Chapter 3 Okay, Let’s Try This Again
Okay, Let’s Try This Again
I take Aiko’s advice and wear my most intricate gown.
This design was inspired by a music video from my favorite J-rock group, Neck Lace.
In the lead track of their most recent album, the six female singers run away to a circus.
There’s a scene in the music video where dozens of clean white gloves reach out of a pool of black sludge as if beckoning the singers in for a deadly swim.
The visuals altered my brain chemistry in a way that only captivating music videos do, so I stitched gloves all over a black lace gown.
A corset cinches my torso while my sleeves are made of a puffy organza that emphasizes the whimsical elements of the circus theme.
And it’s all tied together with my homemade pin-striped oil-paper umbrella.
There’s a red clown nose on top and everything.
I hold the umbrella over my shoulder as Aiko and I make our way through Arakawa City, a district of Tokyo.
This place looks like the neighborhood Amah grew up in before she moved to Taiwan.
I imagine her at my age, walking streets exactly like this one.
Did she know she’d move to Taiwan and meet Gonggong?
Did she ever imagine that her granddaughter would come back to Japan?
In just a few moments, I’ll be meeting the woman who’s going to help me recreate Amah’s uchikake.
And maybe the reason why I’m thinking about Amah right now is because she’s cheering me on from the other side.
Aiko cuts through a park with a waterfall pouring down the middle of it.
According to the English translation on the sign we pass, this place is called Tenno Park.
Kids splash around while Aiko and I stroll beneath the shaded trees.
Parents glance my way, holding long stares before returning their attention to their kids.
But a five-year-old in wet swim trunks gawks at me with a finger up his nose.
We walk past a sign that lists all the rules for Tenno Park.
At least, I think it’s a sign with rules.
It’s written in kanji. I wouldn’t be able to decipher the Han characters even if I tried.
Kanji is pulled from Traditional Mandarin, the same style that’s used in Taiwan, as opposed to Simplified Mandarin in mainland China.
Not that I can understand either writing style, but still.
I’m able to get the gist of these rules from the images beside them.
A bottle with a line through it must mean no alcohol.
A sandwich with a line through it must mean no food.
But there’s only one image I can’t make sense of.
I point to the picture. “Hey, Aiko. What does that mean?”
Aiko reads the sign. Her gaze skims the images before lingering on the last rule. It’s a picture of a woman’s ankle with a tattoo on it. It accompanies the silhouette of a boy with a tattoo on his shoulder. And like the other images, there’s a line through them.
“The sign says exposure of tattoos is prohibited,” Aiko explains.
I scrunch my face as the sign disappears behind us. That’s what I thought the message was trying to convey, but it makes no sense. “Seriously? What’s wrong with tattoos?”
“I forget tattoos are normal for Americans,” Aiko says, but it feels like she’s speaking to herself.
Then she clears her throat. “Tattoos have had a negative history here in Japan with the yakuza and everything. There are still a lot of traditional people who see tattoos as a bad thing. But the coolest people I know have them.”
There’s a smile in Aiko’s eyes, like she just told a joke.
How many tattooed people does she know? Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a single tattoo since landing at the airport.
Then again, I haven’t really had a chance to explore Tokyo, nor could I even think about sightseeing before I’ve figured out how to save my mentorship.
We reach an intersection, and Aiko steers me toward the Sumida River.
We pass a mother with a child in her stroller.
The adult does a double-take and even looks over to Aiko.
Meanwhile, the toddler gapes at me with a mouth open so wide that her pacifier falls out.
So, this is the attention Ma warned me about at the airport.
Aiko giggles at the kid. “She probably isn’t used to seeing street fashion this far away from Shibuya. Arakawa is more of an industrial and historic district. Tourists don’t normally come through here.”
I nod. That accurately describes the landscape.
Low towers and apartment buildings are made of the same beige brick and gray concrete.
They line the horizon but aren’t tall enough to block out the clear blue sky.
Tucked between buildings are temples with Buddha statues and sticks of spicy incense that wafts through the air.
Trams rush by, following the power lines running over the streets like sheet music.
“Auntie Hana’s boutique is just around the corner,” Aiko explains, pointing to the intersection up ahead.
I lower the umbrella onto my shoulder. It blocks the sun from my face, but a bead of sweat trickles down my temple, and I’m not sure if it’s from my nerves or from the lack of airflow.
Aiko tells me fun facts about Arakawa as if she’s my personal tour guide, but I’m having trouble focusing on her voice because all I can think about is what Mrs. Matsumoto is going to say about my dress.
What if she takes one look at it and kicks me out of her store because my sense of style is too attention-grabbing for Arakawa?
My stomach is in knots, and before I know it, I’m standing in front of Matsumoto Alturations.
Even though the Matsumoto family stems from a lineage of silk spinners dating back to the late Edo period, this fabric store and tailor looks incredibly modern.
The exterior of the shop is boxy with large glass windows.
The front door is painted over with mountains as if paying homage to the farms where the silk is harvested from.
The building climbs three stories. A balcony spans the second floor, while a sloping, traditional-style roof caps the top, as if this shop never forgot its origins.
The Sumida River glistens behind me. Silver light bounces off the surface of the water and reflects onto the giant glass window.
There’s nothing on display at the entrance.
There doesn’t need to be because just beyond the windows is an entire store lined with bundles of fabric.
Tapestries decorate the shop like confetti after a New Year’s Eve party.
There are no walls—just material. There are no shelves—just patterns.
My fingers tingle, needing to touch everything.
For the first time in a long while, I’m starting to feel it again. My muse. It’s inside this store. If I’m going to have any future in fashion, I need to find it. Now more than ever, I need Hana Matsumoto’s help.
Aiko pulls open the door, and a bell chimes from overhead. I close my umbrella and hurry inside. There are so many nooks and crannies—so many textures that I must touch. I can’t resist dragging my hand across the row of fabric scraps dangling by the door. Soft cotton. Thin lace. Smooth velvet…
Aiko takes out her phone and scrolls through her texts. “Auntie Hana said she’ll be in her office. She got a shipment of silk from her farm in Gunma Prefecture today. She’s cutting pieces for clients on her wait list.”
I can’t stop my jaw from dropping. Mrs. Matsumoto has a wait list for her farm-grown silk? It’s such an honor just to breathe the same air as her, let alone set foot in her shop.
“Why don’t you wait here and give me a chance to talk to her in person?” Aiko suggests. “I know how to sweet-talk my auntie.”
My anxiety should be at an all-time high, but the colors and patterns around me are begging for my attention. I can’t feel dread when I’m walking through a forest of fabric.
Aiko vanishes into the back of the store.
I know I should stay put, but I can’t help myself.
A display of mannequins catches my eye. They stand on a platform beside the cash register.
On their frozen plastic frames are kimonos in various colors and patterns.
There’s a cream one with a floral design and a gold one with geometric patterns.
All of them silk, and all of them intricate and beautiful in a way that has me eager to recreate Amah’s uchikake.
Hers is red with gold cranes soaring between bamboo shoots and flowers.
The design flows across the uchikake the same way a river flows between valleys.
The hem is worn, and the color isn’t as vibrant as I’m sure it was five generations ago.
Still, this uchikake is a special piece of family history.
Now that it’s mine, I don’t want to restore it.
That would take away from the vital story of its wear and tear.
But I do want to recreate it as a yukata. I’m just not sure how it would—
“Lilyn Jeong?”
I jump, whirling around.
A woman in her late forties stands there, dressed in a deep eggplant-colored yukata.
Her thin lips are flattened together. Her graying hair is pulled back into a tight bun.
She doesn’t need to introduce herself. I’ve read her Wikipedia page enough times to recognize Hana Matsumoto.
The quaking in my knees is enough of a confirmation.
“H-hi, Mrs. M-Matsumoto. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.
” I rush forward with my hand extended. Then I remember I’m in Japan and I should probably bow.
I freeze mid-step and lower myself. I’m petrified in a teapot pose—arm out, back bent.
Jeez. What am I doing? How am I even supposed to greet a mentor?
One thing’s for certain, I’ve hopped on the Awkward Express, and I’m riding it straight into the abyss.
Where’s Aiko when I need her?