The Typhoon Lover

by Sujata Massey

  Next, I called Michael Hendricks; yes, it was two in the morning Washington time, but I figured he would rather hear something from me, after two days of silence, than nothing at all. He picked up his cell phone halfway through the first ring. Either he was already awake or he was as jumpy a sleeper as I.

  “Well, what a dramatic surprise. I thought you’d gone AWOL,” he grumbled after I’d identified myself.

  “I have a really good explanation.”

  “I’m glad. I was beginning to wonder if I needed to send the JSDF after you.”

  “JSDF?” I asked, thinking Michael trafficked in far too many acronyms.

  “Japanese Self-Defense Forces. Our friends in uniform.”

  “Michael, first I lost the cell phone. Then with the typhoon, I couldn’t find a working phone, not until five minutes ago.”

  “And where is this phone?” his voice was clipped.

  “At a station platform in Zushi. I know it’s nonsecure, but I’m sorry. It was all I could get, and you were saying you wanted to hear from me—I’ve got good news.”

  “You made contact with Mr. Flowers?”

  “Better than that.” In a few sentences, I told him that I’d found the vessel and ascertained that it couldn’t possibly be 3,000 years old. But Michael wasn’t as pleased as I’d expected. He expressed horror at the breakage, and he seemed doubtful that I was right about its age. Also, he wanted to know more about the circumstances of the accident—chiefly, why Emi had been around and angry enough to throw it.

  “It was all a misunderstanding. She drove up unexpectedly and discovered me talking with Mr. Flowers.” There. I kept it short and simple.

  “Hold on. You said you were at the house, but I didn’t know Flowers was involved. Did you—tell him that you were interested in the Momoyama vase?”

  “Of course not! He thought I was just there to get out of the rain. We closed up the house, had dinner, and afterward, I took advantage of the time he was sleeping to find the vessel.” The hell if I was going to tell him what I’d had to do to get Takeo to fall asleep. “Unfortunately, he discovered me examining it, but I think he believes that I’m interested in Near Eastern art. And it was good that I talked to him, because he explained the thing was actually an engagement present from her parents.”

  “I see.” Michael was quiet for a moment. “So when did they become engaged?”

  “I believe it was last June.”

  “The photo spread came out in May,” said Michael. “So he actually had the vessel well before this engagement.”

  “I don’t know why,” I said. “Maybe they gave it to him a little bit earlier, when they were hoping he would follow through with asking her to marry him.”

  “It strikes me as odd,” Michael said. “There’s too much mystery about the ownership, and we don’t know the piece’s age until the lab experts examine the fragments.”

  “I thought you hired me because I am an expert,” I said. “But that’s okay, I can hand over the shards to Mr. Watanabe to take wherever you like.”

  “No names, please. Have you told him that you have the vase?” Michael’s voice was tense. When I replied in the negative, he said, “Good. Let’s keep the situation between the two of us, for now. I’d like you to package up everything and send it by the fastest air service possible. I’ll use the lab at the Sackler, of course.”

  “What’s going on? I thought you and our—Japanese colleague—were partners in this project.”

  “His role was to make the phone calls to let you back into the country legally, and to assist you, should you have found yourself on the wrong side of the police, which fortunately has not happened yet.”

  “All right, boss. Or may I call you captain?”

  “I retired as a lieutenant, okay? And I don’t mean to snap at you. It’s just I’ve been a little—worried, because of the botched call earlier.”

  “Which call?”

  “You called me yesterday around two in the morning. I assumed because of the weather situation, the signal was lost.”

  “But I didn’t call you,” I said.

  “You did. I saw the number of your government phone flash up on my phone’s caller ID feature.”

  “Like I said a few minutes ago, I lost the cell phone. If a call was placed using it to you, it must have been made by whoever has the phone.” Now I told him in detail about how the cell phone had disappeared from my backpack.

  “Whoever had it must have broken your password,” Michael said. “What the hell did you choose—your birthday or your first name, something that anyone could think of?”

  “Why does it matter what I chose?” I answered, thinking sorrowfully that Take0 had been far too simple.

  “When did you last use the phone? Think about whether anyone was watching you or listening.”

  “That night I called you from the bar—there was a guy, this annoying Austrian, who came up to me wanting to see the phone. I said no, of course, and he wandered off, but he might have been listening when I was talking with my friends later on—not that I said anything about the mission or Flowers, but still—”

  “Have you seen this guy again?”

  “No. I remember him introducing himself to me as Jürgen. I could probably find out where he’s staying—I’m sure it’s one of those backpacker flophouses.”

  “Don’t bother,” Michael said. “You need to stay focused. I’ll send you a new cell phone, but not to the hotel where you were. Can you find yourself a safer location?”

  “My aunt and uncle’s house in Yokohama is pretty far off the radar screen. But what’s the point? I finished the job. I was hoping to call a travel agent today to get on a flight home.”

  “But the job’s not over,” Michael said.

  “I found the vessel—”

  “You found a Momoyama vase,” Michael corrected. “It’s not necessarily the right one, as you said. There could be two vases: a real one and a reproduction.”

  I sighed. “What if it was a fake all the time in the National Museum, and nobody knew it?”

  “If that’s the case, whoever bought it from the looters is still guilty of a felony. And as it stands, things definitely sound suspicious. Someone may have stolen your government phone to ascertain who your contacts are.”

  I didn’t want to concede that Michael was right, but what he was saying fit into the troubled thoughts I’d had while walking to the Zushi train station.

  “I don’t want you calling this cell number or my office number anymore. I’ll get a new cell for myself and give you that number the next time we speak at your aunt’s house. Can you move there today?”

  “I guess so. I was getting to like that hotel, though.” Oh, for a hot shower there, and room service.

  “You’re being watched, Rei. Your current location is unsafe. Pack up, pay the bill with your government credit card, and discreetly make your way to Yokohama.”

  “But can’t I find another place? I could maybe rent a room somewhere.”

  “A rented room is not as secure as a family home.”

  But a family home meant protection, meaning I’d get nothing done. I said a depressed good-bye as the train pulled slowly into the station.

  In Tokyo there was standing water at some street corners, and a lot of trash blown about, but none of the kind of devastation I’d seen on the Miura peninsula. I picked up both the Japan Times and the Asahi to read while I rode the last stretch, a bit of subway, over to Roppongi. The newspapers said that Japan’s southeastern edge had been hit very hard, with billions of yen lost in property damage, and twenty people dead. At least five people had been swept over bridges similar to the one I’d crossed in Zushi—the account from eyewitnesses of how these people had been lost made me cringe at my misplaced bravery.

  The Hyatt’s desk clerk had noticed my absence the previous night and expressed relief that I hadn’t been a casualty of the storm. I apologized for causing her worry, then asked her to please prepare my bill and call
a private car to take me to the airport, as I’d be checking out shortly.

  “Have you shortened your business trip?” the clerk asked.

  Why did she care? And how did she know I was on business? Suddenly paranoid, I said, “It was always going to be a quick trip, but now at least the planes are able to fly, so I can get out.”

  When I made it up to the hotel room, it took a moment to remember which switches operated the curtains and lights. While I stripped off Takeo’s clothes and stuffed them into the plastic bag meant for laundry, I turned on the television to see what the typhoon had wrought.

  After that I took the shower I’d been long awaiting, and dressed in Grand’s suit, perfectly cleaned by the hotel’s dry cleaner. Then it was time to pack. I was beginning to regret my various shopping sprees, because even tiny things like bras take up space, if you’ve bought six of them. Packing the underwear, so lacy and cheerful, made me think about Hugh. I toyed with the idea of calling him to tell him I was going to be at Norie’s, then reminded myself that he was still sleeping. I’d check in with him later when things weren’t so hectic. And I still needed time to figure out what I would say. The Japanese had a don’t ask, don’t tell policy toward infidelity. And Hugh might be happier knowing nothing—especially since this had been an infidelity that would never be repeated.

  Emi Harada. Takeo Kayama. The names floated back into my consciousness, and I realized that it wasn’t because I was thinking aloud. The television announcer was saying something about Emi and Takeo.

  I turned back to the television, where the story had changed to the cost of typhoon damage. I began channel surfing and stopped on TBS, the sensational channel, which was showing a snapshot of Emi at her high school graduation.

  Emi Harada, daughter of the current minister for environmental affairs, was in critical condition at Saint Luke’s Hospital in Tokyo following an automobile accident in Hayama. The car in which she was traveling, witnesses said, had run through a traffic light, hitting one car, then crashing through a souvenir shop and out to the beach. Her companion had also been in the car but escaped injury and reportedly pulled Harada from the car. I saw a shot of Takeo from behind, following police officers into a sedan.

  Emi was injured, and it was my fault. So what if she’d been at the wheel—her mind had been somewhere else, back at the house, where she’d seen me and instantly understood the horrible thing I’d done. It had been so upsetting that she’d had to flee, had no time to wait for the driver. She’d been a novice steering a huge sedan, and her mind had been crazed with rage and perhaps fatigue. And the crash must have been shattering. I suppose it was a miracle that Takeo hadn’t been hurt; I’d clearly seen him walking away. But why away? He should have gone with his fiancée to the hospital. The police could have asked any questions they had there. Unless…

  Unless, I finished thinking, Emi had been trying to kill them both.

  Now my sorrow for Emi began to mix with panic for myself. If the police were investigating the accident as an attempted murder-suicide, the whole business about motive would come up. And how long could Takeo stave them off without telling what he’d done the previous evening…and with whom?

  Everything had changed. I was out of my room fifteen minutes later, my hair still wet from the bath. Now I knew that I had to break all contact with Takeo. Sending back the clothing I’d borrowed was too much of a risk, so I balled up the shirt and pants in a plastic bag and threw it into the trash collection bag hanging on an unattended maid’s cart in my hallway. The clothes were gone in an instant. Too bad the rest of my problems couldn’t have gone there, too.

  I sailed downstairs on the noiseless elevator, paid my bill, and slid into the backseat of the Mercedes the front desk clerk had summoned. I told the driver to take me to the nearest DHL office, where I went in and mailed the shards of the vessel—except for one piece that I’d wrapped in tissue and kept in the outer pocket of my cell phone holder. I had made a snap decision about the piece; I could be wrong. I wanted to hold on to something until I knew for certain.

  After I’d paid, not flinching at the high overnight charge, I jumped back into the car and asked the driver to take me to Shibuya Station. Even though I could have paid him to take me all the way to Yokohama, I didn’t want a record of the address where I was headed. Instead, I’d take my chances on the train, watching carefully when I disembarked at Minami-Makigahara Station to see if anyone was following me.

  It turned out that I was the only one to get out at my aunt’s neighborhood station. I walked slowly uphill, trailing my suitcase behind me. A major storm might have swept the region, tearing limbs from trees, but in the Shimura family’s tidy neighborhood, the streets had already been swept clean of organic litter by the housewives. Aunt Norie even had taken advantage of a few particularly graceful pomegranate boughs and arranged them in a large Satsuma urn outside her front door. I studied the tranquil, undeniably practical arrangement as I waited for someone to answer the doorbell. After five minutes, I realized the bell might not be working, so I rapped lightly on the door.

  Chika answered promptly. She looked from me to my suitcase, then back again. “What’s this?”

  “You’re supposed to welcome me.” I leaned forward to peck her cheek. My cousin smelled like baby powder and looked fresh as ever in a starched white T-shirt and low-waisted Burberry plaid pants.

  “But you had a room in a great hotel! Why in the world would you come here? We have no electricity or gas, probably for another day.”

  “You’re my relatives and I’d rather be with you, helping in any way that I can,” I said piously, exchanging my rain shoes for a cheery pair of tartan slippers my aunt kept on hand for guests. “Why would I prefer to stay in some impersonal box of a hotel room?”

  “A box with room service and privacy,” Chika said. “If you don’t want your hotel room, I do. With the band coming in, I want to be staying nearby, and have, you know, freedom of movement.”

  “Freedom?” Aunt Norie, carrying a pail of broken camellia branches, appeared in the entryway, a frown etched between her eyebrows. “What kind of freedom is that, can you explain to your mother?”

  22

  Chika looked down at the fuzzy balls on her house slippers, then at me, as if for help.

  I cleared my throat and ad-libbed, “It’s just what I was explaining to her, that I once believed freedom of movement was so important, but now that I’m older I know it is family that counts. I wish I’d followed your advice and stayed here during the typhoon.”

  “Ah so desu ka! Yes, you do understand.” Norie turned her gaze toward me, fondly. “What a good surprise to see you today. I’m sorry that we don’t have hot water for you, or any electricity at all—we are using the old things you like, though, lanterns and hibachis and such—”

  “Does your telephone work?” I asked.

  Chika answered for her mother. “Not yet, but our neighbor heard that it may be restored by evening. I’m so worried that, you know, the band will arrive and not be able to reach me.”

  “But Rei-san probably needs the telephone for work purposes, which is more serious. Especially since the cell networks are down.” Norie frowned at me. “I hope that our conditions don’t last so long they cause an imposition.”

  I assured my aunt that they wouldn’t, and then, after I’d moved my suitcase into the downstairs tatami room and laid out the futon for myself, I started cleanup duty. For an hour I picked up branches in the garden, and then I ruthlessly cleaned out all the spoiled food in the fridge. Aunt Norie sent Chika and me on foot to the grocery store, because she wanted to conserve what gas was in the tank of the family car. Pumps wouldn’t be operable at gas stations until the power came back.

  Chika and I came back with less than we’d hoped to get. All the bread was sold out, and the grocery store had the same issues of spoiled cold foods that we had in the house. We wound up with packages of Japanese curry sauce, a few vegetables and fruits, and canned soup, coffee,
and beans—all things I reasoned that we could put in a pan and heat over the hibachi.

  To my surprise, Norie already had a pot of rice and hot soup made when we returned—she’d grated the dried bonito fish she kept in a wooden box, and mixed in the homemade miso she fermented herself and stored under the kitchen floor. She garnished this perfect soup with some shiso leaf she’d grown in the garden.

  While Chika set to making a curry from the vegetables and a packet of sauce, I complimented my aunt on her ability to run a calm household during a crisis. She shook off the praise. “Being here is easy,” she said, as she deftly peeled a potato she was holding in one hand. “Your uncle was stranded at his office for two days! I am looking forward to greeting him tonight after two days away. And Tsutomu, well, he should have come today, but he’s stayed on. The hospitals in Yokohama and the smaller places without power are sending the medical emergencies to Tokyo, so it’s quite a lot of work for St. Luke’s and all the other hospitals. I plan to go tomorrow morning to volunteer.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I said, picking up the potato peels out of the sink and putting them in the trash.

  “But what about your work?” Norie asked. “I don’t want to interfere with it. What do you still need to do, exactly?”

  “Nothing, really,” I said. “I’m just hanging tight for a few days.”

  “Will you see Takeo-kun again?” my aunt asked. It was the first time my aunt had mentioned him since the afternoon at the Kaikan.

  “I—I don’t think I need to,” I said. “That meeting took care of all our unfinished business. Thank you for your help.”

  “He didn’t seem so—pleased at the surprise. I’ve been worrying about what I should do the next time I am faced with him at a flower event.”

  “There is no need to worry,” I said. “Really. I think you were right, it’s just about impossible for a man and woman in Japan to be friends. Especially after an engagement,” I added.