Chapter 8

8

A small gathering, they said. A celebration dinner in your honor. Just family. No biggie. But also, did we mention the meet-the-press section beforehand? How about the handbell ringers? What about a brief concert by the imperial house orchestra? No? Sorry, our bad.

The quiet evening has started with a not-so-quiet bang. In other words, a balls-to the-wall welcome reception. It’s a shock to my system after the quiet walk with my father. A reporter from the imperial press club stares at me. His press badge reads Shigesada Inada, Japan Gazette. So far, his questions are little bits of fluff wrapped in cotton. “What is your favorite color?” None of the press carry notepads or recording devices. It’s odd. Also, they’re all men.

Red for the blood of my enemies,I think. Truth: I’m a little punch drunk. The transpacific flight is nipping at my heels. “Blue,” I answer serenely.

Mr. Fuchigami stands close to me. Correction: he hovers. He’s more nervous than Tamagotchi in a room full of vacuum cleaners. When I answer in a way he approves, a pleasant sound emanates from his throat. So far, I’ve accrued five happy noises. The reporter bows and thanks me gratuitously before leaving. Across the way, my father is being interviewed, too. Akio is also present, hanging around the edge of the room like a Gothic painting.

“Are we nearly done?” I turn to Mr. Fuchigami once we’re alone. “I’m so tired. I can smell colors. Or maybe it’s the cocaine.” At his bug-eyed stare, I say, “Joke! I’m joking.” I’m the only one laughing. Back in Mount Shasta, that would have killed. Noora once laughed so hard at one of my jokes that milk came out of her nose. True story.

“The dinner bell should ring soon,” he assures me. “The family usually enjoys drinks after in the parlor, but you don’t need to stay for that.”

I eye a cloisonné case with a fish scale background in the corner. It’s elegant and tall and fits in way better than me. We’re in a reception hall with celery-colored carpet bordered by a lacquered parquet floor, its walls the same color as the lightwood. Elegant and airy, it’s a part of Tōgū Palace, but separated by a series of sliding shoji screens. The press, handbell ringers, and orchestra aren’t allowed past this point.

My room is a three-minute walk away. If I think too much about bed, I’ll fall asleep. A change of subject is in order. “The press was so kind.”

Mr. Fuchigami appears surprised. “Of course they were. They are members of the Imperial Press Club, handpicked by the Imperial Household Agency.”

A flush of embarrassment heats my cheeks. I’ve been plunked down in the center of a maze, and the keys to finding my way out lie in a vortex of royal protocols, traditions and rules I haven’t got the first clue about. I swallow down the giant ball of stress. I’ll figure out what to do later. Procrastination has served me well in the past. My mission: survive the night. It feels as ominous as it sounds.

The dinner bell rings. The group splits, and the gaggle of reporters and handbell ringers disappear through a door.

“This way.” Mr. Fuchigami leads me to the formal dining room. The long table is dressed up in starched linens and gleaming silvers. A white-gloved attendant pulls out a chair for me. My heart sinks when I see where I am seated. “Not by my father?” I gaze at Mr. Fuchigami.

A single shake of his head. “No. Seating has been carefully considered. We’ve placed you next to your extended family. This way, you’ll have optimal and equal time with each member.” He pauses, considers his next words carefully. “As the daughter of the Crown Prince, it is paramount you show attention to each. There should be no favorites. Now…” He opens his hands. “Please, go ahead.”

The tables have gone quiet. Everyone stands behind their chairs, and all eyes are on me. It’s clear my family is waiting for something. My father smiles. Close to him sits twin girls, no doubt Akiko and Noriko, the charms in the imperial bracelet. I see why. They’re strikingly beautiful, with oval faces and lips the color of ballet slippers. So alike and perfect it’s a bit creepy, as if they sprung fully formed from one of the silk tapestries.

Their father is my father’s brother and second in line to inherit the throne. He’s down at the end of the table, too. His wife is next to him, and though she’s dressed immaculately, her face is tight, pale, and withdrawn.

“I’m sorry?” I whisper to Mr. Fuchigami. I’m so confused. “What’s going on?”

“They are awaiting your introduction.” Mr. Fuchigami says it like that explains everything. When I don’t launch right in, he goes on. “Say a little about yourself.” With that, he bows and leaves. Leaves.

I stare down at my toes. The flooring is carpet and patterned with circles. I’m standing in the middle of one. I’ve been put on the spot, literally and figuratively. “Oh, um. Hi.” I glance up. My body feels like it’s on fire. I do a little finger wave, then remember I haven’t seen anyone wave since arriving. I jerk my arm back down. “Konnichiwa. I’m Izumi. But you all probably already know that. I live in Mount Shasta, California, but I suppose I also live here now, I think.” I tug on my ear and actively search for a balcony to swan dive off of. “What else? I have a dog named Tamagotchi.” The twins narrow their eyes in unison and whisper behind their hands.

Nobody ever says anything good behind their hands.

I feel myself starting to unravel. “He’s a really good dog. Kind of. One time I tried to swaddle him and put him in a field of flowers, like a newborn photo shoot. He nearly bit my face off. Though I guess that’s not great…” I trail off. Nearest to me are two boys and one girl around my age. They smile like they’re forcing themselves to. End it. End it now. “Anyway. Izumi. Mount Shasta. Nice to meet you.” I bow. It doesn’t feel right at all. I fall down into my chair, trying to make myself as small as possible.

There is a pause. Everyone continues to stand until my father takes his seat. Then conversation resumes. I’m just dying in a puddle of my own embarrassment. The only consolation is that Akio is not present. No doubt he’s somewhere on the property, lurking.

“Well, you did your best,” the boy next to me says. He’s around my age. “Yoshi.” He holds out a hand for me to shake. I discreetly wipe my hand on my dress before I do, pleased with the familiar gesture. “Second cousin, official name Yoshihito, seventh in line to be emperor. Son of Asako and Yasuhito.”

He nods at his parents. They sit diagonally from us—a small, affable-appearing man beside a woman with a diamond necklace that must have cost a king’s ransom. Their smiles are warm, if a bit apprehensive. Understood. I’m not the only one trying to get a handle on the whole Crown-Prince’s-illegitimate-child situation.

“Please, you must call us Auntie and Uncle,” Asako invites, inclining her head. Yasuhito repeats his wife’s sentiment with a friendly bow of his head. I appreciate a man who supports the woman in his life.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking.” Yoshi snaps his napkin and lays it across his lap. A lock of hair falls into his eye. All in all, he looks like a J-pop star who fell through a trapdoor into royalty. “You would be correct. In the past, distant cousins have married. But these days, it would be frowned upon.” He sticks out his lower lip.

“Bummer,” I say, flatly. I copy his move with the napkin. Another white-gloved attendant holding a silver pitcher fills my water goblet.

He drops the pout and exchanges it for a grin. “Oh. You’ll do fine. I like you.”

I like him, too, in a purely platonic, non–kissing cousins kind of way. I don’t think I need to make that clear. He reminds me a little of Noora. They both have the same take-a-bite-out-of-life approach, something I aspire to have.

“You’re embarrassing her.” The girl across from me chastises Yoshi. She has a small oval face and her dark hair is pinned half-up. A glittery diamond on her left hand flashes as she takes a sip of water. “Don’t listen to my brother. I’m Sachiko.” She introduces herself, then the man sitting next to her. “My fiancé, Ryu.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says, nodding.

“Don’t worry, Sa-chan,” Yoshi says. He turns to me. “I’ve decided to take you under my leg.”

It takes me a full five seconds to decode his message. “I’m pretty sure you mean wing.”

“Wing?”

I suck in a breath, happy to explain. Finally, something I know. “The phrase is ‘take you under my wing.’”

His face screws up. “Why would I say that? I don’t have wings.”

“The term isn’t about humans, my God,” the guy next to me huffs. He looks very similar to Yoshi. Must be his brother. But his hair is shorter, his back is straighter, and he seems wound tight. He straightens the silverware and refolds his napkin into a symmetrical triangle. “It’s from observing birds sheltering their chicks under their wings. Obviously.”

“My brother.” Yoshi confirms my suspicions. “Spent four years in Scotland studying ornithology and linguistics. If you ever have trouble sleeping, ask him about his thesis on the captive rearing of the black grouse.”

Sachiko laughs. Their brother is less than pleased. Their antagonism is familiar, comfortable—makes me feel as if I’ve slipped on an old sweatshirt. Still, he bows a grumpy head. “Masahito,” he says.

“Are you finding your rooms acceptable?” Uncle Yasuhito asks. His mouth twitches under his mustache.

“More than acceptable,” I say. An attendant offers me a hot towel with tongs. A glance at Yoshi shows he’s unraveled his and is wiping his hands. He throws it into a silver bowl another attendant holds behind him. I pluck the towel from her.

Auntie Asako says, “The palace has recently been renovated.”

“Oh yeah, it’s like a Nate Berkus dream.” I turn, placing my used towel in the silver bowl. I whisper a thank-you, but the attendant doesn’t recognize it. His stare is locked on a spot on the wall.

Uncle Yasuhito’s forehead wrinkles. I’ve confused the poor man. “Nate Berkus?”

My smile is bright. “He’s a famous designer in the States. Oprah’s best friend.”

Light shines in Auntie Asako’s eyes. “Ah yes, he is like Shoji Matsuri. He designs cat homes.” She nudges her husband. “Remember, he designed something for me. Would you like me to give you his contact information?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “He’s very discreet.”

Not totally sure what she means, but some things are better left unknown. “No, thank you. I’m more of a dog person.”

Yoshi draws my attention. “She’s got an original Warhol cat in that home.” His eyes roll. “The irony.”

The dust of conversation settles. A bowl of almost clear soup is set in front of me. Pearled vegetables float around a gold leaf topped with … caviar? My fingers twitch over my place setting and the multiple utensils. Forks, knives, and spoons taunt me. Hello, Zoom Zoom. You don’t know how to use any of us, do you? I am a fish out of water—or rather, a girl out of Mount Shasta. My nerves simmer and my stomach flips. Family members observe my hesitation and I shift, feeling too much like an ant under a magnifying glass.

Under the table, a knee careens into mine. Yoshi very deliberately holds up the spoon beside all the knives. “Leg,” he mouths.

I grin and mentally promise Yoshi my firstborn. Why am I not eating already? Get in my belly. I dip the spoon in, and across the table, Sachiko winks at me. I make eye contact with my father. His wary gaze asks, Everything okay? I answer with a nod, my princess version of a thumbs-up. All good. The room seems to take a breath.

And so it goes.

It’s as if I’m being served calculus equations, but my second cousins are taking on the mantle of patient, conspiratorial teachers. With every new dish, they demonstrate what each utensil is and how to use them. Dinner passes in a blur of haute French cuisine—foams, gels, and powders. Between second and third courses, conversation dwells on the emperor and empress, who are visiting the Okinawa prefecture.

“You don’t see them often?” I ask my second cousins.

Masahito inspects his crystal glass and wipes away a smudge with his napkin. “Their Imperial Majesties’ first duty is to serve the people.”

“Yes, they are mother and father to all of Japan.” Yoshi says, then drops his voice to a whisper. “The emperor is not a god, but he is not a man either. We may live on the ground, but he still lives above the clouds.”

Dessert is served—fruit in the shape of an iris. It’s special, just for me. Another welcome. I bask in it. But this moment is fleeting, I realize with a start. Only by the grace of my cousins did I succeed.

After dinner, drinks are offered in the parlor. That’s my cue; the sandman beckons. Sweet sleep is only moments away. We rise from the table, and I bid my father goodnight. Aunties, uncles, and cousins watch me leave. I can’t help but feel the weight of their gazes on my back, the pull of their misgivings. They’re asking the same question I’m asking myself: Will I measure up to the imperial height?

THE TOKYO TATTLER

Japan weighs in on new imperial family member

March 23, 2021

Her Imperial Highness Princess Izumi (pictured) arrived at Narita International Airport yesterday afternoon sporting casual dress, leggings and a sweatshirt. Imperial blogger Junko Inogashira was present. “The clothing certainly wasn’t within protocol. What’s worse is that the princess didn’t address or wave to the crowds. Many waited for hours and were completely slighted when she left immediately. I heard from an airport employee the princess was rude to her assigned imperial guard when they stopped to use a restroom, too.”

Is the princess letting her new title go to her head? Janitor Chie Inaro doesn’t think so. He met the princess during the abovementioned restroom break. In an exclusive interview with The Tokyo Tattler, Inaro had only glowing things to say about the princess. “Beautiful, beautiful girl—the epitome of grace. She used my handkerchief to wipe her hands,” he gloated, showing off the white square cloth, now encased in glass. “I’d like to keep it. But my son wants to auction it off, says we’ll make a fortune.” A fortune indeed. At press time, the handkerchief’s current bid was ¥2,000,000. Inaro plans to put the money toward his retirement.

Since arriving at the airport, the princess has been locked up tight on imperial grounds. The Imperial Household Agency has declined to comment on how she’s faring. We can’t help but wonder why this princess is being hidden away …