by Diana Renn
Then I turn to a fresh sheet and think about the real van Gogh mystery. Julian’s been on my mind ever since Skye told me he tried to buy his own gallery. Talk about a cash windfall. If he were a middleman, like Sockeye in my story, he might get some money, but probably not that much. Not as much as if he sold it himself. An idea, a possible real-life story, starts to take shape, and I sketch it out in panels.
Shinobu Nishio and Kazuo Uchida, under Fujikawa’s orders to get the van Gogh drawings, arrive in Seattle. They know that the Yamadas are buying Glenn Marklund’s works, so they track down Margo since she represents my dad. They show up at Margo’s gallery, seeking information on the Japanese collectors. They find Julian, find him willing to talk, and pay him for information about where the Yamadas keep the drawings. Then Nishio and Uchida break into the Yamadas’ house one evening and make off with the drawings.
Next panel. Julian counts his cash. Then he visits a real estate office in Tacoma to inquire about buying a gallery space in Tacoma. He’s dying to branch out and do his own thing, away from Margo, who doesn’t appreciate him.
I stare at a blank panel. There’s still a missing piece. What made the yakuza think the van Gogh painting was in Seattle? I draw a question mark. Could Julian have given them mis-information? Would he say anything for the right price?
After a while, I give up on the real-life mystery and turn back to the made-up one. Unlike the real-life mystery, I suddenly know how this one will end.
* * *
THE CORMORANT RETURNS to her studio, catching Kimono Girl just as she’s emerging from the covered-up van Gogh. KG confronts the Cormorant. “I’m here to return the painting to its rightful owner. Now tell me where I can find the solvent that will remove this acrylic layer.”
The Cormorant holds up a small vial. “Heh heh heh. This is my special formula—I invented it, and this is all I have. The oils beneath would surely be damaged if an ordinary solvent is used. Use anything but this, and you’ll lose the van Gogh.”
KG draws her sword and demands the Cormorant apply it to the canvas.
The Cormorant laughs and transforms into her bird form, then lunges at KG, trying to peck her with her beak. The two fight, causing chaos in the studio. Paints and solvents topple off shelves. Bottles break. Frames and canvases are crashed into and broken. KG dives for the van Gogh and grabs the canvas. The Cormorant spears her hand with her beak. Blood spurts everywhere, but KG holds on to that canvas with all her strength. Then she lunges for the vial of special solvent, which is now rolling toward the door.
As the Cormorant comes at her one last time, wings raised, KG slashes at her with the sword. She nearly cuts the canvas, missing it by a millimeter, and clips one of the Cormorant’s wings instead. While the Cormorant recoils and cries out in pain, KG escapes from the studio with the canvas. And the solvent.
* * *
BY ONE, MY fingers are cramped and I have a crick in my neck. Reika’s snoring softly; she’s fallen asleep in one of the wicker chairs, and her poetry notebook has slid to the floor.
I look out the window and see my dad on the bank of the Katsura-gawa. He’s set up his tripod and easel and is painting on a small canvas. With his wide yukata sleeves fluttering and his expansive arm movements, he resembles a wizard. A strange wizard with a messy ponytail and sneakers peaking out the bottom of his robe instead of the ridged wooden flip-flops—geta—that all the other guests borrow to wear outside.
There are no women’s geta at the inn to fit my size-nine feet, so I find my Converse high-tops among the other guests’ outdoor shoes by the front desk. I feel vaguely ridiculous, walking around the tea garden in my yukata and high-tops. I follow the winding gravel path.
I stand behind my dad for a while, watching him paint, careful not to startle him.
“Everything okay?” my dad asks after a few minutes.
“Yeah, sure. I just thought we could, I don’t know, hang out or something.”
“And do what?” His hand does not stop moving. His watercolors are light and delicate—different from his usual, splashier work—but his lines are sure.
“No, when you hang out, you don’t really do anything. You just . . . never mind.”
I turn to go. Then a shiver passes through me. I remember what it felt like to talk to the okami-san, to demand that she reveal what she knows. I had been full of chikara that night. I turn back to my dad now and stare at him hard, feeling that power surge through me again.
Feeling the force of my stare, I assume, my dad sets down his brush and turns to me. “What’s on your mind, kiddo? Is it this gangster business?”
I nod, but surprisingly, what comes out of my mouth has nothing to do with that. “Why did you hide me?”
“Sorry?”
“You didn’t tell Skye about me. Or Margo. I was so embarrassed at your reception. Nobody had a clue who I was.”
“Oh.” My dad sits down on the riverbank. “Yeah.”
I sit, too, leaving a good three feet between us.
“I’m sorry. I hadn’t told Margo because, well, that’s a business relationship, and it simply never came up. And as for Skye, well, it’s complicated. See, she wants children someday. We haven’t sorted that out yet. I know I’m not a great parent. I haven’t been there for you over the years. So I kind of froze up about the issue with Skye. I didn’t know how to tell her about you. The longer I waited, the harder it got. I’m sorry it ended up embarrassing you.”
I nod. I don’t really get why the issue of having kids has to be so complicated. But at least I feel like he’s telling me the truth. And at least he wasn’t keeping me a secret because he’s embarrassed about me.
A long wooden boat drifts downriver, poled by a young man standing up at the prow. He wears a dark blue yukata and a pointed hat, like the rickshaw drivers in town.
Grateful for the visual distraction to make up for our sudden silence, I make two Ls with my fingers. “Hey. Frame Game.” I show my dad the image captured between my hands, following the boat as it moves. “What do you think?”
“Nice composition.”
“Remember we used to play that when I’d visit you on Capitol Hill?”
“Sure. I didn’t have a TV or video games or any stuff to keep a kid entertained. I was always in a panic about what to do with you. This seemed to do the trick.”
“It was fun. Why’d we stop playing it?”
“Oh, I imagined you thought it was silly as you got older. I remember you once said, ‘Couldn’t we just get a camera? Then we’d always have the pictures we found.’ I couldn’t argue with that logic.”
“Huh. Okay.” I don’t remember saying that at all.
“Any other questions, as long as I’m on the stand?”
“Yeah. Why’d you leave that house on Capitol Hill? With all those artists living together, talking about art all the time—it seemed really cool. I liked visiting you there.”
“Did you?” My dad stares at the river. “Funny, isn’t it, how kids and parents can see the same thing so differently. You know, Violet, that really wasn’t such a great place. Bunch of wannabe artists and slackers. All talk. They’d rant about not wanting to sell out, not wanting to get real jobs, but meanwhile we were barely making rent.” He sighs. “Unfortunately, I got sucked into their lifestyle. I made a few choices that I now regret. And one day I looked in the mirror, and I didn’t even recognize myself. I’d lost my way. I knew I had to get out of there and clean up my act if I was going to make it as an artist . . . or as a person. Anyway, I guess that’s why I sort of kept my distance from you the past few years.”
“Really?”
“Yep. I didn’t want you to think of me like I thought of those losers I lived with. I wanted you to have a better opinion of me, even if it was just an illusion. If I could do it all again, I’d have handled it differently. I didn
’t mean to mess up your life.”
“It’s okay. I’m not completely damaged.”
“I hope not,” he says in a serious way. Then he grins at me. “Grab your sketchbook. I’m not very good at hanging out, but we could work together if you want.”
“Yeah, that sounds fun.” I run to my room, where Reika’s still dozing, and get my black book. On the bank of the Katsura-gawa, side by side, we work together in silence. At the end of an hour, we show each other what we’ve been working on, and my dad actually says my Kimono Girl drawings are good. “You have an excellent eye for detail.”
“Thanks!”
“But what’s this?” As he hands my book back, a page falls open to my sketches about the real van Gogh case. He sees the ones I did this morning when I was working out my theory of Julian’s role. “Do you really think the yakuza paid Julian for information about the drawings?”
“I know it’s crazy, but—”
“It’s not crazy. Now that I see it storyboarded here, the way you have it, it kind of makes sense. Julian had been to the Yamadas’ house more than once to help out with a print appraisal.”
“So if he led the thieves to the drawings and got a ton of money for it, why would he get beat up later?” I wonder aloud. “Do you think he led them to believe there was a painting, too? And that either Skye had it, or you did?”
“It wouldn’t be out of character. I bet once he made some money on the side, for the information about the drawings, he got inspired. Or greedy. For more money, toward buying that art gallery he always wanted, he might have gladly answered questions about the painting.”
“And I bet that’s why the yakuza beat him up and trashed your art. They trusted him after the good lead on the drawings, but when the painting didn’t turn up, they retaliated.”
My dad takes his cell phone out of his paint box. “I’m calling Agent Chang.”
“But it’s the middle of the night in Seattle now.”
“Good thing she’s not there, then.”
“Where is she?”
“Here, in Japan.”
“No way! Why?”
“She’s pursuing some new leads that turned up in the case. She should be in Kyoto by now. I’ve been keeping her up to date ever since you told me about Fujikawa’s threat.” My dad talks to Agent Chang for a few minutes. “Natsuko Kikuchi has news for us,” he says after hanging up. “There is something behind that painting.”
“I knew it! Is it the van Gogh?”
“Agent Chang doesn’t know yet. Something turned up on the infrared, and she’s going to go see it in person. She’ll be at the Kyoto Museum at seven thirty this evening, with the Yamadas and the okami-san. We should go, too. You and Reika should be there, too. I mean, since you’ve done so much on this case, you might as well see the result of your work.”
He looks at me with a funny expression. It takes me a moment to recognize that it’s pride.
3
2
In the late afternoon, my dad, Reika, and I are sitting in the wicker chairs on the porch, drinking green tea, when there’s a tap at the door. Mitsue glides in, laden with shopping bags. Smiling. I’ve never seen her smile so much. She suddenly looks ten years younger.
“I just heard the news that there is a meeting at the museum lab tonight,” Mitsue says. “It sounds very promising. Finally, this terrible situation can be settled. Violet and Reika, as an expression of gratitude for your help, this is for you.” Mitsue hands us each a slick purple bag that says TAKASHIMAYA on the side. I know that’s one of the fanciest department stores in Japan. “I would be honored if you would accept this gift from Kenji, Hideki, and me.”
Reika and I dive into our bags and pull out layers of tissue.
“Summer kimono,” Mitsue says with a smile as I pull out a long, red garment. “Actually it’s a fancy yukata, but we also call it a summer kimono. Girls wear these out in the streets for the summer festivals. And tonight is Yoiyama, the festival night before tomorrow’s Gion Matsuri procession. All the girls in Kyoto will be wearing kimonos like these.”
“Gion Matsuri?” my dad asks as Reika and I exclaim over our kimonos, and the other items in the bags: wooden geta, split-toed socks, and paddle fans with floral patterns.
“The Gion Festival takes place every July in Kyoto,” Mitsue explains. “It was originally a purification ritual to eliminate the plague. It is one of Japan’s oldest festivals. The big parade is tomorrow, but the floats—portable shrines, called yamaboko—are all on display tonight. You can view many beautiful textiles and other art on the floats. Some people call them ‘mobile art museums.’ I think you and the girls would greatly enjoy seeing them.”
I’m holding the kimono up to my body, stroking the soft fabric in disbelief. “Oh my God. Mitsue, this is gorgeous. Thank you. But it’s too much.” It’s made of the softest cotton, unlike the stiff, starchy ones the chambermaids set out for us here at the inn. And it’s the most beautiful red. The colorful fireworks pattern dances and dazzles my eyes. And Reika’s, mint green with white morning glories, is equally stunning.
The label says TAMURA-YA. “That’s a big-name designer,” Reika whispers to me. I hate to imagine how much this cost.
“There’s more in the bag,” Mitsue says.
I reach back in and pull out a long yellow sash. An obi. Way nicer than the one I turned into a scarf and wore on the night I first met the Yamadas. Reika’s obi is candy pink.
I love the clothes. But something is off. “You said these were for the festival tonight. But there’s a meeting at the museum lab. Are we going to the festival after that?”
Mitsue’s smile fades slightly, though her voice remains cheerful. “Actually, Hideki has asked me to take you girls to Kyoto for Yoiyama this evening, instead of the meeting,” Mitsue says. “Glenn, too. In fact, it was actually Hideki’s idea to purchase the festival attire so that you would enjoy yourselves at the festival even more.”
“That was nice of him. But I’d rather go to the meeting,” I say.
“Me too,” says Reika.
“To tell you the truth, I would rather go as well,” Mitsue admits, her smile fading. “But Hideki insists. This matter is deeply personal to my nephew, and he wants only himself and Kenji in attendance. And the okami-san, since the art was found on her property, of course.”
Reika and I exchange a sad look.
My dad sighs. “It’s probably for the best that we’re not there. If there’s any chance Fujikawa caught wind of what’s going on and shows up, that’s the last place we need to be. I vote for the festival.”
“Yes, we will manage to have our own little adventure,” Mitsue says. “Girls, why don’t you try on your outfits in case we need to make any adjustments?”
Reika and I go into the women’s restroom down the hall.
“I can’t believe, after all the work we did to find this painting, Hideki wants us out of the picture,” I grumble as I slip my arms into the wide sleeves. “There wouldn’t even be a meeting tonight if we hadn’t found the canvas or figured out that it was painted by Tomonori. We wouldn’t even be at this inn if it weren’t for our sleuthing! What? What is so funny?”
Reika grins. “Look at you. You’re so passionate about this mystery now.”
I glimpse my face in the mirror. I do look a little different. My cheeks are flushed, and there’s a spark in my eyes. I almost look fierce.
When we swish back into the room in kimonos, Mitsue’s face lights up. “You girls look beautiful. Just like models.” But it’s me she is looking at. “May I?” She takes an end of my obi and unwinds it to its full length, until it spreads out like a piece of pulled taffy. Then she lays it flat on my belly, comes behind me, and begins a complicated process of winding and tucking, tugging tight in the back, then securing it further with a red cord, un
til I’m wrapped up tight.
There is no mirror in the room, but I can see myself in my dad’s eyes as he smiles at me.
I actually feel pretty. I raise my arms, and the long sleeves flutter. I stand straight and tall. The obi, tied properly, makes me feel like I’m all held in, like I have a slender waist and a firm back. I feel simultaneously graceful and strong, despite a growing awareness of the red cord cutting into me and a slight inability to breathe.
I turn and find Mitsue beaming at me. “You may know how to make and wear kimono scarves,” Mitsue says. “But this, Violet-chan, is how you wear a kimono.”
I wish we could just go out tonight and enjoy the big party in Kyoto, and just be normal tourists. I wish that changing your feelings was as easy as changing your clothes.
3
3
We all take the local Japan Rail train together from Arashiyama back to Kyoto. At Kyoto Station, Mitsue stands up and beckons to my dad and Reika and me to follow. Kenji, Hideki, and the okami-san are going on to Shichijo Station, across from the Kyoto National Museum of Art.
We stand on the platform, waving at them while the door chimes, signaling departure. “I can’t believe the okami-san gets to go to this meeting and we don’t,” I grumble, as Kenji, Hideki, and the okami-san wave back.
“It is her painting, technically, until we know otherwise,” my dad reminds me. “They can’t do anything to it without her permission. My advice? Let go of things you cannot control. That’s Zen for ‘take a chill pill.’”
Mitsue smiles. Reika giggles. I die a little inside. I’ve always been jealous of my friends’ dads and their geeky dad humor, their bumbling attempts to bond, but this is just not the time.
