Chapter 6

6

I settle into a buttery-soft leather seat the color of fine scotch. Mr. Fuchigami sits across from me, bowler hat in his lap. His hair is shot through with gray and slicked back. Car doors slam. It’s just my luck Akio climbs in the front. His posture is ramrod straight. Words like stick and ass come to mind. Raindrops slide down the back of his neck. He pats them away with a neatly folded handkerchief. I kind of hate him. I hate him more because he’s so attractive.

A chauffeur in a brass-buttoned jacket and white gloves drives us. “Who’s in the other car?” I ask when I notice a second Rolls-Royce following us. It’s a bit stuffy in the car, and the windows fog.

“No one.” Mr. Fuchigami pulls black leather gloves from his hands. “It is empty, in case this car breaks down.”

The wood of the interior gleams. The engine purrs. “Has this car ever broken down?”

Mr. Fuchigami’s face is blank. “No, it is brand new.”

“That makes sense.” But not really.

Police on white motorcycles flank us. We’re speeding down a highway now. Cars pull over to the side of the road and let us pass.

“Your itinerary for this evening and the rest of your stay.” Mr. Fuchigami places a sheaf of papers in my lap, his tone all business.

Her Imperial Highness Princess Izumi’s Itinerary

3/22/2021

3:32 p.m.—Arrive at Narita International Airport

3:45 p.m.—Depart Narita International Airport, motorcade tour of Tokyo and imperial grounds

I check my phone. 4:01 p.m. Sixteen minutes behind schedule. It’s really not my fault. I was even born late—three weeks overdue and ten pounds to boot, roughly the size of an adult Maltese dog. Mom was so big that everyone thought she was having two, which lead to the nurse joking I devoured my twin in utero. I smile at the thought. Mr. Fuchigami watches me warily, his lips twitching. I turn my attention back to the schedule.

5:01 p.m.—Dress for dinner

5:22 p.m.—Private meeting with Crown Prince

8:00 p.m.—Welcome reception and dinner

“The schedule will need to be adjusted. I understand there was an unanticipated stop in the airport,” Mr. Fuchigami continues. His gaze lingers on the radish, which I’ve placed on the seat next to me. It’s kind of my friend now. I’ve named it Tamagotchi 2.0.

I flip through the pages and bite my cheek. Well, this might be a challenge. Adhering to my school schedule is a minor miracle. My two weeks here are filled with activities. Private lessons in Japanese history, language, and art. Tours of shrines, temples, and tombs. A visit to the imperial stock farm and wild duck preserves. Assorted banquets. Outings with my father—a baseball game, public art exhibit opening. There’s even … “A wedding?”

Mr. Fuchigami nods. “The prime minister will be married in ten days.”

I audibly gulp. “I didn’t bring anything to wear to a wedding.” My wardrobe consists of leggings and sweatshirts—think Lululemon’s sloppy sister—all perfectly acceptable in Mount Shasta. But then again, ax-throwing and cow-tipping are also perfectly acceptable in Mount Shasta.

“A wardrobe has been provided for you. The imperial family works with a number of designers to produce acceptable clothing.” I can read the underlying message in his statement, in his tone, in his inscrutable smile. You represent the imperial family now.

“Of course,” I reply. I have an inkling I may be in a little over my head. No matter.

“Your first cousins, the twin princesses Akiko and Noriko, travel extensively,” he adds, tone warming. “Last week, Akiko returned from Scotland. She’s planning to study English and medieval transportation at university there next year. She wore home a very charming dress and blazer.”

Oh,I think. “Oh,” I say. Mentally, I catalog my outfit: leggings and a faded Mount Shasta High sweatshirt. “Sorry, I didn’t know…” I trail off. Shout out to all the girls who apologize too much. I feel you.

“Yes. You must be aware the press is always watching. But it’s of no consequence,” Mr. Fuchigami says. “We’ve assembled a small team to assist you, starting with Mr. Kobayashi. He will be your personal security. His family has worked for the Imperial House for decades. He is a wealth of knowledge. You may rely on him for his discretion.” Ah, the dagger twists a little deeper. My sworn enemy is to be my closest confidant? Never. “Please be sure to add his contact information to your phone,” Mr. Fuchigami says. You bet I will. I’ll file it under Satan’s Handmaiden, devil horns emoji, double poop emoji.

My mouth opens to ask Mr. Fuchigami about the rest of the schedule, but my words and breath are stolen. Now, my mouth hangs open for a totally different reason. Surprise. Wonder. Awe.

We’ve crested a hill. Sunbeams filter through a break in the clouds, and the jagged line of high-rises stretches up. Like a mirage, it beckons me. I lean against the window, clear the condensation with the palm of my hand, and tip my chin up, positively struck giddy. Raindrops slice down the window, cutting up my reflection.

“Tokyo.” Mr. Fuchigami’s voice inflates with pride. “Formerly Edo, almost destroyed by the 1923 Great Kantō earthquake, then again in 1944 by nighttime firebombing raids. Tens of thousands were killed.” The chamberlain grows silent. “Kishikaisei.”

“What does that mean?” There’s a skip in my chest. We’ve entered the city now. The high-rises are no longer cut out shapes against the skyline, but looming gray giants. Every possible surface is covered in signs—neon and plastic or painted banners—they all scream for attention. It’s noisy, too. There is a cacophony of pop tunes, car horns, advertising jingles, and trains coasting over rails. Nothing is understated.

“Roughly translated, ‘wake from death and return to life.’ Against hopeless circumstances, Tokyo has risen. It is home to more than thirty-five million people.” He pauses. “And, in addition, the oldest monarchy in the world.”

The awe returns tenfold. I clutch the windowsill and press my nose to the glass. There are verdant parks, tidy residential buildings, upmarket shops, galleries, and restaurants. For each sleek, new modern construction, there is one low-slung wooden building with a blue tiled roof and glowing lanterns. It’s all so dense. Houses lean against one another like drunk uncles.

Mr. Fuchigami narrates Tokyo’s history. A city built and rebuilt, born and reborn. I imagine cutting into it like a slice of cake, dissecting the layers. I can almost see it. Ash from the Edo fires with remnants of samurai armor, calligraphy pens, and chipped tea porcelain. Bones from when the shogunate fell. Dust from the Great Earthquake and more debris from the World War II air raids.

Still, the city thrives. It is alive and sprawling with neon-colored veins. Children in plaid skirts and little red ties dash between business personnel in staid suits. Two women in crimson kimonos and matching parasols duck into a teahouse. All of the people look like me. Of course there are variations, different eye and face shapes, but there is more dark hair than I’ve ever seen in my entire lifetime. It hits me: I’m not a novelty here. I am not a sore thumb. What a privilege it is to blend in.

But it also still seems like a hallucination, like I’m peering through a keyhole. I can’t take it all in. The car hasn’t slowed once.

That’s when I notice. “We’re not stopping at any lights.”

Mr. Fuchigami taps his fingers against the leather seat. “Yes. The traffic lights are programmed to switch from red to blue for the royal cavalcade. It is of the upmost importance to adhere to schedules.” Another dig. I don’t care. My body is humming. It wants to tangle itself up in Tokyo and get lost in all of the city’s limbs. This is where I should have been born, should have lived. Here, words like accept and tolerate wouldn’t have been part of my early vocabulary. I’d be commonplace, another face in the crowd. Well, aside from the Rolls-Royce and flashing lights of the police escort.

I sit back, overwhelmed and elated, listening to the gentle plinking of rain against the car’s metal roof. Mind officially blown.

We cross water. “One of the many moats enclosing the imperial grounds,” Mr. Fuchigami explains. This is where my grandparents, the emperor and empress, live—smack-dab in the middle of Tokyo on four-point-six million square feet of private forest.

The car darkens as we enter a tunnel. We’re moving away from the imperial grounds. “My father doesn’t live there?” There’s a moment of panic. I remember watching a movie about an unwanted royal child who was sequestered in the country, hidden away.

“The Crown Prince lives in Tōgū Palace on the Akasaka Estate, east of the Imperial Palace. It is also where the rest of the family resides—your uncles and aunts, assorted cousins. The twins, Princesses Akiko and Noriko, are around your age. Prince Yoshihito is, too. He moved away but recently returned home. You’ll have plenty of company.” He smiles, as if giving me a gift.

My unease settles as the tunnel ends. We pass an ethereal white and gold gate. Guards in bright blue uniforms stand at attention. A sprawling, manicured lawn culminates in a grand fountain and frames an imposing marble building. “Akasaka Palace is modeled after both Versailles and Buckingham Palace,” Mr. Fuchigami says. I see, I see. It does have a whole let-them-eat-cake vibe. “The palace is unoccupied, but it is used for visiting dignitaries.”

We round a corner. Walls rise up. We’re still skirting the Akasaka Estate. Gnarled oaks line the streets, and the walls give way to a simple bamboo fence wrapped in a hedge. All pretty innocuous, but security cameras are discreetly mounted every couple of feet, and imperial guards patrol the perimeter.

The cavalcade slows.

Ahead, imperial guards in immaculate blue uniforms and hats with shiny emblems stand at attention. The golden tassels on their uniforms wink at me. A black metal gate is pulled open. The police outriders split away, blocking the street and entrance as we glide through.

“Ah, we’ve arrived. This is Tōgū Palace,” Mr. Fuchigami announces evenly, warmly. “Welcome home.”

---

Time stands still, and my brain creates snapshots of each moment. No doubt this will be filed away in my hippocampus, the place where indelible memories are stored. Like when I had strep throat and could only eat bananas. I’ll forever associate the fruit with soreness and sickness. But this is the opposite. This is beauty and brightness.

A snapshot: driving down a gravel road flanked by maple trees, magenta azaleas weeping at their feet. Stretching in all directions is parkland, swaths of gingko, silver birch, black pine, and cedar. The air smells loamy and of fresh-cut grass.

A snapshot: alighting from the car and craning my neck. The rain clears for a moment. Even though the sun hides behind clouds, it’s as if the building creates its own light. It’s shining. Glowing. The perfect home for a man once believed to be a god descended from the sun. Tōgū Palace is a modern wonder. The sprawling eighteen-bedroom, two-story structure blends into its natural surroundings. A bronze roof rusted to a jade patina mirrors the trees.

A snapshot: walking to the entrance, passing a line of staff. They introduce themselves one by one. More chamberlains. A doctor. Three chefs (because three is better than one), who specialize in Japanese dishes, Western cuisine, and bread and desserts. Equerries. Maids. My father’s valet. My lady-in-waiting, Mariko. She bows.

I tug my bottom lip with my teeth. “Lady-in-waiting?” I ask Mr. Fuchigami.

“Personal companion,” he says archly, bowler hat back in place. “She will assist you in daily tasks and will tutor you in language, culture, and etiquette. Your father handpicked her. He thought you might enjoy company around your age. Mariko will graduate from Gakushūin soon. Her father is poet laureate Shoji Abe and her mother was a lady-in-waiting for Princess Asako. Her English is excellent and she is an expert in court manners.”

Butlers hold glass doors open. I step inside to the genkan and exchange my shoes for house slippers. The floors are mirror-finished and the chandeliers are chrome. Our pace is brisk, and I only catch glimpses of the rest of the house: Silk screens behind plexiglass in the hallway. Living room furniture arranged at perfect ninety-degree angles. The color palettes soft and soothing, woods and beiges with blush accents. Near-translucent paper screens on wooden tracks dividing spaces. It’s uncluttered. Airy.

In my suite, there is a wall of clear glass and below it, a pond. It’s as if we’re suspended, floating over a deep blue expanse. Swans glide on the water, and koi dart under the surface. In the distance, I spy Akio. Hair artfully tousled from the rain, he speaks with the other security personnel. No doubt, directing them. Mentally, I list Akio’s preferences:

Likes

Bossing people aroundSchedulesTom Ford suitsEarpiecesGloweringandmore bossing people aroundDislikes
TardinessA joie de vivre approach to lifePrincesses who pee, watchDownton Abbey, or accept radishes from chefsSpeaking of radishes, I still have it. I held it during the staff introductions and the palace tour. Now it rests on a gold foil chest, next to a single iris in a fluted vase. Something about the flower beckons me to study it.

The arrangement is perfectly framed against the silk tapestry behind it. The purple petals are simple but elegant. Its placement here seems deliberate, almost ceremonial. I can only take note because it feels as if my circuits are going haywire.

Mariko taps her lips. “The big question is, what dress should you wear?” She’s laid out the options on the four-poster bed: a pink silk-printed dress with a floral motif or a yellow cap sleeve with beading. “Princess Akiko wore pink yesterday to the morning tea party for notable persons,” Mariko says. She is small, her features sharp and unforgiving, with two slashes for eyebrows and a pointed chin. “We wouldn’t want to appear as if we’re copying her. But the yellow is so pale. I’m afraid it may have unwanted consequences complexion-wise.” Mariko holds up the dress against my cheek. The label is silk and reads Oscar de la Renta.

Me: Meh, designer labels don’t impress me.

Also me: Can’t wait to secretly snap a picture and send it to Noora. I already know her reaction. Bitch, you lie.

“What do you think, Izumi-sama?” asks Mariko.

“Oh, um.” I pretend not to be insulted and consider the options. Cap sleeves? Pshh. Baby pink? Double pshh. Neither option appeals to me. “Yellow and pink aren’t really my colors. Do you have anything darker? Black, maybe?” Preferably with one percent cotton and a million percent spandex. Don’t get me wrong, I love my body. I just love it most in black. It would also help with my little spilling problem. I’m a messy eater. Right now, there is a small stain on my sweatshirt—chocolate, and most likely from the Snickers family. If I were with the AGG, I’d have no problem licking it.

Mariko glances at the walk-in closet, complete with a marble island. Dresses hang. It is a pastel massacre. “No black,” she says, then sighs. “The yellow will have to do.” She nods as if reassuring herself. Sallow complexion is a risk we must take.

In less than ten minutes, I am outfitted in the pale yellow dress that actually fits rather well and I’m herded to a vanity. Bright lights are flicked on. Mariko laments I don’t have bangs.

“What should we do with it?” Mariko asks, lifting my hair and studying the thick strands in the mirror.

“I like it down,” I offer, thinking she wants my actual opinion.

Mariko’s mouth thins. She sweeps my hair back and pins the mass into a bun. My scalp is screaming by the time she’s finished. So she likes it rough, got it. To counteract the buttercup dress, a bit of rouge is applied to my lips and cheeks.

She mumbles something about the color of my nail polish—kinky pink—being too bright, but there’s no time for a manicure. She places Mikimoto pearl studs in my ears, and a matching strand around my neck.

“Welcome gifts from the empress. She regrets she cannot be here to greet her newest granddaughter in person.” Mariko secures the clasp.

In the mirror, I see a different person. It’s me, yet it’s not. A royal avatar. I’m not sure what to think, how to feel about it.

There is a knock on the suite doors. Mariko lets Mr. Fuchigami in. He’s here to escort me to my father. “Ready?” he asks, eyes appraising, then approving.

I want to say yes, but whole galaxies of words die on my tongue. I am minutes away from meeting my father, who I’ve waited to meet my entire life. The urge to breathe into a paper bag is strong. But I keep my cool, at least on the outside. On the inside, insecurities rise up. I want my father to like me. I want to like my father. Is that too much to ask, Universe?

All I can do is nod. All roads lead to this. No more wandering down streets and wondering if strangers could be related to me. The answers to my questions are a few steps away. Who is my father? Does he want me here? Is this just a political stunt? Shoulders straight, steps sure, I follow Mr. Fuchigami out the door and into a new life.