The Bride's Kimono by Sujata Massey

She had to be the customs broker waiting for me. I got into the line heading her way, and when I reached the agent, I handed over my passport and the papers and identified myself to her in a low voice. She nodded at me and pulled out her own set of papers for the customs official. Everything was in order, so he waved us on. I reset my watch two hours back; it was two o’clock in the afternoon, and still Monday, since I’d traveled back across the international date line.
    I exited customs and followed the red, white, and blue flag to where See America Travel had assembled, with the female customs broker in my wake.
    “Where are you going?” asked the woman.
    “I heard there’s a free shuttle to the hotel, provided by See America Travel.” I could see the tour group leader, a middle-aged lady holding the tour’s official flag, surrounded by a growing number of office-lady travelers.
    “Are you a first-time courier?”
    I nodded, feeling a flush of embarrassment.
    “That must be why you don’t know about the transport. I’m Joan Forster of Fine Arts International.” She reached into a Coach handbag and took out a business card, as well as a driver’s license, as well as an employee ID with photograph.
    “Okay, Miss Forster, I see you’re who you say you are,” I said, examining the ID pieces as best I could from behind the two boxes I was carrying.
    “Joan, please. You’re back in America, remember?” She cracked a smile that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Now, Allison at the Museum of Asian Arts should have explained that you are to proceed directly to the museum to have the packages checked in. I know you must be tired, and we have about an hour of travel ahead of us. But the legal agreement stipulates we must bring the boxes immediately to the museum, where Allison is waiting. After that, I’ll say good-bye to you and have the limo take you to your hotel.”
    “I see,” I said, understanding the logic of what she was saying but still feeling a bit nervous about going into a private car. “Do you mind…if I just stop at a phone booth to call Allison first?”
    “Of course. If you like, you can use my cell phone,” Joan Forster said dryly.
    The truth was, I didn’t have any American coins yet. I took the Nokia she handed me and dialed the museum’s main number, followed by Allison’s extension. I recognized her voice when she picked up on the second ring.
    “It’s Rei Shimura. I’m here at Dulles and was met by Joan Forster. I’m calling to check that you want me to travel in a limousine Joan brought. I wasn’t expecting such—generosity,” I said quickly, trying to make it seem as if I wasn’t so distrustful of Joan. But I had to know.
    “Yes, it’s all part of the package deal. It went smoothly at customs, then? You didn’t have to open anything?”
    “No. Will we be doing all the examination of the textiles this afternoon?”
    “No, we’ll do the examination tomorrow morning. That is, if you’re not too tired.”
    I assured her that I wasn’t, and I hung up and handed the phone back to Joan.
    “You’re doing a good job to be so cautious,” she said. “Come on, our guy’s waiting at the curb.”
    The car was an unmarked black Toyota Camry; I had the back with the boxes, while Joan sat up front with the driver, a man in a dull brown suit. When the vehicle started up, I forgot about them and stared out the window. My first view of America in two years, and it was of a part of the country I hadn’t seen for six years. We were on a toll road that was relatively empty in the direction we were moving in—though the other side was packed with an unmoving line of cars. On either side of the freeway there was an imposing array of shiny sterile buildings. So this was the new suburban landscape. I was glad we were going to get out of it fast and into the city.
    We hit some traffic as we entered Washington, D.C., so it was an hour and a half until we reached Kalorama, the