The Bride's Kimono Read Online Free PDF Page A

“But the Museum of Asian Arts didn’t request it.”
    “They did not understand the connection,” I said. Realizing that I sounded perhaps too proud of my own scholarly abilities, I amended my words quickly. “What I mean to say is, they did not have the opportunity to sit with you, and learn from your scholarship the intricate histories of the garments. You’ve opened a special world to me, and for this, I am truly grateful.” I ended with a little bob of my head as an expression of a formal bow, without seeming too over-the-top.
    Mr. Shima was silent for a minute and then sighed. “Well, I suppose I can give permission. After all, they were expecting eight robes, and we cut the total to seven. There is room in the box.”
    “Thank you,” I said fervently. “This will be so appreciated by the audience there. It will allow me to give a talk that has some real substance.”
    Mr. Shima took a piece of stationery from the table, and on it wrote the uchikake ’s item number and a few lines of Japanese. I imagined they were a description of the item, because I recognized the kanji characters for “Edo period,” “red,” and “duck.” Then he marked the paper with his personal seal and stapled it to the loan slip.
    “I hope the museum will appreciate it as much as you. May I tell you something personal, Miss Shimura?” Mr. Shima said.
    I nodded, unsure of what was coming.
    “I did not believe you had any knowledge of historic textiles when you first approached the museum. But now I’ve seen you have studied, and even more importantly, you have an appreciation for these antique robes. I am pleasantly surprised, but I think things may work out well for everyone concerned.”
    I wanted to hug him, but that would have been out of line.
    I bowed deeply instead.

4
    T he last days dwindled as I worked on my research into the Tokugawa and Otani kimono and double-checked the itinerary that Mr. Shima at the Morioka organized for me. I would be flying All Nippon Airways to Washington in a business-class seat, with a second seat next to me reserved for the two boxes of kimono, since the museum did not approve of the climate, or the security, of any jet’s baggage compartment. I’d found the cheap price on two business tickets through a ticket wholesaler who did a lot of business with Richard Randall’s language-school students.
    Part of the cheap airfare deal included a choice of a few hotels; I went with the cheapest one, called the Washington Suites. The air-hotel package included a handful of coupons to use at a nearby shopping mall. I decided to budget $500 for shoes and clothing, things I could barely afford to buy in Japan. I made up a shopping list for America: running shoes, black everyday pumps, black evening pumps, strappy sandals. I also longed for a suit that was current. I’d probably have done better if I’d had such a suit when I went to visit the Otani family, whom I’d finally tracked down living in a spacious house in the suburbs of Kawasaki.
    “So pleased to meet you,” Koichi Otani, the silver-haired patriarch of the family, had said, glancing skeptically over me in the favorite haori coat I’d chosen again to wear with my basic black dress.
    “I’m very glad to meet you,” I said, following him into a pristine all-white living room. I stuck out like a pink-and-red arrow—but an arrow without a real direction, I thought to myself. I sensed he had information that could help me learn about the kimono collection’s history, but I had no idea how to proceed. Blandly, I said, “I was so impressed with the collection that your family once owned.”
    “Do you think it’s worth more than we sold it for?” Mr. Otani asked. He was an ex-stockbroker, I’d found out when I’d called after having traced him through the Japanese government’s notoriously accurate family registry. I’d been thrilled with the details of what he’d told me over the phone—that the kimono collection was chiefly