Free The Bride's Kimono by Sujata Massey Page B

collection or that was marked on the approved loan receipt. Our lawyers would go bonkers if I did anything that violated the insurance policy,” Allison replied, with a little laugh. It was as if she expected me to laugh along with her, but I was too frustrated to do that.
    “I’m sorry we can’t show it, seeing that you went to all the trouble…” Jamie’s voice trailed off awkwardly as she handed me an empty kimono box. The message was clear; I was to fold the bride’s kimono and put it back inside.
    I did just that, carefully tying the kimono’s rice-paper wrapper and slipping the soft rectangle in the box. I taped the lid down again.
    “It’s almost noon, so I think we should go up to the museum restaurant for lunch before the crowds get there. Your kimono will be safe here,” Allison said. “I’ll lock the door.”
    I shook my head. “If it’s not going into storage here, I’ve got to keep my eyes on it at all times.”
    “Fine. But it’s rather large.”
    I made an executive decision. “Do you have a shopping bag that I could borrow? I’ll just shift the kimono into that, for the time being.”
    I would do without the box because I thought it was most important that I conceal what I was carrying. I was looking forward to getting back to the hotel, where I would put the kimono into a safe-deposit box until I could reach the Morioka people to ask them what they wanted me to do about its storage. I didn’t relish the thought of talking to Mr. Nishio, who hadn’t wanted me to take the bride’s kimono at all.
    My worries about the kimono receded a bit when we entered the museum’s restaurant. The walls were covered in rice paper painted with a faint wash of orange, and over that were stamped gilded kanji characters. The tables were made of a glossy, polished pine that was similar to what you’d see in Japan, but the chairs were cushioned in Chinese red, and there were Indonesian cabinets and Indian bronze statues here and there. The name of the restaurant was inscribed in a vaguely Japanese calligraphic style on the menu: Pan Asia. Its offerings were all Asian-European combinations, a style of cooking, I knew, that had been popular in the United States even before I’d left for Japan.
    Since the meal was on the house—and also, since I was peeved by the rejection of the bridal kimono—I decided to order three courses. Recalling my last lunch at Appetito with the inadequate cheese bagel, I ordered theeggplant and feta cheese as my appetizer. For the entrée, I decided against fish—I could eat that all I wanted in Japan—in favor of a leek, portobello mushroom, and tomato risotto. I recalled that American etiquette required me to wait with my dessert order until the main courses had been finished, but I made a silent commitment to the Valrhona chocolate bread pudding, and a cappuccino to get me home.
    Allison ordered just as much food as I did, plus a bottle of Pacific Rim Riesling for the table. Jamie stuck to hot-and-sour soup and iced tea. I felt a little vulgar digging into my cheesy eggplant as she sat with her hands folded on the table, staring. It wasn’t my fault if she had an eating disorder, I thought as my taste buds were caressed by the sensuous, salty cheese that I’d missed.
    “Cheers. To a successful exhibition.” Allison raised her glass toward me and, after we’d all toasted, began a serious discussion about the opening reception.
    “The first night is the most complicated, because we have the large VIP crowd and they’ve got to be fed,” Allison told me. “We’re having a typical Japanese buffet—sushi, sesame noodles, grilled fish. I hope our Japanese guests will find it aesthetically pleasing. I know from my own visits to Japan that there’s a difference between the way food looks there and here.”
    “Well, if this restaurant is handling the order, it will look and taste terrific.” I watched happily as a waiter whisked away my empty appetizer plate and replaced