The Last Tea Bowl Thief Read online

  What had happened between then and now? Had the real tea bowl been stolen while she was sitting at her grandmother’s bedside in the hospital, willing her to open her eyes and be well again? Or maybe ’Baa-chan had secretly sold it without telling her?

  “She didn’t really send you, did she?”

  Nori swallows. “Well . . . not exactly. But that note I gave your daughter—did she show it to you? It was inside the carrying cloth, so I know she wants me to sell the tea bowl if—” She clamps her mouth shut. Never let a buyer guess how desperate you are.

  “If she wants you to sell it, why isn’t it in the box?”

  “I don’t know.” What had ’Baa-chan done with it? “Maybe she sold it to someone else. Without telling me.”

  He shakes his head. “Anyone who’d buy a tea bowl that valuable without the box to authenticate it is a fool. And I’ve known your grandmother over sixty years, long enough to know that she doesn’t deal with fools.”

  He retrieves the discarded cord and the green silk carrying cloth. “If she changed her mind about wanting you to sell it, I’d wager she hid it somewhere. Somewhere you’ll never find it.”

  He pushes the wrappings across the table with a sigh. “But if you do, call me.”

  2.

  Present-Day Japan

  FRIDAY, MARCH 28

  Tokyo

  Art authentication specialist Robin Swann shoves her front door shut with her hip, dumping the mail and her handbag atop the shoe cupboard with a sigh of relief. Why is it that no matter how big her purse is, the stuff inside expands to fill it? Rubbing her aching shoulder, she scuffs her feet into the fluffy pink slippers waiting beyond the edge of the entry tiles and trudges down the hall toward the kitchen. Detouring to the pocket-sized bedroom on the way, she trades her pantyhose and suit for sweatpants and a t-shirt, zips a faded college hoodie over the top. Then she grabs a shapeless sweater and pulls it over her bush of blond hair, because it’s still two-sweatshirt weather in her apartment. People have been posting bursting blossoms online for weeks now, but anyone who has read the haiku masters and lived in Japan for eight years knows that’s just an invitation for a late dump of snow.

  Ugh, has it really been eight years? She takes off her glasses and rubs her tired eyes. She’s over thirty, still living year-to-year on a precarious academic visa that has to be renewed every April, and has had a longer relationship with her goldfish than with any man since she arrived. Speaking of which . . . she crosses the room to the clear glass bowl and peers in. The orange fish lurks near the bottom, not moving, but not belly-up either. She taps in a few flakes of foul-smelling food, and it waves its feeble fins, rising slowly to the surface to nibble.

  At first, she’d kept the unwanted pet in a pickle jar, expecting it to move on to goldfish heaven within the week. Instead, it was her romance with the Japanese chef who’d won it for her at a shrine festival that died a quick death, while the stubborn orange fish lived on. After being ghosted by two more prospective boyfriends—neither of whom had been able to deal with her being taller and heavier than they were, even at her skinniest and in flats—she’d reluctantly bought the fish a clear bowl with a fluted blue rim, sprinkled some colored gravel on the bottom, and given it a name.

  Fishface is now two—no, three—years old. Surely that’s some kind of record for a festival goldfish. She keys a search into her phone. Nope, apparently, she and Fishface would have to live here thirty-eight more years to challenge that one. The very idea makes her want to . . . what? Scream? Drink wine straight from the bottle? Eat a whole carton of green tea ice cream?

  She tucks the canister of fish food back behind the framed photo of her solid Middle American parents, flanking a beaming, longer-haired Robin who’s squinting into the sun and clutching the diploma proclaiming her a Bachelor of Arts in East Asian Studies. She’d been so excited that day, a week shy of stepping onto a plane to begin her graduate program in Kyoto. So many shining roads had stretched before her, and on that sunny afternoon she still had no idea that the one she’d chosen would lead her further and further from the Japanese poetry master who was her passion, and turn her into a reluctant expert on Yoshi Takamatsu’s tea bowls instead.

  The truth is, her fairytale life in Japan is slowly grinding to a halt. She has a dead-end job authenticating antique ceramics, a month-to-month studio apartment near an inconvenient train station, and a marked-up fourth draft of her PhD dissertation languishing on her laptop, the file unopened since mid-December.

  That reminds her, she still hasn’t gotten the letter from her thesis advisor that’s key to renewing her visa for another year. If she doesn’t submit her application next week, she’ll be in deep trouble. Retracing her steps, she scoops up the wedge of mostly pizza flyers and utility bills, shuffling through it until she spots a fat envelope with her academic advisor’s return address in the corner. Whew. If she makes the dreaded pilgrimage to the immigration office next week, her visa renewal should nip in under the deadline.

  Abandoning the junk mail, she returns to the kitchenette and tugs on the overhead light’s grubby string pull. The fluorescent UFO overhead stutters to life as she opens the refrigerator. There’s a gap where the wine bottle usually stands. She groans, remembering that the last of her chardonnay had contributed to last night’s vow to get out more, meet new people, maybe even sign up for a matchmaking service. As if.

  Turning to the cupboard, she discovers that her wine supply has dwindled to a single bottle of pinot and the dusty bottle of champagne she’d received when she finished her master’s degree. She twists the top off the red and pours some into the glass that never quite makes it back into the cupboard from the dish drainer. A nightly glass of wine is her one indulgence, and although American wine is more expensive than French in Tokyo, she considers drinking California chardonnay and Oregon pinot among her few remaining acts of patriotism.

  She takes a sip and plops down at her low table with the envelope from her advisor. Slits it open, to make sure everything has been signed and sealed.

  It has. But a note is paper-clipped to the renewal form, and her smile fades as she reads. The professor, who supervised her research establishing that the tea bowl discovered in the Jakkō-in convent’s treasure house had indeed been made in the 1700s by Yoshi Taka-matsu, regrets to inform her that if she doesn’t submit her doctoral dissertation within the coming academic year, he’ll be unable to sponsor her visa again.

  Robin’s heart sinks. If she fails to finish her dissertation, she can’t stay in Japan. And ifshe can’t stay, where will she go? Certainly not home.

  3.

  Feudal Japan

  NOVEMBER, 1680

  Sasayama

  The clay flows between his fingers. Thinner . . . thinner . . . and JL stop. Yoshi Takamatsu lifts his hands from the rim of the bowl spinning on the potter’s wheel. A smile blooms on his face. This one feels right. As the wheel slows, he reaches for the cord used to cut a newly thrown piece from its mounting, but it’s not where he left it.

  “Nobu?” he calls to his younger brother. “Did you take my cutting cord again?”

  “It’s not your cord,” grouses Nobu from across the studio.

  Actually, it is. But to be fair, it was Nobu’s before it was his, and their father’s before it was Nobu’s.

  “Can I have it back so I can get this bowl off the wheel before it dries?”

  “Only if you explain again how you do your glaze,” comes the sulky reply. “You must have left something out when you told me last time, because mine didn’t turn out at all like yours. Father said it looked like I’d slopped mine on with an old rag.”

  Yoshi sighs. The truth is, he doesn’t know how he does the glaze. He just gives it a stir, swipes it on, then lets the gods of the kiln do the rest.

  “Maybe if you close your eyes,” he suggests, “and do it without thinking.”

  “Close my eyes? How am I supposed to do anything with my eyes shut, stupid? That’ll make it worse,
not better.”

  “Sorry, I don’t know what else to tell you. Maybe if you didn’t care so much about how it turns out . . .”

  “Easy for you to say.” His brother’s voice drips with resentment. “You don’t have to.”

  Which is true. He doesn’t. Yoshi is older by six years, but it’s his younger brother who’s being groomed to take over the family business. Someday Nobu will become Honzaemon IV, if he ever learns to glaze his tea bowls properly.

  Yoshi had been destined to become Honzaemon IV for the first five weeks of his life, until his parents’ delight at being granted a son turned to despair. They finally had to admit to themselves—and then to each other—that their baby’s eyes weren’t tracking any fingers, or focusing on any faces. The priest at the local shrine regretfully confirmed their fears: Yoshi was blind, and likely to stay that way.

  A pity, everyone murmured when his parents were out of earshot, since he was otherwise a beautiful child. From his mother, he’d inherited curved lips that tilt up at the corners and expressive features that eloquently telegraph his joys and sorrows. From his father he’d inherited thick black hair that resisted being confined in a topknot, and long, sensitive fingers filled with hidden strength, perfect for shaping clay. The only thing he lacks is sight.

  To be honest, Yoshi doesn’t really understand why not being able to see is such a big deal. He’s overheard more than one of his father’s patrons offering to buy his work. His formal training stopped the day his brother was old enough to sit at a wheel, but he’s still allowed to fill empty spots in the kiln after his father and brother have arranged their pieces for firing. It makes no sense to him that he has to be able to see in order to do anything important, but that—everyone tells him—is the way of the world.

  Fortunately, unlike blind men from families without means, Yoshi will never have to eke out a living as a masseur on the back streets. But his drop from number one son to the bottom of the pecking order means that nobody spares him much attention unless there’s some left over after the other four children have been prodded and coddled. Even his sisters are more valuable to the family than Yoshi; their womanly arts and pretty faces will buy the Takamatsu family valuable marriage alliances.

  He does contribute to the family fortunes in one way, though: despite being blind (or perhaps because of it), he’s especially good at preparing the clay. The chunks of earth they gather from a secret spot outside town must be wetted down with just the right amount of water, then he treads the virgin clay with bare feet until all the stones and impurities are worked out. When he feels the consistency is just right for his father’s work—not too stiff, not too soft—he finishes the job by cutting and kneading it until there isn’t a single air pocket left.

  His brother Nobu hasn’t quite got the hang of it yet. He’s too impatient. He’s earned more than one beating when he quit working it too soon, and his pieces exploded in the kiln, taking some of Father’s work with them.

  Yoshi hears the missing cord drop onto the table beside him. Winding the ends around his fingers, he stretches it taut, then draws it beneath the foot of his bowl, separating it from the wheel. Then he dips his hands in the nearby water basin and gently lifts the still-pliable vessel. He holds it before him, taking pleasure in the feel of it, allowing the delicate walls to bend slightly inward, becoming one with his cupped hands.

  This is what Kiri’s face would feel like, if he could hold it. The smooth skin, the gentle curve.

  “That’s wrong, you know,” Nobu informs him. “That shape. Father scolds me and makes me do it over if it’s not round.”

  That’s not why he makes you do it over, Yoshi thinks, settling his bowl onto a drying shelf. More than one famous tea bowl isn’t round. But until an artist learns to follow the rules of making tea ceremony ware, he’s not allowed to break them. Good thing he isn’t burdened with the curse of sight, or he’d have to follow the rules too.

  He cleans the wheel and tidies his tools, then feels his way toward the bath, hoping it’s still too early for his father to be taking his turn. On the way, he checks the cupboard where he’s been hiding his tea bowls. Poking his arm deep between the folded bedding, his fingers walk up the stack, counting . . . three, four, and five. All still there.

  He has to hide them, because his work has a way of disappearing if he leaves it in the studio. Two water jars and a tea bowl have gone missing since last spring. His father told him he needed more shelf space, so Yoshi’s pots had been tossed on the trash heap to make room for his own. That’s his privilege, of course, as the named artist of the household, but it still hurts Yoshi to be reminded that his work is of no consequence and never will be.

  Not as far as the outside world is concerned, anyway. But Kiri will appreciate it, and she’s the only one who matters. Today’s tea bowl will be the last he’ll make before he decides which one to give her. He pulls his arm back and slides the cupboard door closed, smiling to himself, imagining her cry of delight when she holds his gift in her hands for the first time.

  Today he’s in luck—the bath is empty, the water hot. By the time the townsfolk outside the garden walls are hurrying home for their evening meals, he is scrubbed and soaked and wrapped in a cotton kimono, dangling his legs over the edge of the polished wooden veranda encircling their house. Although the temperature is dipping toward freezing, Yoshi still glows with inner heat from soaking neck-deep in the cedar tub. Breathing in the crisp autumn air, still pungent with the ghosts of burning leaves, he tilts his face to the sky. Snow is coming, late tonight, or early tomorrow morning. He always knows before anyone else. He sits, languid and content, listening to the faint whir of bat wings dipping and diving over the garden as the crows argue in the trees, contending over the best roosts for the night.

  Today’s tea bowl could very well be the one. He’d made it a little smaller than the others, remembering Kiri’s delicate hands. He’d held them only once, but the memory fills him with joy, again and again. It had been like holding a pair of wild doves—soft and smooth, beating with life.

  They’ve known each other for almost seven years now. Would he even have met her if he’d been able to see? He thinks about that for a moment. Probably not. Not to talk to, anyway. She’s the third daughter of an official in Lord Katahachi’s government, and no matter how sought-after the Takamatsu family’s tea utensils become, samurai are samurai and artisans are artisans.

  The only time they really intersect is at tea ceremonies. The Takamatsu family teahouse had been built by his grandfather, Hon-zaemon II, and every social climbing samurai worth his rice allotment longs to receive tea in the room that had once hosted the shogun himself. Honzaemon II hadn’t been a top-notch artist, but he was a genius at selling tea bowls to the culture-hungry warrior class. Nothing predicts an imminent increase in rank quite like being invited to a tea ceremony hosted by a superior and performed by a famous tea master. Guests never fail to fall all over each other in their eagerness to buy everything they touch that day, and commission much more.

  On the day he met Kiri, he’d been banished to the garden, ordered to stay out of sight and shoo away the crows. They like to perch in the tree that’s smack in the middle of the famous view framed by the teahouse’s window. If they just sat there, they wouldn’t be a problem, but their cawing is too distracting for the nervous guests, who already have plenty on their minds. The choreography of a tea ceremony is as strict as the rules governing how and when a samurai may draw his sword, and mistakes can be just as deadly to a career.

  Yoshi hadn’t minded the crow job. He’d much rather be out in the garden on a warm spring day than inside the teahouse. He remembers sitting on the bench by the pond, breathing in the heady fragrance wafting from the wisteria arbor, listening to the waterfall’s gentle music and idly waving the gardener’s broom in the air to keep the crows from settling.

  Deep in a daydream, he’d been imagining what he’d do if he were the valiant Kintaro and met a bear in the woods, when a
girl’s voice piped up behind him.

  “What are you doing?”

  He’d dropped the broom, startled.

  “I was scaring away the crows.” Falling to his knees, he felt around for the broom handle. “Who are you? And how did you get in here, anyway?”

  “I came with my father and brother. They’re at some stuffy old tea ceremony.”

  Yoshi climbed back on his bench, resumed his shooing.

  “Why aren’t you inside with the women?”

  “It’s so boring. All they do is talk. And I can’t exactly kneel on the floor all day, can I?”

  “Why not?” He waved the broom. “Don’t you practice? If you practice, it gets easier.”

  “Not for me.” Offended. “Don’t pretend you didn’t notice.”

  “What do you mean?” He’d turned toward her voice, puzzled by her anger. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

  Then there was a telltale pause, as she took in his milky eyes, his unfocused gaze.

  “Oh,” she said. “You can’t . . .”

  He felt her draw near, inspecting him like everyone does when they first realize he’s blind. Why do they do that? What does that tell them that they don’t already know? It always feels like a violation, and he’d instinctively shifted away.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” she said in a small voice. “Have you always been . . .”

  “Since I was born.”