by Diana Renn
There’s one thing I still can’t wrap my mind around. “Why didn’t Tomonori deliver that art?” I wonder out loud.
“Perhaps when he realized its value, Tomonori thought he could hide the art, and tell Fujikawa it was stolen from him in transit,” says Inspector Mimura. “After Fujikawa eventually died, Tomonori could sell the works for a much higher fee than the commission he would have received.”
Kenji shakes his head. “No. That does not sound like my brother at all.”
The okami-san slowly stands up. She says something to Reika, and Reika nods. The okami-san speaks, and Reika translates.
“I knew Tomonori. He was . . . a personal friend of mine. I know he purchased art for other people who valued his keen eye. I know he purchased art for a man with yakuza connections, who I presume is Fujikawa. One night, the second-to-last time I saw him, I went to the ukai show with Tomonori. On the boat, he confessed something to me. He said some art he purchased in Paris had more value than his client thought. He knew Fujikawa was going to arrange for false documents to go with the papers and pass them off as works by a significant artist. He also knew Fujikawa would use the art as currency with other gangsters. When Tomonori discovered the drawings and painting were valuable, he didn’t want them used for this gangster’s purposes. He couldn’t bear the thought of a crime boss using van Goghs to secure loans for illegal activities. He did not know how to save the art.
“I told him to hide the art and pretend it had been stolen from him. It was not a serious remark. I was young. I occasionally said reckless things. I never assumed he would do such a thing. He would be risking his life, angering a dangerous client. But after he died, I gradually came to suspect this is what he had done. When I think of how passionately he used to speak about art, and how carefully he listened to my wild suggestion that night at the ukai show, it now makes sense to me.”
The okami-san takes a deep breath and continues, with a faraway look in her eyes as Reika translates for us. “I suppose that for most people, lives are more important than art. But to Tomonori, art, great art, was something worth dying for. If he could not stand up to his father and become an artist himself, at least he could save art from getting into the hands of real criminals who didn’t appreciate it.”
I wish the okami-san had told us all of this in the storeroom the other night. It might have been helpful to know the extent to which Tomonori was tangled up with Fujikawa. But I guess she wanted to try to protect her lover as much as she could, as long as she could.
I glance at Hideki to see how he’s taking this disturbing information about his dad. All this time he has sat with arms folded and legs crossed, his foot tapping in an agitated way. Now he is glaring at Inspector Mimura.
“Regardless of my father’s motives, the evening is getting on,” says Hideki. “We are wasting valuable time. If there is no painting beneath this one, we have only twenty-four hours to locate and deliver the painting. May we now see Kikuchi-san’s results?”
His harsh words jolt me, but I can kind of understand why he sounds upset. The investigators and the okami-san have just revealed a new perspective on Tomonori. His taking the van Gogh out of Tokyo and hiding it in a remote inn was a kind of heist in itself. Tomonori might have had high values about art, but technically, he bought the van Goghs on behalf of Fujikawa and never delivered them. That’s stealing.
“Yes, let us now see what Kikuchi-san has found,” says Inspector Mimura.
Natsuko goes to the easel and flips on a powerful light directed at the canvas. It connects to a computer screen, which shows shapes and shadows beneath Tomonori’s painting.
“Usually, this technology would reveal an underpainting or drawing quite clearly,” Natsuko explains. “Now, on this canvas, we can see some shapes here, and some faint impressions of what may be hills, a bridge, and a river. However, they are not clear ‘ghost images’ in the way that typical underpaintings appear. This leads me to believe that there is something else beneath this canvas. To find out, with Ogawa-san’s kind permission, I must remove the back of the frame.”
She looks at the okami-san, who nods.
Natsuko lifts the painting off the easel and moves it over to a table. She removes the screws and pries off the staples that hold the back of the frame together. Finally, she removes the canvas on its wood stretcher and sets the frame aside. She looks startled. “I must do more,” she murmurs. “I am going to separate the canvas from the wooden stretcher.” She brings out more precise tools and removes staples from the stretcher and canvas.
When all staples and tacks are out, she slips on a pair of white gloves and peels the canvas edges off the stretcher, working her way all around it. She pulls apart . . .
Two canvases.
“I thought so!” Natsuko exclaims. “This is a double-stretched canvas. Yamada-san put another canvas beneath his. Then he fitted the double-stretched canvas into the exterior frame. That way he did not need to apply paint directly. I am relieved to see this. I feared we would find an impossible situation here.”
“You mean there’s no special solvent that would just take off an over-painting?” I ask.
Natsuko shakes her head. “Some solvents can remove some kinds of paint, yes. But applying paint, and later a solvent, to a canvas and oil painting from the 1800s would certainly damage the original art.”
There goes my whole theory about the over-painting. I guess Tomonori’s picture of the man with the big paintbrush must have been a symbol of his own painting, and the scene with the easel and two canvases must have meant exactly what it looked like. A painting slipped behind another painting. I’m a little disappointed. It was a good theory, and it worked out well in Kimono Girl. But I guess life isn’t always like manga. Still, I’m glad I came up with the over-painting theory because it did make me look more closely at all the canvases in the inn. I might otherwise have missed Tomonori’s ukai painting, both in the onsen corridor and in the storeroom.
Natsuko has finished laying out the two canvases on a table, side by side. Now she ushers all of us over to look. Next to Tomonori’s canvas is another one. Van Gogh’s Moon Crossing Bridge.
I can’t even describe the feeling of seeing the van Gogh painting in real life. The colors—blues, browns, greens—are vibrant and thickly applied. The brushstrokes are vigorous, with the artist’s characteristic swirls and chops; the river actually looks like it’s moving, as do the clouds in the sky. This painting is alive. It’s hard not to reach out and touch it.
“Is it in good shape?” my dad asks.
“Much better than I expected,” says Natsuko. “The top canvas concealed the painting from exposure to elements that might have caused damage. Though it is never advisable for one painting to nestle against another, with canvases touching, and I detect some cracking in the paint. I will need to conduct further studies to determine the extent of restoration work that is needed and the—”
“There’s no time for restoration work,” Hideki says, cutting her off. “And for our purposes, it does not matter what shape the painting is in, only that we have it. I need you to package this canvas for transportation. Make sure it’s in something that keeps it safe from the water. And while you’re at it, I could use some kind of waterproof tube for the van Gogh drawings Fujikawa-san will bring.”
“Waterproof? I’m afraid I don’t understand,” says Natsuko.
Hideki sighs. “In case the art falls into the river or gets splashed during the exchange.”
“Oh, we’ll nab Fujikawa just before the exchange takes place,” Agent Chang assures him. “I don’t think there will be time for the works to be damaged in any way.”
Hideki gives her a hard look. “Thank you. But that will not be necessary,” he says. “We will exchange the painting for the drawings, as he demands, and then he will leave.”
“You can’t obstruct justice!”
says Agent Chang. “This guy is behind the Seattle van Gogh heist, and he’s a suspect in several other international art crime cases. Not to mention an enormous public safety threat. I learned from one of my associates here that his gang is behind some of the turf wars that have been erupting lately. I think all the boats need to be filled with undercover agents, and we need to take this guy down tomorrow night.”
Inspector Mimura looks embarrassed. “Actually, Agent Chang, I have looked into the possibility of a covert operation, given Fujikawa’s history with drug and weapon sales, but there is not enough of a link to this art heist to justify mounting a sting operation. Setting him up on the river tomorrow, well . . . it is kind of impossible. It violates Japanese law. I am sorry.”
Agent Chang paces, clearly annoyed. “This is so frustrating. He’s right within our reach.”
Hideki shakes his head. “Do you really want to put a foreigner at risk here?” He looks at my dad. “Fujikawa has clearly been threatening Glenn-san in his recent letters. Even if you take Fujikawa into custody tomorrow evening, he’ll have someone else carry out orders.”
I swallow hard and look tearfully at my dad, who is picking a hangnail and frowning. He’s not looking so Zen right now.
“I have a better solution,” Hideki says. “Keep your agents far from the river. I will go with my uncle and my aunt to deliver the painting and collect the drawings at the ukai show.”
“Not your aunt,” Kenji says. “There is no need for Mitsue to be anywhere near this scene.”
“I’m not leaving your side,” Mitsue insists, and she says a few words to him in Japanese.
“After Glenn leaves Japan, we can work together to make another arrangement,” Hideki continues to Agent Chang. “I will help the FBI, Interpol, any agency, in any way possible. I will lure Fujikawa to the United States, where you could then bring him into custody. Please, let me settle this business between Fujikawa and my father.”
Agent Chang looks disappointed, but she shrugs. “If that’s what you wish, I’ll get out of your way. I’ve done all I’m authorized to do here.”
Natsuko clears her throat. “Excuse me. I am ready to package the van Gogh for transport. But what about the other painting?” Natsuko gestures to Tomonori’s ukai picture.
Hideki looks at the okami-san. “Ogawa-san shall have it,” he says. “It was a gift to her from my father. It is rightfully hers.”
Natsuko picks up the van Gogh and heads for another room. I catch a strange expression on her face, an expression I can’t quite read. An odd look of determination.
“Where are you taking that?” Hideki demands.
“My wrapping supplies are in another room. It will be ready for you in twenty minutes.”
As the door closes behind her, the okami-san picks up Tomonori’s ukai canvas and replaces it in the frame, with a grateful glance at Hideki.
3
5
July 18, the day of the painting handover, arrives with a van Gogh–worthy sunrise. I stretch luxuriously in my futon, in the warm yellow light, feeling well-rested for the first time in days. The painting’s been found. Fujikawa will be satisfied. The Yamadas will get the van Gogh drawings back. And my dad will be safe.
The mood is lighter at breakfast, too, when we gather with the Yamadas in the private dining room. My dad shares some quotes from his Zen phone app, and I’m actually not annoyed. The wrapped-up canvas rests against a wall near the head of the table, like a guest of honor; Kenji swears he won’t let it out of his sight until the art exchange on the river this evening.
Hideki, though, is strangely quiet. He retreats to his room soon after breakfast, with apologies. “I have ignored some important work for the office for too long.”
Kenji and Mitsue leave soon after, taking the canvas back to their room. They each pick up a corner of it and ease it out the door, as if carrying a napping baby.
My dad, Reika, and I take the train to Kyoto and watch the Gion Matsuri parade. We spend the day touring the Gion district, visiting some famous temples and shrines, and walking Tetsugaku no michi, the Philosopher’s Path. We visit a crafts museum and watch a demonstration on how to make woodblock prints. I watch one man carve a waterfall scene into a cherry block. He uses his delicate knives and chisels so expertly, it looks like he’s drawing in a hunk of cheese or butter.
When we finally leave the crafts museum, my dad hands me a package. It’s a cherry block and a rolled-up bundle wrapped in rice paper. When I unwrap it, I find a leather pouch, and inside that, a starter set of wood-carving knives.
“These are beautiful!” I exclaim. The blades glint in the afternoon sun. “Thank you!”
“Enjoy them, kiddo,” my dad says with a smile. “I know you think drawing’s your thing, but it’s always good to flex your muscles and try another medium. Mitsue tells me you have a good eye for prints. Who knows, maybe there’s a printmaker in you waiting to come out!”
We roam around Kyoto for several more hours. Even though the memory of last night’s gunshots still reverberates in my head, and my left ear still rings, the streets feel safer in daylight. I feel like a normal tourist. We stay in Kyoto for an early dinner before hopping the train back to Arashiyama.
As the boatman poles us back down the river to the ryokan, the sky turns pink with the first blush of sunset.
“Those must be people getting tickets for the ukai show already,” I say, pointing to a line of tourists at the dock that we’re leaving behind.
“It’s a beautiful night. A good night for seeing ukai,” Reika says a little enviously.
“Don’t get any ideas,” my dad says. “We’ll go another time, when gangsters aren’t out on a boating excursion. Hey, when we get back to the inn, let’s go to the riverbank and watch the sunset. That’s kind of a show, right?”
Back at the ryokan, the three of us put on our regular yukata and meet up again by the river. My dad brings a sketchbook and colored pencils, and I bring my new wood-carving set. As the sky turns a deeper pink, and then orange, my dad sketches. Reika writes a poem in her Hello Kitty notebook. I outline a simple shape of an ayu in pencil on my cherry block and begin to cut my pattern with a knife. It’s not nearly as easy as the man in the crafts museum made it look.
While I labor over my tiny cuts, I position myself so I can see the door to the ryokan in my peripheral vision, and I look up about every minute. I want to see the Yamadas leave for the boat launch with the painting. Maybe for a sense of closure. It’s so weird that nobody’s talked about the painting or the art exchange since breakfast. It’s almost as if the past two and a half weeks never happened.
Suddenly, my dad groans. “Oh, no. Sunflower yellow.”
“What about it?” I ask.
“It’s a colored pencil I need. I left it in my room. I’d love to finish up this sketch before we lose the light.”
I glance at my watch. It’s twenty of seven. The Yamadas should be leaving any moment. Maybe if I get the pencil I’ll bump into them in the hall. Besides, my hand is getting tired from cutting. “I’ll get it,” I offer, shaking out my cramped fingers.
“I’ll come, too,” says Reika, closing her notebook.
“Here, take this, in case Hideki’s left already.” My dad hands me the silver room key. “Oh, and this tablet of paper could go back, before the evening damp sets in,” he adds, handing me a large drawing tablet and a case of fine-tipped pens.
My hands are really cramped from woodcarving; I think I’m done with that for the day. My progress feels so slow. So I roll up my knives and chisels in the little leather pouch, and tie the string of the pouch to my yukata belt, freeing my hands to carry my dad’s stuff.
As we enter the ryokan, Reika remarks, “It’s so quiet. Where is everyone?”
“The business-retreat people left today. And everyone else is probably goin
g to the ukai show,” I grumble. “I totally think we could be there watching this from afar.”
“There’s not even anyone at reception,” says Reika, pointing at the empty desk. A phone rings instantly, and no one comes running. The door to the okami-san’s private office is closed.
“The chambermaids are probably cleaning up dinner stuff, and maybe the okami-san’s helping,” I suggest. “We’re usually in the dining room now, so maybe it’s always this quiet.”
“I guess. It’s just sort of eerie. Let’s get this pencil and go.”
We tap on the door to my dad and Hideki’s room. Nobody answers. I insert the key in the lock and slowly slide open the door.
It’s easy to see which side of the room is Hideki’s. His black suitcase is open in one corner, all his clothes neatly folded and stacked. My dad’s clothes and art supplies are strewn around the floor. I spot the sunflower-yellow pencil with some other pencils on top of his portable easel. I also find his cell phone on top of a T-shirt, in the tokonoma, the sacred alcove where you’re not supposed to put stuff. Not wanting the okami-san or the maids to take offense, I pick those things up.
Reika gathers an armful of button-down shirts from Hideki’s suitcase. She holds them to her face and inhales. “I just love Hideki’s cologne.” Reika smiles. She looks almost drugged. “Why do high school boys wear that cheap Rite-Aid crap? Here, smell this.”
I back away. “I am not smelling Hideki’s shirts. Let’s go.”
Then I notice something in the suitcase, which is exposed now that she’s taken out shirts.
Two red-and-yellow courier envelopes. I think of the day I saw Hideki take one of those in his uncle’s office. And the one Inspector Mimura opened last night at the meeting. My feet propel me forward, as if I’m remote controlled, and I take those envelopes out. From each envelope, I shake out a document: crisp, white paper with typed kanji characters. I ask Reika to translate.
