The Bride's Kimono Read Online Free

with all of us.
    On Friday morning, my telephone finally rang. Mr. Shima told me the museum’s high committee had ruled that I could carry seven robes to the Museum of Asian Arts—not the original eight, because upon recent examination, one was deemed too fragile.
    I hung up the phone and screamed. I’d won! Even though I could take only seven robes instead of eight, I was back to Washington on $500 a day.
    I returned to the Morioka the following Monday to look at the kimono. Mr. Shima met me with a weak smile.
    “Shimura-san, I’m pleased that we can allow you to carry the collection of kosode .”
    “I am, too. Thank you for your generous consideration,” I said, wondering if Mr. Shima was really glad or employing tatamae —the surface courtesy that made Japanese social encounters as smooth as raked sand in a Zen garden. Some foreigners railed against tatamae : they called it phony and insincere. I thought tatamae prevented fights and ugly situations, and it also enabled people who had disagreed to find their way to compromise and take care of business as needed.
    Mr. Nishio still didn’t look happy to see me. Silently,he slipped on a pair of spotless cotton gloves and opened a long acid-free cardboard box. He withdrew a flat rectangle wrapped in tissue paper: the identical manner in which my aunt and I stored our own kimono. The acid-free tissue paper, as well as a stronger external rice-paper wrapper, protected against the pervasive moisture in Japanese air, although I also imagined that the museum’s storage was climate-controlled.
    Mr. Nishio unfolded the kimono and laid it out on a long table covered by a clean muslin cloth. The garment was a dramatic red silk furisode, the name for any woman’s kimono that had very long sleeves. The kimono had been decorated with an elegant design of palace curtains, clouds, and fans using shibori and yuzen dyeing techniques, appliqué, and silk thread and metallic thread embroidery. Its style was exuberant and exquisite all at once.
    “This kimono has not seen light for more than thirty years,” Mr. Shima commented. “I’m pleased to see that its condition has stayed constant. We have a climate-controlled storage, of course, but one always worries.”
    “What an outstanding example of Edo-period design.” I stretched out my hand toward a sleeve, then pulled it back. What was I doing, trying to touch a museum object that was so fragile?
    “Don’t touch without gloves,” Mr. Nishio said sharply.
    “Actually, she will need to touch when she hands the items over,” Mr. Shima said in an almost apologetic voice to his colleague. “Why don’t we give her a pair of gloves?”
    “Are you sure? Thanks,” I said, putting on the gloves and lightly touching the embroidery. “I’ve never seen one so lovely as this. The embroidery is completely intact, and the design is so bold—that’s nuishime shibori, ” I said, mentioning a style of tie-dyeing that became very popular during the Edo period.
    “The tie-dyeing techniques are kanoko and nuishime shibori, ” Mr. Shima said. “Now Nishio-san will show you our technique for refolding the kimono; we fold sleeves in the opposite direction, using acid-free tissue paper as cushioning in order to avoid degradation of the fibers. You will need to do this in case you are asked to unfold some of the robes at customs.”
    Moving slowly and deliberately, reminding me of a Noh theater actor, Mr. Nishio refolded the kimono and set it aside.
    “Time for number two,” Mr. Shima said cheerily.
    This kimono was what was classified as kosode, a shorter-sleeved robe befitting a more mature woman than the red furisode . It was adorned with a graceful pattern of orchids covered with small drifts of snow, using a stunning combination of two styles of shibori tie-dyeing, and silk thread and metallic thread embroidery.
    The third kimono was actually a juban, an under-jacket worn by men and women. This one was a creamy silk decorated with