“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.” Take the offensive, prods the grandmother within. “But Ms. Hashimoto will want to see this tea bowl. It’s called Hikitoru, and it was made by Yoshi Takamatsu.” She displays the box in its green silk carrying cloth.
“I’ll call up and ask,” the guard says, sounding doubtful. “Your name?”
She gives it, reminding herself not to fidget while he dials.
After a brief exchange, his eyebrows arch, as if wonders never cease. He hands her a visitor badge.
“Go on up. Twenty-second floor. You can use the express elevator.”
When the doors slide open on the empty waiting room at Fujimori Fine Art, she barely registers the plush carpet, the leather chairs, and the gold-leafed screen, because all hell is breaking loose. An ear-splitting alarm is whooping, and a towering foreign woman in a white lab coat is waving a teapot at the receptionist. She’s like a pigeon among sparrows, definitely the kind of foreigner Nori would avoid sitting next to on the subway, even if it were the last empty seat. Her untamed bush of blond hair reminds Nori of the wig Yu-chan had dripped fake blood onto when she dressed up as a zombie nurse one Halloween.
Just as Nori decides it would be best to retreat until whatever’s happening here is over, a gray-haired guard in a blue uniform arrives to stab at a security keypad behind the desk.
The alarm abruptly cuts off. In the sudden void, the foreigner is shouting, “. . . won’t happen again.”
The thoroughly annoyed receptionist looks past her, and in a voice tight with leftover disapproval, asks Nori, “May I help you?”
The white coat swivels toward her.
“Oh! Might you be the most honorable Miss Okuda?”
The foreigner speaks Japanese?
“Yes, uh, I’m . . . I’m Nori Okuda.”
How does this frightening person know her name?
“I’m Robin Swann, the most humble assistant of Eriko Hashimoto.” Gold-rimmed glasses glint as she bows. “If our esteemed visitor would do me the honor of accompanying my unworthy self . . .”
Oblivious to Nori’s state of stunned disbelief, she raises a warning palm to bid the guard not to reset the alarm just yet, and steams back through the security gate, teapot in hand.
As Nori scurries to catch up in the luxuriously carpeted corridor beyond, Swann apologizes for the tumult in the lobby. Using an inappropriately grandiose level of politeness, she tells Nori she’d been toiling in the laboratory of antiquities authentication when Madame Receptionist apprised her of the venerable Okuda’s presence, and she’d made the grave error of bringing the teapot with her, regrettably forgetting it had been affixed with a modern electronic sensing device of utmost security.
It’s the strangest Japanese she’s ever heard. Robin Swann sounds like a cross between a time traveler from the samurai era and a politician caught with both hands in the till. Do all foreigners speak like that? Nori has never actually talked to one before—Okuda & Sons doesn’t sell to tourists, only to the trade.
The flowery language is especially bizarre coming from a woman who’s at work half-dressed. Robin Swann is wearing some sort of business suit under her lab coat, but her face is disturbingly naked. She’s not wearing even a hint of makeup. Nori is far from a power user herself, but if she were Swann, she’d have buried the freckles on that otherwise enviable aquiline nose under some serious foundation, and wouldn’t have set foot outside the house without making an effort to correct that unsightly pinkness. Unless . . . maybe she has an illness? A skin condition? Nori is trying to imagine what dread disease would prevent someone from concealing her imperfections in public, when Swann stops outside a door marked “Lab” and asks her to wait a moment while she puts the teapot back in the safe.
When she emerges, the white coat has also been left behind. Good. Now Nori can examine what she’s wearing and more accurately estimate if this “Art Expert’s Assistant” will be at all important to her mission.
The navy suit and white blouse suggest that her perplexing rank occupies a white-collar niche somewhere above “Office Lady,” but the fabric is so shiny it must be polyester, and the style so generic that it’s out of style and never out of style at the same time. And those shoes. Only someone on a punishingly slim budget—or perhaps someone whose feet are so long and narrow that nothing else fits her—would be forced to wear such hideous low-heeled pumps. Nori decides that despite the impressive-sounding title, an art expert’s assistant isn’t paid much. It will be safe to save her honorifics for the boss.
They halt before a door bearing a brass nameplate etched with “Hashimoto Eriko,” and Swann sorts through her key ring.
“My esteemed superior is embarked upon an official voyage until next Tuesday,” Swann explains, unlocking the door and pushing it open. “But my humble self will examine your noble tea bowl and contact you if she elects to view it for herself.”
Wait, did she just say the expert is out of town? Why hadn’t she mentioned that before? This underling can’t possibly be qualified to evaluate what could very well turn out to be a National Treasure. She’s not even Japanese.
“Excuse me,” Nori says, balking. “Not to be rude, or anything, but I think it would be better if I brought Hikitoru back when your boss is here. Yoshi Takamatsu’s work is pretty rare, so you might not be familiar with it. One of his tea bowls is in the National Museum. It’s a National Cultural Treasure.”
Swann recoils as if she’d just been slapped, then aims a withering look at Nori over the rims of her glasses.
“I actually know all about Waterlily, Miss Okuda, because I’m the one who authenticated it. Not to be rude or anything, but I have a master’s degree in Japanese Literature from Columbia University and a nearly finished doctorate in Japanese ceramics, with a specialty in tea ceremony ware. So, unless you’re a scholar I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting, there’s not much you can tell me about Yoshi Takamatsu that I don’t already know.”
Now it’s Nori’s turn to feel slapped. Swann had switched from elaborately ingratiating to bluntly offended in less time than it took to swat a mosquito, delivering the message with the elegance of a native speaker. Nori has badly underestimated her.
And she’s still standing there, holding the door, so Nori has no choice but to mutter her apologies and step through it . . .
. . . into another world. The sunlight streaming through the wall of floor to ceiling windows in Hashimoto’s office is so dazzling, it almost hurts her eyes. The view soars out over the forested island of the Imperial Palace, past Tokyo Tower’s orange Eiffel-esque spire, to the hazy skyscrapers of Shinagawa. The other walls are lined with venerable-looking reference books, interrupted only by a collection of tea bowls, displayed on individual plinths. Green Oribe, Nabeshima, Bizen, Tamba, Raku, and yes, Shigaraki-ware. They don’t look any fancier than the ones gathering dust in the back room at Okuda & Sons, but they must be, because each basks in its own spotlight.
Half of Eriko Hashimoto’s office is set up to offer hospitality to clients and colleagues, with a quartet of comfortable, but elegant, red chairs arranged around a low table that’s topped with a celadon tea set. The other half is dedicated to the business of examining the ceramics that pass through the auction house on their way to collectors all over the world.
Nori refuses an offer of tea, and trails Swann to the working side’s tall table, with its pair of high-intensity lamps and array of tools. She watches while the assistant trains both lights on the silk-wrapped box, dons a pair of white cotton gloves, and replaces her glasses with a boxy magnifying headset.
Swann unties the green carrying cloth. Somewhere in the luxurious hush, a clock ticks as she meticulously examines every centimeter of the tea bowl and its box, then lays the magnifiers aside and removes her gloves to type her notes into a blank form on her laptop.
Nori can’t see what she’s writing, but it’s taking a long time. That worries her. Has she found something wrong with Hikit
oru? Or maybe she’s still mad about being disrespected, and she’s writing nitpicky criticisms so her boss won’t think Hikitoru is worth seeing. Nori worries her lip. She needs to get back on this gatekeeper’s good side, but how? She’s never dealt with a woman who isn’t rich, elderly, or beautiful, but still has the nerve to demand respect.
Swann finishes tapping in her observations and crosses to the bookshelf to run her finger along the spines, stopping at a slim volume bound in brown cloth. She brings it back to the table, riffling through the pages until she finds what she’s looking for. She sets the book next to Hikitoru, open to a photo.
Nori has seen the picture before, but only as a copy. It’s the Shigaraki-ware bowl Daiki showed her, the one called Unmei. Seen side by side with Hikitoru, it seems obvious that the two were made by the same hand, but when Swann puts her glasses back on to deliver her verdict, her severe expression gives nothing away.
“Your tea bowl is in very fine condition,” she begins, in a carefully neutral voice.
But . . .?
“I’d have to run some tests to make sure, but my initial examination suggests that your tea bowl is indeed a genuine Edo-era work by Yoshi Takamatsu.”
Safe. Awash with relief, Nori says, “I’m glad you agree.”
The assistant returns her attention to the bowl. Now Nori notes how unnaturally blank her face is. Robin Swann is trying hard not to betray her interest, but anyone who spends eight hours a day selling pottery can read the desire in her eyes. Maybe she won’t have to do much bridge mending after all.
“How did you come to be in possession of such a remarkable piece?” Swann asks.
“I don’t know the details, but it’s been in our family a long time.”
“You know nothing of its provenance?”
Unsure what she means by “provenance,” Nori lobs the only fact she knows.
“It survived the firebombing of Senkō-ji temple in 1945. That’s why the box still smells like smoke.”
Swann bends down, curious, and sniffs.
“You’re right,” she says. “It does.”
“So . . . what do you think?”
“Leave it with me. I’ll show it to Hashimoto-san the minute she returns on Tuesday.”
Nori is already shaking her head.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let it out of my sight. And,” she’s now confident enough to tell the merchant’s favorite lie, “there are others who are interested.”
Swann’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly in alarm.
Nori not only catches it, she detects a satisfying note of anxiety as Swann replies, “I see. With your permission, then, I’ll take some photos, and contact you as soon as I speak to Hashimoto-san.”
Setting a ruler next to the tea bowl, she clicks away with a heavy digital camera, then scrolls back through the shots to make sure she’s captured everything she needs.
When the bowl and box are documented to her satisfaction, she repositions her cursor and asks, “Are you the owner of record?”
Nori hesitates. Technically, Hikitoru belongs to her grandmother.
“Or,” Swann suggests, “are you the owner’s agent?”
“Yes. That’s what I am. Her agent.”
“And the owner is . . .?”
Nori spells out the characters for Chiyo Okuda and provides their contact information.
A few minutes later, Hikitoru expertly repacked in the silk carrying cloth, they’re back in the lobby. The graying guard steps in to check Nori’s bundle, but Swann vouches for it and he backs off with a deferential bow.
The elevator dings.
Swann thanks her for coming, but as Nori takes her leave, she can’t help but plead, “Please don’t accept another offer before Hashimotosan has a chance to see it.”
Nori returns her bow, waiting for the doors to close before allowing a grin to spread across her face. Robin Swann might have all kinds of fancy degrees, but she’ll never be half the merchant Nori is.
Sure enough, she has barely cleared the building when a message arrives, asking her to bring Hikitoru back to Fujimori Fine Art first thing Friday morning. But . . . isn’t Swann’s boss supposed to be out of town until next week? Is she cutting her trip short, just to see it? Does that mean Eriko Hashimoto is as eager to get her hands on the tea bowl as her assistant?
Nori taps out a reply. Regrettably, she’s unable to make it downtown on Friday morning, but if they come to Kappabashi instead, she can meet them before work.
Ten minutes later, the meeting is scheduled for eight o’clock Friday morning at Okuda & Sons, and Nori has her answer: Eriko Hashimoto is very eager indeed.
21.
Feudal Japan
NEW YEAR’S EVE, 1703
Shigaraki
One arm flung wide, the potter sleeps like the dead, so spent he’s not even snoring. But Saburo lies awake, too agitated to sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, First Love shatters into a thousand pieces. Again and again and again. He tosses and turns, unable to find a comfortable position. First too hot, then too cold. Last summer’s spider bite begins to itch uncontrollably, and he scratches his ankle, even though the red bump is long gone.
Just because the potter made that tea bowl, did that give him the right to destroy it? In Kyoto, First Love would have given surpassing joy to generations of tea masters with the training to appreciate it, in the rarified setting it was designed for. It would have been cared for and admired, recognized as the masterpiece it was, not reduced to worthless rubble in a godforsaken backwoods. Everyone Saburo knows would agree: breaking it was deeply wrong.
But what’s troubling him even more is that it’s not over. There are more in that shed, and Yakibō intends to break them all. If he hasn’t already—the other boxes might already be empty. Except for Yabō, the one he helped name. The one whose characters he had brushed with his own hand. The one that had inspired him to write the best poem he’s ever written.
He can’t let it happen. It’s his duty not to let it happen. Even if the old fanatic believes his eternal salvation depends on destroying those tea bowls, what’s one man’s soul compared to the obligation to save great art from destruction? Every child in Kyoto has heard the cautionary tale of the selfish aristocrat who wanted to enjoy his family’s priceless Sesshu scrolls in the afterlife, so he insisted they accompany his body into the cremation flames. Generations of scholars have lamented the loss, and his heirs are still criticized for permitting such an unforgivable act.
He has to do something. But what? Argue? Plead? Ask his father to intervene? He’s spent too many evenings listening to Yakibō rant about the evils of attachment to think any of that will work. When it comes to interpreting the Four Noble Truths, Yakibō is deaf, as well as blind.
Action is what’s needed, not words.
22.
Present-Day Japan
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2
Tokyo
Nori arrives ten minutes early for visiting hours at the hospital. All day, she’s been itching to tell her grandmother about her triumph at the auction house. If a payoff that could very well exceed their wildest dreams doesn’t lure ’Baa-chan back to the land of the living, what will?
Draping her coat on the back of the visitor’s chair, Nori scoots it to the bedside. She takes her grandmother’s thin hand between her own.
“How are you feeling tonight, ’Baa-chan? I hope you can hear me, because this morning I found a way to get us a lot more for that tea bowl than if we sell it through that old highway robber Miura.” She leans in. “Remember the picture of that other one I showed you? The tea bowl that’s worth ten million yen? Well, this morning I took Hikitoru to the auction house that sold it, to see if they’d be interested in—”
Her grandmother frowns.
“’Baa-chan?”
This can’t be a real reaction, because it’s not the right one.
“I haven’t got to the good part yet,” Nori says, watching her grandmother’s face like a pot that’s about to
boil over. “What I’m here to tell you is that the expert who sold that other tea bowl is so excited to see Hikitoru that she’s cutting short her business trip to come to Kappabashi on Friday morning to—Ow!”
Her grandmother’s hand is squeezing hers with the strength of ten grandmothers, and her expression has deepened into a definite scowl.
What the—
“’Baa-chan! Are you awake? Can you hear me? Let go, so I can call the nurse!”
She tries to pull away from the steely grip, but her grandmother won’t let go.
The nurse flings open the door and charges in, stethoscope swinging.
“Is everything all right in here? Did you call for me?”
But Nori can’t answer, because at the sound of the opening door, ’Baa-chan had dropped her hand like a hot chestnut and her face went slack.
“Was she showing more signs of consciousness?” asks the nurse, fingers clamped on her grandmother’s wrist, counting. “Her pulse is a little elevated.”
Nori narrows her eyes at the slight figure in the bed, once again far away in a world nobody can reach. Or pretending to be.
“I thought she might be waking up,” Nori says slowly, “but I must have been mistaken.” The crafty old so-and-so! “I don’t think there’s any need to call the doctor.”
Not until ’Baa-chan gives up this charade, anyway. Because if she’s decided not to let anyone know she’s awake, she’ll just keep making a fool of her granddaughter until she’s good and ready to rejoin the living.
But Nori is fuming, and two can play this game. ’Baa-chan obviously doesn’t need her sympathy, so no more chatty bedside talks. If she doesn’t want to hear how her granddaughter rescued the Hiki-toru situation with zero help from certain grandmothers, Nori isn’t about to tell her.
The Last Tea Bowl Thief Page 12
