The Typhoon Lover (28 page)

“Yes, what did you do?” Ali called out.

I heard the sound of crunching leaves and realized that one of the dogs was heading right for me. Kenichi Harada had made good on his threat, but to my delight I noticed that the dog had, in its jaws, something red. To him, my cell phone was a toy. He dropped it at my feet and stood waiting, as if he wanted me to throw it. I glanced over to see what Harada was doing; he was scuffling around with the other dog in the pile of leaves for the vial. To think that all my terror had ended up in a search for dropped tablets. I was reasonably sure I could get away from this situation.

“Good boy. Just a minute,” I said, putting the phone to my ear and pushing through on the 110 exchange I’d set up earlier, in anticipation of trouble.

“No, no!” Ali Birand was shouting suddenly. “Don’t do it!”

A competent-sounding Japanese woman’s voice came on the line. “Emergency services; do you require the police?”

I was about to answer her when I heard Ali Birand scream.

Something had happened, and I could barely bring myself to turn and see what it was.

Kenichi Harada had tossed down his own throat all the tablets in the vial: enough amphetamines to kill two men. Six doctors, a week in the hospital, the attentions of his wife, and an anxious nation would aid in his recovery. Mr. Harada had already offered his resignation from government service for reasons of health. Nobody had to know that he’d been the one who’d lived for years with an on-again, off-again amphetamine habit to cope with the stress of long working hours. It was by raiding her father’s well-stocked medicine cabinet that his daughter had become hooked, too.

A quick resignation was prudent; in the eyes of Japanese society, the minister for the environment had gone to the rural area he loved best and, stricken by grief over his daughter’s death, attempted to end his own life. This played much better than the reality that was emerging after government intelligence agents interviewed Ali Birand, who maintained that Kenichi Harada had streamlined the approval of twenty visas to Turkish citizens in exchange for the gifts. All the immigrants had paid special fees to the Birands, who personally handed over their passports to Kenichi Harada. As a result, the Birands had made plenty of extra money, and instead of having to share a portion of those fees with Kenichi Harada, they’d been able to unload a dangerous asset on him that they didn’t dare sell.

On paper, it looked as if the Birands were the worse villains, but the truth was that they hadn’t played any role in trying to track and terrorize me, nor was the vessel even in their custody. It was back in Iraq, in a box that had been mailed from Tokyo in care of the provisional director of the National Museum in Iraq.

We’d done it together: Ali Birand, Ramzi, and me. It was my idea; after the police and ambulance had roared away with Kenichi Harada, I’d suggested that the three of us drive back together to Tokyo and, along the way, figure out our next step.

As I drove, Ali’s defenses tumbled down. He was worried enough to tell me all that I needed to know. He’d driven to the house under the direction of Kenichi Harada, who’d asked him to get rid of the ibex vessel. So he had wrapped it in bubble wrap inside a plastic shopping bag; the whole thing was in the trunk of the Camry.

Ali was indeed desperate to get rid of the piece; he’d known that it was stolen, of course, and he understood that sooner or later the police would come calling for it. As we drew closer to Yokohama, he begged me to make a quick stop so that he could throw it away. I refused, telling him I had an idea that would set everything straight.

I drove all the way to Yokohama Station, where I asked the men to stay in the car while I took the bag with me into the station. I retrieved my luggage from the locker, and stopped in at a shop in the station’s arcade. There I bought a set of cheap everyday soup bowls because I liked their sturdy wooden packing box, and the larger cardboard carton that the saleswoman gave me, upon request. I retreated to the ladies’ room, did some packing, and in the end had made up a secure parcel that contained within it the ibex vessel and its bubble wrap tucked in the Oriental Bazaar box that had once held the police dolls. I also included Kazu Sakurai’s cups in their own brown satin-lined box, plus the receipt for them. Then I walked again through the crowded station to its busy postal station, where I addressed the package to the museum and gave as the return address Brenda Martin at the American embassy in Tokyo. On the customs declaration form, I described the contents as contemporary Japanese tea bowls and a rustic pottery pitcher, valued at $5,050. I’d thought there might be some fuss about the high value of the package, which I insured, but the clerk either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the irregularity. I was just another Lolita in a line of twenty customers, all of them anxious to get their mailings completed before their trains came in.

And that’s how my last few days in Japan went. I hustled around, making peace with my aunt and Chika, who were outraged most about my actions with Takeo. Following their advice, I didn’t see Takeo in public again, but we talked on the phone several times. Takeo expressed horrified surprise about where Emi’s drugs had really come from and told me he was going off women for good. Jokingly, I offered to have Richard bring him to one of the cool gay clubs in Tokyo, but he told me that he’d already been accepted at a Buddhist monastery in India. He’d take a brief break from Tokyo and flower arranging, and then return, if the situation suited him.

The other man in my life wasn’t as easy to say good-bye to. I’d called Hugh from Japan to apologize again, and he’d said that he’d already packed up my clothes and sent them to Kendall’s house in Potomac. Moving the furniture would be harder, because there were some things we had chosen and bought together. “It’s like a common-law marriage, practically,” Hugh said, when he started trying to explain the legal ramifications of our furniture. I shook my head, thinking it was so like him to say that—to find a marriage, even when it had never been.

I was back in Washington a week later. It felt colder than before, and winter seemed to be setting in. But there was a bit of a thaw with Hugh. He’d finally agreed to meet, face to face, for a cup of coffee before we started allocating the furniture. He’d suggested going to the Evergreen, a new coffee bar that had opened in Adams-Morgan just after I’d left for Japan. Probably, this was the reason that Hugh had suggested it; we had no shared history here, and the shiny espresso maker and the assortment of inexpensive scones and sandwiches couldn’t possibly trick us into thinking we were having a dinner date.

Striving to seem as though I didn’t care, and also to show that I was ready to lift furniture, I came in my trusty yoga pants, as good as new after a thorough laundering in Kendall’s washing machine. With them, I wore a trendy argyle sweater that had shrunk and was too small for Kendall but was perfect for me. On my feet were the same trusty Asics that had gotten me away from the phony cop. Hugh disliked the American habit of wearing running shoes everywhere; I thought about that as I put them on. I was going to make it as easy as possible for both of us to say good-bye.

I arrived at five-thirty and found that Hugh had gotten out of work early and was already there, in a black Italian business suit and wing tips. He looked sharp but somber. His only item of color was a red-and-gold Aquascutum tie that I particularly loved.

“Right on time,” he said when I joined him at the counter, where he was scrutinizing the assortment of pastries.

“I try my best.” I kept looking at the necktie, because I was still too nervous to look into his face.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter, I suppose. The crowd’s huge here in the mornings. But now…” Hugh glanced around. “We could have any table we like.”

Hugh ordered Earl Grey tea and two blueberry scones. I settled for hot apple cider. I paid for both of us before he had a chance to get out his wallet. I figured it was the least that I could do with my extravagant payment from the U.S. government.

“You may wonder why I picked this spot instead of a restaurant,” Hugh said after we’d sat down.

“Because it has no memories?” I asked.

“They offer no alcohol,” Hugh said. “I stopped drinking ten days ago.”

This was the length of time that had elapsed since my confession. I asked, “Do you mean that you think you are an alcoholic?”

“I don’t know. I ran into bingeing problems before back in Scotland. And with my brother and his mates, the rock-band lifestyle…I think I forgot who I was.” Hugh smiled without warmth.

“I never thought of your drinking as anything more than—fun. But I guess that at the end, things spun out of control.” Just as the typhoon had spun me into Takeo’s arms, changing everything over the course of a few horrible hours.

“Even before you left for Japan, I felt as if you’d already checked out of my life.” Hugh’s words came slowly. “That party—I know it wasn’t your thing, but I felt that if I did something really grand—made a statement that hundreds of people saw—you’d understand how much I loved you. But I buggered up so badly that night that you shot off for Tokyo almost immediately. Not wanting me to go with you—well, that was the final blow for me.”

I wanted to stretch my hand out to comfort him, but didn’t dare. “The irony is that while I was there, I wished I weren’t. I never felt like that in Japan before.”

“My brother phoned me yesterday to say that apparently the picture was mix-up. The tabloid even printed a retraction, at the behest of Takeo’s family—”

“So, the Kayamas intervened and saved everyone’s reputation.” I sighed. “But I’m not going to make excuses. As I said over the phone, I really did sleep with Takeo.”

“I wonder,” Hugh said slowly, “if that was some kind of mix-up, too.”

“What do you mean?” I eyed him suspiciously. Hugh had made it clear over the phone that he wanted me out of his apartment. This meeting was supposed to be about arranging the logistics of my move. Was he trying to offer forgiveness instead?

“I wonder if you went into the situation with all your faculties intact,” Hugh said.

“I wasn’t drunk,” I said tightly. “But I was—desperate in a way that I hope never to be again.”

“I appreciate your honesty.”

I stared at the grain of the pine table between us. “I suppose you’re being like this because you want to part cordially.”

“I do want that,” Hugh said. “The truth is, I realize that I’ve got to separate myself from the situations and people that led me into trouble. I’ve asked for a transfer, Rei.”

“A work transfer?”

“Yes. Right now it might be Europe or Latin America. I was passed over for partner, so I don’t really care where I go.” He paused. “So the flat…the reason I want you to move the furniture is that I’m moving out myself. Very quickly.”

“It’s a good thing you never bought,” I said, feeling hollow. Of course I should have known he’d run. He’d done it before, when we’d both been in Tokyo, and once before that, in Washington. Both times, I’d wound up winning, but not on this occasion.

Hugh’s mouth was moving, and belatedly I realized that he was asking about my own plans.

“Well, I’m staying with Kendall till I can’t stand it anymore—that’ll probably be three days, tops—and then I’ll go to Grand’s in Baltimore or somewhere like that. It depends on the job I take up next—”

“You’re staying here? Rather than decamping to Japan?”

I shrugged. “It depends on the job I take. And as far as Japan goes, my visa status is back to normal again. I’m sure I’ll go back, but there are a lot of other places I want to see, too.”

“So you’ll be in the Washington area, still.” Hugh picked up a scone as if he meant to eat it, then put it down.

“I don’t know. I stayed here because of you, and now that’s changed.” I stared at the scones, unable to wipe away the tears welling up in my eyes.

Hugh didn’t speak again. And when he left the coffee bar, I stayed resolute, not turning to look after him. Grimly, I remembered what Chika had said about her parents not wanting to know the truth—and realized that maybe my young cousin was the wisest one of all.

Michael Hendricks had known about the package I’d mailed to Iraq before I left Japan, but I wasn’t sure what his reaction was until I met him for lunch a few days after my disastrous parting from Hugh. Michael had suggested Zola for lunch; his choice of the restaurant, which sat right over the American Spy Museum, was a gesture that made me smile at a time when smiles were in scarce supply. Even though it was early November, the weather felt like winter. I had on Grand’s suit, which I decided looked surprisingly hip when worn with a tight black tank top underneath it, thigh-high black stockings, and the strappy high-heeled Manolos on my feet.

Michael was wearing another fade-into-the-background Brooks Brothers suit, but he looked different somehow. Maybe it was because his ice-blue eyes, as they regarded me, finally looked like those of a friend, rather than an adversary.

“I swear to you that from this day forward I’m never going to talk about the Momoyama vase anymore,” he murmured after we’d been seated in one of the best places—a red velvet booth with a porthole window, so you could see who was behind you. In our case, it was Italian tourists lost in an argument only they could understand. I sat down, reassured.

“Did you hear what I said, Rei? About the Momoyama vase?” he raised his voice slightly.

“I did. And it sounds as if you are still talking about it.”

“I can call it an ibex ewer now,” Michael said. “And it’s back where it belongs without so much as a chip, which is fortunate, given how it was sent.”

I shrugged. “It must be that the sender was an expert at packing antiquities.”

“That’s right. The government held a news conference showing the vessel in its glory. Three elementary-school classes came to see it. The public knows that it’s back.”

“I’m glad.” And I was, despite all that had happened.

“The ewer’s return precludes any prosecution of the Birand brothers for its theft. Did you know?” Michael asked.

“But they’re still in trouble for the passport-brokering, I bet.” I laid down my menu to pay full attention.

“They’re out of Japan for good, and Turkey doesn’t want them back. But I understand they want to resettle in Morocco because of the tourist trade. Ramzi, you may be glad to hear, had not been charged with anything. He’s going to finish his studies in France.”

I’d kept in touch with Ramzi, so I knew that already. But I was anxious to understand more about the situation for Ali and Osman Birand. “Are you saying that the Birand brothers don’t face any criminal prosecution?”

“Did you think things should be otherwise?”

“Well, they didn’t do anything to hurt me or anyone I know of. And from what Ali said to me, the vessel was a gift to his brother from one of the people seeking a visa in the first place.” I suddenly felt anxious. “I’m sorry there was no exposure of an art theft ring, but the fact is that these gift-giving chains, in the Middle East as well as in Japan, are hard to understand and trace.”

“Yes. That reminds me of the way the ewer arrived. Apparently, a set of five tea bowls made by a Living National Treasure had been sent along with it. That was a clever touch, leading the customs inspectors who opened the package to concentrate on the known value of one thing, and completely bypass the other. Over at the museum, they’re still trying to decide who gets the tea bowls. Any ideas?”