The Samurai's Daughter (9 page)

Project Manami got off to a weak start the next morning. I put on a robe, left Hugh to take his shower, and went downstairs. I had it in mind to bring a cup of green tea and some
senbei
crackers to Manami's bedside. Then I'd invite her to come along with me to Hopewell's, where I would kill two birds with one stone: get the engagement ring resized, and find out what I could about the old Japanese letter that my parents had sold in the seventies.

In the kitchen, all I found was my mother, already in action. She was rolling out scones. I could smell some baking in the oven, and there were three trays waiting on the counter.

“Your father already left for the hospital,” she said when she saw me setting up a pot of green tea.

“It's for Manami, actually.”

“She's out, too. Your dad was going to give her a ride to campus, but she must have left even earlier. Do you want a scone?”

So Manami was gone; I wouldn't be able to take her to Hopewell's. “Thanks, but I'll wait for Hugh.”

“That's nice. You may have two each; the rest are for the party.”

“Oh, that's right. The Boxing Day party is this afternoon. What do you need help with?”

“Well, I noticed you did the silver yesterday, sweetie; thanks for that. I think…well, the baking's under control…maybe if you
could pick up the sushi for me? Oh, darn, the car window. I almost forgot. You can't possibly drive.”

“I'll take the bus then. And Mom, there's someone coming to fix the glass this morning. Hugh and I already gave him a credit card number; don't you try to pay for it, okay? We feel so terrible about it—”

“Don't, sweetie. It's a small price to pay for the sake of your engagement.”

“Speaking of workers, do you know someone who could repair or replace a stove? Before we leave, we want to see if something can be done for—for a client of Hugh's. She's living in the worst place imaginable, and can't get the landlord to do anything about her stove.”

“That's very sweet of you, Rei. I must say that you're doing a lot to try to help everyone. It'll be a great loss when you're gone.”

“Not to everyone,” I said roughly, thinking of my father.

“I think you're wrong. But anyway, Emil Sonnenfeld is the person I'd recommend, because he's usually been able to help me within twenty-four hours. Shall I call him for you?”

“That would be great. I'll give you the address.” I handed my mother the card on which I'd written it down on Christmas Eve.

“What's the tenant's name?”

“Mom, I'm not supposed to divulge that. Just tell him that if it's an old Filipina lady, he's got the right place and should send the bill to you. I mean, to me, in care of your house.”

But my mother wasn't interested in issues of payment. “She's from the Philippines? For heaven's sake, why don't you invite her to the Asian Language League party.”

“I'm almost positive she's not a member. The dues would be too high, anyway—”

“She'll be my guest, then. What's her number? Shall I call her?”

“Let me do that,” I said. “Or better yet, Hugh. He's the one she really knows and trusts.”

“Good morning, good morning.” It was Hugh, dressed for business in a gray flannel suit. “Who is the soul who's crazy enough to trust me?”

“Our—I mean your—client,” I said, struggling for balance as he swept me into his arms for a kiss. He reeked of the Caswell-Massey
toiletries my mother had stocked in his bathroom. “My mother came up with an electrician who might be able to fix the stove.”

“Thank goodness you remembered. I'd practically forgotten.” Hugh sounded rueful.

“That's what wives are for!” my mother said archly. She was smirking as if she'd enjoyed the display of public affection.

“That's sexist, Mom,” I said, but I couldn't deny my relief that at least one person in the family was excited about the engagement. “Anyway, I'll get the sushi on the way back from Hopewell's. I'm going there to check into Dad's letter.”

“Which letter?” my mother asked.

“The one he mentioned selling back in the seventies. I just want to find out what it was, in case there's something I should follow up on.”

“Oh, that. Well, when you're there, be sure to ask for my friend Mary Jamison. She's been working there for as long as we've been their clients; I'm sure she'd help you. Oh, and the person who does jewelry evaluations might be able to help you resize your ring.”

“Do you think they'll charge much?” Hugh asked. “Darling, let me give you something to cover the cost—it's not right that you're paying anything toward that ring.”

“Hugh, I'm sure they won't charge, because she's one of us,” my mother said.

“One of whom?” Hugh raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Our family. We've done so much business with them over the years, they will just be happy to see Rei. Especially if she dangles a promise of bringing them some wonderful consignments from Japan.”

An hour later, I was showered, dressed in a violet wool suit, and heading downtown on the no. 1 bus. For a change, my twenty-year-old outfit fit right in. The society matrons riding the bus alongside me were all wearing clothes from bygone days. Sitting around us were a sprinkling of tourists in teal and purple athletic wear, as well as members of the nose-ring mafia who probably had jobs on Filbert Street. It was a perfect San Francisco moment, and reminded me of why I was occasionally bored by life in perfect-taste Japan.

I jumped off the bus at Sacramento and Larkin and walked
south a few blocks to the intersection with Sutter Street, where Hopewell's Auction House had stood since the late nineteenth century. I'd been in just the previous week to get the gentleman's traveling desk for Hugh.

I went straight to the back desk and asked for Mary Jamison, the veteran appraiser my mother had mentioned. She had always reminded me of my mother—she was about the same age and wore the same kind of pageboy hairstyle, only red; and she'd dressed entirely in black, year round, for as long as I could remember.

“Darling, look at you!” she said, gesturing toward me. “Love the suit. And the ring—are you engaged?”

I slid off the loose ring that I'd slipped on my finger just before entering. “I'm almost afraid to wear it. It's a bit large. It was my fiancé's grandmother's ring.”

“I can take care of that for you.” She held out her hand. “Oh, you're going to have to tell me all about him. Is he local?”

“No. He's from Scotland.”

“Oh, the one you bought the traveling desk for. I adore Scottish men; that actor, Ewan McGregor—”

“Hugh's bigger.” I caught myself. “Heightwise, I mean.”

“Well, that's nice, too.” Mary laughed knowingly. Only in San Francisco would ladies my mother's age feel so at home with the ribald. “I'm sure he's simply gorgeous. I'm very upset you didn't bring him with you today. I assume he's here for the holidays?”

“Yes, but today he's working. He's doing something with Sharp, Witter and Rowe.” I made a face.

“A lawyer.” Mary sighed. “Well, there are worse things than having a man who's still got work to do. Around here, so many people have lost employment that you wouldn't believe it.”

“I've noticed,” I said, thinking about all the people in the coffee shops. “Actually, I want to ask you about an auction that was held a long time ago. My parents sold a letter here in 1976. It was from a government official, which is why I'm interested.”

“We could check the sale catalogs,” Mary said. “Tell you what. Why don't you go over to the jewelry counter and let Gary fix the ring for you. I'll see what I can dig up.”

Gary used something remarkably low-tech—a cigarette lighter—
to warm the platinum and then reshaped it to the exact size of my finger. We were both admiring the way it looked when Mary came back.

“Here, I've got it,” Mary said, waving a catalog that had been discolored yellow with age. “There was a sale in July of that year, and your father's letter was probably item number 453, which we described as a rare scroll containing the signature of Emperor Hirohito, dated 1928.”

“Emperor Hirohito?” I stood in the center of Hopewell's, the bustle around me fading into silence. I felt my heart drumming under the tight violet wool suit. This was the first I'd ever heard that my family had any connection with Japan's most notorious leader—the emperor who led Japan into war and, following Japan's defeat, hung on to his imperial seat for over forty more years.

“Yes, Hirohito,” Mary answered. “As you know, there's always been a terrific market in letters signed by heads of state—not to mention royalty.”

“What else can you tell me about it?”

Mary scrutinized the catalog. “There's not much of a description of the letter's contents, but it was authenticated by an appraiser. Though I can't speak for certain about how he did the authentication, it probably was done based on a careful analysis of the stationery, the seal, and, of course, the signature.”

“Who appraised it?” I asked.

“Oh, in those days we used John Nishida. But he passed away two years ago.” Mary sighed. “All I can really tell you is how much it sold for.”

“Of course. And the buyer, if you've got that,” I added, trying to sound casual.

“It brought nine thousand dollars. Regarding the buyer, I'll have to check elsewhere in the office for that record.” Mary looked at me. “If I tell you who bought it, what will you do with the information?”

“Nothing much. I want to see the letter and transcribe its contents for a family history project I'm doing. So far, the family holdings I've analyzed have just been decorative arts objects. This let
ter would add a personal and political element that would be very interesting.”

Mary raised her eyebrows, turned, and disappeared again. While I was alone, I collected my thoughts on Emperor Hirohito. The late 1920s was just before Hirohito launched Japan's march to conquer Asia. The letter, I bet, had originally been the property of my grandfather, who was a professor of history at Tokyo University. He was born in 1902, so he would have been twenty-six at the time it was written—either finishing up graduate school or just starting his career as a teacher.

When Mary came back, she said, “You're in luck. I know the buyers are still alive and well in Marin County, because they came in for a sale a few months ago. We've got their number in our Rolodex.” I must have brightened too much, because Mary added, “I'd better be the one to call them. Otherwise, they might feel their privacy is being violated.”

“How would I make them feel that way? I'm not angling to buy the letter.”

“Imagine a clever thief who could go around to auction houses and gather information on who owned what, and where they lived. I know you're not a crook—but they don't.” She paused. “I'll call them for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, sighing.

I left Hopewell's feeling frustrated about wanting something, but not knowing exactly what it was.

I was so preoccupied by the Hirohito development that I almost forgot to pick up the sushi. I had to yank the bus's stop cord quickly and hurry back a block to my father's favorite Japantown restaurant—the one where we'd recently eaten.

Only in America,
I ruminated while waiting for the waitress to bring the sushi out from back. Only in America would a Japanese restaurant aspire to serve so many food groups—sushi and tempura and teriyaki, not to mention the noodles I'd complained about. I doubted a chef who was good at frying tempura would be equally facile at rolling rice and fish in nori. The fact that the restaurant tried to do it all, instead of trying to master one cuisine, gave me a rush of homesickness for Tokyo.

My aunt Norie Shimura—the wife of my father's younger brother, Hiroshi—was an excellent cook. The scent of her slow-simmering stews wafted out of her house and onto the street, a pleasant invitation to me on my frequent visits. Inside, the round table in the dining room covered by a blue-and-white hand-blocked indigo print would be filled with an assortment of odd-shaped bowls and plates, all filled with things like her own pickled daikon radish and cucumbers, sweet, rich pumpkin cubes tossed in a ginger-soy sauce, and always, a saucer of tiny whole fish that would be sprinkled on top of the food for extra crunch.

In doing oral research, I'd learned that a lot of Norie's recipes were direct descendants of recipes from Hiroshi's mother—my grandmother, Toshiko Shimura. Norie had to learn to cook this way because she'd married into her husband's family household. And Toshiko's recipes had in turn been her mother-in-law's.

I was yanked back to the present when the waitress bringing my order turned out to be a blue-eyed blonde with a nose ring. “Here's your order!” As she spoke, she ticked off an order slip. “Twenty pieces each of cucumber rolls, California rolls, egg, tuna, shrimp, and filly.”

“Filly? Do you mean
horse
?” My annoyance was swiftly replaced by shock. In certain regions of Japan, horse sashimi was a specialty, something I didn't eat but knew was really indigenous, traditional food. I hadn't dreamed that raw horse meat would catch on in California. Was it legal? Did the animal rights people know?

“No, no!
Philly
rolls. As in Philadelphia. You know, cream cheese and smoked salmon? Your mother specifically requested it.”

“Oh. Never mind.” I winced. I liked smoked salmon, but cream cheese?

One thing I had to say about American sushi was that it was cheap. For $59.99, the blonde loaded me up with 140 pieces, all arranged in concentric circles on two huge foil trays. I'd gotten so much sushi, in fact, that it was too much for me to handle on a bus. I sprang for a taxi instead.

My mother held the front door open as I came slowly up the walk. “Sweetie, the car window's fixed. Why didn't you call me to pick you up instead of taking a taxi?”

“It doesn't matter,” I said. “Where do you want me to put this?”

“Basement fridge. And how was Hopewell's?”

“Well worth the visit. They resized the ring for free, like you thought they would, and they were able to tell me Daddy's letter was actually a scroll written and signed by Emperor Hirohito.”

“Emperor Hirohito? My goodness!” My mother blinked, just as I'd done upon hearing the name. “Whatever did the letter say?”

“I don't know. It was sold to some collectors, whom Mary is going to contact for me. Can you believe Dad went and sold something like that?”

“Like what?”

I spun around and found that my father had entered the room. Immediately, I demanded why he hadn't told me that Hirohito was the author of the letter he'd sold.

My father sighed. “I didn't want you to become overly excited, since we don't own it anymore. Besides, I never thought of it as a prize possession.”

“A scroll from the Emperor of Japan to our family isn't a prize possession?” I said dryly. “Apparently it sold for nine thousand, which seems like a lot, but if you'd only waited to sell until after he died in ‘89, you'd surely have received more.”

“Thanks for the good advice,” my father said, and walked out of the room. Obviously, I'd touched a nerve.

The telephone rang then, and my mother picked it up. “It's for you, Rei. Mary at Hopewell's.”

I dove for the phone and said, “I can't thank you enough for getting back to me so quickly.”

“Well, the news I have isn't what you wanted. The couple who bought it actually wound up selling it on their own in 1990.”

“The year after Hirohito died. Well, that makes sense.”

“The interesting thing, Rei, is they said the buyers were a Japanese university archive. So if it's in an archive, it's probably available for public inspection.”

“Do they recall the school's name?”

“They said Showa or something like that. She wasn't terribly clear on it.”

“I bet it was Showa College. And I know the place quite well.” The college was a small, expensive institution that had a history of international exchange. It had been founded to honor Hirohito, whose reign in Japan was called the Showa Period. Showa College had a strong program for foreign students and a foreign film series in the summer that I always followed. It made sense that the school would be interested in the letter. And I could easily visit Showa College once I'd returned to Japan. I thanked her and got off the phone to face my mother.

“I'm still on the trail, but I'll have to wait to find out what the letter says until I get back to Japan.”

“Well, I'm glad you can put it aside for a little while. I'm a bit frantic doing the last-minute prep for the party. Can you help me?” my mother asked.

I did, and before I knew it the time was five o'clock. Japanese are notoriously punctual—they were among the first arrivals. I laid out Mrs. Kono's tray of
inarizushi
and Mrs. Tanaka's sweet bean cakes. A group of Chinese ladies bearing buns stuffed with savory minced pork were next. A large group of Koreans came after them with succulent grilled beef on skewers—beef I wouldn't taste with my mouth, but did, covertly, with my nose.

My father came back and greeted his guests, all the while avoiding me. It was an old move of his that I remembered from my angry adolescent days. I ignored him back and kept my eye on the door, looking for Hugh. Finally, at ten past six, the front door opened with a gust of cold air, and both Hugh and Eric Gan entered, carrying bags with the name of an Asian grocery on them. A girl was with them—clearly Asian-American, with waist-length hair, granny glasses, and a big smile. As she wiggled her fingers at me, I recognized her as Julia Gan, Eric's older sister.

While Hugh and Eric got their shopping bags organized on the potluck table, Julia and I caught up. She had always been an idealist during our childhood, and her current employment showed that she had stayed true to her character. She was working as a director of a shelter and hot-line program for Asian women who were victims of abuse.

“They were tiny when I joined them, only working with South Asians,” Julia said. “But in the last four years, we've lined up hot-line volunteers who speak Korean, Mandarin, Cantonese, Vietnamese, and Tagalog.” She ticked off the languages on her fingers. “Too bad you're not here, Rei. You could help us with Japanese; we're still looking for someone to do that.”

“Why not Eric?”

Julia snorted. “My brother's male, if you haven't noticed.
Men
are the ones who have abused our clients. When a woman makes a frantic cry for help, she wants to talk to another woman, preferably someone from within her home culture who will not make sexist or ethnocentric observations.”

I hid my smile at Julia's Bay Area–speak. My parents, with their Mid-Atlantic and Japanese backgrounds, had never quite learned to talk this way. “Okay, I get it. And actually, I might have someone who can help you, but it would have to be on a very limited basis. We have a Japanese boarder, Manami, who I think hasn't really integrated into the culture here—”

“Give her this card. We'd love to meet her,” Julia said, handing me a small piece of red cardboard with the name Lotus Listens on it.

“Why is your hot line called this?” I asked.

“The lotus is a plant associated with tranquillity,” Julia explained. “And listening, of course, is what we do best.”

“Has Eric told you much about the class action?” I asked. “He's been talking with older Asian women who were victims of abuse. It's not like they're in an imminent situation of danger, but…”

“But they need ongoing support against PTSD,” Julia finished. “Exactly right. I think your dad's hospital had a program like that for women some time ago, but it was closed down. I wonder why.”

“Hallo, darling.” Hugh had finally threaded his way through the crowd to me. “Sorry to be late.”

“We were so busy it didn't matter. Did you talk much with Julia about the class action? It sounds as if her hot-line workers might be able to follow up with support for the women you're meeting.”

“Super idea,” Hugh said enthusiastically. “Why didn't you think of it, Eric?”

Snip, snip. I looked at the two men, and from their postures, I understood that the words Eric had uttered on Christmas Eve had started a war between them.

“The class action's confidential,” Eric said, scowling at Hugh. “And if Charles knew what you and Rei were broadcasting all over town, he'd be pissed as hell.”

“‘Pissed'? You mean, he drinks?” Hugh wrinkled his brow innocently.

“‘Pissed' means ‘angry' in American slang,” I said to Hugh, who probably hadn't misunderstood Eric's comment at all. “Um, it's good that you're here. We need to talk, but as you can see, it's a madhouse. I don't know how—”

“Why don't you help me put my work paraphernalia upstairs,” Hugh suggested.

As we started off, Eric Gan made a loud cackle. “Don't stay up there too long. I can warn you about Dr. Shimura creeping around and spying.”

“Thanks, but I know my dad-in-law's habits quite well already,” Hugh said with an easy smile. Score: Glendinning one, Gan zero.

“Father-in-law?” Eric screeched after us. “You mean, you got
married
? When did you have time?”

“Not quite yet. But we are engaged,” I said, turning around to face him.

“The wedding will be in the new year, I'm sure.” My father's voice had come from behind us, startling me.

“What's this?” Mrs. Chow, the current treasurer of ALL, had sidled up next to my father. “Do you mean to say that Rei is finally getting married? Why didn't you tell us? We would have brought an engagement present!”

My father looked at Hugh and me with an almost apologetic expression. “I was planning to introduce Hugh, in some sort of manner, to the group. I suppose now that the beans have fallen, I should formally announce it.”

Beans have
been spilled,
I thought—but didn't dare correct my father's English. And the truth was, I was wearing a splashy ring. But it was San Francisco, where nose rings and
bindi
s got more compliments than a simple emerald on a finger.

“Ah, that's nice, but may I put away my things first?” Hugh pleaded.

“Why don't you leave your coat and briefcase in the library,” my father instructed. “Come with me, please—we shall stand together in the hallway. Where is my wife?”

“Um, excuse me—Toshiro—” Hugh said, obviously having trouble using my father's first name—” given what happened the other day, I'd rather put it somewhere less public.”

“Go where you like, then,” my father snapped, and Hugh, completely red-faced, went up the stairs without another word. I had never seen him look so embarrassed.
Why?
I thought with a pang.
He'd seemed proud to be my boyfriend in the old days. Was my family, so humiliatingly intense, changing that?

“Dad, he has a good point,” I said when Hugh had gone. “The case could be jeopardized if anyone snoops in the briefcase.”

“You mean—you don't trust our friends?” My father shook his head at me. “You've changed.”

But the Asian Language League had, too. There had to be close to a hundred people in the house, and most of them looked unfamiliar to me. About fifteen years had passed since I'd been fourteen and taking Japanese language classes. But some things never changed: the preschoolers, for example, who were making a game out of playing hide-and-seek under the buffet table, and the elementary-age children picking all the expensive bits of fish off the sushi, and the teenagers hanging out in the back staircase by the kitchen, wanting nothing to do with the adults.

Which was how I felt, too. I was still trying to explain to my father how he'd better chill out when Hugh made his way downstairs. Instantly, my mother tapped a crystal goblet with a silvery
ting
. Her call drew people to the foot of the grand oak staircase, where they looked up expectantly at my father, who was standing on the bottom step, dwarfed by Hugh on his left. I stood on the right, trying to stop from fidgeting.

My father started off simply, introducing himself as the group's chairman emeritus and my mother as the continuing hospitality coordinator. He welcomed back the longtime members—” I do not like to say old,” my father joked, to gentle peals of laughter—and the newest.

“Whether or not you have Asian blood, you have a place in the Asian Language League's family,” my father said, his voice rising slightly. “We welcome all, as our name suggests. If you are interested in taking or teaching a class not offered, please speak up.”

He went on to talk more seriously about the group's ongoing support of Julia's Lotus Listens project and the Asia in the Schools initiative that sent ALL members to visit classes in Bay Area public schools.