The Bride's Kimono Read Online Free PDF Page B

us was a man called Mr. Morita in a plain gray suit. He was the customs broker, a representative of Nippon Shipping, who would escort me all the way from the museum toNarita Airport, where he would present the proper papers to the customs officials and watch me until I boarded the plane.
    “At the museum, you must check the number of kimono again. Don’t forget!” Mr. Nishio added the last as an order in an impolite verb form—something he must have been sure I’d be offended by.
    “I won’t. I feel very fortunate for this opportunity,” I said, although I knew quite well that he had nothing to do with the decision for me to leave.
    “You have a very serious responsibility. I see that Shima-san has substituted a wedding kimono for the other one originally on the loan receipt. I’m a little concerned about it,” Mr. Nishio added, mainly addressing Mr. Morita, the customs broker. Mr. Morita shook his head, muttered something under his breath, and looked unhappy.
    If only I could read the Japanese paper that Mr. Shima had given me. I was beginning to get the idea that Mr. Nishio wanted to screw up my trip in any way possible. I stuck to my guns and said, “I’ve got Mr. Shima’s seal on a document approving the loan. Please don’t worry. I’ll treat this kimono with the same care as the others.”
    Mr. Nishio didn’t wish me bon voyage, so I didn’t say much more to him when I left. Because the customs broker was involved, we went by a private limousine. This was an uncommonly luxurious—though not necessarily speedy—way of leaving Tokyo. As we rode along, Mr. Morita snored. I wondered whether it was Mr. Nishio’s idea that I be so closely supervised by the customs broker. I supposed I should feel glad to have an extra person to help me get two five-foot-long boxes to the airport, but Mr. Morita hadn’t been particularly helpful getting the luggage into the car. The taxi driver loaded my luggage in the car’s trunk while I had to fit the twogiant boxes, and myself, in the backseat. The customs broker sat up front and, once the car was on the move, shut his eyes and went to sleep, as if he were a salaryman on the Tokyo subway.
    After an hour, the car had made it out of the city and into the Japanese farmland that surrounded Narita. Mid-autumn in Japan meant that dark orange persimmons were bobbing from trees, and the air smelled deliciously of roasted sweet potatoes and chestnuts. It was hard to leave this world, even for a week. In Japan, one felt the seasons so strongly; persimmons were celebrated as gladly as cherry blossoms. In America, seasonal decorations meant Christmas lights going up sometime around Halloween.
    To my surprise, Mr. Morita woke up promptly as we took the freeway exit for Narita Airport, and turned into a considerably more active man. He loaded the boxes onto a cart and let me follow carrying my luggage as we navigated our way through the packed terrain of Narita’s old terminal. When we had to pass the boxes through a metal detector, and the guard manning it asked for one of the boxes to be opened for direct inspection, Mr. Morita said a few quiet words and we were waved through. Good. Even though I’d been instructed how to refold the kimono and retape the box, I didn’t want to do it in front of an audience of thousands.
    Now the boxes were cleared and we were off to check in at See America Travel, the tour group that had disbursed my airline tickets. Its counter was decorated with tiny American flags and cardboard cutouts of the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and the famous Hollywood sign. Hollywood? I guessed some of their travelers would be stopping in Los Angeles. Maybe that was why the agency had been so flexible about myadding a stop in California on the way home. I was going to fly for free to Los Angeles, and after that, it would be up to me to pay the added airfare for a commuter flight to San Francisco.
    A man in a red blazer carrying the travel-agency flag