The Bride's Kimono Read Free

People usually relished opportunities to shop abroad and buy luxury goods, like the Hermès tie he was wearing, for a lower price than in Japan.
    We finally sat down, the three of them in the row of chairs facing me, as I’d expected. I sat on the lone chair on the west side of the table, pulling at the edge of my haori coat to cover the slight bit of thigh that was exposed. An office lady my age wafted in with a trayful of small cups of green tea. She served me first, as was customary since I was a guest, but I was careful not to sip before the men did.
    “So you would like to take Nishio-san’s place as the lecturer in Washington,” Mr. Shima, the registrar, said. The way he phrased it let me know he was already offended at the prospect of my going to Washington.
    “I’m not trying to take his place, exactly. I was told that he could not travel,” I said.
    “Actually, we were both to have traveled together,” Mr. Shima said. “As registrar, I am accountable for the safety of our possessions. Nishio-san is the textile curator, with a subspecialty in traditional religious garments. We traveled together four years earlier to bring some altar cloths for an exhibition at the Museum of Asian Arts.”
    “Ah, what a beautiful exhibition that must have been. I will do my best to follow you. You may have heard of my specialty in Japanese antique furniture, but I did write a paper on kimono while in the master’s program at the University of California at Berkeley.”
    “So you’re a Californian?” The question came from Mr. Ito.
    “I was born there, but my father’s from Yokohama,” I said, as always trying to qualify myself as Japanese.
    “So you don’t really know Washington, D.C.” Mr. Ito’s voice was flat.
    I’d stressed the wrong part of my identity. Now I quickly said, “I do! As an undergraduate, I visited the Museum of Asian Arts to do research. And my mother’s family is in the area—”
    “How well do you know the staff?” Mr. Ito asked pointedly.
    Damn it, I shouldn’t have mentioned my mother. Too unprofessional. In a more subdued voice, I said, “I have spoken several times with Powell-san, and I think we have a good working relationship.”
    “Powell-san mentioned that you plan to remove some treasures from our collection to exhibit in Washington.” Mr. Shima spoke up.
    “I have been requested by the Asian Arts Museum to bring some items, yes.” I fumbled for a rejoinder andcame up with, “I understand that you had already approved a specific group of textiles that could travel.”
    “This is a very last-minute request for a courier. That makes it…difficult,” Mr. Shima said, looking sideways at his boss, Mr. Ito.
    Aha. Now I sensed what was going on. The museum’s administration had decided against participating in the Museum of Asian Arts exhibit. Mr. Ito, the museum director, was the good cop, Mr. Shima was the bad one, and Mr. Nishio was the mute. The important thing was, they were all against me.
    I fixed my attention on all three men and said: “As someone who grew up in the United States, I would like to explain something about the nature of American museum culture. American museums promote their programs many months in advance. The highlights of the exhibits are described in magazines and newspapers. Powell-san has planned an opening reception for six hundred guests—including high Japanese government dignitaries from the Japanese embassy. She believes up to ten thousand visitors will come to admire the kimono during their three-month exhibition. The visitors hope to see the treasures of the Morioka. If you withdraw, the American museum may be so injured by loss of status that it will not recover.”
    “You really think…our kosode will be the highlight?” Mr. Ito said, after a pause.
    “Absolutely! The centerpiece! And the talk I’ll give—why, I’ll go beyond discussing just the textiles you’ve brought, but bring attention to the importance of the Morioka as