The Kizuna Coast: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mysteries Book 11) (3 page)

“H
ello?” I said, receiver clamped to my left ear as I returned outside. “Hello?”

Like a heavy wind, static swirled around a faint voice. “Excuse me, Shimura-san. This is Ishida!”

“Ishida-san!” I cried as joy, relief, and love surged through me. “Thank you for thinking to call me. I’ve been so worried. Where are you? I had no answer at your shop.”

“I was near Sugihama when the earthquake came. I suffered a slight injury and am staying in a shelter in a place called Yamagawa.” He added something else, but I couldn’t understand. We were speaking Japanese, our usual language together.

“Ishida-san, I’m very concerned that you were injured but so glad you didn’t drown. What is your slight injury? Are you stable enough to be transported to Tokyo?” I gave a thumbs-up to Michael.

“A closed-head injury. I wish the doctor would let me leave this shelter, but they are worried to let me travel alone. And I don’t want to go yet.”

“A head injury—you should see a good doctor in Tokyo. My cousin will help us find the right one. You must leave.”

“I need you to help me here. I’m sorry, but—”

“You need me to help,” I repeated. “Of course! What can I do?”

“My apprentice said…” Mr. Ishida’s voice was disjointed.

“Said what?” I asked. The staticky sound overtook my ear, and then a loud beep signaled the call had ended.

“What’s the problem?” I shook the phone as if that would somehow bring back Mr. Ishida. “Michael, Ishida-san survived. He has a head injury and is in a shelter in a town called something like Yamagawa.”

“I’m so happy for him. For you, too.” Michael came up and hugged me. “Did I overhear you offering to help him with something?”

“He said he needs my help. He can’t travel back to Tokyo without supervision, and he said something about an apprentice. It might be the newly hired young lady who handles the shop when he’s gone. I’ll try the shop number again.”

But nobody answered at Ishida Antiques, and when I redialed the long, unknown number, my call didn’t go through. All I heard was static. Studying the number, I said, “It’s not his cell or store number. The question is whose?”

“Let me see.” After scrutinizing my phone, Michael said, “The area code and prefix make it likely the phone is a military one—perhaps connected to Misawa, the big US air base in Aomori Prefecture, or a Japanese base. If Mr. Ishida said he’s still in a shelter, this could be a military-issue cell phone being handed around for the survivors’ use. You could send a message to the shelter he mentioned. I believe the Red Cross can forward anything you give them.”

“Great idea. I’d like the shelter staff to tell him that I’m coming as quickly as I can.”

“But that’s not efficient.” Michael gave me an odd glance as we walked back to our chairs facing the ocean. “He could be placed immediately at a good hospital. I’m sure we can arrange for one of his friends or relatives to meet him—”

“But that’s not what he wants,” I protested. “He specifically asked me to help him. I’ve got to respect that.”

Michael sipped his beer and took a long look at me. He shook his head and said, “Is that because he’s your
sempai
?”

I shook my head. “No. I wouldn’t call him that, although of course he is my
sensei
: teacher of the most important things I learned about Japanese furniture and art. But really, I want to go because of what he means to me. And he has no children or other relatives that I could find.”

“You mean—he’s completely alone? That’s got to be rough.”

“Well, he’s got this new assistant—a young woman who picked up the phone a few times when I’ve rung the store in the last year. We never really chatted, and I don’t know her name. But maybe something’s up with her. He wouldn’t have asked me to come get him if he could have asked her.”

“She wasn’t answering the phone at the store when you rang,” Michael said, and I nodded.

“I wish I could just say to him, ‘I’m so happy you’re alive. I’ll see you in Tokyo on my next trip.’ But something inside me is saying I have to help him. He has this wordless way of communicating with me. We are that close.” The tears I’d tried to hold back started. I cried silently, and Michael put his arm around me.

“I’m so sorry,” he said softly.

I gulped hard. “This morning, before I knew whether he was alive, I researched flight possibilities between Hawaii and Japan. It turns out Narita and Haneda Airports aren’t even open for arrivals.”

“Narita might open in a few days, but just to outgoing flights. I wish I could pull strings to squeeze you in on a charter flight with the Red Cross, but the Red Cross groups involved are coming from other Asian countries, not Hawaii.”

There had to be a way. “I’m going to ask Mr. Pierce tomorrow if he could spare me for two weeks.”

Michael stared out at a cresting wave. “If you were to go, you wouldn’t be able to guarantee a two-week turnaround. Ewa Landing is eighty percent built, and the goal is to be finished in what, six weeks?”

“That’s where you could help me,” I said. “We’re at the stage that’s just checking up on the contractors, pushing them along. They usually work till seven—you could follow up on things for me when you come back from work.”

“You’ve thought of everything.” Michael turned away from the crashing wave to regard me with a pained expression.

“Well, not
everything
. I can’t figure out how to get a plane seat. But I’ve got to go. Mr. Ishida didn’t live through World War II and seventy lonely years afterward to get stuck in a tsunami zone without anyone to help.”

Michael stared out at the endless Pacific and didn’t say anything. His MO was to get quiet when he was stressed.

“Do you think it’s irrational for me to go?” I blurted, unable to bear the stillness.

“I think it’s risky. But I understand that you love him, and love trumps risk.” Michael shot a sidelong glance at me. “I was actually thinking about what you’d need in a tsunami zone. The water purification tablets from my last disaster training are still good. And I have an excellent sleeping bag and a lightweight pad to go under—”

I traded my chair for his lap and, after kissing Michael deeply, I said, “Thank you for this. But I still have the problem of no flight to Japan. We probably can’t pull this off.”

“I don’t know about that. Another option is flying to Korea, and then get yourself to Japan—”

“Of course,” I exclaimed. Michael had done covert work in South Korea for many years; the country was set as deeply in his heart as Japan was in mine. “Once I reach Korea, it’s not too far to western Japan by plane or ferry. I can probably figure it out when I’m there.”

“Given the panic at airports, the ferry is your best shot. I’ll put together the itinerary for you, including this supergreat restaurant for black noodles near the ferry building.” Michael sighed. “These secrets I’m sharing. Where’s your laptop? Let me get the ticket for you with my mileage points. I’ve been hoarding them for a reason.”

“Actually, that can wait. There’s a marital concern that’s much more important.”

“What?” Michael looked quizzical, until I kissed him again and began unbuttoning his shirt.

When I’d married Michael, Richard had warned me that the relationship would subdue. The sexy spark would burn out along with spontaneity and real passion. But I liked the long-term sexual availability that came with wedlock. Who cared if Michael fell asleep right after dinner on a Friday? He would have lots of time on Saturday morning.

To my surprise, marriage had brought a new kind of sexual freedom. How liberating to trail my left hand with its proper-looking gold band and diamond solitaire along a body that had been promised to me for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health.

How long until we have this again?
I wondered as we ran holding hands into the cottage and slid down on the low platform bed. Part of the charm of our life was learning each other’s ways, for we hadn’t been that intimate before marrying. In fact, we were following romantic patterns of much older generations. Not that we were old-fashioned; not at all, I thought as our legs twined together. Over and over, the fan rushed cool air over the bed, billowing the white cotton sheet above us like a canopy, making the erotic experimentations underneath feel all the more secret. And making love now was important. I wanted Michael to know I wouldn’t toss him aside for my old life in Japan.

When we were through, I lay spent in my husband’s arms. I wondered how I could possibly leave him. But then I thought of the eventual reunion. How sweet it would feel to have each other again. We’d have years of this life together.

Michael wasn’t going anywhere, and I was certain I’d be back soon.

T
he noodles weren’t exactly black, but the broth was: black from soy, spices, and long-simmered beef. I knew upfront that Michael’s favorite Korean dish wasn’t vegetarian, but I was too tired from traveling to search for alternatives. And I could use some extra iron for what lay ahead.

It was just two days since I’d taken Mr. Ishida’s call. Michael was more anxious than ever because the nuclear reactors were still spewing, and even the Japanese government had agreed to a greater evacuation zone. Yamagawa, the Tohoku town where I believed Mr. Ishida was staying, was just ninety miles from Fukushima. It hadn’t been evacuated, but I knew that could happen. If a new radiation boundary was drawn in the next day or two, I might not be able to meet him there, making my whole trip unnecessary.

On the brighter side, my Korean Airlines flight to Incheon International Airport was on time and quite smooth. Once I’d cleared customs, I saw Mr. Sook, a scarred, wizened fellow who was one of Michael’s former sources. Mr. Sook drove me to the terminal building in a shiny black Hyundai Equus sedan, insisting I accept an envelope of Korean
won
because the noodle shop didn’t accept credit cards.

It was hard to figure out exactly how cheap my noodles were, but I had no complaints as I slurped away. I drank glass after glass of water, rehydrating after air travel and preparing for the bumpy ferry ride.

When I went across the street a half hour later, the line of ferry passengers waiting to be ticketed was crowded with relief workers, luggage, and boxed supplies. I was rolling a small suitcase-on-wheels containing city clothes and toiletries, plus a duffel bag and backpack with gear for Tohoku. Michael had gathered a strange assortment of wilderness supplies that made me feel like a modern-day Daniel Boone. He’d held tightly to me in the airport, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I’ll be back soon,” I’d whispered, and he had swallowed hard instead of answering.

As I handed over my ticket and boarded the ferry, my thoughts turned from the guy I was leaving to the one I needed to find. I’d first met Mr. Ishida six years ago. I was twenty-four and had arrived in Tokyo with a master’s degree and the delusion that a person who couldn’t fluently read Japanese would still be hired by a Japanese museum.

Once this plan fell apart, my next scheme was to cover my living expenses by working as an English teacher while slowly creating an identity as an antiques buyer. So, in order to check out the goods of some of Japan’s most successful dealers, I went to the Heiwajima Antiques Fair at Tokyo’s Ryutsu Center.

Heiwajima was a big sale that anyone could attend; there was no invitation-only list, as the most prestigious auction houses insisted on. The sale involved about three hundred dealers selling treasures and schlock at all prices, and bargaining was definitely allowed.

I’d really come to buy collectible antique
yukata
robes; but my attention was drawn to a stall selling wooden
tansu
chests. I passed by the most ornate, highly lacquered pieces to focus on one that was probably affordable: a dull brown chest with the flat, unfinished look common to country pieces. But the wood’s grain was dramatic, and drew me in for a closer look.

“Are you interested in that piece?” A soft voice came from behind me, and I jumped to see the seller, an elderly man a few inches shorter than me. His silver hair was thin, but instead of having it closely cropped like most men would, it was uncombed and slightly wavy, surrounding his head with a silvery halo. He wore an ordinary collared shirt under a gray business suit.

“I’m not buying today, but it’s quite lovely. I’m curious about the wood. Is it—could it be—persimmon?”

“You have a good eye,” he said, as if he hadn’t noticed me puzzling out the
kanji
sign atop the chest. “May I ask your name, please?”

“I’m Shimura Rei,” I answered in proper backward fashion, bowing and bringing out my name card so he could know the proper Japanese spelling of my name.

After inspecting the card and tucking it into his bag, he handed me his own card. I could not read his first name, but his surname, Ishida, was decipherable, as was his address in Yanaka.

“Ah, I see from your card that you work with antiques. I just received that piece and haven’t restored it. If it was in your stock, how would you care for that
tansu
?” Mr. Ishida cocked his head to one side and looked smilingly at me.

“I’d think about bringing out the grain,” I said, choosing not to inform him that I didn’t have a shop or warehouse to keep “stock.” “It’s not a traditional look for a country piece, but the wood seems fine. Just some scratches and stains that could be removed.”

“Using what?”

“Linseed oil. After that, some beeswax. But not too much.”

“How did you learn this?”

“I found an old volume on woodworking in the Jiyugaoka books district.” I was tempted to say I’d read it but decided to be truthful. “My father translated a lot of it for me.”

“Your father is Japanese. Of course, I see it in your face. And your mother?”

“She’s American. I was raised in California, but now my home is here.” I spoke these words, knowing I was labeling myself. But the elderly antiques dealer looked surprisingly pleased.

“California is a special part of your country,” he said in precise English. “There is so much appreciation of Asian culture. And they bake very delicious round bread.”

“That’s sourdough,” I said, grinning back at him. “I’m from San Francisco, just like that bread. Pacific Heights, not far from Japantown.” I’d noticed an American couple had come into the sales space and were handling an Imari tea set. “Excuse me for taking your time. You have some customers.”

“Perhaps customers; perhaps lookers.” Switching back to Japanese, he glanced over his shoulder and gave the couple a friendly smile. “I will be in my shop in Yanaka on Monday. If it is convenient for you, please come. It will be my pleasure to offer you tea and some conversation.”

What had I done to earn such a nice invitation?
I wondered, looking at the courtly old antiques dealer. But that Monday, I arrived for the first time at his prewar stucco building, carrying a still-warm, square sourdough loaf I’d made in my Japanese bread machine.

Ishida Antiques was precisely ordered and spectacularly surprising at the same time. Imari platters rested in state atop glowing wooden
tansu
chests.
Obis
were furled into decorative blossomy shapes on antique dining tables, and lovely folios of woodblock prints were open for browsing. Although I could recognize pieces of decorative art that were greater than a hundred years old, the place did not feel like a museum. It felt like home, and Mr. Ishida explained that it had always been a business downstairs, and a private home upstairs, since his late father built it in 1925.

Mr. Ishida was pleased with the bread and went straight to the small kitchen in the back of the shop to fetch butter and a seasonal cherry-blossom jelly. He bade me to sit down with him on
zabuton
cushions set around a low paulownia wood table made a century earlier in Sendai. The scent of well-polished wood mixed with fragrant
mikan
oranges.

Mr. Ishida poured a mossy-tasting green tea from a cast-iron kettle I suspected was at least as old as him. As we ate and drank, he coaxed out the story of my emigration to Japan. He did not say, as others had, that it was irrational to keep trying for something better than teaching English. Instead, he told me I’d have to be quite smart about Japanese antiques; and that if I wanted to help him by staffing the shop when I had time, he would be very pleased. He couldn’t pay more than a clerk’s wages, but he would teach me all that he knew.

So I began visiting at least once a week and helping out; and traveling with him to antiques auctions and flea markets all over the country. And as four years passed, what Mr. Ishida gave me was far more than secret furniture-refinishing recipes. He trained me to recognize every possible sign of a genuine or faked antique and to look at my whole life in those terms.

More than once, he said: “Please remember, Shimura-san, not to pretend acceptance when your heart tells you otherwise. It is a flaw within many people and has led to more pain that can be measured.” And: “One fool’s heart knows the correct answer better than the heads of many people.”

Often I sensed he was cautioning me not to fall into the trap of a good Japanese girl. Why had Ishida-san chosen me
?
I hadn’t said anything particularly clever when we’d met. All I could conclude was that he’d liked my honesty, and San Francisco.

And now he was asking for my help. I felt haunted by the knowledge that if I’d still been in Japan, I would have certainly accompanied him to the March auctions. And if I’d been there, I would probably be in the shelter with him.

Unless I’d been among the thousands of unlucky people who’d died.