The Bride's Kimono Read Free Page A

Japan’s leading textile museum.”
    I sensed I was gaining ground until Mr. Nishio finally spoke. “I understand you have a good feeling for American museums, even though you’ve never worked in one. But surely you must admit that it is unusual for themuseum to ask a freelance antiques buyer—someone who doesn’t have her own shop, not to mention museum ties here—to be the speaker.”
    Smiling apologetically, I said, “I know that I am young and not as experienced as you. I imagine they chose me in part for my bilingual ability.”
    “What makes you think there are no skilled English speakers here?” Mr. Shima demanded.
    It was the Morioka’s policy to hire only native Japanese; I was told that when I was turned down for an internship four years ago. But I couldn’t say that; it was too combative. Instead, I widened my eyes and said, “I understand Mr. Nishio was the first choice, but apparently he told them that he could not go?”
    Mr. Ito shot a surprised look at Mr. Shima, and Mr. Nishio looked down at the floor.
    Mr. Shima said, “That’s right. He is needed here to do work on our next exhibition, and to oversee some of my work during my vacation. I’m very sorry that I must go—”
    “Completely understandable,” Mr. Ito said in a brisk voice. “Shima-san has not taken a day off in five years. The Japanese government has asked managers to encourage all employees to take their vacation times so they will not die of heart attacks from overworking.”
    Mr. Shima coughed. “I feel guilty about the loss of service to my museum, as well as the American museum being inconvenienced. Perhaps we should present the prospect of Miss Shimura’s travel plan at our committee next week.”
    Enough of all the fake apologies. I looked straight at each man again and said, “The problem is that I’m scheduled to travel twenty days from now. If you’re not interested in having your kimono included, I must warn Miss Powell so she may organize with another museum.” This was a bluff, because I knew Allison wanted kimono only from the Morioka—and it would be impossible to organize a kimono loan elsewhere.
    There was silence, and I wondered if I’d gone too far.
    “Regarding the Asian Arts Museum travel plan, we will try to give an answer as soon as possible,” Mr. Ito said. “But please understand that Japanese museums make plans carefully.”
    “American ones do, too,” I said. “This exhibit was two years in the making. It’s sad that because of some last-minute employee-scheduling conflict, the centerpiece might be missing.”
    We all said a few more things, none of them constructive. I left the museum with nothing but Mr. Ito’s hollow promise that one of his men would call me. Yeah, sure. I’d heard that one before.

3
    “S o, how much do you think it would cost me to have a sex change?” I asked Takeo Kayama, from my position curled up near the space heater in the traditional living room of his country house in Hayama the next evening. We had been eating our supper of an octopus-and-corn pizza on a short-legged kotatsu table that had a tiny heater underneath it, to warm our feet. There was nothing else in the room except for the zabuton cushions we sat on and a casual arrangement of pampas grass and bittersweet in a vase in the room’s ceremonial alcove.
    “Well, you’d lose the chance to sleep with me,” said Takeo. He was lounging on the tatami -mat floor looking like a handsome cat burglar in his black cashmere turtleneck and jeans. The only thing marring his elegant appearance was a pair of thick ragg wool socks on his feet, necessary protection against the cold.
    “Now, if I were a Japanese man, the Morioka Museum would without question let me take the kimono to America. I wouldn’t have lost a night of sleep worrying.” I didn’t think I’d get much more sleep at Takeo’s place. The shoji screens were rattling fiercely from the strong winds that went with the onset of typhoon