Authors: Sujata Massey
“My first name is Rei,” I said. “I was at Waseda today, and I bring you some papers and a message from Kashima-san.”
“Kashima-san? You mean that nerd in my Internet class?” he said in quick, perfect English, but with a slight accent that seemed to curl upward like the steam from my cup of tea. The English had worked. He had become interested in me, as I could tell from the way he’d turned his lanky body toward me.
I couldn’t comment any more on Kashima-san, having never met the person whose name had been smack in the middle of the roster Fumiko had shown me, so I tried to move on. “I’ve got the information with me. Why don’t we go to Appetito just around the corner? We can eat while we talk.”
“I’m not hungry,” Ramzi said.
“You must eat! You haven’t had anything in five days!” Miss Iwada said.
Ramzi scowled at her, and the tension was broken only when a Japanese man started to come into the shop, but backed out, as if the sight of the two of us in our jeans and sweats had made him decide that this shop was not a proper one after all. I hadn’t gotten much of a look at the man, but he must have looked like a good customer, because Miss Iwada hustled out to the street to entreat him to return.
“Did she put you up to this?” Ramzi said to me as we watched, through the window, while Miss Iwada bowed to the man and implored him to return.
“Iwada-san? Absolutely not. How could she, when I’ve never met her before?”
“Just as I’ve never met you. You’re not in any of my classes. I don’t understand why you’re here—”
“I saw you at the memorial gathering.” I took a deep breath. “You’re right, it’s not about schoolwork. It’s about Emi.”
“Emi?” He turned to me with eyes filled with pain. “What business is she of yours?”
“As I said, I was there and I saw those men make you leave. It was terribly unfair, I thought.”
“Yes, it was.” His voice was bitter. “I was thrown out while her murderer stayed sipping whisky, the bastard—”
“Who’s a murderer?” I asked, picking up the box of glasses I’d paid for.
“Her fiancé. The one who crashed the car that she died in.” As he spoke, I saw Miss Iwada coming back.
“Let’s talk about this outside,” I said, taking Ramzi by the arm, figuring that gentle force would work better than words.
“I don’t understand who you are! Why do you care about this?” Ramzi practically exploded when we were out of the shop. I remembered that Fumiko had said he was strange, so I answered as calmly as I could.
“It’s complicated. I knew her, but I knew Takeo Kayama, the person you think murdered her, first. He was the one who introduced us.”
“Oh! I suppose he sent you here to plead his case. Frankly, I don’t know why he even bothers.” Ramzi’s voice rose sharply, startling a German shepherd, who barked mercilessly, almost dragging his owner, a small woman, forward.
“Stupid dog. Reminds me of the ones Emi’s parents have,” Ramzi said as we passed along.
“Keep your voice down. More people understand English than you might think,” I cautioned as we turned another corner and the yellow-and-red awning of Appetito appeared. “I suppose you come here all the time, living as close by as you do—”
“I don’t know the area at all. And I’m not eating,” Ramzi said stonily.
He was firm. I couldn’t even get him to agree to coffee, because he said the substance served in Japan was nothing like what he was used to in Turkey. I could see his point, so I got myself a cup of steaming milk tea, even though I’d had half a cup of Russian tea just minutes earlier, so I would be buzzing for hours. I also put two chocolate croissants on two plates, just in case.
I carried the tray over to a table at the window, where Ramzi was staring out at a boy wearing a stovepipe hat and polka-dot pants who was locking a bicycle. At second glance, I realized that the person was a girl.
“Crazies,” Ramzi said, but his tone was almost warm. “I’m going to miss seeing Japanese crazies.”
“At least she isn’t a Lolita,” I said, watching the whimsical person disappear into the Shu Uemura makeup boutique. “What do you mean by missing them, though?”
“I’m going back to Turkey. There’s nothing more for me here.”
“I can understand why you feel that way.” I had an urge to put my hand over his, but instead, I put a plate with a croissant in front of him. “Chocolate helps.”
“So, who are you really, Chocolate-Tea-and-Shopping Lady?” He used the words lightly; clearly he thought I was a phony.
I had to make an impact, and get him to feel allied with me. “I’m Takeo’s ex-girlfriend. From some years ago.”
He sat bolt upright. “So you came to see me because you were jilted, too?”
Jilted. Interesting choice of word, but I couldn’t ask him about that yet. “I came because I’m confused and concerned about a lot of things that happened, starting with the fact that you were forcibly removed from Emi’s house by those men. Why did that happen?”
“Those men told me I was upsetting her parents. Apparently, I always did. But for them not to let me even see her one last time—” He passed a hand over his eyes and turned away from me.
“Why were they so hard on the relationship? Didn’t your parents meet at some point while you were both in Istanbul?”
“Our fathers did business,” Ramzi said. “Lots of business. A Japanese will do business with foreigners. But not personal relationships. Not even my father’s money made me good enough for Emi.”
“The Haradas are very traditional,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “It’s not the way most Japanese are. The arranged marriage for Emi, right after high school graduation, seemed—almost medieval to me.”
“Yes, the Haradas like the old world.” He sank into silence.
“I gather your father sold antiques to the Haradas?” I ventured.
“Yeah. There are plenty of my father’s wares in his house—so ironic, when he throws me out!”
“Your uncle mentioned to me that he and your father sell more than just Middle Eastern pieces.”
“Yes. They carry everything—lots of French and Italian, which sells to the Turkish buyers; and of course Turkish and Middle Eastern, for the Europeans who want something ancient and exotic.” He made quotation marks with his fingers to emphasize the seeming silliness of those adjectives. “The mix of pieces that you saw in the shop just now is pretty much like our shop in Istanbul. Only the shop in Istanbul takes up half a city block. It’s huge.”
“How does your father obtain the French and Italian pieces?”
Ramzi shrugged. “He does a few scouting trips a year. But more often people bring things to him to sell. He runs in diplomatic circles, and those people sometimes want to sell or exchange their pieces for something my dad had in the shop.”
“I saw a Balthus painting in the Haradas’ house. Did that come from your father’s store?”
“Who?” Ramzi looked at me blankly.
“Balthus was a recently deceased French painter who did most of his work in the mid-twentieth century. Upstairs at the Haradas’ house, I saw a portrait of a young Japanese woman, with a kind of dwarf in the corner. It looked like a Balthus, but I wasn’t certain.”
“I went upstairs in that house just once. I’m afraid that I didn’t spend the time looking at anything on the walls.” Ramzi gave me a tight, mirthless smile.
I tried a different approach. “Did you know Emi when she was chubby?”
He cocked his head to one side. “She told me she’d been heavier, but I could never imagine it. She came to our school in her sophomore year when I was already a senior. By the time I met her at a party, she was perfect. Like a doll.”
“I agree,” I said. “She was very beautiful.”
“Oh, but you didn’t see her at her peak. When she came here, and all that crap went down with the engagement, she got thinner. Too thin, I think.”
“Do you know why she became so thin?”
“The way everyone does: by not eating. She was unhappy, just like me.”
“Did you ever see her take any tablets?”
He started to shake his head, then paused. “Well, there were always vitamins. She sometimes took them in front of me.”
I looked at him hard. How could a college boy not know about drugs? He hardly struck me as the sheltered type.
“Those vitamins,” I said. “Where did she buy them?”
“I don’t know. Maybe her mother bought them for her. Who cares?” Ramzi paused. “What do you know that you’re not saying?”
“I think she may have been taking amphetamine tablets. They’re popular with young women who want to lose weight.”
“Oh.” He sat for a minute, the shock registering on his face. “Who said Emi was taking that? How do you know?”
“It’s apparently what the police think. They asked Takeo all about it. Haven’t they asked you about it yet?”
Ramzi’s voice grew cold. “I know the stereotypes about—my country. But people in my social class—we have better things to do than buy and sell drugs. My uncle isn’t smuggling them in his furniture crates, and I’m not selling them on the campus at school, okay? And what you’re talking about—amphetamines—it isn’t a Turkish thing. People take hash and opium in Turkey, but not people in our class.”
“You mean—your class in school or your social class?”
“Social class. The American kids, well, there was a segment that loved drugs. I knew those kids and I went to their parties, but it was just for the girls. Nothing else.”
“Thanks for explaining,” I said. “I meant no offense to you. It’s just that—it would be safe for everyone concerned if we could figure out who sold the amphetamines to Emi. Like I told you, the police are asking around.”
Ramzi shook his head. “This is so—new to me. I just can’t believe she would do a thing like buy drugs. Buy handbags and pretty clothes—yes. But not drugs! What if Takeo provided them?”
I shook my head. “He didn’t provide them, I’m certain, but he did know something was going on, and he was worried. He’d hoped he could get her to quit after the wedding.”
“After the wedding,” Ramzi said, his voice soft. “Emi said things would be better after the wedding. He’d be working, so we’d have time to relax together at the country house. We could even travel together, if the situation was cool.”
“That sounds like a plan,” I said. A plan I would have hated, if I were the cuckolded one.
“Well, that plan went to hell when he killed her! I can’t help thinking—” Ramzi’s voice broke off.
“What did you think?” I asked gently.
“Maybe he found out about me, and he was so angry that he—he just—”
“He never knew about you,” I said, meaning to reassure him, but instead seeing tears form in his eyes. Well, of course. Ramzi was in the process of learning that he’d been even less visible and less important than the Haradas had made him feel.
“When was the last time you spoke to Emi?” I asked.
“Three weeks ago. I knew from—from a friend who helped us—that she had an appointment at the bridal salon at Matsuya. I was waiting by the escalators when she came out, but her mother was there. I had to walk away. It wasn’t until an hour later that Emi phoned and asked me to stop following her.”
“That must have hurt terribly.”
“I couldn’t understand it. We’ve had arguments before, but this was—this was unexpected. She said she wanted to concentrate on the wedding and get on with life. I know she really didn’t mean it. She was probably confused.” He paused. “Maybe because of those pills that I thought were vitamins. How stupid can a person be, not to have known?”
“Well, it sounds like she’d started on the path much earlier. How could you have suspected anything, if her baseline of normality was actually a drugged state?”
Ramzi seemed to struggle with an answer. “I really don’t know if what you’re saying is true. I just know that I loved her, and if her family had stayed in Turkey like they should have, we’d still be together.”
“Do you think her parents brought her back here because—because they were so upset about the relationship?”
“That’s what they said to Emi, and she told me. My father didn’t care about me seeing her—just that I really told him where I was going at night, came back when I said, that kind of thing.”
It sounded reasonable to me. “So your father was pretty supportive. Is that why he let you come to Japan to study?”
“He wasn’t excited about it. He thought, after the Haradas left, that it would be better to leave things alone. But I knew my uncle had gotten the visa and had rented a building here. It was the perfect situation for me, and my father had to let me go. I was nineteen, and I’d come into my trust fund the year before.”
“Must be nice,” I said automatically.
“No, it’s not nice,” Ramzi said stonily. “The reason I have that money is because my mother died five years ago.”
So he’d lost a mother. No wonder he’d clung to his girlfriend so desperately. Feeling as though I’d really put my foot in things, I said, “Ramzi, I’m so sorry about all that you’ve suffered. Of course the trust fund is something you never wanted—”
“My mother’s death is nobody’s fault.”
His choice of words was interesting, I thought as we parted a few minutes later and I began my damp-footed trek home. Whether he was conscious of it or not, he hadn’t absolved me of Emi’s death—something I wasn’t ready to do, either.
My journey back to Yokohama seemed to take forever. Outside the grimy train windows, the late afternoon sun illuminated mud-stained roads, toppled signs, and sagging power lines. How odd it was to see my beloved, immaculate Japan looking like an unmade bed! But Typhoon Nigo’s damage would take time to clean up. I supposed the scenery along the route would eventually, perhaps within a few weeks, be almost the same as it had been before the floods and winds. Still, for the people who knew and loved Emi, life would always be divided into “before the typhoon” and after it.
Ramzi had complained about the injustice of Yasuko and Kenichi Harada’s attitude toward him. He had a point, but I pondered what it might feel like to see one’s daughter plunge headlong into sex at sixteen. I remembered how furious my father had been when I’d told him, as an eighth-grader, that I wanted to go with some girlfriends and a group of much older boys to a midnight screening of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
. He’d been outraged that I’d even asked. I dated covertly, and with considerable fear of discovery, until I’d left home at age eighteen for college.
Covert dating. Spying and sexual infidelity. My terrible behavior of recent days probably had its origins in my own family history, but I had no time for self-analysis. I needed to remember what Ramzi had said about the art, and his father’s relationship with Kenichi Harada.
Emi’s father must have done business with Osman Birand more than once, because Ramzi had recognized several pieces in the house. There was a relationship. The ibex ewer could certainly have gone from the Birands to the Haradas. I knew that a fake vessel lay in its fragmented state in Washington. Did a genuine ancient vessel even exist?
A recorded female voice sweetly reminded me to take all my personal belongings with me as I disembarked at Minami-Makigahara Station. I was glad of the reminder, given my distracted state. The train was so crowded that I’d had to stand the whole way, and endure the slightly disapproving looks of people who saw how much space my backpack, stuffed with the gifts, was taking up on the overhead luggage rack. Now I took it out, opening room for someone else to stow a carry-on suitcase.
I squeezed through the bodies and made it out to the platform at Minami-Makigahara Station. It was ten minutes by foot to my relatives’ house, and during that time I would be blessedly free of people crowding around me. I checked behind me for company—no, nobody was following me up the quiet hilly street that led to my aunt’s home—and took out my cell phone.
“I received your e-mail,” Michael Hendricks said, after I’d greeted him.
“I didn’t think you’d have read it already. It’s what, six in the morning?”
“That’s right. What I want to know is whether you wrote rather than calling because you thought I’d yell at you.”
“Actually, I thought I’d avoid being overheard. You can’t imagine what it’s like always being surrounded by people.”
“I can’t,” Michael said. “It’s pretty quiet on the Japan desk.”
“I suppose if worse comes to worst, we can bring in Mr. Watan—”
“No names please,” Michael said crisply. “The colleague you wanted to mention—let’s call him Mr. Ito—is one of Mr. Harmony’s colleagues. Because of that relationship, Ito is no longer an asset to this operation. And now, let’s talk about something else.”
Watanabe was Ito, Harada was Harmony, Emi was “the bride,” and I was—what? A bungler, at the very best. Feeling rather subdued, I said, “Did you know that the antique dealer’s brother recently opened an antiques shop in Tokyo?”
A long pause. “No, I didn’t. When?”
“A month ago.”
“So what’s the place like?”
In short order, I described Treasures of Tabriz, and the reproduction Chinese horses I’d seen. And mindful of Michael’s new insistence on aliases, I called the dealers “Brother A” and “Brother B,” and Ramzi “Robert.”
At the end of all this, Michael said, “Rei, as we know now, the vase Flowers had wasn’t genuine. But that doesn’t mean it passed from the brothers to Mr. Harmony. Why would a successful dealer sell a fake to a connoisseur?”
“It happens all the time. A connoisseur can’t be an expert in everything. There was a significant Japanese bowl that I noticed in the Harmony household, and really, that’s the only thing I’m positive is authentic. It makes sense that Harmony would be more aware of fine modern Japanese ceramics than ancient Middle Eastern work—just as I am.”
“What you’re saying, though, is only half of it. You’re telling me why Harmony might have taken the piece. But what would the motivation be for the dealer to scam a well-connected diplomat? Brother B would risk losing his entire international clientele if word got out that he was a cheat.”
“It could have been a matter of anger.”
“Why? Did the son say there was an argument?”
“There was no fight between B and Harmony that Robert mentioned, but the fact is that the bride’s parents refused to let her see Robert. They even shipped her back to Japan. This could have wounded Robert’s father’s pride enough for him to give Harmony a fake in exchange for payment.”
“Hmm,” Michael said. “It’s an interesting theory, but it puts a lot of importance on a high school relationship. How likely is that? I mean,” he said, “maybe you remember your first boyfriend, but were your parents vested in how that relationship turned out?”
“They were vested in destroying my relationships,” I said, remembering.
Michael laughed, the first time I could remember him doing so. “And now that you’re over thirty, it’s probably the reverse.”
“You’re right, but don’t let me lose my train of thought. I can make sense of Emi’s parents’ actions more than I can understand Brother B’s laissez-faire parenting. Apparently Brother B wasn’t thrilled that his son wanted to study in Japan, but because Brother A had already moved to Tokyo to open a shop, and Robert was of legal age and had his own trust fund, B didn’t try to stop him.”
“Ah, the trust fund left to him by his late mother?”
“Oh. You know about the mother?”
“I have done some research,” Michael said. “What I’ve learned is that she was Iranian, was wealthy, and fled Iran with her parents for Paris during the revolution. She met her husband when he was taking a course there in arts and antiques. They married, and Robert was actually born in Paris. He holds two passports: E.U. and Turkish.”
“I bet he used the E.U. passport for his student visa,” I said. For a Turk to get a student visa would be much harder. “What about the mother? Do you know when and why she died? Robert was shaken when we talked about her.”
“There was a car accident four years ago,” he said. “The Mercedes she was driving was hit by a speeding bus on a mountain road near a resort. Not only did she die, but five people on the bus did, too.”
“Oh, my God. And the bride was lost in a car accident, too.” I was silent for a moment, thinking about how painful this coincidence must have been for Robert.
“You still there?” Michael’s voice had a hint of anxiety.
“Yes. The main reason I called—I want more background on why the Harmonys left Japan. As you were saying, a high school romance is hardly reason to jump ship from an important ambassadorship. I wonder why he came back and took that other post. I think Mr. Ito would be our best source here—”
“You can’t talk to him. I told you that already.” Michael’s voice was impatient.
“But why?” I challenged. “If you trusted him enough to bring him into the conference room at the Smithsonian and to arrange for my reentry into the country—why can’t I ask him what I really need to know?”
“The father of the bride is a colleague of similar rank in the government. If we ask Ito about Harmony, there’s a good chance he’ll feel that the loyal thing to do is call the guy and warn him of our interest.”
“I don’t know about that. I liked Mr. Ito.”
“Yes. You liked Mr. Flowers, too.”
I bit my lip. “What are you insinuating?”
“Nobody said that you had to sleep with our suspect.”
A slow flush spread through my body as the words registered. At last I said, “I’m trying to decide whether to hang up on you.”
“Please don’t. I’m sorry if you’re embarrassed, but I have suspected this for a while, and I have to know. There aren’t supposed to be secrets between us.”
When embarrassed, go for sarcasm. “Actually, I’d think you would be delighted about what I did. The sacrifice of my virtue, or whatever you want to call it, meant that I was able to remain in the house overnight and locate the vessel. In fact, I answered the question you sent me out to answer, yet I still haven’t been released from active duty—”
“I haven’t called you home because you’re doing so well,” Michael said. “By all means, Rei, find out what you can by using the underground channels you seem so good at working. And I know you came onboard pro bono, but—this job has turned out to be more difficult than we all thought. I’ve put in a request already to arrange for some financial compensation.”
Yes, I was a real whore.
I hung up, knowing that I should feel good about both the money and the praise, but I was only more depressed. How would I know the job was finished when the job description seemed to be changing daily? And I was disturbed that Michael knew about Takeo. Somehow, it gave him more power over me, and I didn’t like that feeling at all.
I put the phone back into my sweater and rounded the corner, entering the residential neighborhood where Norie and Hiroshi lived. A Japanese policeman was standing alone in the center of the street. I continued on, but the policeman stepped directly in my path.
“This is an identification check,” he said, in a voice that was all business. “May I see your foreigner registration, please?”
So the police had found me.