But there had only been five boxes left in the shed after he took Yabō.
How many new “attachments” had Yakibō discovered?
Saburo slashes back toward the shed and soon spots the roof, peeking out above a leafy stand of wild azaleas. The thatch of chartreuse moss has grown thicker with the years, and the thumb hole in the door is choked with green velvet. He works a finger through and yanks it open. Long-dead pine needles rain down as he ducks inside.
He lights the stub of candle he’d pinched from a lantern at the inn. The lengthening flame illuminates a sight more beautiful than paradise itself. Eight boxes sit on the shelf. Eight.
One stride takes him across the packed earth floor. He knows the tea bowl named Ude-jiman is long gone, and the boxes labeled Miku-dasu, Kanzen-shugi, Ganko and Hatsu-koi are empty too.
The fifth reads . . . Yabō.
What? He snatches it up. There’s no mistake. The handwriting is different, of course, but . . . Had Yakibō made a new tea bowl to replace the one he’d stolen?
Of course he had! And the box in his hand is too light to be anything but empty. Which means the potter had not only made another tea bowl to represent “ambition,” he’s already broken his attachment to it.
The poet frowns. If the potter already broke his attachment to Yabō, why is he demanding that Saburo’s tea bowl be returned? The old fanatic doesn’t need it anymore, but he still wants to destroy it?
Saburo’s face grows hot, recalling the moment they all turned their eyes on him. Hattsan, cold and righteous. The priest, boyish and naive. The potter, blind, but his righteous vision burning brighter than ever. The way they’d ganged up on him. Made him feel small. So convinced they’re right.
But what makes Yakibō think he’s better than that peacock who clutched the Sesshu scrolls to his chest as his body went up in smoke? He’s not! He’s just as selfish.
And suddenly, Saburo’s not sorry anymore. He was right to have rescued Yabō. And he’s right not to bring it back. He replaces the sixth box and is reaching for the seventh when he catches sight of its name and snatches his hand back as if burned.
Fukushū. Revenge. Not just anger, revenge.
His soul shrivels. Now he understands why the potter wants Yabō back. If there’s an unbroken tea bowl inside this box, it means that for all these years, his old master has been harboring a cold fury toward him, and he hasn’t yet given up his desire to make Saburo suffer for stealing Yabō.
He picks it up.
It’s heavy.
A sour taste fills his mouth. If this is the only tea bowl left, he’ll have to make a choice. He can leave it here and disappoint Lord Inaba, or take it, and deprive Yakibō of the means to break his attachment to punishing his one-time apprentice.
He pushes Revenge back onto the shelf. Praying that the eighth box will hold something he can take to the daimyō instead, he reads the name brushed on its lid. Hikitoru. He rubs his chin. Strange choice. The characters can be read any number of ways. “Taking back what’s yours”? “Retiring to a private place”? Or could it be implying iki o hikitoru: “to draw one’s last breath”?
That must be it. If Yakibō is making his peace with dying, giving up an attachment to drawing one’s last breath would be fitting.
Hope beating in his chest, Saburo picks it up and . . . it’s not empty! The tea bowl is wedged so tightly inside that he has to work to get it out, but as the wrapping falls away, he draws an astonished breath. Even in the guttering light of the candle, it’s a thing of beauty surpassing his wildest expectations. Lord Inaba will be pleased. Beyond pleased. He’ll be so grateful, he might even—
The poet stiffens, hearing a rustling in the bushes outside. What if it’s Hattsan, coming for firewood? He listens some more. Silence. Probably just an animal, but he’d best be on his way.
Snatching up the discarded tea bowl wrapper, a slip of paper flutters from its folds. He stoops to retrieve it, holds it in the candlelight. The potter’s seal is impressed beneath the priest’s fussy script, with a vermilion stamp bearing Reverend Uchida’s name right next to it. If I breathe my last before letting go of Hikitoru, break this attachment for me.
Break it? To hell with that idea! He flings the note to the dirt floor with the contempt it deserves, then rewraps the bowl and stows it among his belongings. Turns to go. Hesitates. Could the lacquer writing box he’d abandoned here so many years ago still be hidden behind the woodpile? Back then, he’d feared the potter’s wrath too much to come back and retrieve it, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. He grabs a stick and pokes around behind the logs. It encounters something, but he can’t be sure it’s the writing box, and he can’t reach it with his arm. He’d have to unstack all the logs in front of it to find out, and he doesn’t have time. He’ll have to leave it.
Hoisting his burden onto his shoulders, he blows out the candle and tosses the still-smoking lump into the wet bushes as he slips and slides down the hill to the road.
28.
Present-Day Japan
FRIDAY, APRIL 4
Tokyo
Nori hastily scrubs her rice bowl and props it on the drainer, then has second thoughts and dries it. She puts it away, along with the other wet dishes she’d upended on the dish towel. Not that the expert from the auction house will be setting foot in the kitchen, but it’s good to know that if she does catch a glimpse, it won’t give the impression of a single woman living alone, eating off sad, solitary dishes. She wipes down the counter, eyeing the condiments arrayed along the backsplash, tidies them into a more pleasing arrangement.
She’s decided to receive her guests upstairs in the apartment, rather than down in the shop. The second floor’s front room is far from impressive, but at least it doesn’t reveal that the family business is mass-produced restaurant dishes, not rare art pieces. It wouldn’t do to make Eriko Hashimoto wonder how the proprietor of a modest restaurant supply shop came to own a potentially priceless tea bowl. It’s a question she’s been worrying over herself, but the stubborn-as-a-stone grandmother who knows the answer is refusing to share it.
Nori opens the cupboard to take down their best teapot—a lovely old piece of blue and white Kutani-ware, brushed with a spray of bush clover and berries—and is instantly dismayed. Early April is the wrong season to serve tea from an autumn-themed pot. Is there time to run down to the shop and dig out the wisteria-motif one that her father had bought, but never sold? April is a little early for wisteria, but it would be a whole lot better than—
Her phone alarm chimes, reminding her that the art expert will arrive in twenty minutes. The blue and white teapot will have to do. She rinses and dries it, setting it on a black lacquer tray blessedly free from seasonal references. Two unchipped Nabeshima teacups join it, thankfully decorated with a nice, safe, Four Seasons design. Nori adds another cup, even though it has a hairline crack. She can use that one herself. Finally, she opens the canister of expensive—if slightly stale—tea reserved for guests. Spooning some into the teapot, she adds a dash more, for luck. She’ll need it, because once again it’s butsumetsu —bad luck all day. Naturally, she’d forgotten to check the astrological calendar before agreeing to the meeting.
Nori carries the tea tray to the main room. Stopping in the doorway, she frowns. There’s nothing quite like seeing a familiar place through the eyes of approaching guests to highlight its faults. The stained ceiling, the cracks left unpatched after the last earthquake, the low, black lacquer table, dulled by years of service in the shop’s office before being retired for home use.
But there’s nothing she can do about any of that now. And once Eriko Hashimoto sees what’s inside Hikitoru’s wooden box, she won’t be paying attention to the décor. Returning to the kitchen, Nori fetches the electric hot water pot, setting it on the floor and plugging it into the single boxy outlet. Her phone pings with another reminder. Ten minutes.
She squares Hikitoru’s box on the table, then shifts it closer to the place where she plans to s
it. She’ll put art expert Hashimoto in the most honorable spot—framed by the tokonoma alcove—with Robin Swann beside her.
The doorbell buzzes. They’re early. Nori whips off her apron and flings it onto its hook in the kitchen, then trots to the entryway.
Waiting outside on the landing is a slight woman in a luxuriously plain black coat. Chin-length hair frames a face that’s middle-aged, but expertly made up. Behind her stand Robin Swann and a third, unexpected, visitor. A square, granite-faced man.
Crap, she only has two decent pairs of guest slippers.
“Hashimoto-san?” she says, with her best customer-welcoming smile.
“Eriko Hashimoto,” the woman confirms, bowing. “You’ve met my assistant, Robin Swann. And this is Mr. Anzai.”
Nori invites them in. Digging through the slipper bin to find the least-shabby pair for the mystery man, she tries to guess how Anzai fits into the picture. Hashimoto didn’t refer to him with the honorifics she’d use to introduce a superior, but he doesn’t strike her as an underling. A colleague? A Yakibō expert, perhaps?
Ushering them into the main room, she rethinks the seating. Pointing the art expert and the man of unknown rank to the more honorable side, she gives Swann the seat next to hers. The foreigner manages to tuck her awkwardly long legs beneath her to sit seiza with the rest of them, but even sitting, she’s making the biggest room in the house feel small.
Eriko Hashimoto, on the other hand, radiates cat-like elegance. Her severe navy suit has never hung on any shop rack, and the pearls gracing her neck are of a size and quality that Nori has never seen outside a jeweler’s window. Half-glasses hang from a tortoiseshell chain, and the crease between her eyebrows is carved deep from passing judgment on artifacts and people alike.
But what about Anzai? He looks older than Hashimoto-san, but that might be because she dyes her hair and he doesn’t. His dark suit isn’t cheap, but it’s not fashionable either, so no help there. His face would be entirely forgettable, if it weren’t for his sharp eyes. That, plus his military brush cut, makes Nori think security, not art. Chief of security, maybe? Is Hashimoto-san planning to make her an offer and take Hikitoru with them when they go?
Nori pours.
“What a lovely teapot,” murmurs the art expert. “I’ve always been partial to bush clover motifs.”
Crap, she noticed. Setting the cup on a saucer, Nori hands it to Hashimoto with a pained smile, then does the same for the others, giving Robin Swann the one with the crack.
They ease into the business at hand with small talk—the unseasonably cold weather, the current museum exhibit featuring pieces that passed through the auction house on their way to the loaners’ collections—then finally circle around to the reason for their visit.
“Okuda-san,” Hashimoto says, “on behalf of Fujimori Fine Art, we’re honored that you brought your treasured tea bowl to us for evaluation.”
Evaluation? Ha. As if she hadn’t already acknowledged its value by cutting her trip short.
“On the contrary, the pleasure is all mine,” Nori replies. “My grandmother and I are honored that you’re sparing us your valuable time. Would you like to see Hikitoru now?”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” comes the dry reply.
Nori removes it from its box, setting it on the table to unwrap it. Hashimoto-san’s eyes widen in appreciation as it’s placed in her hands.
Then she surprises Nori by handing it to Anzai.
“Well?” she asks. “Is this it?”
Nori blinks. Was she wrong about his being a security guy?
Anzai sets it on the table and opens his briefcase, withdrawing a tape measure and a photocopied form, which he offers to Hashimoto.
“Twenty-five centimeters,” he calls out, measuring the circumference the long way. “Twenty. Fifteen.” Width and depth.
Hashimoto checks the measurements against the paper.
“It’s the right size.”
They both turn to Nori.
“Where did you get this tea bowl?” asks Hashimoto.
“It belongs to my grandmother.”
“Where did she get it?”
“I don’t know. It’s been in our family a long time, I think.”
“Since 1945?” asks Anzai.
“1945? Why 1945?”
“Because that’s when it was stolen.”
“What?”
“Shortly after the March 10th firebombing destroyed Senkō-ji temple,” Hashimoto says, “the tea bowl named Hikitoru disappeared from their treasure house and was never seen again.” She pauses. “Until two days ago.”
“No. That’s impossible. How could it be stolen if it’s been in our
“That,” says Anzai, “is what we’d very much like to know.”
He pulls a badge from his pocket and the blood drains from Nori’s face. He doesn’t work for the auction house. He’s an inspector with the Tokyo Metropolitan Police.
Pulling out a notebook, he flips to a half-filled page.
“I understand that the owner of record is Chiyo Okuda, is that right?”
“Yes,” Nori squeaks.
“And she’s your grandmother? She lives here with you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll need to ask her a few questions.”
“I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible.”
“Why not?”
“I’m afraid she’s not here. At the moment.”
“Perhaps you can call her, then. She can’t avoid talking to us, and she’d probably be more comfortable answering questions here than at the police station.”
“With all due respect,” Nori says, struggling to maintain a calm veneer, “she can’t. She’s . . . indisposed.”
“Is she ‘indisposed’ or ‘not here’?” Anzai snaps. “I find it hard to believe she’s both.”
“She is both,” Nori retorts, irritated that the inspector is trying to catch her in a lie she hadn’t told. “She’s in the hospital, if you must know. And she can’t be disturbed.”
Stop reacting, scolds the ’Baa-chan in her head. Take the offensive.
Nori turns to the ceramics expert. “Not to be rude or anything, Hashimoto-san, but if Hikitoru has been missing since 1945, why isn’t that public knowledge? There’s nothing online about it being stolen.”
“It was on the list of objects dug from the temple’s wreckage following the attack,” the art expert replies. “But a month later, when the head priest returned to the treasure house to look for an incense burner, it was gone.”
“How do you know?”
Hashimoto pushes the copy she’d received from Anzai across the table. The old-fashioned characters across the top spell out “Tokyo Metropolitan Police,” and the blanks are filled with spidery, hand-brushed kanji. It’s a police report.
Nori snatches it up and reads. The facts penned in its official boxes paint a dismal picture of the chaos that reigned in Tokyo near the end of the war. The address from which the tea bowl had been stolen is listed only as the block where the temple stood, because it, and the surrounding neighborhood, had been reduced to charred rubble. The period in which it had disappeared was a lengthy twenty-one days. It had vanished sometime between March twelfth, when it was dug from the rubble, and April fifth, when the head priest discovered it gone.
“You’ll notice that Hikitoru wasn’t the only thing missing.” Anzai draws Nori’s attention to the “Description” section.
War fan; 35.5 cm X 55.5 cm; iron and paper folding fan, black with gold Oda clan crest; wooden storage box is water stained, dated Tensho 1 (1573)
Noh dance fan; 33 cm X 55 cm; make-shura-ogi style, setting sun and wave pattern on gold; wooden storage box is signed by maker “Jumatsu-ya”
Tea bowl; 23 cm X 23 cm X 18 cm; black Raku-ware, square sides, split foot, white plum blossom motif on one side; wooden box dated Tenmei 14 (1794)
Incense burner with cover; 7 cm X 7 cm X 8.3 cm; round Hirado style with three small feet and handle in t
he shape of a horse, white porcelain with blue decoration of maple leaves
Tea bowl, named Hikitoru; 25 cm X 20 cm X 15 cm, Shi-garaki-ware, rounded sides, red-ochre clay with gray-green glaze. Box is stamped “Yoshi Takamatsu”
Sake flask, named Hatsu-kamo; 10 cm X 10 cm X 25 cm, Bizen-ware, “wild duck” slumped gourd shape, brown and black clay with golden spatter design. Box is stamped Terami Enkichi, dated Hoei 3 (1706)
Nori rereads the last entry and swallows, her throat suddenly dry. She’s never set eyes on the first four items, but that Bizen-ware sake flask—or its identical twin—had been sold to cover the cost of repairing earthquake damage to the Okuda & Sons building in May of 2011.
Anzai takes back the form.
“I regret to inform you that the rightful owner of the tea bowl Hikitoru appears to be Senkō-ji temple, and it’s my duty to see that it’s returned to them.”
“No. You can’t. This is all a big mistake. My grandmother would never—” What would ’Baa-chan do now? “How do you know this tea bowl is the same Hikitoru? Maybe there’s more than one. Or maybe this is a copy. Or the stolen one is a copy. You can’t take this one until you prove it.”
Suddenly uncomfortable, the art expert glances at the inspector before saying, “Naturally, the tea bowl will have to be authenticated before it’s returned. But,” she’s quick to add, “that shouldn’t take long. Swann-san is an expert in Edo Period ceramics, and her preliminary assessment strongly suggests this is indeed the missing tea bowl, Hikitoru.”
“Fine,” Anzai says, snapping his briefcase shut. “I’ll give you a week. But until ownership is confirmed, the tea bowl will be stored in the police evidence locker. You may conduct your examination there.”
“No,” Nori cries. “You can’t.”
Hashimoto unexpectedly agrees.
“With respect, Anzai-san, storing it in your evidence room is out of the question. I don’t think you realize the value—and fragility—of this object. It would be more prudent to store it in the safe at our office.”
The Last Tea Bowl Thief Page 16
