Parlor Games A Novel

AMERICANS IN TOKYO



TOKYO—1890–1891



How could I resist Japan, where women are appreciated as cultured companions and schooled in how to make careers of this fine art? I reasoned I could fare far better in Japan than the only place in the United States with female suffrage, Wyoming. Here I could apprentice under Tokyo’s revered geishas and mingle with the most distinguished men in all of Japan—businessmen selling exotic goods all over the world, owners of the fishing fleets that plied the sea’s bounties, even officials of the royal court.

Upon arriving in Tokyo, I secured a suite at the gleaming, brand-new Imperial Hotel, a stately and imposing facility that afforded plentiful opportunities to meet wealthy Japanese as well as foreign businessmen and dignitaries. I acquired a closetful of fine silk kimonos and learned how to make my face up in the Japanese style, first by applying white powder and then the lip and eye ornamentation that stood out so vibrantly against it.

Soon I found myself mixing with men of all nationalities. I was, however, the companion of no one man, for I was perfectly content to keep company with a variety of influential men, among them a French count and a member of the Argentine legation. My unfortunate relationships with Juan Ramón and Hugh Carlyle had taught me to exercise care in choosing a gentleman friend, and I resolved to bide my time and enjoy the freedom afforded by my unexpected wealth as long as possible.

One festive evening claimed a regrettable place in my memories of Japan. A diplomat from the Japanese Embassy in Canada, Mr. Ishiguro, requested I accompany him to a gathering at the most exotic geisha house in Tokyo, the Yoshiwara. That evening, the house had been reserved for a gathering of Japanese businessmen from Narita. The party, apparently much impressed by having been invited to this renowned house, hired a photographer to memorialize the occasion. Before dinner the photographer summoned all of us to the main hall and arranged us, in two rows, before an expansive screen of tiny farmers plowing fields with yaks at the base of an imposing mountain.

Now, I am not particularly keen on photography—perhaps because my first picture was taken by the police in San Francisco—but I did not wish to upset Mr. Ishiguro or the guests, and I imagined this portrait would be the private property of only the visitors. So I took my position in the front row and smiled demurely for the photographer, keeping my face cast downward in the manner of my Japanese sisters. The rest of the evening went off quite nicely, and I forgot all about the photograph until some time later.



Each month, the Imperial Hotel hosted a reception for their honored guests in a high-ceilinged room of beige walls painted with towering bamboos and peacocks resplendent in fanned tails. It was at one of these events, in February of 1891, that I met Johnny Graham, a young New Yorker with a tall, trim silhouette and eyebrows so flaxen they blended with his fair complexion and lent his sky-blue eyes the appearance of perpetual wonderment.

While we stood apart from the groups of conversing notables, clutching our flutes of champagne, I asked, “What brings you to Tokyo, Mr. Graham?”

“I’m on my Wanderjahr. I’ve visited Paris, Calcutta, Peking, and gads of points in between.”

“How exciting. I love to travel.”

“You must. Not many American women would venture all the way to Japan.”

“It’s the most exotic place I’ve ever seen, though I must say I’m glad for the company of an American.”

Mr. Graham looked around the dimly lit room at the attendees settled into small clutches—European, American, and Japanese men, a few with wives or lady guests—and lowered his voice. “Don’t you find the Japanese a bit stiff?”

After a glance this way and that, I said, “Not compared with the British.”

Mr. Graham tossed his head back and unleashed a burst of carefree laughter. I was beginning to like Johnny Graham—his casual frankness, immaculate teeth, and hands as delicate as a piano player’s.

Composing himself, he bent his head to me. “Are you here by yourself?”

“Completely.”

“Did you arrive on your own?”

“Yes.”

“What courage. It’s not easy to navigate these foreign countries.”

“Given enough money, one can navigate any place.” That night, I certainly looked as if I had “enough” money. I wore teardrop diamond earrings and a floor-length apricot kimono embroidered in pale-yellow and white peonies.

“Where in the States are you from?”

“Chicago.” I sipped my champagne. “My father was in the restaurant business.”

He tucked a hand in his pocket and studied me. “Forgive me, but I can’t get over my amazement. You’re traveling Japan completely on your own?”

“Yes. But why should you be amazed?” I assumed Mr. Graham was unattached. But, wary of repeating my unfortunate experience with Mr. Carlyle, I asked, “You’re doing the same, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but it’s nothing for a man,” he said, rocking on his heels. “Do you have plans to see any other places?”

“Not at the moment.”

“This is my last stop before the States.”

“And what happens after your world tour?”

“I take over my father’s business.” Mr. Graham’s eyes twinkled with the unpretentious bonhomie of one who is confident fortune will favor him. “Tokyo is my last hurrah before settling down in New York.”

“What business are you in?”

“Imports. Art, antiquities, furniture—that sort of thing.”

“How impressive. That must require specialized knowledge.”

He shrugged and said, with an utterly charming lack of pretense, “I majored in art history at Harvard.”

Mr. Graham’s obvious good breeding blessed him with an honest cordiality, sportive cheeriness, and a dash of naïveté, all of which I found pinch-me beguiling. We fell into each other’s company that evening with the ease of long-separated friends renewing their affinity. As the reception broke up, Johnny said, “I’m not the least bit tired, and it’s a crystal-clear evening. Let’s take a rickshaw to Ueno Park.”

The sun sets early in Tokyo in February, before six. But we’d had a string of sunny days with temperatures approaching sixty degrees, and as we traveled the city’s streets that evening, the cool air did not chill so much as invigorate.

“I’ve a special spot to show you,” said Johnny after paying our driver. He trotted ahead, pointing to a row of bare cherry trees. “Come, it’s beyond those trees.”

I lifted my kimono and broke into a shuffling run. “Wait for me.”

“No, you catch me,” called Johnny, not slowing at all.

We ran, laughing at our childishness, along a gravel path. We passed through a row of trees, and the landscape opened onto a rectangular pond rimmed by a grassy expanse. Johnny halted and stretched out his arms, as if embracing the world. “Look up. Look at the stars.”

I ran to his side; he scooped me into his arms and twirled us around. Both of us cast our gaze upward, and I nearly lost my balance, save for his sure grip. We stopped, winded, our giddiness turning to wonder at the sparkling sky. Johnny let me go, shucked off his jacket, and said, “Here, lie down so you can see the whole sky.”

He reclined beside me, his shoulder brushing mine.

Stars scattered across the moonless sky, as bright and twinkly as those of a deep Michigan night. Only here, half a world away, I felt I was seeing them anew. Then I remembered an evening I hadn’t thought of in years. “Once, when I was a little girl, my father took my two brothers and me to a meadow filled with fireflies.”

“I love fireflies,” Johnny said.

“I dodged and darted from one firefly to another, until I’d caught three all at once. Papa was sitting on the edge of the meadow, watching us. I scampered up to him with my treasure. ‘Look, Papa, fireflies for you,’ I said and opened my hands. As they flitted away I squealed, ‘Come back, Papa’s fireflies.’ He gathered me in his arms so that we were both looking in the same direction, and pointed at the North Star. ‘See that bright star? I’ll catch it for you.’ Then he reached his hand out and clenched it closed. Now, whenever I look at the North Star, I think of Papa.”

Johnny reached his arms to the sky and cupped his hands together again and again. “Here’s another and another and another for you.”

Then I did something I’d never done before—or since. Because I saw no reason to wait, because I did not wish to wait, I kissed him. His lips melted into mine, his delicious warm lips, in a kiss I shall never forget as long as I live.



In the weeks that followed, Johnny and I became nearly inseparable: strolling through Tokyo’s Yanesen neighborhood, admiring its cute, compact wooden houses; bowing to women sweeping their doorsteps; and giggling at children running gleefully through narrow corridors. We marveled at the city’s temples with their stacked layers and swooping roofs; filled our evenings with sake and laughter; and bounded back and forth between his first-level room and my second-floor suite, as carefree and playful as youngsters on their first resort holiday.

One evening, I picked him up for dinner in his room and spied a small photograph on his dresser. “That’s your mother and father with you?”

“Yes, Mother insisted on a photo session before I left last year. And I liked that one well enough to bring it with me.”

Johnny sat between his parents, his father’s square face yielding to a soft grin and his mother beaming proudly.

“Your mother’s beautiful. You get your good looks from her.”

“Mother is wonderful. We’ve always understood each other. Of course, Father loves me, and I him, but more from a distance.”

I picked up the portrait. How handsome Johnny looked, with his blond hair neat and shiny, his expression radiating contentedness. As I regarded him at that moment, at a time before we’d even met, sentimentality washed over me—sentimentality I hadn’t known I was capable of. “Can I keep it in my room? So I can always have you near?”

Johnny wrapped his arms around me and kissed my forehead. “Yes, but you’ll never find me far away.”



One early March evening, after dining in my suite, Johnny reached under the pillow beside his seat and pulled out a slender box. Handing it to me, he said, “For you, Pauline. The most fascinating and clever girl in the world.”

“Oh, Johnny, what have you done?”

“Open it.”

I slid the cover off the ebony box. Nestled against a bed of rippled black silk lay a dazzling string of pearls. I flattened a hand over my heart. “They’re beautiful. As round and shimmery as tiny moons.”

“Yes, well, they’re Japanese.” Johnny reached out and brushed his fingers lightly over my neck. “Only the finest pearls in the world would do for you.”

“Oh, Johnny, you make me feel like a princess.” I took the pearls from the box and walked to the mirror over my dresser. “Help me put them on.”

Johnny came up behind me, fastened the clasp, and turned me around toward him.

I gripped his shoulder and hand in a dancer’s pose and swung us about in a waltz step. We laughed and dipped as I hummed “The Blue Danube,” dancing in a tight circle in the space between my bed and dresser. Oh, Papa, I thought, can you see me now? I’ve found that man you told me to look for: someone with an ocean of money who makes my heart dance with delight. Except money and pearls don’t matter, Papa—for with Johnny I’ve recaptured the joy and abandon of that little girl who used to twirl pirouettes for you.



One afternoon two months later, while I tended to some correspondence in my room at the Imperial Hotel, my maid Kotone informed me that a gentleman wished to see me.

“Did he present a calling card?”

Kotone, a slight sixteen-year-old with a dainty nose and sharp chin, stood before me, clasping her hands over the broad waistband of her kimono. “No, he said he is Mr. Graham’s friend and wishes to surprise you.”

That’s odd, I thought. Johnny hadn’t mentioned any visitors. Nevertheless, I sent Kotone to show him in.

I rose from my desk. Kotone minced through the door, her floor-length kimono tight around her ankles, with my visitor trailing behind.

I could hardly believe my eyes. Was it really Detective Reed Dougherty? All the way from Chicago? He was as lanky and lean-faced as I remembered and, unlike at our first meeting, wore fashionable attire—a pebble-gray jacket with matching waistcoat and, in the newest style, a floppy bow tie. My mind whirred with questions. Who had hired him? Could it be about the larceny charge? Might Juan have sent him to track me down?

I signaled Kotone to my side and whispered, “Get Security.”

As she slipped out of the suite, I turned to the Pinkerton and knit my hands together, budging not one inch from where I stood beside my desk. I had no intention of offering the cad a seat. “Mr. Dougherty, you were not expected.”

“I’m delighted to see you as well.”

“I can’t imagine we have any business.”

He set his frame in a sturdy pose, five feet from me, his chin upturned like that of a pompous judge. “But we do. It appears you’re engaged in yet another of your adventures.”

“I’m on no adventure. This is where I live now—quite far from the place you once asked me to leave.”

“But not far from your old tricks.”

“You’ve no cause to threaten me.”

He fingered the felt derby which he held over his abdomen. “I’m hoping it won’t come to that.”

I pulled myself up straight to expand my diaphragm and inhaled. “You should know I have friends with influence in this city.”

“And I must ask you to part with one particular friend.”

This was my suite, paid for with my own money, and here was the person I most detested in the world invading it. Had I been a man, I would have hoisted him by the scruff of his starched collar and booted him out. “Who my friends are is none of your business.”

“John Graham does happen to be my business.”

Oh, no, I thought. Not my Johnny. I fixed a steely gaze on Dougherty. “Then you should be having this conversation with him.”

“As it happens, I have talked to him.”

“You have no influence over me here. But, more to the point, I am doing nothing illegal.”

“Mr. Graham’s return to New York is long overdue.”

“Mr. Graham is free to do as he pleases.”

“Not when it goes against his father’s wishes.”

“Then his father should take the matter up with him.”

“In fact, he’s taken it up with me.” He clutched his lapel and assumed a jaunty pose. “And I suspect you would prefer not to have a certain photograph brought to his or John’s attention.”

“You must be mistaken.” Was it possible he’d acquired the photo taken by the San Francisco police? I had no choice but to call his bluff. “I do not pose for photographs.”

“But I do have a photograph.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You can believe me and leave Mr. Graham, or you can take a chance on me revealing your past.”

My throat constricted, but I pressed on. “There is no photograph for me to be concerned about.”

“What a pity. You seemed so at home playing the geisha.”

I laughed, more relieved than humored. I brushed my hand over the desk, buying a moment to shift strategy, all the time aware of Dougherty’s eyes probing me. “You think a photograph of me with a party of Japanese dignitaries will matter to Johnny?”

“A whorehouse is the same the world over.”

“I was merely a guest of the house. That photo means nothing.”

Dougherty paused a moment, as if to weigh his options. “No, but the other picture probably will.”

The door opened, and my maid hurried in with two uniformed men scurrying behind her. I called out, “Take this man away. He has stolen property from me.”

The security guards seized him, and one commanded, “You come.”

Dougherty flailed his arms and tried to shake free of the men. “I’ve stolen nothing. I’m here on official business.”

“He’s taken two photographs from me,” I said. “Tell them, Kotone.”

Kotone translated for the security guards, who nodded to me and ordered Dougherty in their stilted English, “You come with us.”

The guards turned Dougherty toward the door.

“Fine,” he said over his shoulder, “we’ll straighten this out later.”

“Good day, Mr. Dougherty,” I said, as the security men hauled him off. “You can answer to the authorities now.”

I threw open the sashes of my suite’s front window. Along the avenue neatly pruned trees displayed shimmering lime-green leaves, but I took no delight in them, nor in early May’s perfumed floral airs. My hands shook, and I clucked my cottony mouth to moisten it. Dougherty was not only the last person I’d expected to see in Tokyo, but the last person I ever wanted to see.

Now Dougherty’s client, Johnny’s father, wished to come between Johnny and me. I didn’t believe for one minute that Johnny had deceived me: He had no wife or fiancée; he was on his world tour; and though his father had badgered him about returning to New York, Johnny had explained there was no urgent need for him to take up the business. That left only one reason for his father’s concern. Money.

I needed to buy us some time—out of the reach of Dougherty’s scrutiny and threats.

“Kotone,” I called out, “go downstairs and see what they’re doing with that man.”

I kept watch at the window. Minutes later, the green-garbed security men emerged from the hotel. As they escorted Dougherty down the street, he jabbered, no doubt making a last-ditch effort to escape their clutches.

Kotone returned and joined me at the window. “They take him to police.”

“As they should.” I drummed my fingers on the windowsill. “When the security men return, please ask if the police will be holding him.”

Kotone nodded. “Yes, miss.”

“But first let’s have some of that nice chrysanthemum tea. Both of us.”

When Kotone brought the tea tray, I said, “You must tell me about the Japanese countryside. Come.” I led the way to the couch. “Please sit with me.”

Stiff-backed, she eased down on the couch, her hands planted at her sides.

I patted her hand. “What are the nicest places to visit in summer?”

“Kyoto is very pretty, very old. Beautiful temples and Kamo festival soon.”

I poured tea for both of us and handed her a cup. “Yes, and where else?”

“You could go to Fujiyama. Very big mountain. Very pretty from train.”

“I’ll have to talk it over with Johnny.” I held the teacup under my nostrils, breathing in its sweet floral scent and relishing the soothing steam.

Kotone sat beside me, her frame quite still as she tilted her teacup to her lips.

I sipped my tea. Its delicate taste stimulated my own glands, assuaging the dryness of my mouth and calming my rattled nerves. Placing my teacup on the tray, I faced Kotone. “Please see to my laundry this afternoon. I’ll want to pack in the next day or two.”