Chapter 10

10

I have lunch with my father, just the two of us at the palace. My earlier conversation with Akio lingers around me like a miasma, but all in all, the atmosphere is good. Casual. The place settings are informal, ohashi the only utensil. I lighten up and relax a bit. A special treat has been prepared—ayu, a troutlike fish caught in the Nagara River from the Gifu area. It is served whole over a bed of rice, once a currency and now a sacred grain.

“Very fresh,” the chef informs us with a proud smile. “Caught this morning.”

“It’s considered a delicacy,” my father says as the chef leaves. I haven’t managed a taste yet. I’m watching my father, observing how he’ll eat the fish.

He brings the bowl to his face, then uses the ohashi to grasp the tiny sweetfish and take a bite, starting with the head. I blink. Oh, okay. That’s how it’s done. I pick up my ohashi and copy his moves.

My teeth sink into the fish. I wait for my gag reflex to kick in, but it doesn’t. The skin is crunchy and salty, but gives way to a softer, sweet inside, tasting like watermelon. My saliva glands kick into overdrive. Just like that, I’m all in. If ayu is on the menu, I’ll have two.

We dig in.

My father explains how the fish are caught, painting a picture with his words. The canvas is shaded in purple and blues, the bruises of nightfall. A single firework rises over the river. It signals the start of the evening fishing. In that moment, the towers of Gifu Castle are caught in relief. The fishermen wear grass skirts, indigo tunics, and pointed caps. In specially made bamboo baskets, they carry leashed cormorants, dark feathered birds with hooked beaks. They ease into the water in long wooden boats, torch blazing at the bow. The birds dive under the water and catch and keep the fish in a special pouch in their throat. A snare prevents the bird from swallowing the fish.

My father says, “The relationship between cormorant and man is very important. To the keepers, the birds are family. In the wild, cormorants live seven to eight years, but with the fishermen, it can be much longer. The record is thirty years.”

My bowl is empty. My stomach is full. My soul longs for it to be night and to be on the shores of the Nagara River. I wipe my mouth with my napkin. “I’d like to see it sometime.”

“The high season is in the summer. I’ll ask Mr. Fuchigami to schedule it…” He trails off. We both realize it at the same time. I won’t be here. In two weeks, I’ll be gone.

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After lunch, we walk. The sun is shining and heats my head. Black hair is the worst. The gravel beneath my feet is still wet and little puddles dot the lawn. Japan is mercurial. I mean, pick a temperature.

My father says, “Your lady-in-waiting is working out? Your lessons are going well?” He’s discarded his suit jacket and tie and his sleeves are rolled up. He’s more relaxed outdoors. I remember he loves the mountains, hiking, and such. This is his happy place.

“Yes,” I say. Mariko is working out. The real question is: Am I working out? I think it over, licking a smudge of Nutella from my thumb—the last bit of my newest obsession. After lunch yesterday, the chef served dorayaki—Nutella between two castella pancakes. Boom. Mind blown. I ate it and ascended to a higher plane. Since then, the chef has kept me in steady supply, and I love him so much for it.

“Is this how you were educated? I mean … did you have tutors who came to the palace, and have etiquette lessons like they ones I’ve been getting?”

“No. I attended Gakushūin. My classmates—all five of them—were handpicked.” I wonder what that must have been like, knowing everyone your age had been selected to be around you. He waits a beat, then says, “I looked over your schedule. Mr. Fuchigami is keeping you quite busy. I hope it’s not too rigorous.”

The light disappears under the arching trees, giving us shade. My burning head screams in relief. “I’m very thankful for the opportunity to learn.” Sometimes when I speak with my father, I don’t sound like myself. It’s not the same tone I’d use with my mom. If I were with her, we’d be knee-deep in potty humor. Or at least, I would be. I know she secretly loves it, though. She’s a closet deviant. You kind of have to be, living next door to Jones.

The path widens and the gravel stretches into a circle. We’ve come to a clearing. A building winks in the sun, glass on all sides. “I assume you share your mother’s appreciation for plants. I thought you might like to see the greenhouse.” I do. I do. I do! At my smile, he opens his hand. “After you.”

Don’t need to ask me twice. The door is heavy and opens with a creak. Mom has greenhouses on campus, but they’re all plastic poles and sheeting. This one is beautiful, a piece of artwork and fit for … well, fit for a prince, I guess. Fans lazily turn, circulating hot air. I feel two pink splotches form on my cheeks. There are three rows of long, wooden tables.

It smells like the earth after the rain, like my mom when she comes home from work with soil under her fingernails. I miss her. We’ve texted and talked on the phone, but it’s not the same. You get used to seeing certain people every day.

I walk in-between two rows, taking in the tiny pots holding plants with broad leaves. Their crooked stems droop with delicate red, white, and pink flowers. “Orchids,” I say, swallowing. “Mom’s favorite.”

My father lingers at the door. He raises a brow. “Are they?”

I study him. Is this some wild coincidence, or does he grow these for my mother? The look on his face says he doesn’t want to talk about it. “Tell me more about your school,” I say, but you bet the moment I get the chance I’ll be texting my mother. Something along the lines of: FYI, my father, your former Crown Prince lover, keeps a greenhouse full of orchids. Aren’t those your favorite flower? Just thought you might like to know.

He takes the out and dives in to talking about his studies. The air in the greenhouse fills with all the unsaid things; he can’t tell me about his time with my mother, and I can’t tell him how I really feel. How I’m not sure I’m equipped to be a princess. Not sure if I belong. The tough stuff will have to wait for another time.

Eventually, the heat in the greenhouse gets to me. We settle into a couple Adirondack chairs on the edge of the lawn. Cool wind slaps against my cheeks, and it’s refreshing. Mom would really love this. It’s totally her vibe. I’d like to say so out loud, but I hold back. She’s the giant pink elephant in this intricate garden—my mother, his former lover. Does he feel it, too? I don’t like not being able to talk about her, treating her as blasphemy. I don’t care if this makes me a total dork, but truth: I love my mom. She’s one of my favorite people.

“You seem quiet,” he says.

“I was thinking about Mom—” I cut myself off before I can go on.

My father sits back, sighs. “Yes.”

“You don’t … I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about her.” But let’s talk about her. About how much you loved her, and how much you still do. Let’s talk about how wonderful and happy she is, but a little sad sometimes, too. Let’s talk about how you both get the same look in your eye when the other is brought up.

He stares at the greenhouse and thinks for a while. “The truth is, I loved college, America, and your mother. That period in my life is painful to recall. From the beginning of our affair, I knew it couldn’t last. Everything was like a beautiful dream. But like all dreams, it had to come to an end. And that’s how I treat it now, as a bit of a fantasy.”

I clasp my hands together to keep them from fidgeting. I can hear it in his voice. He can’t even entertain the possibility of a relationship with my mom. The dream is over. But then what does that make me? “I’m here, though.” Tangible proof he and my mother existed.

He smiles at me. “You are. And it is a gift. It’s hard to reconcile the two events, you here now and me back then. I hope that makes sense.”

“It does.” In a weird way.

He pats the arm of his chair. “Be patient with me?”

“If you promise to do the same for me,” I say back lightly. We’re in a place where we’re both ready to reach now.

“Of course,” he promises. He focuses back on the greenhouse. “So what’s on the docket for tomorrow?”

“Uh, I think Mr. Fuchigami said something about sericulture?” My royal profile is a little slim. A hobby is in order. Mr. Fuchigami pitched ichthyology with a concentration in carp. A nonstarter. I piped in with how much I enjoyed baking—too common. Tomorrow, we try sericulture. Truth: I’m not one hundred percent sure what sericulture is. Next, I’m going to suggest falconry. The imperial household employs a falconer and everyone knows all epic quests start with birds of prey.

“Good luck, though I don’t think you need it. Mr. Fuchigami reports you did splendid with the mock banquet setting this morning. All eyes will be on you at the wedding instead of the bride.” He smiles with pride again. He’s practically beaming with it. I have no desire to dim the lights.

“Yeah,” I agree, smiling right back. Then we sit together, him and me, near the greenhouse that may or may not have been built for my mother.