Murder on the Cliff (2 page)

“My cousin,” Connie explained.

An ardent Japanophile, Connie’s cousin, Paul Harris, was responsible for the addition of Okichi Day to the Black Ships Festival program. It was he who had arranged to import the geishas and had put Connie and Spalding up to asking Charlotte to participate. Charlotte had talked with him several times on the phone in the course of making arrangements, but she’d never met him. He was a short, homely man with warm brown eyes and a neatly clipped beard.

“Miss Graham,” he said, bowing slightly from the waist, Japanese style. “We’re delighted that you could be here.”

“I’m pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you from Connie,” she replied, and immediately regretted her words.

He and Connie’s daughter, Marianne Montgomery, had been involved in a bitter and protracted legal battle over a house they had both inherited: the house that Townsend Harris had built on the Cliff Walk after his return from Japan.

“If you’ve heard about me from Connie, it probably wasn’t favorable,” he replied good-naturedly.

“Not at all,” objected Connie. “You know I have only good things to say about other members of the family. The Harrises have to stick together.”

Though Connie had come to the rescue, it was nevertheless an awkward moment, which Charlotte did her best to smooth over by introducing herself to Paul’s companion, whose name was Nadine Ogilvie.

“Paul is very happy that you could be here,” said Nadine. She had a low, melodic voice and a heavy French accent. She was a beautiful woman with strong features and glossy black hair. She was impeccably dressed in a stunning red suit, and wore a small fortune in diamonds and pearls. She was also Paul’s mistress, and had been for many years.

“At last,” said Connie as a young naval officer came to seat her and Spalding and their Japanese counterparts, the president of the annual Black Ships Festival in Shimoda, and his wife.

Charlotte detected a note of relief in Connie’s voice. She would be glad to get out of the sun, but also glad to get away from her cousin and Nadine. She didn’t want the family squabble to interfere with the festival.

Connie and Spalding and their Japanese counterparts were fifth on the list, after the president of the Naval War College and a lieutenant in the Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Forces.

Once they had gone, Charlotte checked the program to see where she was listed. Which was at the bottom, just after Paul, who was listed as chairman of the Okichi Day Committee. It was obviously difficult to fit a movie star into the official protocol. The program identified her as “Miss Charlotte Graham: Okichi Day Delegate from the United States.” Had it identified her further, it might have said “first American to play a Japanese geisha.” Or “movie star who shocked the public by portraying an interracial romance.” Not only an interracial romance, but an extramarital one as well. On top of that,
Soiled Dove
had been one of the first films to deal with the theme of suicide, which had always been considered box-office poison.

Charlotte considered
Soiled Dove
her best picture. It was the one she should have won the Oscar for—not that she hadn’t deserved her other four—but Okichi had been one of her best roles. Awarding her the Oscar, however, would have been endorsing the daring sexual content of the film.

How times had changed.

Finally a young naval officer arrived to escort Paul and Nadine to their seats, leaving Charlotte with the public relations people. Like the other U.S. delegates, she had a Japanese counterpart, Okichi-
mago
. But she was recovering from jet lag at Paul’s home, or rather Paul and Marianne’s home.

Charlotte’s escort finally arrived. “Miss Graham?” he said, offering her his arm. As he escorted her to her seat, they chatted about
Soiled Dove
. It was one of his favorite movies. He had seen it four times, and planned to see it again that night; it was being shown throughout the festival at a local movie house.

It was interesting that despite its dated subject matter—a relationship between a Japanese geisha and an American diplomat was hardly likely to raise eyebrows anymore—
Soiled Dove
had retained its popularity, and was among the most popular “classic” movies at the video stores.

The ceremonies began shortly after Charlotte was seated. Spalding was master of ceremonies. After welcoming the Japanese delegates, he introduced the first speaker, a Shimoda official who spoke about the long friendship between the United States and Japan. Glossing over the “difficulties” of the past (What difficulties was he referring to? Charlotte wondered. Pearl Harbor? The Bataan Death March? Hiroshima?), he called for strengthening the relationship between the two countries. “As in a marriage, we need to work tirelessly to improve our efforts at understanding.” He was followed by four other Japanese speakers, none of whom spoke English. An elderly Japanese man translated their speeches, each of which then became twice as long. The fifth speech seemed interminable. Charlotte could feel her eyelids getting heavy, and fanned the sultry air with her program to keep herself awake. Platitudinous phrases drifted in and out of her consciousness: “The relationship between our two peoples has never been as important as it is today.”… “Our relationship is important not only to our two countries, but to the entire world.”… “We are poised to usher in a new era of peaceful competition and mutual understanding.”

She was jerked back to consciousness by Spalding’s fidgeting. Tall, portly, and patrician, Spalding was usually a genial sort—he was known around town as Mr. Newport for his leadership in local charitable affairs—but at this moment he didn’t look genial at all. He was staring at the speaker, his bushy, gray-white eyebrows knitted together in a frown.

Charlotte had lost track of what the speakers were saying, but she now pricked up her ears.

The speaker was a slightly built Japanese man with wire-rimmed glasses. His snow-white hair was parted in the middle and combed straight back from his forehead. Unlike the earlier speakers, he spoke perfect English. But instead of platitudes about mutual understanding, he was talking about the end of the American century: “A century in which the typical American executive drives a Japanese automobile, cooks his food in a Japanese microwave, watches a Japanese television set, records his family vacations with a Japanese video recorder, and works in a high-rise office building owned by a Japanese company.”

He was talking about an American economy “that has no substance.”

Even American defense, he pointed out, depended on the Japanese: without Japanese semiconductors, American missiles couldn’t hit their targets. If the Japanese were to stop selling semiconductors to the United States, it could upset the military balance of the world.

Charlotte could see a red flush rising like a tide from the stiff white collar of the vice admiral who was president of the Naval War College, and who sat directly in front of her.

And to what did the speaker attribute the end of the American century? “A family in decline, an educational system that doesn’t work, a corporate culture in which long-term refers only to the next quarter, and a failure to save.”

Connie patted her husband’s arm; his face by now matched the color of the brick-red trousers he wore with a navy blue blazer. Several members of the audience got up and marched out.

It was time, the speaker continued, for Japan to stand on its own two feet, for Japan to take the leadership in world affairs, in defense, in foreign aid. It was time for Japan to stop thinking of itself as a colony of the United States. As for the United States: if it didn’t mend its ways, it might find itself being considered a colony of Japan.

There was a charged silence as the speaker returned to his seat. A few polite members of the audience clapped. Looking up at the statue of Old Bruin, Charlotte half expected it to topple over in astonishment.

Then Spalding took the podium. After conspicuously failing to thank the previous speaker for his remarks, he delivered his closing comments with something less than his usual aplomb, and announced the laying of the wreaths. In pairs—one Japanese, one American—the official representatives placed the red and white chrysanthemum wreaths with black ribbons in front of the black wrought-iron fence at the foot of Perry’s statue. As each set of wreaths was laid, the Newport Artillery Company, wearing the uniforms of Revolutionary War soldiers, fired a smoky salute from an antique Paul Revere cannon.

After the cannon salutes, the color guard retired as the Navy band played “The Stars and Stripes Forever” (with more than the usual fervor, Charlotte thought) and the ceremonies were over.

2

After the opening ceremonies, the delegates drifted back across the street to the art museum for a reception. Charlotte stood on the porch of the grand old house, which had once been one of the summer cottages for which Newport was famous, sipping a lemonade and savoring the cool ocean breeze.

Spalding stood nearby, Connie at his side. He was giving a mild dressing down to a young Japanese man named Kenzako (Just-call-me-Ken) Mori, who was on the staff of the Japanese consul general’s office in Boston and was a member of the Black Ships Festival Committee as well. He had been responsible for extending an invitation to the last speaker.

“What could I do?” he was saying to Spalding in self-defense.

Charlotte had met him earlier at Connie and Spalding’s. He was an energetic man with a bouncy step and a taste for American living. He wore a sleek gray double-breasted suit and sporty aviator glasses. He also drove a baby blue Cadillac, which Charlotte found amusing, especially in light of the last speaker’s remarks. “American cars have the best design,” Mori had told her.

Connie explained to Charlotte what was going on. The last speaker, whose name was Hiroshi Tanaka, was president of a privately held Japanese electronics company and one of the richest men in the world. He was also the head of a Japanese trade organization which had recently purchased one of Newport’s mansions.

“They plan to use it as a corporate retreat and for entertaining American clients,” Connie said. “Newport was up in arms about it for a while, but as far as I’m concerned, the Japanese are no more foreign to Newport than the Texans.”

Tanaka had volunteered the mansion, a huge Gothic pile of red sandstone called Edgecliff, for the Black Ships Festival Mikado Ball. Which was why Just-call-me-Ken had invited him to speak. That, and pressure from the governor. Tanaka’s company owned a factory which employed close to a thousand Rhode Islanders.

Little had Mori known that Tanaka would use the opportunity to vent his spleen about what was wrong with the good old U.S. of A.

“It really wasn’t his fault, poor man,” said Connie as she looked over at Mori, who was about half her husband’s size. “I hope Spalding isn’t too hard on him. He’s worked so hard on the festival.”

As Charlotte headed over to the refreshment table to refill her glass of lemonade, she could hear Spalding ordering Mori to keep a muzzle on Tanaka for the remainder of the festival.

Meanwhile, Tanaka stood at the center of a knot of adulatory Japanese, smiling broadly and bobbing his snow-white head in acknowledgment of their compliments. Apparently he had said what they all had been wanting to say for a long time: which was “Go to hell, America.”

As Charlotte stood talking with Connie, her daughter, Marianne, came drifting over, or rather, clacking over. On her feet she wore the four-inch platform sandals the Japanese called
geta
. They were made of black lacquer.

“You remember Marianne,” said Connie.

“Of course,” said Charlotte as Marianne pecked the air on either side of her face. How could she forget. Marianne Montgomery was a well-known fashion designer. Well-known for her sex life as well as her fashions. Charlotte and Connie might have tallied up four and three marriages respectively, but they had nothing on Marianne, who at fifty or so—she looked at least fifteen years younger—had been married half a dozen times, the last time, which was seven or eight years ago, to a twenty-year-old Italian prince.

“I like your outfit,” said Charlotte.

She was wearing a voluminous kimono-like orange silk robe over a long, heavily textured silk skirt. The robe was tied with an obi-like sash of a metallic gold fabric. Against her white face, which was framed by shiny black hair cut in a Cleopatra style, the effect of the brightly colored masses of fabric was highly dramatic.

“Thank you,” she replied. “It’s from my new collection—‘Geisha.’ We’re having a charity show at the casino on Saturday in honor of Okichi Day. I hope you’ll be able to come. It’s only fitting that the most famous geisha of the American screen should be there.”

Charlotte smiled. “Of course I’ll be there,” she replied. “I read the reviews last week. You’ve made quite a splash.”

“Thank God,” she said with a grin.

“I never thought about it before, but I guess a good review is as important to a fashion collection as it is to a Broadway show,” said Charlotte.

“With one big difference. In the theatre, a hit show usually means a long run, the sale of movie rights, sweatshirts, posters; in fashion, a hit collection means that you’re expected to repeat the same success again next season.” She shook her head. “It’s a bitch of a business.”

“But she loves it,” said Connie.

“I’m hooked,” Marianne agreed.

Marianne’s story was a familiar one in the fashion world. She had started out in a basement with two sewing machines, and twenty years later, she was a millionaire. Of course, her family connections had helped—Connie’s Hollywood friends and Spalding’s society friends had lots of money to spend on clothes. But connections were no good if you didn’t have talent too. Her new collection was eliciting raves from the fashion magazines. She had taken the kimono-inspired shapes popularized by the Japanese designers and done them one better, replacing their dark, somber tones (one fashion magazine had dubbed it “the Hiroshima bag lady look”) with bright, vibrant ones.

“Even the Japanese are raving about it,” said Connie. “Spalding says that Marianne is going to single-handedly rectify the balance of trade.”