Moving slowly and deliberately, reminding me of a Noh theater actor, Mr. Nishio refolded the kimono and set it aside.
“Time for number two,” Mr. Shima said cheerily.
This kimono was what was classified as kosode, a shorter-sleeved robe befitting a more mature woman than the red furisode. It was adorned with a graceful pattern of orchids covered with small drifts of snow, using a stunning combination of two styles of shibori tie-dyeing, and silk thread and metallic thread embroidery.
The third kimono was actually a juban, an under-jacket worn by men and women. This one was a creamy silk decorated with a pattern of books. “A woman’s juban,” I said. “Not many have survived, so this is really special. First half of the nineteenth century?”
“Why do you think that it belonged to a woman?” Mr. Shima asked me.
I didn’t have a good answer for this, because although the books on the robe were dyed in attractive greens and purples, these colors could be worn by men as well as women. “The writing on the kimono is in hiragana. In the Edo period, not all women read kanji characters.”
Mr. Nishio cleared his throat and said, “This juban, and the orchid-patterned kimono, were worn by Ryohei Tokugawa’s wife.”
I knew, of course, about the Tokugawa clan, which was the last family dynasty that ruled Japan as Shoguns. But I hadn’t heard of Ryohei Tokugawa. There was no point in hiding my ignorance. “Are you talking about one of the Shogun’s relations?”
“Yes, a cousin to Yoshinobu—the last Shogun,” Mr. Nishio added pointedly, as if I might not know.
“Do you have a lot of Ryohei’s wife’s clothing?”
“Some of it. Many kimono were given away to her courtiers. We have a full description in this diary photocopy we have prepared for you.”
Photocopies that I’d have to have translated because my kanji knowledge was so poor, I thought ruefully. “If it’s not too much trouble—could you talk about this as we go along?”
“Yes, please tell her. The lecture will only go more smoothly,” Mr. Shima said to his colleague.
In a halting voice, as if he really couldn’t bear to share any secrets with me, Mr. Nishio talked. He showed me the various tiny places that showed signs of age and fragility on a formal black kimono with the Tokugawa crest, and the ancient soy-sauce stain on a girl-child’s kimono that was embroidered with cherry blossoms. It was believed that the girl who’d worn the kimono might have been the child of Ryohei and his wife.
We moved on from the Tokugawa kimono to some others, which, I found to my surprise, were even lovelier. I sighed over a cool blue furisode patterned with images of palace curtains, and another striking long-sleeved robe dyed and embroidered with streams, flowers, and pavilions upon which rested bamboo cages holding crickets—the era’s favorite musical performers. Mr. Nishio said that these kimono came from the same source—a tea merchant’s wife who was alive at the same time as Mrs. Ryohei Tokugawa.
It seemed bizarre to me that the more splendid kimono belonged to a tea merchant’s wife, not to the wife who was part of the Shogun’s family. I wanted to get the translations of the photocopies done so I could read them for myself.
“Do you know the tea merchant’s name?” I asked.
“Otani.” Mr. Shima mentioned one of the most common names in Japan. “The Otani heirs donated quite a collection, including a splendid uchikake we can guess Mrs. Otani wore at her own wedding.”
“What a gorgeous piece that must be,” I said, wanting to hear more.
“Yes. The Otanis became poor during the war, so they sold their collection of family textiles to an American officer living here during the occupation years. That American sold the kimono to our museum in the 1960s.”
I paused. An idea was growing, but I was hesitant to express the whole thing before I’d thought it through. “If it’s not too much trouble, I would like to see the rest of the Otani collection. I’d like to learn as much as I can before speaking to Americans about your holdings.”
Mr. Shima raised his eyebrows. “It would be easier for the library staff to show you the slides first; then, if you’re still interested, I shall bring the robe.”
“That sounds fine.” I was glad for the chance to study something on my own, without either of the men standing like a black cloud over my shoulder.
Inside the museum’s small library, a studious-looking young woman brought slides and accompanying notes to me within a few minutes. Since everything was all written in Japanese, I did what I always do in such situations: photocopy, and arrange for translation later, on my own time. The slides were easier for me to appreciate. The tea merchant’s family had a vast assortment of kimono that seemed to range in age from early nineteenth century to the 1920s. It was the early-nineteenth-century robes that I was interested in, and as I’d suspected, a number of them had images that would have been appropriate for a courtesan to wear: in addition to exquisite florals, there were vistas of teahouses and symbols of an incense-smelling game. These were not the kimono of a typical housewife—not even a rich one. I had a sense of the kind of woman they might have belonged to, but it would take a bit of independent research before I could confirm this fact for myself.
The last slide I looked at was that of the uchikake I’d heard about. It was a scarlet silk satin robe decorated with pairs of mandarin ducks diving through a pond that rippled with tie-dyed shibori droplets of water. Blossoming cherry trees created with meticulous embroidery added to the charming picture. This kimono was not as grandly decadent as some Mr. Shima had shown me, but it was sweet, romantic, and amusing. It would serve beautifully as the highlight for my talk.
“Mr. Shima says for you to return to the conference room. He has retrieved the uchikake you were waiting to view,” the library clerk said after I’d been looking at things for about a half hour.
So he’d done it himself, and not waited for Mr. Nishio. That was kind, I thought, hurrying back to the office.
Mr. Shima already had the bridal kimono spread out on the table when I went in. I saw him before he saw me; he was bent over, studying the fabric. I could see tension on his face for the first time that day, and a ripple of nervousness went through me. Maybe the kimono was damaged or fragile. Every single stain, break in a fiber, loose stitch, crease, spot, snag, or tear would be documented—and I’d be responsible to see that there was not a single bit of extra damage. If the kimono was in bad shape to begin with, it would make the likelihood of my getting to travel with it quite slim.
I coughed slightly so he would know I was there.
“Here you are, Miss Shimura. Interesting—I haven’t looked at this robe for quite a few years.”
I stood next to him and gazed down. Examining the robe in full, I could appreciate the details even more. The ducks were diving, playing, and flying over the water—almost all of them in pairs. Now I remembered the significance of mandarin ducks: they were symbols of marriage. That, paired with the good luck present in the cherry blossoms, made this a very auspicious robe for a woman to wear at a wedding. The condition looked excellent—colors were faded, here and there, but the stitches looked intact, and I didn’t see stains or any other obvious signs of damage.
“It’s very special,” I said. “It gives me a feeling for the romanticism, and the joy the woman marrying the tea merchant must have felt when she wore it.”
“We really can guess nothing of emotion,” Mr. Shima said. “And in my opinion, it’s a fine example, but not nearly as fine as some of the other garments.”
“You know so much about textiles themselves, Shima-san. You could be more than a registrar, neh? Perhaps a museum director, someday,” I said, flattering him. It was true that he was more forthcoming, and perhaps even more knowledgeable, about textiles than Mr. Nishio.
“It is kind of you to say, but my training is incomplete in that area,” he answered, but I could see he’d been pleased by my compliment.
“I’m sure you’ve also noticed that an uchikake is the
one thing that’s missing from the group of kimono I’ll take to America. If I could bring this bridal kimono, it would perfectly illustrate the life cycle of a family of women in Edo-period Japan.”
Mr. Shima looked at me as if I’d said something shocking. “But the Museum of Asian Arts didn’t request it.”
“They did not understand the connection,” I said. Realizing that I sounded perhaps too proud of my own scholarly abilities, I amended my words quickly. “What I mean to say is, they did not have the opportunity to sit with you, and learn from your scholarship the intricate histories of the garments. You’ve opened a special world to me, and for this, I am truly grateful.” I ended with a little bob of my head as an expression of a formal bow, without seeming too over-the-top.
Mr. Shima was silent for a minute and then sighed. “Well, I suppose I can give permission. After all, they were expecting eight robes, and we cut the total to seven. There is room in the box.”
“Thank you,” I said fervently. “This will be so appreciated by the audience there. It will allow me to give a talk that has some real substance.”
Mr. Shima took a piece of stationery from the table, and on it wrote the uchikake’s item number and a few lines of Japanese. I imagined they were a description of the item, because I recognized the kanji characters for “Edo period,” “red,” and “duck.” Then he marked the paper with his personal seal and stapled it to the loan slip.
“I hope the museum will appreciate it as much as you. May I tell you something personal, Miss Shimura?” Mr. Shima said.
I nodded, unsure of what was coming.
“I did not believe you had any knowledge of historic textiles when you first approached the museum. But now I’ve seen you have studied, and even more importantly, you have an appreciation for these antique robes. I am pleasantly surprised, but I think things may work out well for everyone concerned.”
I wanted to hug him, but that would have been out of line.
I bowed deeply instead.
4
The last days dwindled as I worked on my research into the Tokugawa and Otani kimono and double-checked the itinerary that Mr. Shima at the Morioka organized for me. I would be flying All Nippon Airways to Washington in a business-class seat, with a second seat next to me reserved for the two boxes of kimono, since the museum did not approve of the climate, or the security, of any jet’s baggage compartment. I’d found the cheap price on two business tickets through a ticket wholesaler who did a lot of business with Richard Randall’s language-school students.
Part of the cheap airfare deal included a choice of a few hotels; I went with the cheapest one, called the Washington Suites. The air-hotel package included a handful of coupons to use at a nearby shopping mall. I decided to budget $500 for shoes and clothing, things I could barely afford to buy in Japan. I made up a shopping list for America: running shoes, black everyday pumps, black evening pumps, strappy sandals. I also longed for a suit that was current. I’d probably have done better if I’d had such a suit when I went to visit the Otani family, whom I’d finally tracked down living in a spacious house in the suburbs of Kawasaki.
“So pleased to meet you,” Koichi Otani, the silver-haired patriarch of the family, had said, glancing skeptically over me in the favorite haori coat I’d chosen again to wear with my basic black dress.
“I’m very glad to meet you,” I said, following him into a pristine all-white living room. I stuck out like a pink-and-red arrow—but an arrow without a real direction, I thought to myself. I sensed he had information that could help me learn about the kimono collection’s history, but I had no idea how to proceed. Blandly, I said, “I was so impressed with the collection that your family once owned.”
“Do you think it’s worth more than we sold it for?” Mr. Otani asked. He was an ex-stockbroker, I’d found out when I’d called after having traced him through the Japanese government’s notoriously accurate family registry. I’d been thrilled with the details of what he’d told me over the phone—that the kimono collection was chiefly made up of garments worn by his great-great-great-grandmother, who had been named Ai, and married into the Otani family in 1850.
“I’m almost certain it is. Is there a record of what the American officer paid your father for the kimono in 1948?” I asked.
“He didn’t pay with money, just rice and charcoal. He gave enough to last one winter.”
I flushed, feeling guilty about the acquisitive nature of Americans abroad. After all, when I shopped at the Tokyo flea markets, I tried to get the best deal for myself. That’s what the officer had done. “I’ve only seen four of the kimono that belonged to Ai. The three that were formally appraised were valued together at a little over twenty million yen.” Two hundred thousand dollars, that was.
“Ah. I believe my father gave a total of fifteen kimono. What a great value he gave away. The house was pleasantly warm that winter, though, I remember. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?” He smiled, but his eyes remained sad.
Things were going to be difficult. I began, “Um, Mr. Otani, I wanted to say…in looking at the kimono that were worn by your great-great-great-grandmother, a few questions come to mind. They are so lavish and exquisite…especially the ones with longer sleeves, which were worn before Ai-san married. The themes are also very splendid. I don’t know if you’ve seen these kimono?”
“They were always wrapped up in rice paper and stacked in a tansu in the family storehouse. I was a small boy. I wasn’t interested.”
“The themes deal with court life. It makes me wonder whether you know anything about what Ai-san did before she got married.”
“What she did? Young ladies of the day did not have careers. It’s not like the women’s liberation of today.”
“In those days, some women who worked as—courtesans.” I settled on that word because it was milder than “prostitutes.” “Some women lived in the Yoshiwara Pleasure Quarter, and some were in the court of Tokugawa Shogun.”
“Are you saying—are you saying that my great-great-great-grandfather married a prostitute?” Mr. Otani sank down on a white velour-covered chair, leaving me standing awkwardly in front of him.
“It could be, of course, that Ai-san was just a wealthy girl who preferred kimono with themes that were also popular in the floating world—” I sputtered a bit in my haste to save the situation.
Mr. Otani shook his head. “We’re Osaka people. It’s impossible that my ancestor was in Yoshiwara, or the Shogun’s court.”
“Very well,” I said, realizing the door had been closed. “I’m very excited about the kimono. As I told you on the phone, your family’s kimono were sought out by a top American museum because they are so splendid.”
“Don’t call them my family’s kimono,” Mr. Otani snapped. “They belonged to a Lieutenant Commander Ashburn. He’s the one who made the profit.”
“If it’s any consolation, in the sixties he couldn’t have possibly gotten what they’re worth now,” I said.
“He received more than a winter’s worth of coal, I imagine.”
I couldn’t disagree.
Mr. Otani never came through with more information about Ai, but then, I hadn’t thought he really would. Maybe I’d been crazy to try to find out more about the Otani kimono. The truth was, I had precious little about their history on paper from the Morioka Museum, even after I’d pored over the translated documents I’d been given. I might be able to do a little research in Washington, at the Textile Museum or the Smithsonian Institutions. At the moment my most serious task was getting all the kimono out of Japan without losing my cool.
The morning of my departure, I went to the Morioka Museum to pick up the two five-foot-long acid-free cardboard boxes packed with kimono. Mr. Shima had already gone away on his vacation, so Mr. Nishio was the one who opened the boxes with me for the final condition analysis and count. Watching alongside us was a man called Mr. Morita in a plain gray suit. He was the customs broker, a representative of Nippon Shippi
ng, who would escort me all the way from the museum to Narita Airport, where he would present the proper papers to the customs officials and watch me until I boarded the plane.
“At the museum, you must check the number of kimono again. Don’t forget!” Mr. Nishio added the last as an order in an impolite verb form—something he must have been sure I’d be offended by.
“I won’t. I feel very fortunate for this opportunity,” I said, although I knew quite well that he had nothing to do with the decision for me to leave.
“You have a very serious responsibility. I see that Shima-san has substituted a wedding kimono for the other one originally on the loan receipt. I’m a little concerned about it,” Mr. Nishio added, mainly addressing Mr. Morita, the customs broker. Mr. Morita shook his head, muttered something under his breath, and looked unhappy.
If only I could read the Japanese paper that Mr. Shima had given me. I was beginning to get the idea that Mr. Nishio wanted to screw up my trip in any way possible. I stuck to my guns and said, “I’ve got Mr. Shima’s seal on a document approving the loan. Please don’t worry. I’ll treat this kimono with the same care as the others.”
Mr. Nishio didn’t wish me bon voyage, so I didn’t say much more to him when I left. Because the customs broker was involved, we went by a private limousine. This was an uncommonly luxurious—though not necessarily speedy—way of leaving Tokyo. As we rode along, Mr. Morita snored. I wondered whether it was Mr. Nishio’s idea that I be so closely supervised by the customs broker. I supposed I should feel glad to have an extra person to help me get two five-foot-long boxes to the airport, but Mr. Morita hadn’t been particularly helpful getting the luggage into the car. The taxi driver loaded my luggage in the car’s trunk while I had to fit the two giant boxes, and myself, in the backseat. The customs broker sat up front and, once the car was on the move, shut his eyes and went to sleep, as if he were a salaryman on the Tokyo subway.
After an hour, the car had made it out of the city and into the Japanese farmland that surrounded Narita. Mid-autumn in Japan meant that dark orange persimmons were bobbing from trees, and the air smelled deliciously of roasted sweet potatoes and chestnuts. It was hard to leave this world, even for a week. In Japan, one felt the seasons so strongly; persimmons were celebrated as gladly as cherry blossoms. In America, seasonal decorations meant Christmas lights going up sometime around Halloween.
The Bride's Kimono Page 3
