The Pearl Diver by Sujata Massey Read Free Book Online

art I’d chosen was hanging already. A tryptich woodblock print of courtesans dining was hung along the north wall, as was another print showing a Tokyo food market in midwinter. More art was en routefrom Mr. Ishida’s shop in Tokyo; I hoped to have it installed within the first two weeks. For the lavatories, I’d found charming vintage posters from the 1920s that advertised soap and sweets, which I’d had framed and hung on the doors. My idea of installing blue-and-white basins inside small tansu chests had worked beautifully for the vanities. The carpenter was just finishing the stall door locks, brass hardware from Japan that was quickly faux-aged in a substance I was afraid to ask about but that did the job beautifully.
    I’d get an early sense of whether the interior was a success at the opening-night party, when the friends of the restaurant would test it. And far more important than my interior would be the kitchen’s ability to assemble its dishes, the waiters’ speed and finesse, and even the sommelier’s choices of wine pairings. Not to mention how the food tasted. That was the most important thing of all.
    The restaurant didn’t smell of food now, just of the heady incense that I recognized from Japanese temples. Andrea, dressed all in black, had lit a stick of incense at the hostess’s podium. She stared out at the passage of traffic beyond the glass window, the people streaming home from the Mall in cars and on foot.
    “How many are coming tonight?” I asked.
    “About two hundred,” she said. “You have two guests, right? I’m putting you all at a four-top over by the west wall.”
    I glanced where she had gestured with her long red fingernails. The table in question was not in a great location, but I was hardly one of the people they needed to impress. “I see it. What’s the VIP situation?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Are any celebrities coming?” If Moby and Hillary Clinton showed up, my night would be made.
    She rolled her eyes. “In Washington, celebrity doesn’t usually coincide with very important.”
    “Of course,” I said, feeling my face burn a little. Washington was like Japan in that way. Senators, International Monetary Fund bigwigs, C-SPAN journalists—these were the people who counted, and I was woefully inept at recognizing them. When I’d been over at Mandala one day trying to cadge some candles for Bento, the new Speaker of the House had been there, and Marshall had been shocked that I hadn’t recognized him. The problem, I explained in a half-joking manner, was that I only recognized beautiful things, whether it was an antique vase or a particularly lovely waiter. Fortunately, there were many of the latter hired for Bento, and I’d learned almost all their names. There was Phong, a good-looking Vietnamese-American guy who ran the bar, concocting such drinks as shiso mojitos and saketinis; Justin, the moonlighting undergraduate with the tousle of black curls; and David, a languid blond from Australia. Marshall had hired two female runners, Carla and Joan, who were also young and attractive, but their responsibilities were limited to carrying out the plates as they were finished, not taking the initial orders. They earned a portion of the tips, as did Andrea, but not the kind of money Justin, David, and their male cohorts did.
    As the old rosewood Seiko grandfather clock in the restaurant’s side hallway chimed seven, the first diners arrived and their comments on the interior felt like strokes along my back. The tansu holding barware—how beautiful! The old china on the walls, the artwork—fabulous! Awesome! Marshall had me on his arm, taking me around as if I was his partner, making me tell everyone about the Meiji Period and the heritage of the pieces I’d chosen.
    In the midst of it all, Kendall made her entrance. She’d pinned up her fox-colored hair in a French twist and was wearing a sleek black suit that ended mid-thigh. She wore spiky Manolo Blahniks and