The Pearl Diver

by Sujata Massey

  “I must remind you that I’m not coming back,” Norie said gently. “I must return to my home life in Yokohama. I’ll telephone you with my findings, when I get them.”

  “But—but aren’t you worried about me?” The babyish words burst from my mouth.

  Norie smiled. “If you truly want protection, you have a loving man who wishes to offer it. But you don’t seem to want that, do you?”

  “No.” I wouldn’t lead a curtailed life, not even for someone I loved. “Obasan, I have to go out for a few hours. I have a few errands to run, and then I promised I’d meet Kendall for lunch at a Burmese restaurant. Would you like to come along?”

  But Norie didn’t want to go. All she wanted to do was get on the computer to send an e-mail to her travel agent. I closed the door on her tapping away on my Japanese keyboard, feeling bereft already.

  26

  Traffic patterns had changed and had become downright terrible, I realized as I inched along Ninth Street. I’d had to go west to get the photocopying of the translations done, and then east to pick up the last framed pieces of art for the restaurant. I’d timed my trip carefully to avoid the morning rush hour, but I was still trapped in the midst of a huge wave of vehicles flowing down toward the mall. I doubted I’d ever be able to make the left turn I needed to get over to Bento. What was this madness? I scowled at a Mercedes, with a Pennsylvania license plate, that sailed through the yellow light, eliminating my only chance at making the turn.

  As the cars lined up behind me honked in frustration, I remembered that the cherry trees were in full bloom. While I’d been lying in the apartment, curling into my own misery, the buds of the one hundred or so trees that were a long-ago imperial Japanese gift had been slowly unfurling, spreading their petals.

  I’d been to the Mall many times, walking past its cherry trees when the branches were bare, or full of thick green leaves. I’d never seen them at full tilt. I looked at the clock on the dashboard and decided to stay with the straight-ahead wave of traffic to the Mall, make a left turn along with the rest of the cherry blossom–viewing travelers, and exit headed in the direction of Bento.

  Once my mind was made up, it seemed that traffic moved faster, although the clock on the dashboard told me this was not the case. I felt my body start to relax as I passed into the realm of stately, neoclassical buildings and green lawns. When a station wagon slipped out of a parking place on my left, I parked.

  I’d caught a glimpse of the trees—fluffy, lovely, and pink. Children were running underneath, letting the blossoms rain down on them. Behind them trailed parents, nannies, and grandparents, video cameras and juice cups in hand. Some of them smiled after their children, while others looked anxious. I thought about Sadako and wondered if she’d ever made it in to Washington to show her baby the cherry blossoms. No, I decided. She had been too nervous about the world to take her daughter out into it.

  I walked along the border of trees, unable to choose the loveliest one. They were only in flower for a few weeks, after which time the petals collapsed and were eventually swept away.

  What had happened to Sadako? Had she lost her life forever—or, like the Japanese cherry, had she found a way to renew herself? I looked up into the branches of the graceful but sturdy old trees, wondering about it. Only the siren of an ambulance brought me back to my morning in Washington. I decided to get on with it.

  “Hello, stranger,” Marshall said when I went into Bento.

  “Hi, Marshall. I’ve got your woodblocks at last,” I announced, though I didn’t really need to, since I was balancing all of them in my arms as I waddled slowly into the dining room. My belly felt the familiar pulling, but I didn’t stop until I’d laid the pictures against the wall.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got,” Marshall said.

  I unwrapped the Meiji-Period woodblock print of peasants readying themselves to go fishing in an ocean harbor. Now, as I gazed at it, I noticed that the people in the picture were diving for shellfish. A woman wearing a white cloth wrapped around her hips was poised to dive off the side of the boat. A bucket full of oysters rested in it.

  “Hmm,” Marshall said.

  “It’s an unknown artist, I told you before, but I thought the work was very unusual. I haven’t seen this topic in a woodblock before.”

  “Let me see the other one.”

  I unwrapped the next print, which was of a man eating a bowl of soba noodles. I’d liked the way the noodles tumbled off the chopsticks, and the array of bowls and dishes in front of him. This was a slightly older picture, not in as good condition as the pearl-diving picture, but nevertheless a beautiful one.

  “I don’t remember that print,” Marshall said.

  “I guess you were overwhelmed,” I said. “You chose these two pictures out of two dozen that I showed you a month ago.”

  “I don’t think I need much more art in here,” Marshall said. “Remember how the reviewer said it looked a bit cluttered?”

  “I don’t think ‘cluttered’ was the word. Pretty and Edwardian were the two words used.” Not a powerhouse was another phrase used—a phrase that I’d prefer to forget.

  There was a moment of silence. At last I said, “Shall I tell you where I think they should hang?”

  Marshall shook his head. “I don’t think they fit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m rethinking the look around here.”

  “Well, the problem with framing is that they don’t give you refunds. And I just wrote them a check for slightly over five hundred dollars.”

  “Can’t you sell them through your business?”

  I was so angry I could barely see straight. “Marshall, you said you wanted them. Then you gave me permission to get them suitably matted and framed. Do you see how the aubergine color of the mats perfectly picks up the color of the chairs?”

  “Honey, it’s my restaurant. I’m the one who ultimately decides what goes where.”

  Honey. I didn’t mind being called that by Kendall. Sometimes, I even called Hugh that. It was a term for people you loved, in its best sense. Coming from Marshall, the condescension in the term was clear.

  “All right, sweetie,” I said back. “Whether or not you hang the pictures, they are yours to do with as you wish. Here’s the receipt for the framing. I’ve also included a copy of the invoice I gave you four weeks ago.”

  “I have it already.” Marshall eyed the envelope but didn’t take it. “I told you I’d take care of it when the restaurant was making money.”

  “I’ve been working for you for over two months now. I would never have taken on this job if I’d known pay was contingent on the restaurant making it to a certain profit level. We have a legal contract that states what you will pay me.” A legal contract that I’d have to fight for myself, because there was no way in hell I would ask Hugh to help bail me out.

  “Yes, we have a contract, but it’s my checkbook.” Marshall patted the breast pocket of his elegant gray jacket. “I’ll pay you when I’m ready to do it, and seeing you come in here shouting about your own special needs hardly makes me want to rush to do anything.”

  “You’d never refuse to pay your fishmonger!” I protested.

  “If I did that, he’d send somebody to break my arm,” Marshall said wryly.

  “It’s because I won’t do it that you’re taking advantage. Maybe that’s why you chose me, a little-known freelancer, to work for you in the first place.” I couldn’t hide my fury any longer. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alberto, Toro, and several other kitchen guys standing in the doorway to the kitchen, viewing the spectacle. Suddenly I realized that I was finally having my own knock-down, drag-out restaurant fight—with the owner, no less.

  “Listen, you know that I paid up front for umpteen things already. I wrote checks for a good twenty thousand dollars,” Marshall said.

  “Yes, you paid for things that were provided by outside companies. I need to be repaid for labor costs, and for some of the goods I s
upplied from my warehouse. The tansu vanities, the kitchen tansu behind the bar—”

  “Oh, yes, the fabulous defective tansu vanity.” Marshall rolled his eyes.

  The tansu vanity hadn’t worked out as well as I’d hoped, it was true. But anyone who bought antiques had to accept that old things wouldn’t have silicone-shiny finishes. Still, Marshall had the right to use the furniture he wanted in the restaurant that he owned. In the end, I said, “If you want to return the vanity to me, that’s fine, but the framer will not refund the cost of framing.”

  “If I have to buy a new vanity, I’m out even more money,” Marshall said grumpily.

  “True. I gave you discounts on everything. Remember? That was part of the generous deal I offered you. I didn’t mark up things like some decorators would have.”

  My message must have gotten through, because Marshall paused a long moment, then spoke. “Okay, I’ll write your check. It’ll be ready tonight. But don’t bother hanging the damn pictures.”

  The show was over. I gave Marshall a last look, then walked straight past him, toward the kitchen. The audience hanging in the doorway parted to let me through. After I was in, the door swung shut and the cacophony of voices resumed.

  “You go, chica,” said Alberto.

  “Tell him the truth, sister! You take your money!” Julio grabbed me in a bear hug, and to my surprise and some discomfort, the other men latched on.

  “Julio, where are the chopped shiso leaves? The miz is not complete without shiso!” Jiro’s voice, calm but strong, cut through the din of congratulations. “The rest of you, back to your stations. This is not recess time.”

  “Yes, Chef,” Julio said.

  The huddle broke up. I thought to myself that Jiro was more of a partner to Marshall than a union member. He probably didn’t approve of the scene I’d caused. I glanced at him, but he’d already turned away and was looking through one of the vast refrigerators for something.

  “When will Andrea get here?” I asked.

  “She should have arrived one-half hour ago,” Jiro said. “Toro can’t do it all himself. There are forty reservations already for lunchtime.”

  “I hope she’s all right,” I said. “Her apartment was broken into yesterday.”

  “I hear many excuses for coming late to work,” Jiro said.

  “But it’s true. I was there last night. I know what was taken—”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Some papers,” I said, not wanting to say too much in public.

  “What kind of crazy would steal papers?” Julio spoke up. He kept his eyes on me even while chopping. He was too interested, and too good with a knife, I thought uneasily.

  “Missing papers are not a valid reason to be late. I’m going to talk to Marshall about that and the continued lateness of many of you.” Jiro surveyed his kitchen staff. “Please remember, this is a restaurant, not a primary school.”

  There was a marked quieting of the kitchen din. I looked at my watch. I had an hour until Kendall would arrive, and nothing to do in the meantime. I had the car. Maybe there was enough time to run over to Andrea’s apartment to make sure she hadn’t gotten in trouble there.

  When I reached Andrea’s building, I saw that a locksmith’s van was parked in front. A long-haired man in a coverall was crouched by the front door, working. Behind him a white man in his fifties wearing a Baltimore Ravens T-shirt paced, talking on a cell phone. I glanced over at the shooting gallery; there was a woman sitting on the steps, scrawny, with her face older than her body. A tall, golden-skinned woman with a butterfly on her shoulder was talking to her.

  I sat in the car, watching Andrea.

  She finished her conversation with the junkie, then crossed back over to my side. She said something to the man in the T-shirt—her landlord, I bet—then started walking at a fast clip down the street. She was headed for the Metro stop near Howard University. I turned on the engine and drove after her.

  I honked but she steadfastly looked ahead. Maybe she’d learned that was the best way to handle herself in this neighborhood. Ultimately, I rolled down the window and called out her name.

  She finally stopped and recognized me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, you weren’t at work. Jiro’s on a rampage because you’re late, and I thought I’d better make sure you were okay.”

  “I came back early this morning so I could get the report finished with the police. But nobody came until nine, and then my landlord wanted to talk to me.” She rolled her eyes. “Can you believe he tried to get me to pay for the locksmith? I had to remind him that he’s the one who owns the building.”

  “So what happened in the end?”

  “He’s paying, but he’s pissed, and I’m sure he won’t renew my lease.” She sighed. “So, was your aunt able to translate the letters?”

  “Yes. Your mother had an amazing story,” I said. “I hardly know where to begin. It’s all in the envelope back there.”

  Andrea twisted around to pick up the manila envelope I’d laid on the backseat. “Can you stop somewhere so I have a chance to read them? I don’t want to take them to work after what happened in my locker.”

  “It’s a good idea to be careful, and I’m willing to hang on to the papers if you don’t want to take them into Bento, but I’m not going to stop anywhere. At this point you are over an hour late for work!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said. “I’m late, but what does it matter? I’m going to lose my job anyway.”

  “I don’t know why you say that—”

  “The restaurant’s losing money to the tune of almost fifty grand a week, David told me last night. I’m sure they’re going to start scaling back the kitchen help, and I want to get back to the front, you know, to hostess or wait tables again. I’ve already filled out an application for a new French restaurant in Georgetown.”

  “Has Marshall not paid you?”

  “He’s paid me, but like I said before, it doesn’t stack up to what I was earning, not by a long shot. I’m going to have to freelance if I ever want to get the electricity turned back on.” Andrea was studying the translated letters as she spoke. I decided not to answer her so she could read as much as she could before we reached the restaurant.

  “There’s a lot there,” Andrea said. “It sounds pretty scary. Those men who came to see them—what did they want? I wonder if they were blackmailing my father or something.”

  “So you read through to the last letter,” I said. “I think there’s something significant about those men, too.”

  “Well, the police are going down to Virginia to talk to my father. Burns came by this morning, too, to see me about it. I don’t know whether to be relieved that they’re finally doing something, or scared. My father’s going to be really mad that I gave them his name.”

  “Lorraine will be mad,” I said. “Your dad might actually be worried that you’re in danger.”

  “What? If he cared about anything like that, he wouldn’t have put me in foster care.”

  I saw a van pulling out from a spot near the Irish bar, so I pulled in close in order to take it. After I’d successfully parallel parked, I said, “You’ve never told me about those years, exactly whom you lived with and what it was like.”

  “I don’t want to remember,” Andrea said. She handed me the papers she’d just gone through. “You can keep them in your bag or something like it for now. But I’ll want them back.”

  I zipped them into the handbag, committing myself to not letting them off my person as long as I had them. I said, “Actually, you don’t seem like someone who grew up in a string of poor homes. I mean, the way you dress and speak. Your accent is, well, accentless.”

  “You mean, I don’t sound like your average black girl?” Andrea snapped.

  “No, I—I’m sorry, Andrea, I don’t know how to put it.”

  “I grew up in a string of homes, like you say. They weren’t all poor. I had black American foster parents and black Cuban ones an
d white people, too—the family I lived with the longest was white. An engineer in Silver Spring and his wife and their own four kids. I spent six years with them.”

  “Was there a possibility of adoption, somewhere along the way?” I asked.

  “Nope. The white family was interested, but at the time, it was almost impossible for white parents to adopt black children. The black social workers had come out and declared that transracial adoption, especially for black kids, would cause irreparable damage. And who knows, maybe they were right. I mean, my parents’ marriage didn’t work out, and look at you and Hugh.”

  “You never met my parents. They’re still so much in love.” Suddenly, I longed for them. I tried to shake off my sadness. “Why don’t you get back in contact with the family you mentioned?”

  Andrea shrugged. “I was a bitch, that last year in high school. I didn’t want rules, I didn’t want to take the SATs, all that teenage rebellion shit.”

  “And if there’s no longer a legal relationship, and so many years have passed, it must have been easy to lose touch,” I said.

  “It was. And my dad did wind up giving me the money for community college, and I worked in restaurants, so I had enough to share an apartment with some other people. I’ve been making it on my own since I was eighteen.”

  “But why did you give up the roommates to live alone?”

  “I was doing really well, making almost thirty grand a year. And I don’t have much need for people. I mean, not until recently.” She looked at me sideways. “I’ve never had a friend who’d come looking for me when I didn’t show up at work. It’s kind of sweet.”

  “Yes,” I said as I pulled up outside Bento and stopped the car so that Andrea could get out. “Now, I’ll hang on to your letters within an inch of my life. And if you can make sure you don’t lose your job, we’ll be set.”