Chapter 23

23

Yoshi stays a few more days. We pal around the city, taking in the local sites, wandering narrow streets lined by small shops capped with ceramic tile roofs. Two nights in a row, we dine at McDonalds, ordering shrimp burgers, chicken sandwiches, sweet corn, and shaka-chicki—fried chicken in a paper bag with a choice of seasonings. The fun is over after forty hours.

We return to Tokyo together. The train ride is eventful. Midway through, Yoshi’s ferret escapes the crate and causes a stir. I don’t enjoy watching the imperial guards chase the thing through cars. Much.

“I’m going to make a fur coat out of that rodent,” Reina threatens, resuming her seat. Sweat dots her forehead, and there are little pieces of white fur all over her black suit. An imperial guard has the ferret by two hands and is wrestling it back into its monogrammed leather carrier.

Yoshi pouts. “I can’t believe you’d do such a thing to our love child.”

Reina doesn’t reply, but her narrow-eyed gaze totally speaks volumes. I seriously hope you die.

I rise from the plush velvet purple seat, pluck a can of Pocari Sweat from the bar, and seek out Akio in between the cars.

“Your Highness.” He bows. I like how his voice has changed with me. It’s lower. Softer. Warmer. He’s back in his suit, buttoned up and perfect. But now, I know what that starched collar feels like crushed under my fingertips.

I crack the can open and offer it to him. “Pretty sure Reina has reached her limit with Yoshi.” He takes the can from me. Our hands brush and we hold still. One. Two. Three seconds. We break apart.

“Gimu,” I say forlornly, bringing us both back to earth. Not here. Not now. Maybe never again.

“Right. Gimu.” He clears his throat.

I turn and head back for the carriage. “Izumi.” I pause. Don’t turn. But I’m all lit up inside remembering our searing kiss. A piece of paper is pressed into my palm. I wrap my fist around it.

Back in the carriage, I find a seat in the corner and curl up, my back to the car. Very carefully, I unwrap it. It’s five lines. Thirty-one syllables. A waka, a poem, from Akio.

The earth forgets but

I will always remember

Karaoke bars

Pharmacies and cups of tea

And plates of dorayaki

When we arrive at the station, Yoshi and I are whisked away in separate directions.

I’m headed to the Imperial Palace. The streets are dressed up in red banners and golden chrysanthemums, preparations for the emperor’s birthday. There’s a definite buzz in the air, all meant to induce happy chemicals, all meant to lead one to believe the world is a marvelous place. Still, my stomach rolls, nervous. Kyoto seemed easy in comparison to Tokyo, especially given that I still haven’t really spoken to my father, who has since returned. We’ve texted, but I’ve kept my responses to vague, generic answers. I’m not angry anymore, but some things are better said in person. Or maybe I was just avoiding the confrontation.… Yeah, that’s more likely. Totally on-brand. On the seat next to me is a rolled scroll tied with a red rope, a gift for him.

Mariko notes my mood and keeps quiet. Smart woman. We arrive at the palace, Akio opens the car but I stall, smoothing my navy dress and fiddling with the hem of my skirt. I take long enough that my father comes searching for me. He stands on the porch and waits.

“He’ll like your gift,” Mariko says.

“Yeah,” I say, reminding myself that my world doesn’t stop or start with my father’s approval.

“So … I’m getting out of the car now. Okay?” Mariko says slowly. “Remember, we have a dress fitting for the emperor’s birthday. Eleven o’clock sharp.” She’s out, bowing to my father as she passes him.

I count to five and climb out after her. Scroll in one hand, I half raise my other hand in greeting. “Hi.” Akio is behind me. His little poem is stuffed into my dress pocket, a reminder that is here with me, always.

“Izumi. Hi,” my father says back. We stare at each other in much the same fashion as our first meeting.

“How was your trip?” I ask, walking toward him. The car door slams shut. I don’t have to look to know Akio isn’t there anymore. Feet shuffle, luggage is unloaded, and the imperial vehicle departs.

“Good,” he says. “How was your trip?”

“Good,” I say, squinting against the bright morning sunlight.

“What’s that?” He motions to the scroll.

“Oh.” My hand tightens a bit around the scroll. “Um. It’s actually a present for you.”

“You brought me back a gift?” He blinks at me.

“Well, yeah. It’s not a big deal. Just something I made.” I remember the antique chaise in the family room from the French ambassador. The Patek Philippe watch on his wrist from the emperor. The stall of half a dozen Arabian horses from the Sultan of Brunei.

He rocks back on his heels, expression considerably warming. “I have a present for you, too.”

“For me?” I ask.

He hums. “It’s in my office. What do you say we go inside?”

A butler opens the door. The smell of the East Palace is familiar—light and fresh, with a touch of citrus. It’s nice to be back. My father’s office is the same, save for a new addition. I gaze at the orchid sitting on his windowsill. It’s wrapped in bamboo and tied with a purple tassel. Its yellow and green leaves are long and narrow, striped like a tiger’s tail. The blooms are tiny, white, and fragrant.

“Fūkiran,” my father says. “Grown since the Edo Period and collected by feudal lords as gifts to the shogun or emperor.” He slides the office doors closed.

“I know.” I smile because it’s familiar. My mother has a woodblock of it above her nightstand. Neofinetia falcata. “It’s Mom’s favorite.”

“Yes.” My head shoots up. My father’s smile is a bit shy, guarded. “I grow them for her.”

I play it cool, scroll in my hand forgotten. “Do you?” I knew it. I KNEW IT.

He steps forward and fingers the tassel. “You knew the moment you saw the greenhouse.” He shrugs, and his face grows contemplative. “I guess I thought I could keep a part of her. It worked for a while. The memories were enough. But having you here it makes me think it might not be. I don’t have to keep that part of myself separate. That’s why I had the gardener place an orchid in here. I’d like to be the man I once was and the man I am now. Do you think that’s possible? Fuse the two together?”

My throat feels dry. “I think anything is possible.”

He nods, frowns at the floor. “I’m glad you’re back. I don’t like how we left things. About the wedding, my reaction … I’m sorry. I was angry—”

“You don’t have to explain. I get it.” No need to relive the embarrassment, how I risked a tabloid scandal, how I humiliated him. I want him to be proud of me, this person he made. Show him I can do it: be a princess, a part of Japan, and his daughter.

“You do?” Relief floods his features.

I make a noise of agreement. “At first, I thought Kyoto was a punishment.”

“What? No—”

“But then, I viewed it as an opportunity. You were right,” I add brightly. “It’s like the time I swallowed a magnet when I was four and mom took me to the emergency room. I cried and cried because she was mad and I was in trouble. But the doctor taught me all sorts of stuff about north and south poles. I ended up actually learning a lot that day. Kyoto was kind of the same. Does that make sense?”

“Perfect sense.” He grins. “I do apologize. To be clear, Kyoto was not a punishment. I love it there. It’s one of my favorite places. I genuinely thought you would enjoy it.”

I’m suddenly touched. “It’s really okay,” I say. “Let’s just move on.”

“I’d like that,” he says. As far as I’m concerned, the slate is wiped clean. Everything is fine. And it will stay fine as long as I don’t mess up again.

My father opens his hands. “So … gifts? Should we exchange them?”

I gulp. Stare down at the scroll. “Sure.”

We settle into our respective seats: him behind the desk, me across in an upholstered chair. I cross my legs at the ankles and hand over the scroll. “Like I said, it’s nothing big. I’ve just been practicing my kanji.” He handles it like a piece of glass, carefully unfurling it to reveal his name. “You don’t have to do anything with it…”

“It is lovely.” His eyes rise to mine. They’re misty and genuine. “It’s the best gift I’ve ever received. I’m going to have it framed and put it on my office wall there”—he motions to the back wall—“so I can see it every day.”

I’m not crying. You’re crying.

“Thank you,” he says. He admires the scroll for a while. Then he retrieves a manila envelope from the corner of the desk. He hands it to me. “For you.”

I hold it for a moment. It’s thick and weighty. “Should I open it?”

“Please.”

I bite my lower lip and slip the contents out. Black-and-white photos flutter from the pages. “Tanaka family history…” I read out loud.

“Before you left for Kyoto, I asked why you came to Japan. Do you remember your answer?”

“To find myself,” I whisper.

“My side of the family is an open book, literally. The imperial family has been cataloged for generations. But your mother’s … Well, I had a professor at University of Tokyo dig into her family genealogy.”

I scan the pages. There’s so much history. Names and dates going back a hundred or so years. It’s hard to fathom. I have a kamon, a family crest, on my mother’s side, a three-leafed holly. I trace the image with my fingers.

“Your grandmother was a picture bride.” My father stands, coming around the desk. He finds a photograph on the floor and hands it to me. It’s a woman in kimono standing next to a man in a tweed suit. I see my mother in both of them. “Seems your maternal grandmother chose life in the United States over an arranged marriage in Japan, although picture brides were an arranged marriage of sorts. I suppose she was keen on choosing her own destiny.”

“Maybe she wanted adventure.” I stare at the photo, then at all the papers, all the photos. All too much to possibly go through right now. I itch to start sifting through it. “This is … this is the best gift anyone has ever given me.”

“Now you know where you come from.”

“Thank you.” I’m overwhelmed. Elated. I’m not lost anymore.

The clock chimes. The hour strikes eleven. Mariko or some chamberlain will knock soon. Our time is not our own. My father knows it, too. I rise from my seat. He walks me to the door, but stops before sliding it open.

I think he might hug me. But his arms hang loosely at his sides, hands curled into his palms. Yoshi said affection isn’t really a thing in Japan. So I hold back, stand by. “It’s good to have you home,” my father finally says.

I couldn’t agree with him more. My face fixes into a smile. I hug the papers to my chest. “It’s good to be home.”

---

After dinner, I find Akio outside. The sun is setting, and everything is cast in burnt oranges and blazing reds. Other guards mill around, and my father is in his office. If he glances out his window, he might see me. Better be quick.

I step carefully to him, note in hand, heart beating against my rib cage like a panicked bird. “Akio,” I call out, and he turns.

“I think you dropped this earlier.” My hand stretches out and he plucks the folded note from me.

At first, he frowns. But then he smiles, understanding. He inclines his head. My stomach tumbles. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

I skip away toward the front door and turn at the last minute, in time to see Akio unfold the note and smile so fully it takes over his entire face.

Now I understand

How lonely the sun must be

The unending job

To rise again and again

Setting fire to all it sees