The Flower Master (Rei Shimura #3) (10 page)

I went on plotting as I disembarked at Nezu Station and headed home.

Richard Randall telephoned on Saturday afternoon, just as I was in the middle of negotiations with a dealer from Kyoto.

"Enrique and I lost sight of you at the bar, and we heard later there was some problem with the bouncer. Mea culpa, babe," Richard drawled over the line. "Let me apologize at a cherry blossom viewing party tonight. It's bring-your-own-bottle, on the street running through Yanaka Cemetery—"

"Certainly. May I return your call later?" I said as pleasantly as I could. I didn't want Mr. Noe to think I was making a date for a drinking binge during a business meeting.

"Just tell me, did the Lambada strategy work? My spies tell me that a young tycoon followed you out of the place."

"Yes, I understand you are interested in the screen with cranes, but I have another buyer right here. It's such a shame, but another piece will come along. Good-bye, Mr. Randall. My best to your family in Toronto." I hung up and smiled at Mr. Noe.

"Your customer from Toronto is calling at … midnight? Overseas customers are strange."

I should have pretended the call came from Los Angeles. I improvised, saying, "Mr. Randall always takes my schedule into account. He's a very gracious customer."

"Well, I have no interest in the four plates you are trying to sell. The kanji for four means death, neh? If only they were a full set of five. I shall consider the crane screen. I don't believe it's from the Edo period, of course, judging from the gilding on that corner," Mr. Noe said.

"I never made a claim of age; however, the work was stored carefully for many decades in my client's kura. That's why the gilding is still so attractive," I said. It was true. When antiques were protected from light and wind in traditional storehouses, the quality often remained exquisite.

"Well, I could only give you two hundred thousand yen for the screen. I understand if you would prefer to go with your Canadian customer."

I hadn't meant to pretend there was a second buyer for the screen; that wouldn't be ethical. I thought two hundred thousand yen, a little under fourteen hundred dollars, was an okay price. But prices were always worth testing.

"I think if you check the price that a similar screen went for at the last Sotheby's auction, you would find two-forty to be a very reasonable figure."

Mr. Noe studied me, and I tried not to flinch. "What are the terms?"

"Payment due within thirty days. If you pay me today, though, I could give you a discount of five percent."

Mr. Noe scratched his chin. "I prefer dealing in cash. Very well, Miss Shimura."

We concluded business amiably over cups of green tea and the sakura mochi cakes that I'd picked up at Mr. Waka's Family Mart. Instead of serving the sweets on my mismatched antique Imari, I used pale green plates decorated with a pattern of pink cherry blossom petals. Aunt Norie had given them to me for my last birthday.

"We have had our cherry blossom season in Kyoto for the last two weeks," Mr. Noe told me. "It's such a shame that Japan's most beautiful city is no longer its most visited. Whereas you certainly have the cherry blossom lovers enjoying parties under the trees in Ueno Park."

"Are the cherry trees in bloom?" I had been so consumed with the Kayama School problems that I hadn't noticed.

"Of course! But your shoji are closed," he said, gesturing toward the paper shades drawn over my window. "How can you enjoy nature?"

I had trotted downstairs for a jog earlier that morning but had not opened the door when I saw a Fuji TV truck parked in the road. It lingered all morning, and I was careful to keep my blinds drawn and my lights dim. It could have been there to report on cherry blossom parties—or to report on me. Now, as I discreetly moved the shoji aside to look at the avenue of trees running through Yanaka Cemetery, I saw that they were fully afloat with pink blooms and that the television van was gone. After Mr. Noe left, I would be able to travel unhindered to Mitsutan to refresh the bamboo and iris installation. I'd told Aunt Norie I'd be the one to add water to the arrangement, thinking that it would be better for her not to face the coldness of the other flower arrangers again.

Mr. Noe gave me a fat envelope of cash that I deposited at my bank's cash machine on my way to Mitsutan. Saturday afternoon meant school was out, so the streets were packed with shopping families. The crowd was particularly thick around Mitsutan, and when I drew closer, I saw a familiar embroidered denim jacket. Once again Che Fujisawa was leading a Stop Killing Flowers protest.

A YELLOW ROSE MEANS DEATH TO PEOPLE OF ALL COLORS, one sign read, referring to Mitsutan's official yellow rose emblem. THE FLOWERS YOU ADMIRE POISON OUR YOUNG, said another. WHEN IS DEATH A BARGAIN? was the final cryptic message. The signs, lettered in Japanese, Spanish, and English, moved up and down as the mix of Japanese and Latin-Japanese young people slowly circled the store entrance. A number of uniformed guards stared down the protesters but appeared unable to do more. Customers headed for the store merely bypassed the main entrance and entered through side doors. The protest was visible, but it wasn't stopping people from shopping.

Che didn't hold a sign; he was too busy handing out leaflets. When I came up, he didn't recognize me, perhaps because I had sunglasses on and was wearing jeans instead of a dress. Maybe I looked like a likely convert, because he murmured, "Sister, please join our fight against the death fields of flowers. Boycott the Kayama exhibition."

I took the leaflet and ducked into the store, which didn't seem to be suffering any from the protest outside. Mitsutan was packed with housewives hefting large shopping bags decorated with the yellow rose that Stop Killing Flowers was railing against, as well as affluent teenagers clutching Prada totes, and toddlers with Sanrio backpacks on their backs. Everyone had a status bag of some sort. I was carrying a slim wallet tucked into my jeans, having been sobered by the near loss of my tiny handbag the night before.

Riding up the escalator to the gallery floor, I stopped off on the young designers' floor to see how Natsumi Kayama had decorated the mannequins in the Nicole Miller boutique. The mannequins were dressed in orange and green silk dresses, and Natsumi had given them bouquets of fat yellow roses mixed with orange striped tiger lilies and trailing ivy. The flowers were undoubtedly imported.

A long queue of people was waiting to get into the Matisse exhibit in the north gallery. There was no line at the south gallery, which housed the Kayama show.

"How are things going?" I asked Miss Okada, who was in charge of admission.

"Mmm, not so well," Miss Okada sighed. "There is a protest outside. We had the same ones outside our school building, but it is really embarrassing to have them make trouble at Mitsutan. And we're losing lots of money."

Once I entered the hall, I understood why she was worried. The spotlighted floral wonderland was a lonely country unto itself. Kayama School students dressed in matronly, expensive-looking suits or kimono, treaded softly between the spotlighted arrangements. I viewed Mari Kumamori's ceramic urns draped simply with vines, and then Lila Braithwaite's arrangement of showy white orchids.

Aunt Norie's bamboo and iris installation appeared like a graceful purple and green wave. The iris had been tightly closed the day before but had opened under the warm spotlights. Thank God I wouldn't have to do much more than adjust the flower that was falling out of one of the bamboo stalks.

Lila cut across my line of vision, rushing toward her arrangement. She was wearing a dark blue suit with an Hermes scarf tied into a big ruff around her neck.

She stopped when she caught sight of me. "Oh, hello, Rei. I'm just here for five minutes—my children are waiting with the nanny outside." She lowered her voice. "Did you tell Lieutenant Hata about me?"

"Not yet." I was struck by an idea. "Lila, you should be with me when I talk to him."

"With my schedule, that's impossible!"

"You can make it to a flower-arranging show but not to police headquarters?"

Lila's face reddened. "Well, nice seeing you. I'm on my way out."

"You can't go," said Nadine St. Giles, running up to both of us. "He's here. You've got to stand by your arrangement and take the criticism!"

"He?" Lila and I asked in unison.

"The iemoto! Mr. Kayama has come, and I believe he's going to critique everybody's arrangement."

Aunt Norie would be sorry she was missing this. Or maybe it was better that I was there instead of her—if he didn't like our arrangement, she would be devastated.

Nadine, Lila, and I ran into the herd of Kayama students, who had assembled in complete silence by the door to await the headmaster. He was entering the gallery with Natsumi. Masanobu Kayama looked like an artist, from his long silver hair tied into a low ponytail to the ascot tucked into the neck of his cream-colored silk shirt. My eyes ran over the black corduroy Levi's covering his long legs and settled on his extraordinary footwear, a pair of Japanese flip-flop sandals worn with white cotton socks called tabi.

The man was a walking cultural contradiction. I wanted to gaze at him longer, but the student group had collectively swept themselves into a knee-grazing bow, and I figured I'd better follow. The headmaster bowed back, stretching his back into a less-demanding angle, as befit his rank. Afterward his eyes traveled over the students and came to rest on the small grouping of Lila, Nadine, and myself. He smiled with a warmth that was surprising. Lila and Nadine beamed back as if hey had been blessed.

"My dear students. I am humble before all you have done for me." Masanobu Kayama spoke softly, without an ounce of arrogance.

"On the contrary, we have done a very poor job. Excuse us," Mrs. Koda answered for the crowd.

"Your kind words are comforting in our time of sorrow, Koda-san. I can only wish our Sakura-san were here. Let's explore the work together. And we will start with the memorial flower arrangement. Who are the arrangers?"

"We are," Mrs. Koda said softly, indicating herself and Natsumi. Natsumi screwed her face into an unconvincingly humble expression and mimicked Mrs. Koda's deep bow. It must be odd to bow to your father, odder still to have him criticize your work in front of a few dozen people.

I regarded the grouping of Sakura's black drainpipes, standing upright instead of lying flat as she'd done in class. White magnolia stretched heavenward, with the soft pink tendrils of cherry woven through the branches, giving the feeling of a fairy forest arising from factory smokestacks.

"Of course, it is just an awkward attempt to recall the grace of Sakura-san's work. We beg your forgiveness for our poor arrangement," Mrs. Koda murmured, pro forma.

The iemoto walked around all sides of the arrangement, his sandals softly slapping against the polished pine floor. Then he returned to the front of the arrangement and addressed his comments to all of us in a sonorous voice. "When one loses a loved one, it feels as if winter has arrived. There is numbness, a sense of unbearable cold. Perhaps an arrangement marking a death should be one without leaves, without beautiful flowers?" He paused theatrically. "I think not. To remember the grace and style of Sakura, one thinks of our school motto, 'Truth in Nature.' But that does not mean nature cannot be fantastic. This arrangement captures the unearthly quality of the ikebana that Sakura-san loved best." The women in the audience murmured their agreement.

"However," the iemoto continued, "My daughter still needs to learn ikebana. She should have chosen some cherry branches that are not in flower yet. Because she chose branches that offer complete fulfillment today, this will lead to a less beautiful viewing for our guests who come tomorrow."

Natsumi smiled as if she was grateful for the criticism and bowed in perfect harmony with Mrs. Koda. I thought it was significant that the iemoto had blamed the arrangement's flaws on his daughter, and not on Mrs. Koda. It was traditional for parents in Japan to speak disparagingly toward their children when in public. I wondered, though, if the iemoto was especially hard to please. Takeo had tried to suggest a green approach for the school and he'd been shot down.

The iemoto moved on to the next arrangement, which was by the arranger I admired most, Mari Kumamori. "Kumamori-san, may I ask if you made these urns?" Headmaster Kayama asked her.

Mari Kumamori was already hanging her head. With the headmaster's words it just sank a little more deeply, her small chin almost hitting her chest. The flexibility of polite women was amazing.

"What a skilled artisan you are. The urns are influenced by the Bizen period, but their use here today reflects a modem sensibility. Nothing is too precious to contain our flowers," he said, making me glow with pride for Mari.

"And—nothing is too precious to be altered." Headmaster Kayama carefully unwound the vines from the first urn in the arrangement. He murmured something to Natsumi, who reached into the basket she was carrying and handed him a small towel. The headmaster spread out the towel on the gallery's polished hardwood floor, then placed the urn on top. I wondered if he was nervous about spilling water on the floor. I'd watched Mari make the arrangement, so I knew there was no liquid inside. No need to worry.

"Hammer," Masanobu Kayama said to his daughter. Out of the gardening basket came a steel-headed tool that I wouldn't have expected a flower arranger to use. Masanobu Kayama brought the hammer down, breaking Mari Kumamori's beautiful urn into a few large pieces. I recoiled, as did some of the other ladies around me. Mari just looked frozen.

"You will find that by integrating some broken pottery, we will add a sense of movement to this static arrangement," Mr. Kayama said, already moving the urn pieces into the foreground of Mari's flower arrangement. He trailed a few vines here and there over the pottery shards.

The women began murmuring about how wonderful it looked, but they shut up quickly when the headmaster made it apparent he was not finished. He asked Mari, "Are these urns watertight? "