Bell, isn't it? Whitmark called loudly as he bustled up.
Isaac Bell.
He saw tugboats gathering in the river to take charge of the hull when she hit the water. Excuse me. I'm expected on the ways.
YAMAMOTO KENTA HAD STUDIED photographs of American warship launchings to choose his costume. He could not disguise that he was Japanese. But the less alien his clothes, the farther he could roam the shipyard and the closer he could approach the distinguished guests. Observing his fellow travelers on the train up from Washington, he was proud to see that he had dressed perfectly for the occasion in a pale blue-and-white seersucker suit and a pea green four-in-hand necktie matched by the color of his straw boater's hatband.
At the shipyard in Camden, he doffed the boater repeatedly in polite acknowledgment of ladies, important personages, and older gentlemen. The first person he had run into upon arriving at the remarkably up-to-date Camden shipyard was Captain Lowell Falconer, the Hero of Santiago. They had spoken late last fall at the unveiling of a bronze tablet to commemorate Commodore Thomas Tingey, the first commandant of the Washington Navy Yard. Yamamoto had given Falconer the impression that he had retired from the Japanese Navy holding the rank of lieutenant before returning to his first love, Japanese art. Captain Falconer had given him a cursory tour of the arsenal with the notable exception of the Gun Factory.
This morning, when Yamamoto congratulated Falconer on the imminent launch of America's first dreadnought, Falconer had replied with a wry almost dreadnought on the assumption-from one sea dog to another-that a former officer of the Japanese Navy would recognize her shortcomings.
Yamamoto touched his brim once again, this time for a tall, striking blond woman.
Unlike the other American ladies who streamed past with chilly nods for that puny Asiatic, as he had heard one murmur to her daughter, she surprised him with a warm smile and the observation that the weather had turned lovely for the launching.
And for the blooming of the flowers, said the Japanese spy, who was actually comfortable with American woman, having secretly romanced several high-ranking Washington wives who had convinced themselves that a visiting curator of Asian art must be soulfully artistic as well as exotically Asiatic. At his flirtatious remark, he could expect her to either stalk off or move closer.
He was deeply flattered when she chose the latter.
Her eyes were a startling sea-coral green.
Her manner was forthright. Neither of us is dressed as a naval officer, she said. What brings you here?
It is my day off from where I am working at the Smithsonian Institution, Yamamoto replied. He saw no bulge of a wedding ring under her cotton glove. Probably the daughter of an important official. A colleague in the Art Department give me his ticket and a letter of introduction that makes me sound far more important than I am. And you?
Art? Are you an artist?
Merely a curator. A large collection was given to the Institution. They asked me to catalog a small portion of it-a very small portion, he added with a self-deprecating smile.
Do you mean the Freer Collection?
Yes! You know of it?
My father took me to Mr. Freer's home in Detroit when I was a little girl.
Yamamoto was not surprised that she had visited the fabulously wealthy manufacturer of railway cars. The social set that swirled around the American's New Navy included the privileged, the well-connected, and the newly rich. This young lady appeared to be of the former. Certainly, her ease of manner and sense of style set her off from the oft-shrill nouveaux. What, he asked her, do you recall from that visit?
Her engaging green eyes seemed to explode with light. What stays in my heart are the colors in Ashiyuki Utamaro's woodcuts.
The theatrical pieces?
Yes! The colors were so vivid yet so subtly united. They made his scrolls seem even more remarkable.
His scrolls?
The simple black on white of his calligraphy was so . . . so-what is the word-clear, as if to imply that color was actually unessential.
But Ashiyuki Utamaro made no scrolls.
Her smile faded. Do I misrecall? She gave a little laugh, an uncomfortable sound that alerted Yamamoto Kenta that all was not well here. I was only ten years old, she said hurriedly. But I'm certain I remember-no, I guess I'm wrong. Aren't I the silly one. I'm terribly embarrassed. I must look like a complete ninny to you.
Not at all, Yamamoto replied smoothly while glancing about surreptitiously to see who on the crowded platform was watching them. Nobody he could see. His mind was racing. Had she tried to trick him into revealing gaps in his hastily acquired knowledge of art? Or had she made a genuine mistake? Thank the gods that he had known that Ashiyuki Utamaro had presided over a large printshop and had not been the monastic sort of artist who toiled alone with a few brushes, ink, and rice paper.
She was looking about as if desperate for an excuse to break away. I'm afraid I must go, she said. I'm meeting a friend.
Yamamoto tipped his boater. But she surprised him again. Instead of immediately fleeing, she extended her long, slender cotton-gloved hand, and said, We've not been introduced. I enjoyed talking with you. I am Marion Morgan.
Yamamoto bowed, thoroughly confused by her openness. Perhaps he was paranoid. Yamamoto Kenta, he said, shaking her hand. At your service, Miss Morgan. If you ever visit the Smithsonian, please ask for me.
Oh, I will, she said, and strolled away.
The puzzled Japanese spy watched Marion Morgan sail sleek as a cruiser through a
