Silk Road Days, Semester One: Return of the Trueborn
Chapter 1—Coming Home
Keiko Miyazaki sat up straight in the antique armchair. There was a heavy, leaden atmosphere in the room, exactly as Keiko remembered it from years before. She nervously crossed her nylon-sheathed legs, and curled her right foot to make sure the high heel did not slip off. As she waited for her host to finish his slow, measured pace about the room, Keiko looked around to ascertain some things indeed remained unchanged with the passing of years.
The home looked and felt like a Victorian, though hardly that old. This room looked almost as it did, her last time here. The cream-colored, stuccoed ceiling and exposed beams were as before. Antique bookcases lined three walls, and the hardcovers that rested in them were nearly all first editions, a collection gathered over the decades by the Founder and his successor.
The chair on which Keiko sat was of a matched pair from the late 19th Century, like the divan placed between them. The mahogany coffee table was well polished and bore not a scratch. The wine red carpeting was wall-to-wall and covered the room’s odd dimensions. Before Keiko, the sun streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows; these looked from on high over all of the buildings that made up Silk Road Academy.
“Yes, yes; impressive.” The file folder snapped shut in the right hand of Keiko’s host, and Thomas Sikorski turned and walked back in her direction. “I must say,” the man continued as he took the chair opposite her, “your achievements are fully in line with the young lady that left us four years ago, Miss Miyazaki.” He smiled, this time a warm one. “It is wonderful to see you again, Keiko.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sikorski,” Keiko replied with a polite nod. She did her best to remain outwardly calm.
“Please,” Sikorski replied with a chuckle, “you may call me Thomas. You did as a student, long before I assumed my lofty status. It’s perfectly fine now.”
“As you say.” Keiko blushed; part of the reason for her case of nerves was the feeling she remembered in connection with this place. As a student, the Founder’s Home was without fail an intimidating experience. Just walking past it made Keiko feel that way.
Seated across from that man’s successor was no less unnerving. Father and son were opposites in many ways, but Keiko knew the young Mr. Sikorski’s eyes took more than just a cursory glance over this particular alumnus.
Keiko stroked the long tresses of her black hair, which hung over the left shoulder. The movement of her hand revealed one of a pair of tiny silver hoop earrings. Her suit jacket and skirt were gray; the thin, bejeweled ribbon of her late grandmother’s choker resided about her neck above the collar of her white silk blouse.
She was sure Thomas discerned her state of affairs: the choker was a hand-me-down, the rest of her outfit secondhand. Keiko felt cheap coming back to Silk Road looking like this, but the suit was the best she could find, and afford.
Keiko had come to know “the Young Sikorski” well during her matriculation. Thomas’ ascendency to the top position came upon his father Gerald’s passing five years before. Her eyes involuntarily traveled to the wall on her right, where between two of those huge bookshelves the Founder’s portrait hung.
Dr. Gerald Sikorski looked very much like the headmaster of a boarding school, if one believed the fiction stories and stereotypes. The painting was of a white-haired, portly individual in a three-piece pinstriped suit; a gold watch fob chain hung from the vest pocket. These accoutrements, plus the stern gaze from sharp blue eyes from behind round, wire-framed glasses completed an accurate image.
In reality “the Old Man” was an affable fellow and his life was as he often said (but begged pardon for the pun), an open book. The author of numerous histories and texts, Gerald Sikorski was once the world’s foremost authority on the Silk Road. Those particular writings on the ancient trade route across Asia secured the man his place in history. He then retired to Japan, remarried, and built Silk Road Academy from the ground up.
Thomas knew what Keiko was thinking. “I hope,” he said as he lifted his china teacup from its saucer, “I do not follow too much in Father’s footsteps. I wish not to become a stuffed shirt.”
They shared a polite laugh. The younger Sikorski had carved out his own niche in the literary world: author of a string of successful novels, this man cut a unique, yet significant figure.
Keiko knew Thomas was 43. The only scion of the Founder stood six feet tall with a lean build. His brown hair was now tinged with gray, and his beard and wire-framed glasses led to a scholarly, if Bohemian look. His clothes, however, did not come close to Gerald’s sartorial tastes: beneath the gray sports jacket, Thomas wore a dark blue cotton pullover; his jeans and Texan boots had seen better days.
“I don’t recall your ever being one, sir,” Keiko replied.
“Now, now.” Thomas lowered his cup as he laughed. “It is decent of you to be so correct,” he said, “but you do know my name, Keiko; you may use it. Besides, we will be working close enough to be on such a basis. My father was stiffly formal as I’m sure you recall,” Thomas continued, “and while there is a time and place for such things, now is not one of them.”
“I appreciate that.” Keiko was about to add a sir to the end of her statement, but caught herself.
“Right, then,” Thomas said as he once more examined the documents within the folder, “you Keiko have carried on with a remarkable record. Since leaving Silk Road, you gained your Bachelor’s degree in Education from Tokyo University in just three years. You completed the Master’s program in only one.”
Thomas peered through his glasses at her; the blue eyes appraised this information as Keiko herself. “You were on a record pace, Miss Miyazaki—what would drive you to return to the backwaters of Nagano for work?”
Keiko had to chuckle at that one—she felt more relaxed, finally. “It is,” she replied, “because I do need the work, Mr. Sikorski, um, I mean, Thomas. I have always wanted to teach; where better than the place at which I was awakened?” Keiko paused. “I hope that last part made sense.”
“Indeed.” Thomas laid the folder on the table and said, “You have convinced me. You perhaps did not know this Keiko, but my father thought highly of you. Gerald considered you one of the true, bright sparks of those who have passed through Silk Road’s doors. He often referred to you as one of the native, or ‘trueborn’ wonders. Not just because of your grades, either: his observation was rooted in the way others perceived you. For you to say you were ‘awakened’ here,” he added, “well, that’s most flattering. I’m sure Gerald would feel the same way.”
Thomas’ countenance changed as a thought came to him. “Oh, and what of your parents? How are they doing?” He asked.
Keiko smiled. “Father is still working,” she replied. “Mother is dealing with some health issues, but she is well.”
“Hm.” Thomas nodded slowly, and his eyes drifted away, but only for a moment. “I am sorry to hear that. I am of the feeling you seek employment in order to support them?”
“Yes.” Keiko’s nod was a firm one. “It is time for me to enter the work force,” she said, “and make my own way. My parents were incredibly supportive of me all these years, and now it is my turn. They always said I must follow the path my heart leads me upon, and as I have explained, I wish to teach.”
“Most noble.” Thomas leaned forward and laced his long, thin fingers together. “Since my father’s passing,” he explained, “Silk Road Academy has maintained its high standard as a preparatory school. Changes have occurred, but you shall find these are largely cosmetic in nature. My goal,” he continued, “is to foster learning along the form that Father laid down when he founded the academy 27 years ago. Our faculty remains among the best in the world; the pay is higher than even some university professors with tenure receive. You are aware that as a Teaching Assistant, you will have the inside track to a full-time position in future.”
“I am aware,” Keiko replied.
Satisfied, Thomas leaned back in his chair. “I must also remind you,” he went on, “the student body here is one that is carefully examined and vetted. You will recall from your own days that Silk Road attracted the top students from not just Japan, but from around the world. Father personally examined every application—I do the same, along with Masako and the board.”
Keiko smiled at the mention of his wife’s name. “We were often called the best and the brightest,” she said.
“And the maddest.” Thomas grinned, and Keiko was forced to laugh. “This world of ours,” he declared more to the room than to her, “has changed little!” He then stood up, and Keiko followed suit.
She knew that Thomas was again looking her over, but not checking her out. Keiko was taller than most Japanese women; in fact she was as tall as the average man. She considered her face plain, but many complimented on its simple beauty. Her brown eyes were large, but not terribly so, with long lashes. Her body was trim, the product of years of careful diet and exercise.
“My hope,” Thomas said with all deference and politeness, “is that you will accept my offer. Money is the last thing anyone should discuss in a job interview, but I understand your reasons and needs. You will do well for a young woman such as yourself, starting out. Masako will go over the boring details with you later,” he added with a casual gesture of his hand, “but remember this: you will be looked after, as anyone who has come to, and left Silk Road would be.”
His eyebrows twitched slightly, in that comical way Thomas used on everyone. “So what say you, Miss Miyazaki?”
Disarmed in all respects, Keiko nodded. “Yes,” she replied, “I say yes.”
Thomas extended his hand. “Then welcome aboard,” he said, “or should I say, ‘Welcome Home.’”
Keiko felt relief as she shook his hand, and shared a polite bow. She was home.
