is a public street,” I said.
“It’s a very Washington thing. There are opportunists who see people trying to park and extort money from them.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t park here,” Kyoko said uneasily as I opened the door next to me and got out. By now, the man was complacently leaning on the hood of the car. I made to walk past him, but he spoke.
“Nice car, baby.”
“Thanks,” I said tightly, although of course the Lexus wasn’t mine.
“Thanks isn’t enough, baby.”
“We found that spot by ourselves.”
“I stopped traffic for you.” The man grinned nastily at me, showing a gold tooth. “I stopped a big Mercedes SUV that would have rear-ended your sorry little butt. Now, my normal service fee is three bucks, but for Chinese folks, it’s four.”
“We’re not Chinese,” I hissed, hoping that Kyoko and Yoshi hadn’t heard his racist comment. They’d gotten out of the car and were standing on the sidewalk with Hugh outside the modern red-brick building that housed the restaurant.
“Rei!” Hugh beckoned to me. “Come over here, I’ll give you the money.”
“Lady, as far as I can see, you weren’t the driver. It’s up to your husband what he’s gonna give me.” The man advanced on me, so there was less than a foot of space between us.
For some reason, the man’s casual misreading of my national origin and marital status made me just as angry as his assumption that we were going to pay because we were afraid. I’d endured too much crap for the last day and a half, a time when I was dressed like a doll who could barely walk. Tonight, I was wearing Lycra. I had mobility.
“Go bother someone else,” I said, and turned away from him just as Hugh came barreling into the street to retrieve me. A stream of profanities followed us all the way to the entrance of the red-brick building where Yoshi and Kyok
o stood anxiously waiting.
“Why in heaven did you do that?” Hugh asked me in a low voice as he gave all our coats to a coat-check person. I could see from the looks of a few patrons’ faces that they’d seen what happened. They were shaking their heads and looking at me with sympathy. But not Hugh.
“I lost control, okay? I’m sorry to ruin the evening,” I said, mindful that Yoshi and Kyoko were probably worried about the prospect of another murder.
“It’s all right, Rei,” Hugh said, but I could hear from the strain in his voice that he really didn’t think so. “Let’s just go in before we lose our table.”
“I’m glad Rei-san is all right, but is that a typical thing for the American street? Dangerous men asking for money?” Kyoko asked Hugh.
“No,” he answered, flashing her a reassuring smile. “But after all we’ve gone through on this ride, I think we deserve a drink.”
When we finally sat down, and I had a chance to gaze around Café Milano, I knew instantly why Hugh had chosen it for Kyoko and Yoshi. It was Italian design heaven. The walls were decorated with silk ties framed like artwork, and the tables and curved bar were packed with more examples of European fashion. Women in well-cut little dresses and men with intensely stylish suits—or cashmere turtlenecks and leather pants.
“Eurotrash heaven,” Hugh said, following my eyes. “But the food’s absolutely delicious—simply done, yet stunning.”
“Just reading this menu is exciting,” Yoshi said. “I think I will try the ravioli Max Mara with cheese, artichoke hearts, and prosciutto inside.”
“Max Mara is a clothing label, isn’t it?” Kyoko asked.
“All the dishes are named after Italian fashion designers,” Hugh said, smiling at her. He’d chosen the perfect restaurant. Kyoko and Yoshi could tell their friends they’d done more than purchase designer labels—they could say they’d eaten them, too.
“Would anyone like to drink wine?” Yoshi asked when the waiter appeared.
“I’d love some,” I said gratefully. “Would you honor us by choosing the wine, Yoshi-san?”
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