Excerpt

From the beginning, I suspected that Nana Mihori's tansu would cost too much.

The Japanese antiques market is brutal. There are hardly any good pieces left anywhere, so even if you have the cash, the chances of finding a dream piece are slender. Going into the assignment, I expected trouble. Still, I never expected that a 150-year-old chest of drawers could cost me almost everything I owned.

The first thing I lost was a vacation. Hugh Glendinning, the man I moved in with on Valentine's Day, had stopped pleading and waving tickets around and simply flown off to Thailand by himself. I was left with nothing but work: chiefly, the pursuit of an antique wooden chest I was becoming convinced existed only in my client's imagination. During the last two weeks of June, I'd driven from my home base in Tokyo north to Niigata and then west to Kyoto. On the way, I'd suffered a flash flood, an earthquake and enough mosquito bites to keep a small Anopheles colony drunk for a while. All without finding the tansu.

I was obsessing on my various failures while caught in a massive traffic jam on the Yokohama-Yokosuka toll road. Adding to my irritation was the fact that everyone in the surrounding cars seemed to be triumphantly setting off on their holidays. Fathers manned the steering wheels while mothers passed snacks to children battling with inflated plastic water wings. I was contemplating grabbing a pair of wings to float off to Phuket with when the cellular telephone rang.

"Rei Shimura Antiques," I answered while fumbling with the receiver. I had recently read that car-phone users were as dangerous as drunken drivers, and given my lack of coordination, I believed it.

"Rei-san, where are you exactly?" Nana Mihori's patient voice crackled across the line. We'd talked every one of the last thirteen days including yesterday, when I'd called her from outside Nara to say I was going home. I'd seen many chests that almost met her requirements, but she wanted a special tansu she'd seen in a book. All my clients wanted something they'd seen in a book.

"I'm pretty close to the Izu Peninsula. I think." I squinted at a road sign far ahead of me, thinking how unfortunate it was that I was still nowhere near to knowing the standard base of 1,500 to 2,000 kanji pictographic characters needed to be a literate adult. I'd grown up in San Francisco with an American mother and a father from Japan. Speaking was easy for me, and usually all I needed for my job as a freelance antiques buyer.

"It is convenient that you are still outside Tokyo. I've learned about a very nice store in Hita that carries high quality antiques from all over the country. My friend Mrs. Kita found a handsome clothing chest there last week."

"Isn't Hita near Hakone?" The hot springs region she was talking about was far from my route.

"Rei-san, you've been working so hard for me, I want to make sure you get your buyer's commission. But after all your travels, I worry it's an imposition to ask you to stop..."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all. Where's the shop?" I balanced the phone against my shoulder and began digging around for a pen. The truth was, I needed her business badly. My business was five months old, and the foreign expatriate clients I'd hoped to attract had turned out to be pretty stingy. I had recently been introduced to Nana Mihori, the wife of the owner of a famous Zen temple in Kamakura, a picturesque city an hour south of Tokyo. Nana's funds were unlimited, as was her potential for good word-of-mouth. I couldn't let her down.

Signing off with my customer, I noticed that a boy and girl riding in the Mitsubishi Carrot on my right were imitating me by talking into their soft drink cans. I mouthed moshi-moshi, the standard telephone greeting, at them. The kids giggled and said something back. What was it?

Abunai, I realized belatedly, as something big and brutal jolted my car. Danger!

I dropped the phone and clung to the steering wheel that had loosened under my fingers. As the shock of the accident passed, I glanced in the rearview mirror. It was filled with the sight of a small commercial truck whose driver was waving me toward the expressway's narrow shoulder.

How I could crash a car in all-but-stopped traffic was beyond me; I was the queen of bad luck. Repairs to the luxurious Toyota Windom would probably be astronomical. And the worst part was that it wasn't even my car; it belonged to Hugh.

Feeling numb, I watched the truck driver emerge wearing a cheerful yellow jumpsuit and matching cap. Under other circumstances, I would have smiled.

I crept out of the Windom, aware of how disreputable I appeared: a vaguely Japanese-looking woman in her late twenties with short hair, shorter shorts and a shrunken UC Berkeley T-shirt. I hurried toward him in my flip-flop sandals, my Japanese driver's license and Hugh's automobile registration clutched in hand.

The trucker was carrying something too; a small, unopened can of Yodel Water. He offered it to me in a bizarre gesture of hospitality. I accepted, glancing at the cheery slogan written in italicized English: Always makes you fresh and cool wherever you try it! Not today, with my T-shirt already beginning to stick to my back.

Together we surveyed the results of our collision. The truck's damage appeared minimal: a bit of the Windom's shiny black paint had rubbed onto his fender. But my left taillight was smashed. The driver picked delicately at the remaining glass chips, wrapped them up in a tissue and handed them to me.

"Domo sumimasen deshita." The man's formal apology startled me before I remembered that under Japanese law, the vehicle hitting the other is automatically at fault.

"I'm sorry, too. I was distracted."

"It is solely my fault. And look at what I've done to your beautiful car." The man's voice cracked. I realized then that he was probably worried about getting into an accident while driving a company vehicle. I was going to reassure him that I wouldn't sue, but he already had his hand in his wallet.

"What about the paint on your truck? Are you sure you won't have trouble at work?"

He looked at his fender and shook his head. "It is ordinary depreciation they will not notice. But I must reimburse you. I will not leave until I do so!"

I had been drifting. He had been nosing into my lane. I supposed we both were at fault. I took the money without looking at it, still feeling guilty. "If you give me your address, I can send you a copy of the bill, and any change if you need it."

"Please don't trouble yourself!" He had jumped back into the truck again. Since no names or document information had been exchanged, he could rest securely and believe that the matter had ended. I tried to push my unease aside as I sipped the sweet Yodel Water and steered back into traffic.

Two hours later I was in Hita. I had called ahead to the shop Mrs. Mihori had told me about and learned that Hita Fine Arts did have a number of antique tansu in stock, although the exact age was not certain. The antiques dealer told me he had one tansu that probably came from Yahata, a wood-working town on Sado Island I had already fruitlessly searched.

"Where did you acquire the piece?" I asked, resentful of his good fortune.

"From a good source. It's available at the moment, but I'd advise you to hurry. A woman customer came in yesterday and asked me to hold the tansu for her. She didn't return, so I have just decided to release it for sale."

Appearing slightly uninterested can lead to discounts, a very good thing. But I had no time or energy to play games. I drove straight into Hita's shopping district, nabbing an illegal spot in front of Hita Fine Arts. I wasn't worried because I'd know pretty quickly if the tansu was worth buying.

I wasn't hopeful. The shop screamed tourist trap, with an exterior that mimicked the red-and-gold splendor of a Shinto shrine. The first floor was crammed with mass-produced ceramic fish bowls, brightly gilded screens and tacky acetate wedding kimonos, all pseudo-Japanese items that were probably made in China.

Nana Mihori had wanted me to come. I reminded myself of this as I made my way to the main desk where a sign boldly proclaimed, We Speak English! We Take Dollar!

"Nao Sakai works upstairs in furniture," the receptionist said when I asked for the antiques salesman I'd spoken to on the car phone. "That's behind the T-shirt section and next to the stamps."

It didn't sound as if there was much priority given to antiques. Upstairs, though, the section was surprisingly well-stocked. I checked out a gorgeous kitchen tansu and a few smaller chests that looked as if they'd been crafted in Sendai and Yonezawa.

A slender man with sharp features was sitting cross-legged at a rosewood table, chatting on the phone with someone. He looked at me and said, "If you wish to buy a new T-shirt, they are over by the window."

"I'm Rei Shimura. I telephoned earlier about the tansu." I crossed my arms over my wrinkled shirt and stared him down.

Sakai smiled widely, re-evaluating me. "Shimura-san? I've, ah, kept the piece for you in the back."

I followed him into a dim stockroom filled with a forest of cardboard boxes. Through the gloom, I saw a dark maroon chest of drawers adorned with ornate, hand-chased iron hinges and lock plates.

Mrs. Mihori had sketched what she wanted, so I pulled out her drawing to make comparisons. She was looking specifically for a kasane, a bridal chest in two sections, each with two drawers, that could be stacked on top of each other for a commanding appearance. She wanted the wood to be top-quality paulownia decorated with cranes and turtles, symbols of good luck that often marked furniture built in the Sado Island town of Yahata. The metalwork on this piece was burnished black but not too dark, as it might be if it had been artificially aged. The hand-forged nails with irregular heads also looked right for the mid-nineteenth century.

"You know furniture," Mr. Sakai said flatteringly as I began pulling out the drawers for inspection. They were smoothly joined, and there was also the happy circumstance of no insect holes. In my time spent shopping around Japan, I'd been saddened to find many tansu interiors had been devoured by wood-eating moths. These fresh-smelling cedar drawers were pristine and appeared to have been recently sanded, which made me pause.

"Did you refinish this?"

"Absolutely not. This is a small business, neh? I just take consignments and turn them over as fast as I can."

There was no price tag on the chest. As if hearing my unspoken question, Mr. Sakai said, "The old gentleman is having some hard times, so he will part with it for a very reasonable price: one million, five hundred thousand yen."

He was asking a little over $13,000, which was normal but worth testing. "Is there any way you could make it a little cheaper? I'm sort of on a budget."

"Hmm. You come from Tokyo?" He studied me carefully. I hoped my story had not lost credibility because of my high-priced address. "I could include the cost of delivery, I suppose."

"Okay. I just need to make a phone call to my, um, mother." There was no need for him to know I was buying for a client, especially since I was getting him to comp the delivery. He agreed, looking somewhat wary, and I ran out to use the Windom's telephone. A young man with greased-back hair and a lime-colored rayon suit was standing outside, examining my smashed taillight. People in Japan always worried about other people's troubles, so I smiled at him and bowed slightly, indicating that I knew about the damage.

I slid into the Windom, keeping the door open to catch a breeze while I was on the telephone. Miss Tanaka, Nana Mihori's housekeeper, said that her mistress was busy with a delegation of visitors. I hung up, wondering if I should buy without authorization. I didn't think so, since she'd rejected two other tansu I'd found on the trip.

I took out Mrs. Mihori's sketch again. It was unlikely I'd ever find such a beautiful Sado piece again. I couldn't lose it. Maybe I could put it on hold. I hurried back into the shop, where I found Mr. Sakai talking to a new customer: a woman in her forties wearing a silk blouse and skirt the color of green tea. She looked exquisite until she turned, revealing a large black mole blotting her nose.

"The problem is that there's a new customer." Mr. Sakai indicated me with his hand.

"But I'm ready to buy and I have the money right here!" The woman waved a handful of yen notes at him, very bad form. I realized that she was probably the customer who had put the tansu on hold.

"Excuse me! I'd like to get things settled with the Sado Island tansu," I said.

"She's not talking about my tansu?" The customer frowned.

"Actually, it's a difficult situation now," Mr. Sakai apologized.

"I'll buy the tansu if you just give me a chance to contact my mother," I said, nervousness growing. "I can give you an answer within a couple of hours."

The woman gasped and Mr. Sakai looked pained at my insolence. "That is impossible, I'm afraid."

"Konketsujin kara." The woman murmured the phrase that meant "because she's a half-blood," implying my racial makeup allowed for my rudeness.

"There can be no more holding of this tansu. Whoever is ready to buy it will receive it." Mr. Sakai cleared his throat and looked at the small crowd that had collected: two salesclerks from the souvenir department and a few shoppers.

Making an executive decision, I whipped out my credit card.

"Because of the consignments, I deal only in cash." He looked at my card as if it was dirty.

A store this big had to accept credit cards, but Mr. Sakai was probably playing tough in order to avoid paying percentages to anyone. Knowing this system, I had brought more than I needed — about 2.2 million yen jammed into several Pocky pretzel boxes in the bottom of my backpack. I shrugged and said, "Fine. I'll pay cash."

"I was here first!" The lady in green snapped.

"One point five million. Was tax already included?" I started counting off 10,000-yen notes, wishing I didn't have such a big audience.

"I'll pay more than her! Fifty thousand yen more," the woman said.

She couldn't do that. It wasn't ethical. I gave Mr. Sakai a beseeching look.

"I must work in my client's best interest," he said in a low voice.

"I'll pay one million, five hundred and sixty then." I was sweating despite the air conditioning, feeling myself on the edge of a calamity.

"One million, seven hundred thousand yen." The woman gave me a scathing look.

"One million, eight hundred." If this was an auction, I was hanging in.

As Mr. Sakai muttered nervously, the woman raised me at 1.9 million. Would she go higher? I couldn't tell from her face. I was at the end of my money and couldn't afford to risk any more rounds of this sick game.

"I'll give you two million, one hundred thousand." With a steeper jump in price, I might scare her off.

The woman paused as if aware that things had gone too far. But she spoke again.

"Two million and two hundred thousand yen."

At that, I shook my head. I was giving up. I stuffed my cash back in the Pocky boxes and zipped up my backpack with shaking fingers. It was wrong to pay so much over the original price; I knew it in my bones. In any case, I shouldn't do it without Mrs. Mihori's permission.

As I stormed through the fishbowl display on my way out the door, I felt a tug on my backpack. Someone had seen my money and was trying to grab it. Reaching back blindly, I connected with soft flesh. When I turned, I found I'd knocked over a young saleswoman who had been upstairs.

"Miss!" she panted. "You can still buy the tansu, I came to tell you—"

"Gomen nasai," I apologized, helping her up. Why didn't I look before lashing out? Thank God she hadn't hit her head on one of the massive fishbowls.

"The other customer did not have enough money. Mr. Sakai sent me to say you can have it for two million one hundred thousand like you offered." The girl's lip quivered as if she was about to cry.

I felt like crying myself. If we had been at an auction house, the overzealous woman upstairs would have been forced to pay. I thought about that as I climbed the stairs and approached the woman still standing at the cash register in Mr. Sakai's section.

"Two million is actually what I have in my bag this minute. However, I could go to the bank." The woman was digging through her handbag, tossing out yen notes like used tissues.

Mr. Sakai looked past her at me. "Banking hours are over. I apologize for the confusion, Shimura-san."

Now that I knew my competition's finances, I had a bargaining chip. "I'll buy it for two million, total, and that includes free delivery, like we agreed before."

"Final sale, neh?" Sakai was already writing the receipt.

"Final sale," I repeated, and the tansu was mine.

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All content © 1998-2008 Sujata Massey.
Photo of Sujata by Jim Burger.