by Diana Renn
* * *
AFTER AN HOUR, I stare out the window, trying to bring the real world back into focus. There is the orange-and-white Tokyo Tower, Japan’s version of the Eiffel Tower or the Space Needle. There, thirty-five floors down, are the landscaped gardens of the hotel, the turquoise swimming pools pressed in like jewels. And there, in the corner of my room, is where my dinner is not. When I call Room Service, I get a string of apologies and a promise that it’s on its way.
I leaf through my fresh pages while I wait. I’ve drawn landscapes and other backgrounds with more detail than usual. Characters’ facial expressions are stronger and more varied, the emotions clearer. Staring at ukiyo-e prints for two days has affected my work. In a good way.
But what’s more surprising is how many panels and pages filled up. It felt like the story was writing and drawing itself. I must have been “in the flow.” Maybe that’s how my dad lives 90 percent of the time, flowing down the river of his imagination, oblivious to all who shout and wave from the shores. Maybe that river’s not such a bad place to be.
The door buzzes. I check the door peephole. It’s Room Service Dude. I let him in.
I watch him fuss with the cart, pushing it toward the window, smoothing the white tablecloth on all sides. He’s not too much older than me. And totally kakkoii in his blue uniform. This makes two guys I’ve noticed since Edge. Maybe there are other fish in the sea.
And maybe these room service deliveries aren’t a great idea. It’d be easy enough to get a hotel uniform and wheel a cart into anyone’s room, especially in a hotel like the Grand Prince.
Room Service Dude bows several times, backing out of the room and, I swear, looking all around the room as he does so. As if he’s checking for something.
Gingerly, as if moving a woodblock print, I pull up a corner of the tablecloth and peer under the delivery cart tablecloth. All I find is a small stack of extra napkins, neatly folded.
I’m losing my mind. I don’t know what I expected to find under there. An electronic surveillance device? Explosives? Ridiculous.
Still, I lock the door. I shove a nightstand in front of it. And an armchair.
When I’m done, my forty-dollar hamburger, a disk of gray meat atop a miniature bun, with a dollop of bloodred ketchup on the side, has completely lost its appeal.
2
1
It’s my third day on the job, and Mitsue’s so busy with the exhibit that I’m left alone most of the time. By afternoon, though I’ve made little progress on measuring, I’ve searched every cabinet big enough to hold a van Gogh canvas, and nothing has turned up.
Just because the pencil-rubbing trick from Vampire Sleuths worked in real life doesn’t mean the hidden panel business is going to work, too. Mr. Fujikawa is expecting a van Gogh in eight days. I wrangled it out of Mitsue that the financial offer was declined last night. He will only accept the painting. I’ve wasted three days on a crazy theory.
And Reika’s wasted time, too. She turned up a dead end on the fish-processing-plant venue. She went to a library and read some old newspaper articles on microfiche about the project. The plant was to be built outside of Kyoto. But after the investors pulled out, the building site sat empty for three years. In 1990, an entirely different company built a factory that packaged ramen noodles. And Fine Ayu Food Products no longer exists; that company went bankrupt in 1991 when Japan’s economy began to decline. “It took me eight freaking hours to make it through that newspaper article with a dictionary and with the help of a librarian. And for nothing,” Reika grumbled.
I had to agree with Reika that the painting is not likely to be in a noodle factory.
In my last hour of the workday, I return to measuring prints. I hope Mitsue won’t notice how little I got done, and I hope Reika’s having better luck doing Internet searches on businesses with ayu in their name. I look at my cell phone photo of Tomonori’s ayu until my eyes burn.
Then, almost mechanically, I go to the oldest-looking file cabinet, which I haven’t searched yet because it would be too small to conceal a painting. Its five drawers contain smaller flat files with more of the same—prints and scrolls and drawings. I look through each file carefully for anything with a fish symbol that might match Tomonori’s ayu.
As I’m closing the bottom drawer, about to give up, I notice, toward the back of the drawer, a stack of international art auction catalogues. They’re from the 1980s. The top one, from Christie’s auction house, says 1987. I pick them up, and beneath is a box with a smudge on the lid. I look closer. Not a smudge. A fingerprint.
No. Not a fingerprint. A stamp.
A faint stamp, showing two ayu circling around in a pool. Shaking, I grab my phone and compare it to the photo. It’s the same image as Tomonori’s drawing!
I lift the box lid. Inside is a faded brown eight-by-eleven-inch mailing envelope. When I pick it up, something shifts inside. I turn over the envelope. There’s no name or address.
The envelope is so old that the flap practically springs open in my hand. I tip the envelope toward the table. A slender leatherbound notebook slides out.
It’s a sketchbook. About sixteen pages are filled with finely inked sketches, so detailed, so meticulous, they take my breath away. The rest of the pages are blank.
I see landscapes that remind me of shin hanga prints. Statues on pedestals. Buildings and sculptures that look more like Europe than Japan. Here and there I find notes in kanji characters, running vertically on the page.
The door opens as I’m turning the fourth page, and I look up with a start. Kenji is standing in the doorway, watching me with a quizzical expression. “Hi,” I squeak, sliding the sketchbook under a portfolio of kabuki actor prints. “Mitsue’s in the gallery.”
“Thank you, I will look for her there,” Keniji says. “How are you doing with the prints?”
“Pretty good. I’m learning a lot.” I look closely at him. He’s trying to appear cheerful. But like Mitsue, he looks tired and drained, with dark circles under his eyes.
“Good, good.” He comes over to the table and studies the prints scattered about. “Which of these do you like best?”
“The kabuki actor portraits are so cool. They remind me of manga.”
“Ah, yes, I couldn’t agree more!”
“You read manga?”
He laughs. “Nearly every person in Japan reads some form of manga. Even frighteningly old people like myself.” He pulls up a stool. “Which series do you follow?”
I list some of my favorites. To my amazement, he recognizes them. And it turns out we both love Akira, as well as the anime film. Then he mentions older manga artists like Rumiko Takahashi and Osamu Tezuka. I confess that I’ve heard of them, but I haven’t read their titles.
“What?” Kenji pretends to look shocked, or maybe he really is. “Why, Tezuka is the god of manga! I will loan you the Astro Boy series. It is from the 1950s, but you will be astonished at how modern it feels. But you made a connection between ukiyo-e and manga. This interests me greatly. What is the resemblance you see?”
“I guess the way emotion is conveyed. Especially in the kabuki prints, you get this feeling of movement and energy. But also the simple composition mixed with elaborate details.”
“You are very observant. Manga does have its roots in ukiyo-e. And just as manga is popular today, so was ukiyo-e. The prints were once inexpensive and circulated widely.”
“Maybe Mitsue should put some manga in her art show. You know, since it’s all about the influences of Japanese prints.”
“What an excellent idea! I will mention it to her. Just this morning she was lamenting an empty display case. A sample of manga pages juxtaposed with prints might be just the thing.”
As I bask in Kenji’s praise, it occurs to me we’re hanging out and talking art—exactly the kind of thing I wish I
could do with my dad. I wish my dad really were more like Kenji. Kenji is busy, but he seems to make time for his family. He loves art, but it doesn’t take over his life.
As much as I’d like to go on talking, we’re running out of time. I can’t believe we’re discussing Astro Boy when we’re inches away from a possible clue. I lift up the kabuki portfolio and slide the book across the table to him, along with the box and the envelope. “Here. I found this.”
He stares at the ayu on the box, then picks up the book and leafs through it. When he looks at me, his eyes are moist. “This book.” His voice falters. “It belonged to my brother.”
2
2
“It is a sketch journal,” he says softly after he’s looked at all sixteen pages. “Tomonori kept these his entire life, starting when he was around seven years old. When our parents, and later his wife, did not support his passion for making art, sketching and collecting were his only artistic outlets. This must have been his last journal. I see it is not complete. And these sketches show buildings in Paris. He took only one trip to Paris, in 1987.”
“The year he bought the van Goghs!”
“That is correct. I believe you have found something that could greatly aid us in recovering the lost van Gogh painting.” He taps the book cover. “I also believe my brother meant me to find this. You see, when we were children, he used to draw pictures as codes for me to decipher. He was never particularly good with words. He lacked diplomacy and tact. He occasionally made impulsive or rash decisions. This held him back in business. But through his art, he could be quite thoughtful—and playful.” Kenji smiles, a faraway look on his face. “He used to make little boxes filled with candies or comics or small treasures, and lead me to them with his art. I’d have to figure out clues in the pictures or understand hidden messages in a story he was telling, in order to get the treasure. He was exceedingly clever that way. His games were maddening but strangely compelling.”
“So you think these pictures might have clues to where he hid the painting?”
“That is exactly what I think. And so I am going to study this sketch journal.”
My heart is pounding. This journal is the biggest clue I’ve found yet, and it might just lead us to the painting. “Let me help you.” The words fly out. “I mean, please, can I help?”
“That is a kind offer, but I’m not sure how you could help. The journal is in Japanese.”
“I could still look at the pictures. I’m good at understanding pictures. And since I never knew your brother, maybe I’ll see something you don’t.”
“Yes, I see how a fresh perspective could be useful. But your father said he doesn’t want you to be involved in any way.”
“I know, I know. But all I’d be doing is looking at pieces of paper. I’m not talking to anyone. There’s no danger in looking at pictures. And he doesn’t even have to know, right?”
Kenji considers this. “All right. This is reasonable. I will make you a photocopy of this sketchbook. But in exchange for your absolute discretion, I must ask for yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“I won’t tell your dad you’re helping. And you must not share this copy with anyone. We would not want this to fall into the wrong hands.”
“Of course.”
As he turns to go copy the journal, I can’t resist asking one question, to get some insight into Tomonori and why he might have hidden this art so carefully. “Kenji. Did you see the van Gogh drawings and painting before your brother hid them?”
He pauses, his hand on the doorknob. “Why, yes. I did.”
“And back then, did you think the drawings and painting were really van Goghs?”
“I had doubts when I heard of this purchase. There was no clear, documented history for the painting and the drawings, they were unsigned, and he paid a relatively small sum for the collection. When I saw them for myself, however, I had a strong feeling about them. I knew I was in the presence of something extraordinary. I supported my brother’s decision to put the art away for safekeeping until we could find another appraiser.”
“You must have been really excited to find those drawings.”
“It was like having a link to my brother. But I would trade them in an instant to have my brother back. Lives are more important than art.”
That’s the second time I’ve heard Kenji say those words. They have an ominous ring.
* * *
“LET’S DIVIDE IT in half. You do pictures, I’ll do words. Then we’ll switch sets.”
Reika leafs through the pages Kenji copied for me at the office an hour ago. We’re in a huge electronics store in the Akihabara district, huddled in a photo booth, where Yoshi can’t follow us. Throbbing music from the store’s stereo section masks our voices. I figure we’re good for a few minutes, as long as we keep feeding coins into the machine and taking pictures.
Reika hands me a set of eight papers. “You take the first half, with Paris. The rest look like sketches from Japan. Museum exhibits and country landscapes and some drawings of a woman in a kimono. I’ll look at those.”
I take my set of pages and get to work, looking closely at the drawings. When the machine spits out our first set of photos, mine look like mug shots. You can see the guilt. I’m betraying Kenji, sharing this journal copy with Reika. But the journal pictures have captions and notes; I needed a translator. Reika called to say her “responsible older cousin” was meeting her boyfriend, an appliance salesman at a store in Akihabara, instead of escorting her directly home, so we could meet up in the electronics district.
“A lot of these sketches show art exhibits. Maybe Tomonori hid the painting in a museum,” Reika says. “We could search all the museums in Tokyo.”
“That would take forever. Plus, I think Tomonori was more creative than that. Switch?”
I pore over the sketches with renewed energy as a pulsing techno song kicks in. The most interesting images to me are two pages with about ten pictures of a beautiful, young woman wearing a floral kimono. Tomonori’s wife, Fumiko, I guess. She’s smiling and posing. Not some art-hating nag.
I wish I had KG’s magic kimono to take me deeper into Tomonori’s images. I stare at them so hard my eyes water. Nothing comes to the surface.
After thirty minutes in the photo booth, we’re out of coins and ideas. We’re also the owners of twenty-five strips of wallet-size photos, mostly showing the tops of our heads.
2
3
As I return to the Yamada Building, I’m thinking so deeply about the journal that I don’t even hear Yoshi call out a warning. I collide with a delivery guy coming out the revolving door. We both murmur apologies. I can’t help noticing he’s dressed in red and yellow, and his shirt has a familiar logo on it. As he gets on a bicycle, I realize he’s a courier. That red-and-yellow envelope I saw Hideki take from Kenji’s office must have been delivered by this service. It must be an international courier service, because the envelope Kenji pulled out with the FBI, in Margo’s gallery, looked the same.
But I’m zooming in on needless details. As my dad would say, if he were looking at the picture in my frame right now: this image does not tell a story.
The image that greets me behind my dad’s screens does. I’m in some kind of trouble. My dad stands there with his arms folded, glaring. “Where have you been?”
“Akihabara. Reika needed a new phone charger. It’s okay. Yoshi was there,” I add quickly.
“It’s almost seven.”
“I didn’t realize I had a curfew. Anyway, the subway took forever.” It was scary, actually, taking the Yamanote line at rush hour. Platform workers pushed us into the trains. I could barely breathe in the crush of people. I was grateful to have Yoshi by my side. He helped me find a safe place to stand and found me a hanging strap to hold on to.
“Mitsue’s seeing her sister tonight, and Hideiki’s on an international conference call. So Kenji’s taking us to dinner,” my dad says. “He wanted us to leave an hour ago.”
“Guess your mind-meld failed. I didn’t get the message.” How nice of him to keep a dinner date for business, while he abandons his daughter to room service.
“There’s no need for sarcasm. Look, here’s the deal. Except for any planned excursions with the Yamadas, you are not leaving the hotel grounds for the rest of our time in Tokyo.”
“What? I’m being grounded? For going to Asakusa? I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Not grounded. Confined. I simply can’t concentrate on my work if I’m worrying about where you are, with those jerks on the loose. I just learned from Hideki that the sting failed.”
“Yeah, I know.” I suddenly feel really tired. Does he have any idea how hard it is for me to concentrate on my work knowing he’s in real danger?
“You knew about the sting? And you didn’t tell me?”
“I tried. Yesterday. I startled you. I made you splatter paint.”
“Right.” He sighs. “I suppose I didn’t handle that too well. It was a long day.”
I look past him. The wall is white again. “You’re starting over?”
“There is just no pleasing that guy.”
“Hideki?”
“Yeah. I’d rather not get into it right now.”
“I can’t be grounded. What about my job?”
“I’ll explain the situation to Mitsue. She’ll understand. I’m not having a debate. Meanwhile, I’d better tell Kenji we’re ready.” He pats his pockets. “Now where is that phone?”
I take his cell phone out of my knapsack and silently hand it over.
* * *
KENJI’S PRIVATE DRIVER speeds through the streets of Roppongi, a ritzy business and entertainment district in the heart of Tokyo. The sky deepens to indigo blue. Enormous signs wink on, running vertically down the building sides. They brighten the sky and wash the streets in red, blue, green, and pink. The city gleams like candy.
