Hiroko Ito

"Everyone loves silk." Morgan declared, as he allowed his hand to run along the kaleidoscope of materials. "It makes a pretty woman beautiful, and a rich man poor."
"No discounts Morgan." Hiroko Ito wagged a playful finger at him. She wore a plain emerald kimono with a broad waistband of cream, her hair, immaculately brushed and presented, gleamed with the same glow of the silk she sold.
"Sadly, for you, I'm not here to buy, although this is wonderful." Hiroko moved quickly, extricating the red and golden bolt from it's rack and unrolling it on a long table, the better to show it off.
"You have a good eye Morgan, this is handmade in Japan and exported...." He allowed her to reel off her sales patter, whilst he looked around the shop and its glass topped cabinets. The bolts of cloth were carefully spread around the wooden pigeon holes, to try and hide the fact, there was only a third of the usual amount of stock for sale.
"Mr Ito is not here today?"
She ran a hand along the coolness of the silk.
"You do not wish to buy this?" 
"No, Madam Ito, but it is beautiful." As she re-rolled the silk and returned it to the shelf, she spoke softly, her back to him.
"Mr Ito has travelled to Japan. His Father is very ill." Morgan was surprised. He would not travel, with the world in such a colic of fascism and suspicion. She turned back. "His Father is dying." Her voice spoke of duty and necessity.
"That must be very difficult for you." She nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth in his words, then whispered.
"Americans, will not buy from us, we sell to Japanese Nisei for weddings, to the older ladies of the Issei who still are more comfortable in tradition costume. We get by. Mr Ito will return with new stock, more modern designs, I hope, will bring new trade."
Morgan rolled his hat in his hands and, recognising his discomfort, she smiled.
"But it seems, today you come for tea, but not to buy. Come." She indicated the two wooden chairs her assistant had set up beside a small round topped table, where a squat clay teapot steamed, beside bone china cups.
"As ever Madam Ito, you are correct. I need your expertise." He was accustomed to the dry tasting green tea, and passed her the pearl, wrapped in the wrinkled tissue paper. "A pearl, a fine peal, but can you translate the writing for me?" She glanced at the pearl, and placed it on the upturned lid of the teapot, then scrutinised the writing with a small laugh.
"This is Chinese, not Japanese. But I know a little. This, you see here? I think this is a mark of belonging, of the ownership of your fine pearl."
"Is there a name, can you read it?"
"No, this symbol, you see here? this is made up of sounds which spell out the name, but they are not familiar to me." She laid the crumpled piece of paper on the table and took the pearl again." How did you came by it?"
"It was found in this." He swapped the pearl for a red mahogany box, which she laid on her lap to open, and finding it empty, turned the key. The music transported them, one to the other side of the world, and the other, to a dream of childhood. After the last note had detached itself from the tune, they each took a sip of tea, still lost in their thoughts. Madame Ito smiled.
"So you came to sell, not to buy." Morgan spread his hands, as if saying, 'what else would you expect of me?' She opened her palm inviting him to replace the pearl there, which he did. She examined it professionally, then pinched it between two fingers and gave it back to him.
"This pearl, a poor silk merchant will never be able to afford. This box, I like. Mr Ito would like."
"Do you think it is Chinese too?" She shock her head.
"Oh no, the music is Western, the box made in the Western style, though of a good wood, well enough crafted, but not Chinese, definitely not Japanese."
They sipped tea again.
"And so Madame Ito, we reach the question of price." 
"This box, with its pearl and its history, is undeserving of financial consideration Morgan. It holds magic in its grain, like silk holds mystery in its threads." And Morgan knew he would be leaving with a roll of red and golden material under his arm.


(For Part One see 'Madigan')