The Little Teashop in Tokyo

by Julie Caplin

  Exquisite eyebrows framed the woman’s almond-shaped eyes and the camera highlighted her flawless magnolia skin, but when you examined that beautiful bow-shaped mouth for a second time, the smile held a knowing hint of provocation. Although the composition of the picture was fresh and wholesome – a pretty girl in the flowers – when you looked deeper there were hints of secrets and sexuality, mystery and suppressed desire. All was not what it seemed. Fiona could almost imagine the serpent writhing alongside in the blooms. Eve, the temptress.

  The small label to the side of the print called it Girl in Blossom by Gabriel Burnett, 2016. Beside that was a small biography of Gabe which included the information that the model in the picture, Yumi Mimura, was his long-time muse and favourite subject.

  Fiona moved around the room and came to a second picture. This time, the setting was a party and Yumi, wearing a deep blue, satin cocktail dress with a tiny nipped in waist and wide skirt, peeped out from behind two sober grey-suited men with their backs to the camera. Holding a martini glass, she possessed an Audrey Hepburn-esque elegance and sophistication combined with an elfin appearance and a sense that she was planning some mischief quite at odds with her glamorous appearance. Fiona smiled; the composition was quite enchanting and very different from the previous picture.

  Intrigued now both by the subject and Gabe’s undeniable skill, she focused on the pictures he’d taken of Yumi Mimura over the years. In some she wore western clothes, in others Japanese kimonos, and sometimes she was tastefully nude revealing nothing she shouldn’t in terms of flesh, but in each picture there was always an additional, subtle depth that conveyed an untold story or an emotion. The pictures all highlighted Gabe’s incredible skill. Coming at last to the final picture, Fiona examined the composition. In it Yumi wore a sophisticated white silk dress which hung beautifully, the folds draped over her exquisite body. The way it was lit made her appear as if she were glowing with angelic beauty but then Fiona paused and suppressed a sudden wince. Triumph. That was what she saw in the composition. Inviolate confidence and self-assurance. Sure of her beauty and her place in the world. Exactly the sort of person who made Fiona all too aware of her own short comings.

  Gabe was, she realised, nothing short of a genius. Every bit as talented and celebrated as Yutaka Araki. What had she been thinking of, deliberately goading him earlier? He’d earned his arrogance. Now she felt humble. Who was she to question him? She could learn so much from him if she could keep a civil tongue in her head. If she were honest with herself, she was indulging in teenage sulks that she should have grown out of. When was she going to grow up and forget about that stupid class? He clearly had. In fact, she guessed now, with the sharpened vision of hindsight, that the episode had probably never registered with him. He didn’t even remember her name.

  ***

  With half an hour to kill before she was due to meet Gabe in the foyer downstairs, Fiona toyed with having lunch in the museum’s restaurant, but the unfamiliar menu, with foods she’d never heard of, and the prospect of having to eat in public with chopsticks, put her off. She was going to have to ask Haruka, who had been kind enough to refrain from laughing at Fiona’s ineptitude over dinner last night, to help her master chopsticks, otherwise she was going to have to get very used to cold food.

  She took her time going down the stairs to meet Gabe. Having seen his work, she felt shy and uncertain … but also inspired, and she couldn’t wait to get started. For the first time, she acknowledged to herself that when she’d signed up for his class all those years ago, like every other student she’d been starstruck by his celebrity status rather than a real admirer of his talent.

  Outside, she spotted him studying one of the huge pictures outside the museum – ironically, a scene of Paris.

  ‘I love this picture,’ he said idly as she drew alongside him, without so much as looking at her. ‘It captures that je ne sais quois of the French perfectly. Are you all done?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Enjoy it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She paused, waiting for him to ask more questions or solicit her opinion on what she’d seen.

  ‘Good.’ He turned and began to walk briskly, inviting no further conversation.

  Realising he had no intention of waiting for her, she trotted after him, determined to engage with him. He’d had three hours to himself. He was supposed to be her mentor; he owed her

  ‘I can’t decide whether I feel inspired or depressed. I’m never going to be that good.’

  ‘Probably not,’ said Gabe equably.

  For a moment it took a minute for his blunt words to sink in. ‘Thanks for the encouragement.’

  ‘I don’t deal in dishonesty. You wouldn’t come out of the Louvre and say I’m never going to be as good as Monet or Van Gogh. Because no one would be. They were geniuses of their age. Here you’ve had a snapshot of the very best of the very best.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, from what I’ve seen you’re a good, competent technician.’

  She turned, a touch deflated. ‘Damning with faint praise.’

  ‘No, encouraging with honesty. Any idiot can take a once-in-a-lifetime photo through sheer luck. A good, competent technician can look for those perfect compositions, seek them out, know it when they see it, and take the shot.’

  She could see what he meant but it still stung a little.

  ‘You’re here to find those compositions … with my help.’ He cocked his head. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘No, I was—’ Thankfully he interrupted before she had to confess what a wuss she’d been.

  ‘Good. There’s a great tempura bar not far from here. We can grab a bite to eat there.’ What was a tempura bar? She didn’t like to ask but, given her stomach was rumbling like a volcano, at the moment she’d probably eat anything.

  ***

  Gabe knew he’d been an arse; you couldn’t miss the disappointment in that expressive face. The blue eyes damn well shimmered with it. She was a heart-on-her-sleeve girl but he couldn’t bear to talk about photography, about the amazing, often gut-wrenching, pictures in that incredible collection. Pinching his lips tight as he noted the droop of her shoulders, he considered an apology; she deserved more but … he couldn’t do it. Like a snake gliding through his gut, his stomach tied in knots at the thought of it. She was bound to want to talk about the greats – he could already see the earnest enthusiasm that wanted to bubble out of her. She’d want to talk techniques, what she’d seen, what she loved … and he didn’t think he could bear it.

  When was the last time he’d taken a decent shot? A truly memorable picture? Sure, he could take pictures that made people happy enough, like a performing bloody monkey, but he’d lost that ability to find and capture what was under the skin. Really lost it, and he missed it like a part of his body. Once it had been second nature, constantly lurking in his peripheral vision, an added sixth sense he could call upon at any moment. A has-been, that’s what they called people like him.

  ‘If you don’t mind a bit of a walk, we’ll go to the restaurant and then we could take in Shibuya Crossing,’ he offered, taking her arm and steering her down the path. If they ate quickly, they could pick up the subway there and still be in plenty of time to avoid rush hour.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked as wary as a puppy that had been kicked once, making him feel even more of a shit. Yet he couldn’t help the little prickle of anticipation at showing her one of Tokyo’s iconic landmarks.

  ‘Wait and see,’ he said with a quick grin.

  ‘That’s mean,’ she said, rolling her eyes. His heart gave a funny twist at her instant sunny acceptance. A point to her. She didn’t seem to bear grudges.

  ‘I know,’ he waggled his eyebrows at her to make her laugh. ‘But I want to see your face.’ He fingered the small Lumix camera in his pocket which he carried out of habit rather than that previous obsessive desire that he should never miss out on a potential shot. He frowned, an elusi
ve wisp of a memory sliding through his brain. For a moment as she laughed, he thought she looked familiar.

  ‘Will I like it?’ she asked.

  ‘Hmm, I’m not sure like is the right word but it’s got to be seen. There’s quite a lot to see in Tokyo. Do you have anything you’re desperate to see?’

  ‘I’d like to see the cherry blossoms, Mount Fuji, although I know it’s a way out, and some of the shrines.’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘I was quite busy before I came, so I didn’t get a chance to do as much research as I’d have liked.’

  ‘You said you’re a blogger.’ While he’d been waiting in a coffee shop for her he’d dug out the emails, read her application, seen her photos, and visited her blog. He hadn’t expected to be impressed, but he was. ‘What does that entail, day to day? I took a peek at your site. You’re a busy bee.’

  She blushed but gave a little laugh. ‘It grew … like Alice. Originally it started as me visiting places I was interested in and taking photographs and blogging about my trips but then people began to follow me. And then PR companies started inviting me to places. I even went to Copenhagen once on a press trip and now I’m asked to do things which has expanded the focus of my articles. So really it’s now more of a magazine site. Sometimes I have my readers vote on what I should do next – that was flipping Avril’s idea, which means they’re really invested.’ Her mouth crimped in amusement. ‘Sometimes I think they don’t like me very much … but it’s … really made me do things I’d never have done. Last month they had me abseiling down a church tower to raise money for charity and the month before I was driving around Silverstone in a Ferrari. Although, that turned out to be a lot of fun and not half as scary as I’d imagined. Then in the last few weeks I’ve been basket weaving, visited Castle Howard, and learned how to make sourdough bread.’

  He nodded. ‘And who’s Avril? Your sister?’

  Fiona snorted. ‘Ha! No. She would be insulted by that. She’s a very glamorous TV presenter that I met on that press trip in Copenhagen who, for some bizarre reason, has been determined to foster my career ever since. She’s totally forceful and I have to meet her at least once a month. It’s her fault I’m here. If there were an Olympic gold in nagging, she’d win it hands down. But,’ she sobered, ‘she, that trip, and my friends Kate and Eva, they really … well, they helped me.’

  ‘How?’ Now he was interested. There was a story here. He kept up a brisk pace with the occasional glance her way, so as not to scare her off.

  Her laugh was tinged with the high pitch of nerves. ‘Before … before that trip, I kind of hid from real life. Lived my life online rather than mixing with people.’

  He deliberately didn’t comment, waiting for her to continue to fill the silence in the natural way that people always did. The technique had served him well over the years when he was trying to get to the essence of someone when he had to photograph them. Those unguarded moments when they revealed truths about themselves were pure gold if he could press the shutter at exactly the right moment. Luckily for him he had excellent reflexes.

  Unlike most people, Fiona didn’t elaborate. Instead she closed in on herself, as if the introspection had brought with it unhappy memories.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s part of my technique to get my portrait subjects to open up.’

  ‘I’m not one of your subjects,’ she said, her voice sharp. ‘And I have no desire to be.’

  A pangolin rather than a hedgehog, he mused, finding himself fascinated by the way she’d hunched into her coat – a hideous hairy thing that ought to be tossed in the nearest skip – and how her shoulders gained a stooped curve. Much as he wanted to take a photograph, he refrained.

  ‘That’s a refreshing change,’ he said lightly. ‘Most people are desperate for me to take their picture and, more often than not, for free. And others fancy being my muse.’ It was, he supposed, the photographer’s equivalent of a groupie.

  She unbent a little and one side of her mouth lifted. ‘I definitely don’t. It must be irritating though.’

  ‘A touch. No one wants to pay for anything these days – music, books, art, films.’

  ‘The downside of technology, but the upside is that it’s given me a living.’

  ‘I think more than technology has played a part. You must be good at what you do; there are thousands of people out there with blogs.’

  Her response was a shrug that irritated him. ‘There’s nothing worse than false modesty,’ he accused, and he was annoyed when she stared at him. ‘What? I know my worth. You should too. Especially when it’s how you earn your way.’

  ‘I’m not trying to be modest, false or otherwise,’ she retorted. ‘I do what I do. I’m lucky that people like it and continue to follow and get involved.’

  ‘But there must be a level of skill to garner that kind of engagement, in your writing, in posting the right pictures that will elicit people’s interest.’

  Again she shrugged.

  ‘You need to have more self-confidence.’

  ‘Sure, like it’s something you can pick up off the shelf,’ she said with a snap to her voice. ‘Oh look, I’ll have half a pound of belief, a pinch of arrogance, and a side serving of assurance. Because it’s really that easy.’ Her final words were spoken in a lower tone as if they were unwillingly dragged out of her and once again he felt that stab of guilt.

  ***

  The restaurant was packed but Gabe led the way, worming his way through the crowd to snag the last two barstools facing the kitchen where a couple of chefs were working.

  ‘Ever had tempura before?’ he asked as she shed her coat and picked up a menu.

  ‘No.’ She glanced around the busy and very noisy restaurant. Over the chatter she could hear the swish of hot oil and the ting, ting of utensils scraping metal as the chefs worked at a furious pace in the kitchen in front of them.

  ‘Then you’re in for a treat, although this place will spoil you for ever after.’

  ‘I don’t even know tem … temp … what it is.’

  ‘Tempura,’ supplied Gabe. ‘It’s basically food deep fried in batter … but nothing like the heavy batter you get on fish at home. You wait.’

  She stared at the menu, her mind a little boggled. It was all in Japanese and completely unintelligible. Over in the kitchen one of the chefs was dipping something raw and almost translucent into a jug of white – what she now realised, must be – batter.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Gabe put out a hand and pushed her menu down. ‘Do you like seafood?’

  She nodded. ‘Leave it to me. Japanese cuisine is all about the freshness and simplicity of the ingredients. They tend to shop daily for their food to make sure it’s as fresh as it can be.’

  Gabe ordered in Japanese and in seconds two steaming cups of green tea arrived. Fiona took a hesitant sip and sighed. ‘Oh, I needed that.’

  The clean, light flavour and burst of warmth down her throat revived her flagging spirits immediately. It was both refreshing and comforting at the same time, especially when she cupped both hands around the pottery cup the way Gabe had done.

  The chef stopped in front of them and showed them a bamboo woven plate of raw prawns, scallops, tiny fillets of fish, squid, and some baby sweet corn, a slice of an odd-looking root vegetable, aubergine, and what she guessed were chestnut mushrooms.

  She nodded and smiled at the chef, wondering if she was supposed to take the plate. Her stomach rolled a little at the thought of raw seafood but before she could do anything, Gabe spoke in Japanese and the man took the plate away.

  ‘Your face,’ teased Gabe as a waitress brought them a set of small pottery dishes each containing different sauces and seasonings.

  ‘I thought he was giving it to us.’

  ‘No, just showing us the quality. Did you notice it didn’t smell at all fishy?’

  ‘Yes.’ Now he pointed it out, the lack of smell was noticeable.

  ‘That’s a mark of how fresh it is. And now he’s going to
cook it for us. Watch. See the batter in the jug there. It’s very thin and almost translucent.’

  Fiona watched as the chef dipped the scallops in the batter and then tossed them in a deep pan of oil that was so hot it was smoking. With quick, lithe movements, the chef lifted the scallops out of the oil and tossed them around the basket with a definite air of performance before sliding the crispy golden scallops onto small oval plates with a flick of the wrist and placing them on the counter in front of them. Talk about freshly cooked – this was instant.

  Fiona inhaled deeply; she could see the fine sheen of oil still bubbling on the surface. The scallops smelled delicious and her mouth was already watering.

  ‘Now you dip them in any of these.’ He pointed to an herb-speckled sea salt, the coarse white crystals mixed with tiny crumbs of green, and several other condiments. ‘This is seasoned salt, usually with bamboo greens, and this is grated daikon, a sort of radish, which you mix with the soy sauce to make a dipping sauce. Try it.’

  She fumbled with her chopsticks and almost sent the little scallop flying.

  ‘I’m not very good with these.’

  Gabe smiled. ‘It takes a while to master them. No … not that like that. Here.’

  He took the chopsticks from her hand and took it in his, his thumb brushing the tender skin on her palm. Intimate and unexpected, Fiona felt a rush of heat at the sensitive touch. She deliberately avoided looking at him and kept a fixed gaze on her fingers.

  ‘Relax,’ he said in a soothing voice which made her do anything but. It was just sensitive skin, that was all. Slightly ticklish. She straightened her back and concentrated on what he was saying.

  ‘Right.’ With his hand covering hers, he repositioned the top chopstick between her thumb and index and middle finger. ‘Hold it like a pen but two thirds of the way up rather than down at the bottom. Now anchor the second one on your ring finger.’