Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(23)
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 …
9
Seventy-two hours in Japan, and I am no closer to reaching the imperial height. In fact, my growth is distinctly stunted.
From my seat, I stare up at Mariko. Mariko stares down at me, her honey-colored eyes cool and assessing. “Focus, Izumi-sama.” Her voice implies I am doing anything but. Her look also implies I am the human equivalent of a Band-Aid found in someone’s salad. Others are also present: Mr. Fuchigami smiles benignly, and a butler, eerily efficient and polite, stands ramrod straight. Rain splatters against the windows.
In front of me is a place setting. I take a deep breath, feeling my waistband stretch on my exhale. This morning, Mariko wrestled me into a matching twinset and pleated skirt.
I glance at the table. It’s a selection of crystal glasses, gleaming silverware, and porcelain plates inlaid with a gold chrysanthemum. My hand drifts over the second fork on the left. Mr. Fuchigami sucks in air through his teeth. He’s dressed in a staid suit, silver-streaked hair neatly parted and styled.
My hand changes direction. Mariko frowns.
If we were in Downton Abbey, Mariko would be Mary—churlish, a little cold, and serious to a fault. She is the driving force behind my three-hour etiquette lessons each evening. We practice bowing and different ways to say thank you. There are dress and glove fittings. Based on her frosty attitude, I have drawn the conclusion she does not like me. Quick fact: as a member of the royal family, I have no right to vote, carry cash, or have social media accounts.