Lavender and Parsley

by Lisa K Nakamura

  Again, Mr. Darcy speaks up. “Miss Elizabeth has already graciously accepted my rather inadequate apology. And she also forgave my unfortunate choice of flowers.”

  “Calla lilies,” I whisper to Jane.

  She mumbles back, “Funeral flowers. Oh, no.”

  Mr. Darcy turns to the young woman at his elbow, and introduces her as Emily, his sister. I smirk and tell him we’ve already met last summer when she dined at the Ocean Breeze on the Fourth of July. He blinks, and then says, “Of course, how silly of me to forget.”

  Emily smiles broadly at me, and soon we’re talking about the latest Madonna album and where to find the best tacos in Seattle. Unlike her brother, Emily appears open and bubbly. I notice, however, that she has a habit of looking to her brother for approval as she talks. I sense that despite her seemingly happy demeanor, she is uncertain she will be accepted by us, a signal to her lack of self-confidence.

  To reassure her, I put my arm in hers, making her promise to come by the Dark Notes Café tomorrow at the end of my shift. I propose we go get drinks and chat more. She readily agrees, and when I look at Mr. Darcy, he seems pleased. I guess he doesn’t mind that his sister is going to hang out with a fierce women’s libber like me.

  As Emily, Jane and I chat, from the corner of my eye I catch a moving blur of orange silk.

  “Charlie! I’m here!” cries a woman sporting a bright orange cheongsam shirt. “I even wore the right clothes for the occasion!”

  “Caroline… ” sputters Charlie. “How did you know I would be here? And why are you wearing a Chinese-style shirt?”

  “Oh, Charlie, if you want to keep something a secret, you shouldn’t put it on your calendar. And what do you mean this is a Chinese shirt? I thought it was appropriate for a sushi bar.”

  “You looked at my calendar? Caroline, have you been snooping around my phone? As my sister, I expect you to respect my privacy! And you do know that there’s a difference between Chinese and Japanese cultures, yes?”

  “Oh, Charlie, don’t be so tiresome. You know all Orientals look the same to me. I had to find you! I’m so bored, especially now that my divorce is final! If I didn’t snoop, how would I know that my dear friend Peter would be here?” Caroline waggles her manicured left hand sans wedding ring in front of Mr. Darcy’s face, and then chucks him under the chin like he’s an obedient puppy.

  “Oh, do let me sit!” she cries, as she crawls over Mr. Darcy and squeezes herself between us into the already-crowded booth.

  I want to give this woman a piece of my mind about her racist comments, but I decide to hold off, to see if she will end up strangling herself with her words. A few minutes later, she does not disappoint me.

  “Yoo hoo, YOO-chee!” she screeches at the sushi chef, and waves wildly at him. “I’ll take a California roll, with extra jalapeños, that’s a dear!”

  The sushi chef nods, and winks at me. “Light away, Miss Caworine!” he answers. “No probwem, extra japareños just for you!”

  I overhear two Japanese businessmen at the bar mutter “baka,” idiot, and “gaijin,” foreigner. Caroline is not making any friends here tonight.

  As we wait for Caroline’s order to arrive, I turn to her.

  “It’s so funny that you should think all Orientals look the same, Caroline!” I begin. She nods with a self-satisfied smug expression on her face. “Do you know, that when I was four and just starting preschool, I was confused about appearances as well.”

  “Why? Were you slow or something?” asks Caroline with a sneer.

  Her brother gasps at his sister’s rudeness and starts to remonstrate her.

  I smile sweetly and continue, “Well, maybe, because I thought all blondes looked the same. On the first day, I made a friend named Judy. The next day, I went up to Judy, and we played for about a half hour with Lincoln Logs. It was only when our teacher came up and called her Annette that I realized I hadn’t been playing with Judy at all. I had no idea who this other little blonde girl was! I was so upset and started crying.”

  Caroline flushes with anger. “Well, all blondes do not look alike,” she says in a huff. “We are all very different from each other. Why, I am sure I am quite unique, and it would be extremely difficult for anyone to confuse me with someone else!”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re right, Caroline. No one who knows you could ever confuse you with someone else,” I reply calmly.

  Mr. Darcy loses his composure at this statement, laughing behind his napkin as Emily openly hoots. Jane is busy smirking into sky blue Naugahyde upholstery of the booth whiles Charles shakes his head in amazement at the dimwitted comments by his sister.

  Thankfully, the server arrives with the California roll Caroline ordered. I can almost hear Mr. Darcy’s eyes rolling in his head, and I give him points for that.

  Caroline proceeds to douse her piece of sushi completely in far too much shoyu, and then tries to be cute and feed a piece to Mr. Darcy. Her o-hashi skills are marginal, however, and because the rice is now slippery with shoyu and falling apart, the whole operation is precarious. When the piece of sushi encounters Mr. Darcy’s firmly shut mouth, it plops into his lap.

  Caroline immediately reaches for a napkin and starts cooing to Mr. Darcy that she’ll make things all better, dabbing at his lap. Mr. Darcy jumps out of the booth, brushing rice kernels off his pants. His face is as red as the owan, lacquer bowls holding our miso shiru, miso soup.

  Everyone but Caroline and Mr. Darcy bursts into laughter.

  Caroline retorts, “I’m not sure what’s so funny. I’m only trying to help Peter clean off his pants. Peter, don’t you need my help?”

  Mr. Darcy is saved from answering as Caroline’s phone rings. She answers it in a voice about twenty decibels louder than necessary. This ends it for Charlie. He grabs her arm, picks up her gaudy designer handbag, and marches her out the restaurant door. When he returns a few minutes later, he is alone.

  “I put her into an Uber, and sent her to our sister, Louisa, in Kirkland. Louisa can deal with her craziness. I’m through with her drama and hissy fits for the night. She and Louisa can watch The Bachelor or Pride and Prejudice or whatever it is they do when they’re together. I’ve had enough.”

  At this point, the restaurant’s master sushi chef walks up to our table. Mr. Darcy makes a point of introducing him to us, saying, “This is Mr. Yu-I-chi Sakamoto, one of the best sushi chefs in the country.”

  I wave over the table, cheerfully saying, “Hi, Uncle Eddie!”

  Mr. Darcy and Charlie freeze.

  ”Uncle Eddie?” they ask in unison.

  “Yes. Edward Yuichi Sakamoto is my uncle. He’s married to my father’s sister, Madeline.”

  Uncle Eddie turns to Mr. Darcy and Charlie, and says, “Pleased to meet you,” in formal clipped King’s English.

  “You, uh, you speak English like a Briton,” stammers Mr. Darcy.

  “You mean, I can pronounce my L’s and R’s?” quips Uncle Eddie.

  “Yes, that’s what I meant! No, that’s not what I meant! Damnation, what I mean is… Never mind.”

  Mr. Darcy is so flustered, I almost feel sorry for him.

  I lean over and tell him, “Uncle Eddie was born in Japan, but went to Oxford University to study Shakespeare. He was touring the U.S. when his Harley broke down in front of the Ocean Breeze. Dad felt sorry for him and gave him a job. Bachan, our grandmother, heard “Oxford University” and immediately pushed Aunty Madeline into his way.”

  “Well, Bachan really didn’t have to, considering I was smitten by your aunt at first sight,” says Uncle Eddie.

  “Dear God, what you’re saying is not only did I manage to insult your family, but also one of the best sushi chefs around,” moans Mr. Darcy. “That blasted review, will it never stop haunting me?” He clutches his head in his hands, hunched in despair.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Darcy

  On a Sushi Roll

  This has been a disastrous evening. First, Caroline and
her ignorant racist ways and then the sushi faux pas. Next, me putting my big foot in my mouth. Can I not do anything correctly around Miss Elizabeth?

  I hear a little snicker, and look up. Miss Elizabeth’s eyes are bright, and she is hiding her mouth behind her hand. When she catches my eyes, she gives in, laughing with abandon. Around the table, Charles and Jane are in hysterics. Emily has escaped to the ladies’ room, her make-up in need of repair since she’s cried it all off while laughing. Even Uncle Eddie is chuckling.

  “Welcome to the family, Mr. Darcy,” says Uncle Eddie. “Now I’m going to make Elizabeth’s favorite sushi roll, Laughing Shrimp!”

  “Uncle Eddie! Really?! I stopped being a shrimp when I was thirteen!” protests Elizabeth. “My uncle created and named this roll after me because I’m short and like to laugh, which I guess is unladylike in some parts of this world!” She looks significantly at me as she says this.

  Uncle Eddie returns to the kitchen, and a few minutes later, a gorgeous maki, roll, makes it way to our table. It’s covered with delicately transparent slices of ebi, shrimp, through which we can see a fine chiffonade of shiso or perilla leaves. Embraced by the perfectly cooked rice is a thin piece of takuan, pickled radish. A healthy dose of masago, smelt roe, and kurogoma, black sesame seeds, tops the entire maki. It is strikingly beautiful in color and composition with all its flavors working together harmoniously.

  “All of my favorite things!” chirps Elizabeth. “I think Uncle Eddie made this for me as a way to slip into good standing with my aunt. He figured if we liked him, he had a better chance she’d like him as well. Smart guy, he figured out we were influencers with our aunt! He has this on his secret menu, and only those really close to him know it exists and can order it.”

  “Then, I am most fortunate, Miss Elizabeth, despite my appalling behavior. Thank you for so graciously sharing this with me.”

  Charlie reaches over and punches me lightly in the arm. “Pete, lighten up, Dude! Talk like a normal person, you know, like someone from this century!”

  “I don’t know about that,” responds Elizabeth. “After spending all day dealing with too-cool-for-you mansplaining attitudes from men in the coffee shop, I find Mr. Darcy’s polite behavior to be a nice change. I think Mr. Darcy tries to not talk down to us and to be clear in his speech. This may comes across as stiff to some, but I appreciate his efforts. I also applaud his vocabulary!”

  I breathe and relax. I tuck Elizabeth’s words away to relish later. I do a tiny victory lap in my head because she now views me in a better light.

  The rest of the dinner goes well with Uncle Eddie showing us why he is one of the best. The makizushi are inventive and delicate with an appropriate nod to tradition. The nigiri are some of the freshest I have ever tasted, and I am impressed he has chosen sustainable seafood for his sushi over more popular fish. He sends out cups of saké designed to pair with each course. It is truly one of the best sushi meals I’ve eaten, making part of me regret I am no longer writing restaurant reviews.

  As we stand and prepare to leave, Uncle Eddie comes to the table once again. He hugs Jane and Elizabeth, reminding them about the Winter Festival at the Honganji, temple, in two weeks time. He looks at me and tells me if I want to eat real makizushi, the kind o-bachans, grandmothers, make, I should come. He makes Elizabeth promise she will bring me, and, with one more hug, disappears back behind the sushi counter.

  The five of us linger outside the restaurant. Charles obviously wants to continue the night with another stop somewhere, but Jane says it’s time to go. She and Miss Elizabeth give us their thanks, wave goodbye and head to their car. Charles and I stand there, watching after them like the two love-struck fools we are. Emily laughs at us and says, “I like her!” She then calls for a Lyft, and takes off.

  “She’s something special, isn’t she?” murmurs Charles. I agree. I’m not sure if we’re talking about Jane or Elizabeth, but at this point, I don’t care. Miss Elizabeth is indeed, one of the most remarkable women I have ever met.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Elizabeth

  Girl Power Rising

  Emily Darcy keeps her promise and shows up just as I’m finishing my shift at the Dark Notes Café. We decide to grab a glass of beer, and make our way to a pub a few streets away. Over poutine and chicken wings, Emily tells me about how she’s been attending Seattle University for five years now, but still doesn’t know what she wants to major in.

  “Emily, what do you do? I mean, besides go to classes at SU?”

  “Oh, well, I do the usual stuff. I mean, I hang out, drink coffee, meet up with friends. I try to catch all the Pokemon creatures! This will sound silly, but what I really love to do is sing.”

  “You sing? Like rock and roll, or what?”

  “Opera! I love opera! I studied to be an opera singer for so long! My mother was a budding soprano star before she met my father and married him. I inherited my voice from her. I absolutely love trilling up and down scales, discovering how powerful my voice can be. When I sing, I can hear my mother.”

  “Wow! So, are you going to pursue a career in it?” I ask her.

  Her face falls. “Oh, Elizabeth… I had the chance. When I was eighteen, I was supposed to audition for an apprentice position with the Met in New York, but I blew it. I did something incredibly dumb. If my parents were here, they would be so disappointed in me.”

  She looks at me and says, “If you really knew what I was like, Elizabeth, you wouldn’t want to be my friend. I’m such a loser. I had everything and I stupidly gave it up for an asshole. I don’t deserve to be happy, after all the bullshit I put my brother through.

  “My brother, he admires you. I see it, in the way he looks at you. You’re the only woman he’s ever raved about to me. I wish I could be more like you, more confident and kick-ass.”

  “How do you know I’m kick-ass? Maybe I’m just better at pretending to be braver than other people. You know, Emily, most of us are scared. In fact, if we weren’t scared shitless, there would be no need to be courageous. Have you thought about that? You’re a smart and kind woman. Anyone would be honored to have your love and trust. But first, you have to trust and love yourself. I think you should start singing again. If anyone gives you crap about it, tell them to fuck off.”

  Emily reaches over impulsively and hugs me. “I knew my brother liked you for a good reason! Gawd, I hope you two get married and have really cute kids! I want to be their favorite aunt!”

  “Uh, I think you’re being a lotta bit premature, Emily. But thank you for the vote of confidence! Now, this plate of fries is getting cold, so I say we shut up and eat!”

  Emily and I strike up a friendship around cocktails, courage and empowerment. She comes out of her shell, radiating real joy, not that veil of forced happiness I noticed when we first met. She begins to voice her opinions with surety, and tells me that she has tried composing her first song on the piano.

  Mr. Darcy joins us on several of our girls’ night outs. One night, as we’re rambling through Pike Place Market at closing time, Emily stuns us by jumping onto a bench and singing the aria Un bel di vedremo from “Madame Butterfly.” A crowd gathers around her, and when she finishes, they clap enthusiastically, whistling and yelling, “Brava!”

  Mr. Darcy watches at his sister in astonishment, and then he looks at me. “I am in your debt,” he whispers quietly to me. “She would never have done that, if not for the confidence you have helped her find in herself.”

  I smile at him. “Mr. Darcy, I didn’t do much. She had that courage in herself the whole time. She just needed us to step back, and have faith she would find it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Elizabeth

  Culinary Roots

  It’s the beginning of December, bringing us to the day of the Winter Festival at our Japanese Temple. Anticipating the festival, I’ve been busy helping Mom with preparations. In fact, every day this past week after my barista shift, I’ve loaded up my trusty Volvo
with rice, vinegar, nori, and then hauled everything down to the basement kitchen of the temple.

  This is one of our biggest events of the year. All the o-bachans cook for days to supply the concession stands at the festival. The money we raise is used to keep education about internment camps from the WWII era visible to the greater public. We also donate a large part of the money we raise to refugee groups, ensuring new arrivals to our country will not have to face the discrimination we did.

  Mr. Darcy texts me to make arrangements for tonight. His texts are funny, although I know he doesn’t intend them to be. He is so formal: he actually spells out every word. In this modern age of social media booty calls and subsequent ghosting, I think it is gallant of him.

  His latest text: “Miss Elizabeth, shall I pick you up on Friday at six for the Festival? Would you be so kind as to send me your address, if you are comfortable with this? Also, what is the dress code for such an affair? Might I wear jeans and be appropriately attired?”

  My response: “Here’s my address. Jeans are . See ya at six!”

  At 5:55, the buzzer rings, and Mr. Darcy’s deep baritone voice lets me know he’s at my door. When I open the door, he peers at me sideways from behind a very large pink poinsettia plant.

  “I know it’s not quite a bouquet of flowers, but at least I trust poinsettias are not symbolic of a funeral. I strove to bring you something seasonal, because I know here in Seattle seasonality is appreciated. I hope this is appropriate. I debated on red or pink, but I thought pink might suit you better. Is this all right? Should I have brought a bundle of kale instead, in true Seattle fashion?”

  I smile at him, tell him the pink poinsettia is lovely, no kale is needed. I place the plant on the counter, where it dwarfs two spotty bananas and one lonely apple in my fruit basket. Dido comes up to say hello, and Mr. Darcy, stiff upright Mr. Darcy, immediately sits down cross-legged on the floor to meet her.