The assistant assumed that all Japanese women giggled, having seen
Sayonara
with subtitles, and Audrey spoke in what she imagined was the slight sing-song of a Japanese voice, as she had seen
Sayonara
too. The ruse worked. They all agreed that since there was only a week before the Grand Opening and the post was not good, it would be best if the Embassy sent a chauffeur to collect the invitation.
The deception went smoothly. Audrey had been doing deception for nearly thirty years and she was good at it. With pleasure she removed the deckle-edged card from its thick white envelope and placed it in the cupboard with the yellowing linen and the
Brunel
books. Another little secret. If it worked it would be very very funny.
Naturally enough Edwin could not visit Audrey on the Big Day for he had to attend his wife. Which was just as well, really. If he had called on his mistress of nearly thirty years' standing (or lying) he would not have found her at home. Instead he would have discovered a Japanese Lady of strange and distinguished appearance, pouting and pirouetting in his Dearest Audrey's place. The shock might have killed him.
Madame Koi surveyed herself in the mirror. Something between a geisha and a high-class, traditional Japanese wife looked back at her. Madame Koi giggled and remembered to put her fingers to her cherry red lips. The wig would be hot, but it was correct and from the best theatrical costumiers in Paris. It was neither stylised split-peach geisha, nor a flat, black bob, but something in between, and it looked the part. Madame Koi's scarlet gown, embroidered with cherry blossom, was an elegant adaptation of a kimono, with a bright ochre belt that was wide enough to give the impression of the traditional obi. The costumier explained that to wear the full regalia - which Madame Koi had hoped to do - would render her more or less unable to move. This outfit, he explained with pride, came from the original stage production of
The Teahouse of the August Moon
- costumed by Molyneux no less - at the Theatre de Savoie -
before
the foolish American film version. Such a gown was designed - as perhaps only a French House could achieve - to keep the essence of Japanese style without the encumbrances. 'So that the wearer may move around the stage quite easily and freely'
Since Madame Koi thought that she would probably have to move around her particular stage more easily and freely than most, given the number of people who would be at the gathering and from whom it was incumbent upon her to be able to move freely and easily away, she accepted the compromise. Indeed, as Madame Koi remarked to the startled costumier, it might be less a case of moving around a lot quite easily and freely than running away a lot and rather fast.
'In which case, Madame
’
he said, with the merest hint of a leer, 'you will not require the traditional
okobo
which are designed entirely so that the wearer may be caught
...'
He removed from her reluctant hands the shiny lacquered wedges and replaced them with flat, beaded shoes in the design of a dragon. "The sign of sin,' he said, 'in any language.' His hand had lingered on hers. Not bad, she thought, for a woman of fifty. It gave her courage.
Once back in her apartment she told her maid, still the God-fearing Evie, that she would not need her that night. That she would probably go to bed early. Evie was glad. She thought she would go and watch the crowds of distinguished
personnages
arriving at the Louvre.
'Good idea,' said Audrey. 'Say hallo to Gerard Depardieu from me . . .' she managed to sound wistful. 'And Catherine Deneuve.' Evie stroked her arm, said she was sorry, that it was such a sad life sometimes, and left. Audrey instantly began to dress.
When she finally slipped on the beaded dragon shoes she smiled -as much as the heavy make-up allowed her to smile. Like the wig, her face was painted to look something between the full geisha face and the stylised application of a good Japanese wife at a formal evening function. In other words, Madame Koi looked the business. She bowed into the mirror three times and smiled. She felt oddly liberated. Oddly at one with the part. Unfettered, in fact. Strange how being in disguise could set you free.
When Edwin rang at a few minutes to six, apparently to seek her reassurance before he left for the exhibition, she even found herself doing a little geisha knees-bend bob at the telephone. Never could she more honestly say 'Yes' to his 'Are you sure you are all right about this?' Indeed, it was all she could do to stop herself from saying 'Hai'.
They usually spoke English but - without thinking - she ended their conversation with
'a tout a
I
'heure'.
'Dearest
’
said Edwin, 'you know that I have to accompany my wife back to the house tonight.'
'Sorry,' she said lightly.
‘I
forgot.'
'Sleep well,' he said, and the telephone was replaced.
'A bientot,'
she said, before replacing hers. '.A-bloody-well-bugger-
it
-bientdt\'
Enter Madame Koi
Bridges were interesting, thought Apsu. They were romantic, they were useful, they made connections and they divided. But, she asked herself, looking up at the mounting ziggurats, the harsh jaggedness, the soaring heroics, 'Why build a bridge? What effects, negative and positive, will it have on the people who use it? Who will use it and how much Heroic Requirement would
they
have? More to the point - why didn't Patrick Parker just install an entire bank of lifts?' Climbing from floor to floor would be so
hard.
Well, of course, there were other ways of getting to each of the floors on the new extension - by coming through the old building - just as they were planning for the Sainsbury Wing at the National - but that, at least, was gentle to the eye. To Apsu's mind, while this design was exciting, and she could not deny it, it was also - yes - no other word for it - Spectacular. God made Spectacular, she wrote in her notebook - Niagara Falls, Grand Canyon - Man made things for Humankind,
Madame Koi's car pulled up a little late, which seemed wise. If she arrived too early the number of guests at the reception would be sparse and she would be too approachable. And while she wanted to make an impression (no doubt about that) she did not want to be taken under anyone's wing. She especially did not want to have to talk to Edwin, obviously, and he and his Madame would arrive early. It was his way. She was perfectly aware of the risk that nearly thirty years of intimacy created. There might be something in the movement of her wrist, or the way she walked, that gave her away. And if she was found out? She would probably lose everything, everything being dignity. She would certainly lose his trust, his respect and -possibly - whatever security she was supposed now to own. It was a risk. It was a very big risk. She had never, really, taken one quite so big before. Edwin might not have her murdered, but he could very easily have her cast outside the city walls.
One thing she knew about women in her position. Birds sometimes stayed in bushes. Marie, the pretty young woman of thirty-five who had dined at the Curator's, now the Director's side at L'Arlesienne was no longer at his side. She was living in a small, cramped, dusty apartment with her grey roots growing through and little to show for her years of loyalty besides a diminishing stock of trinkets and the small, cramped, dusty apartment. Audrey visited her once and came away quite shaken. So far, as they said in the movies, she had kept her nose clean, but if she offended Edwin's curiously old-fashioned morality there was potentially a great price to pay. And old men could be fickle. She had seen that side of him too. It seemed quite appropriate to be wearing a costume that hinted of the geisha.
She hesitated. She need not go through with it. She could just melt away into the night. Problem was, she always
did
melt away into the night. And tonight she wanted to solidify. She had a score to settle. Her own honour, humble thing, was at stake. She moved forward again. She had every intention of serving it. Lightly up the grand entrance with, she fondly hoped, the right kind of small Japanese steps, she pattered. At the top she paused and took a deep breath while the doorman swung open the glass doors for her. State-of-the-art tubular steel handles, she had time to notice, just the sort of thing Patrick would approve of. He had once, in the old days, walked her around the shop called Heals and showed her Swedish cutlery which, he said, was the only stuff to buy. In the meantime, he explained, if you couldn't afford it you might as well buy your table settings at Woolworth's. She preferred the shape of the Woolworth's cutlery, finding some confusion in her mind as to which end of a perfectly designed, stainless steel Swedish knife actually did the cutting. And said so. She could still remember the pained look he gave her. But she consoled herself. He would never know that the person who misunderstood minimalism and the art of cutting meat then, was the same person who now talked to him of architectural moderns like Aldo Rossi, Mark Mack and Adele Naude as if they were old friends. And who came from Japan. Japan encapsulating all things cool and rarefied and desirable nowadays. She certainly intended to talk to him about such people - if she could effect it.
The invitation was removed from her hand smoothly enough, the smile from the flunky as he waved her graciously through showed no hint of suspicion. 'I'm in
’
she said to herself, over and over again. 'I've done it
...'
Even if it was standing in somebody else's shoes.
Madame Koi paused for a moment and looked around her, smiling and nodding at the press of guests as they made their way towards the Reception Hall. A tray of drinks stood on an artistic creation that might or might not have been a trolley. She remembered the Delphine Bolle fiasco and passed it by.
On the wall straight ahead of her was a vast projected image of Isambard Kingdom
Brunel
standing by a table with his hands elegantly indicating the plans for the Great Western Railway. The Horsley portrait. He was looking down at her, straight into her eyes. 'Sod off
’
she said to him, under her breath. She knew quite enough about him to understand that he would disapprove wholeheartedly of what she was doing. Women should be restful creatures and not go about trying to assert themselves. To be strident, and to be female, in Isambard's blinkered world, was sin.
Some hero. Her determination increased as she looked up at that deceptively quiet pose, that deceptively dignified expression. The man had dogged her for long enough. She showed him the tip of her little pink tongue and, feeling very pleased with herself, off she glided without giving him a second glance.
But Madame Koi realised that she was a little premature in her pleasure. For she had quite forgotten one little problem. And that little problem was, Other Japanese. Of whom - since Japan was booming economically and next in line for this exhibition - there were quite a few attending the function. And much as small girls at birthday parties will eye each other's frocks, say little and think much, so did the eyes of the Japanese ladies look Madame Koi up and down, blink a bit, look her up and down again, and not know quite what to make of her.
Of course, to Western eyes, Madame Koi's appearance was - if exotic - convincing. But to the eyes of her putative compatriots, it was, quite simply, weird. Indigenous Retro had not come to the
beau monde
of Japan. If you wanted to do retro in Japanese circles, you did it Western style. You had a quiff like Elvis or sequinned denim like Dolly Parton. You did not wear a mixture of Geisha and Imperial Empress Goes Walkabout. But it did have one advantage. Only the boldest of the Japanese contingent were likely to be brave - or impolite - enough to remark on what they saw. But as Madame Koi muttered to herself as she entered the door marked
Femmes -
it only needed one. And - sure enough - here she bloody-well-bugger-it was
...
The woman bending over and washing her hands stared at Madame Koi in the mirror and made as if to speak. Madame Koi smiled and bent her knees a fraction before disappearing into a cubicle. She did not come out until she was sure she was safe. Just what she needed, a proper Japanese woman trying to engage her in conversation in Japanese. Eventually the tap was turned off, there was the shush of a towel being thrown into the basket, and the door closed. Alone at last. Madame Koi emerged. She washed her hands, smoothed her wig, adjusted the lines of heavy make-up around her eyes, sent up a prayer to whoever might be on hand to receive it, and prepared to go back into the fray. Then she swung open the door with an air of confidence she was beginning not to feel. There were far too many Japanese guests out there to trip her up. And how right she was. For she immediately fell over the feet of her previous companion from the Ladies' Powder Room, who stood, as those strange people who travel down escalators will stand, at the bottom of them, transfixed and right in her way.
The woman gave a little yelp and rubbed her foot. The man she stood with - presumably her husband - looked from his wife to Madame Koi as if wondering what to do next. They both blinked at Madame Koi who made little noises to indicate her embarrassment. She made little noises largely because - for a moment - she could do nothing else. And then a very familiar voice, from somewhere in front of her and therefore from behind her assumed companions, said in English, 'My dear Madame Kencho, are you all right?' Madame Kencho made noises of approval and greeting that were definitely genuinely Japanese in origin. The familiar English voice, with its delicate hint of accent, returned the approval in a very familiar, definitely, genuinely English-worded way. And then Madame Koi heard another voice, also very familiar, and not at all convincing in her opinion, say in Japanese, and with feeling,
'Sumimasen, sumi
masen,
Madame
...'