could come up with the Japanese translation for testosterone-driven—” how rude they could be on the street. I hate to think of what kind of misunderstanding might develop, if you slept in that room.” At present, I knew, the boys were mixing drinks in the kitchen, just getting started on their party.
“Rei-chan, you are my cousin, not my aunt.” There was a hint of annoyance in Chika’s soft voice. “But please not to worry. I will share the futon with Sridhar, because his religion forbids him to touch women before marriage. It is the perfect arrangement, I think.”
I bit back any further protests. She was twenty-two. But still, I couldn’t help imagining her mother—my Aunt Norie—shaking her head in horror at the idea of Chika in bed with a tabla player, with the rest of the band crashed out around them, and the pomegranate recording whatever might be said—or sighed—during the night.
“It’s up to you,” I said at last. “But please remember, Chika, the walls are very thin. It’s quite easy to hear things.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Mother mentioned that about the time she visited here.”
That could mean Aunt Norie had overheard me with Hugh. I felt myself start to blush.
“Don’t worry,” Chika continued cheerily, “I shall tell the boys not to practice their songs tonight. We won’t disturb you anymore.”
6
Senator Harp Snowden had a weakness for good food—good Asian food, especially. His scheduler had said she could squeeze me in during the late morning, so I decided to bring him something to make up for any delays that I might cause. A new specialty bakery had opened near the zoo, and it sold quirky Japanese baked goods like puff pastry packets with curried vegetables inside, and croissants filled with chestnut puree. This seemed perfect for late morning, when the thought of lunch was on the horizon, but not yet a possibility.
Around eleven I carried the beribboned pastry box carefully into the Hart Senate Office Building. After a quick trip through a metal detector and a brisk walk past a huge, inscrutable Calder sculpture, I rode a crowded elevator up to the senator’s office.
A new woman sat at the reception desk. She looked Asian but had features I couldn’t quite place. She also had the same northern California accent as mine, but she mutilated the pronunciation of my name when she announced me over the phone to the senator. “It’s like a ray of sun,” I said to her after she’d hung up. “And Shimura sounds almost like Timor—”
“You can go back there now,” she said, clearly not interested. “But Marianna said to remember he’s got to get over to the Senate in half an hour.”
I nodded and went through the door. Senator Snowden’s office suite was huge, a charmless warren of cubicles and rooms where young people sat with their ears glued to phones and their fingers hovering over keyboards. Nobody looked up as I turned a corner and knocked on the half-open door that led to the senator’s inner sanctum. He was at his antique partners desk, ankles up, with stacks of periodicals around him; he waved me in. I glanced around the room, seeing that a new artistic find—a Hmong quilt—had gone up between an old portrait of him with Bill Clinton and another with Nelson Mandela. Harp was a few years older now than the senator in the pictures, but he was still very handsome, with his patrician features and thick, silver hair. He was what every woman hoped her boyfriend would age into, I thought, as he swung his legs down from the desk and walked over to give me a quick embrace. He walked with a very slight limp that betrayed the loss of one of his feet, many years ago in Vietnam.
“How nice to hear from you, Rei. It’s been too long!” Harp said, smiling at me.
“Well, you were really kind to see me on such short notice,” I said.
“It’s an important reason for us to talk. Michael told me you might be calling,” he said, motioning for me to sit down
“Rei-chan, you are my cousin, not my aunt.” There was a hint of annoyance in Chika’s soft voice. “But please not to worry. I will share the futon with Sridhar, because his religion forbids him to touch women before marriage. It is the perfect arrangement, I think.”
I bit back any further protests. She was twenty-two. But still, I couldn’t help imagining her mother—my Aunt Norie—shaking her head in horror at the idea of Chika in bed with a tabla player, with the rest of the band crashed out around them, and the pomegranate recording whatever might be said—or sighed—during the night.
“It’s up to you,” I said at last. “But please remember, Chika, the walls are very thin. It’s quite easy to hear things.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Mother mentioned that about the time she visited here.”
That could mean Aunt Norie had overheard me with Hugh. I felt myself start to blush.
“Don’t worry,” Chika continued cheerily, “I shall tell the boys not to practice their songs tonight. We won’t disturb you anymore.”
6
Senator Harp Snowden had a weakness for good food—good Asian food, especially. His scheduler had said she could squeeze me in during the late morning, so I decided to bring him something to make up for any delays that I might cause. A new specialty bakery had opened near the zoo, and it sold quirky Japanese baked goods like puff pastry packets with curried vegetables inside, and croissants filled with chestnut puree. This seemed perfect for late morning, when the thought of lunch was on the horizon, but not yet a possibility.
Around eleven I carried the beribboned pastry box carefully into the Hart Senate Office Building. After a quick trip through a metal detector and a brisk walk past a huge, inscrutable Calder sculpture, I rode a crowded elevator up to the senator’s office.
A new woman sat at the reception desk. She looked Asian but had features I couldn’t quite place. She also had the same northern California accent as mine, but she mutilated the pronunciation of my name when she announced me over the phone to the senator. “It’s like a ray of sun,” I said to her after she’d hung up. “And Shimura sounds almost like Timor—”
“You can go back there now,” she said, clearly not interested. “But Marianna said to remember he’s got to get over to the Senate in half an hour.”
I nodded and went through the door. Senator Snowden’s office suite was huge, a charmless warren of cubicles and rooms where young people sat with their ears glued to phones and their fingers hovering over keyboards. Nobody looked up as I turned a corner and knocked on the half-open door that led to the senator’s inner sanctum. He was at his antique partners desk, ankles up, with stacks of periodicals around him; he waved me in. I glanced around the room, seeing that a new artistic find—a Hmong quilt—had gone up between an old portrait of him with Bill Clinton and another with Nelson Mandela. Harp was a few years older now than the senator in the pictures, but he was still very handsome, with his patrician features and thick, silver hair. He was what every woman hoped her boyfriend would age into, I thought, as he swung his legs down from the desk and walked over to give me a quick embrace. He walked with a very slight limp that betrayed the loss of one of his feet, many years ago in Vietnam.
“How nice to hear from you, Rei. It’s been too long!” Harp said, smiling at me.
“Well, you were really kind to see me on such short notice,” I said.
“It’s an important reason for us to talk. Michael told me you might be calling,” he said, motioning for me to sit down
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