interests.”
“Oh, is that so? I apologize. Well, then, if you don’t mind, I’ll take my paddle.”
“You already have it, Shimura-san. And why don’t I give you this brochure, which explains our company rules in detail.”
I turned away, not wanting them to see the blood that had rushed to my face. I’d screwed up in front of gossipy antiques people. I’d come in looking so proper, wearing the claret-color St. John suit Grand had sent from Neiman’s right before the trip; the suit was so grown-up it made me look over thirty, which actually was my goal. But now—I’d lost my advantage by behaving like a kid.
The setup for the auction was a high stage with multiple televisions suspended from the ceiling over it, for close-up views of the items to be auctioned. There was a table where small items would be placed for viewing, and a podium on which the auctioneer would stand. In front of the stage, tight rows of small gilt chairs waited for the audience. Most of the seats were filled; I realized that because of the long time I’d spent in line, it was only twenty minutes until the auction started.
Mr. Watanabe walked along the side of the room, as if unaware of my presence, though I knew, from a cell phone call I’d gotten while waiting in line, that he’d seen me. I made a slow circle around the room’s perimeter, seeking out the items that had the highest estimated values in the catalog. Takeo wouldn’t bother with little things, and neither would someone who was supposedly buying for the Sackler.
One of the most confusing elements of the viewing—something I anticipated because of my past experience at Meiwashima—was that not all the items for sale were Japanese. For instance, there was a huge, fantastically carved four-poster bed—Chinese, I’d figured out from the catalog copy, although to me it looked like the stuff of fantasy in an Arabian Nights.
I moved on to ceramics. My interest was caught by a graceful Momoyama period vase with a mottled gray finish. This was the kind of thing that I should be interested in.
I asked a young man wearing the severe black suit that was the auction house’s uniform to open the case. He paused until I reminded him that the house rules stated that auction attendees were allowed close examinations of goods for sale before the actual event took place. Apparently not many of the shop owners bothered.
The young man’s eyes were wary as he placed the vase on the examination table in front of the case. I sank into a deep squat, a posture of which my fitness instructor would have approved, and took out the tiny digital camera-phone, but before I could use it, the man stopped me. Apparently, I was breaking another one of the rules.
I put away the camera, feeling irritated and deciding that I wasn’t certain the piece in front of me was as old as estimated. Although the Tokyo antiques-dealing community had an overall good reputation for honesty, some Japanese potters were so traditional in their approach to hand-shaping and firing that it would be quite possible to pass off something newer as older. Only very subtle clues could tell me whether the vase was likely to be as old as the catalog said.
I stared at the vase, and in my long moment of indecision someone brushed past, causing me to lose balance and pitch forward.
My life flashed before my eyes as I struggled to keep myself from knocking against the vase. But the young man had it in his hands. All was saved, though I looked undignified on my hands and knees on the carpet.
“My God!” I exclaimed, so discombobulated that I accidentally lapsed into English. Immediately, I switched to a Japanese apology.
“It’s okay,” the young man said, his voice shaky. “That other customer was hurrying by very quickly. It was not your fault.”
I slowly came up to a standing position. My dodgy right knee was going to trouble me for the next few days, after the way I’d smashed onto the floor. No more runs through
“Oh, is that so? I apologize. Well, then, if you don’t mind, I’ll take my paddle.”
“You already have it, Shimura-san. And why don’t I give you this brochure, which explains our company rules in detail.”
I turned away, not wanting them to see the blood that had rushed to my face. I’d screwed up in front of gossipy antiques people. I’d come in looking so proper, wearing the claret-color St. John suit Grand had sent from Neiman’s right before the trip; the suit was so grown-up it made me look over thirty, which actually was my goal. But now—I’d lost my advantage by behaving like a kid.
The setup for the auction was a high stage with multiple televisions suspended from the ceiling over it, for close-up views of the items to be auctioned. There was a table where small items would be placed for viewing, and a podium on which the auctioneer would stand. In front of the stage, tight rows of small gilt chairs waited for the audience. Most of the seats were filled; I realized that because of the long time I’d spent in line, it was only twenty minutes until the auction started.
Mr. Watanabe walked along the side of the room, as if unaware of my presence, though I knew, from a cell phone call I’d gotten while waiting in line, that he’d seen me. I made a slow circle around the room’s perimeter, seeking out the items that had the highest estimated values in the catalog. Takeo wouldn’t bother with little things, and neither would someone who was supposedly buying for the Sackler.
One of the most confusing elements of the viewing—something I anticipated because of my past experience at Meiwashima—was that not all the items for sale were Japanese. For instance, there was a huge, fantastically carved four-poster bed—Chinese, I’d figured out from the catalog copy, although to me it looked like the stuff of fantasy in an Arabian Nights.
I moved on to ceramics. My interest was caught by a graceful Momoyama period vase with a mottled gray finish. This was the kind of thing that I should be interested in.
I asked a young man wearing the severe black suit that was the auction house’s uniform to open the case. He paused until I reminded him that the house rules stated that auction attendees were allowed close examinations of goods for sale before the actual event took place. Apparently not many of the shop owners bothered.
The young man’s eyes were wary as he placed the vase on the examination table in front of the case. I sank into a deep squat, a posture of which my fitness instructor would have approved, and took out the tiny digital camera-phone, but before I could use it, the man stopped me. Apparently, I was breaking another one of the rules.
I put away the camera, feeling irritated and deciding that I wasn’t certain the piece in front of me was as old as estimated. Although the Tokyo antiques-dealing community had an overall good reputation for honesty, some Japanese potters were so traditional in their approach to hand-shaping and firing that it would be quite possible to pass off something newer as older. Only very subtle clues could tell me whether the vase was likely to be as old as the catalog said.
I stared at the vase, and in my long moment of indecision someone brushed past, causing me to lose balance and pitch forward.
My life flashed before my eyes as I struggled to keep myself from knocking against the vase. But the young man had it in his hands. All was saved, though I looked undignified on my hands and knees on the carpet.
“My God!” I exclaimed, so discombobulated that I accidentally lapsed into English. Immediately, I switched to a Japanese apology.
“It’s okay,” the young man said, his voice shaky. “That other customer was hurrying by very quickly. It was not your fault.”
I slowly came up to a standing position. My dodgy right knee was going to trouble me for the next few days, after the way I’d smashed onto the floor. No more runs through
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