AlliterAsian (8 page)

Ozeki acknowledges that remaining open to the movement of global news can be overwhelming. But she also sees it as a powerful tool to construct empathy and build the kinds of connections she writes about—when I speak to her near the end of summer in 2013, she is glued to the events in Cairo.

“We care about these things now,” she says. “These images have the power to move us and to make us care. That has to be a good thing. For as much as email deprives me of huge swaths of my life, at the same time I'm glad of it.”

Zen, with its emphasis on empathy and mindfulness, is a way for Ozeki to find peace with that incredible amount of information and the impermanence of life. She became interested in the practice in the 1990s, using meditation as a way to deal with her father's death.

In 2001, she met Norman Fischer, a San Francisco practitioner of Soto Zen who would eventually become Ozeki's teacher. Joining the sect felt like coming home because it was the same one her grandparents had been a part of. In 2010, she was ordained a novice priest.

Of course, this too appears in
A Tale for the Time Being
, in the form of Jiko, Nao's ninety-six-year-old grandmother, a Buddhist nun who lives in a monastery near the coast in Miyagi Prefecture. The scenes at the monastery are some of the most haunting in the book, touched with echoes of Hayao Miyazaki's classic film
Spirited Away
.

As a writer, Ozeki has used Zen to help her move past the usual blockages and struggles of the solitary profession. The practice centres on struggling toward perfection, even as you acknowledge the impossibility of that perfection, a sentiment that is familiar to any novelist.

“There's something very beautiful about making an impossible vow,” she says. “In a way, every time you start to write a novel, you have an impossible idea of what this novel will be, and you know that you'll fail. There's no question about it. There's no way to write the novel that you want to write, that you think you're going to write. There's no way to raise the perfect child. There's no way to do all of these things that you most want to do in life, but that doesn't mean that you shouldn't try to do them. In a way, the more impossible the
vow is, the more beautiful it is. It's about the willingness of the spirit.”

That effort certainly seems to have paid off. In the autumn of 2013, Ozeki would be shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, one of the most prestigious awards a novelist could hope for. And yet on the day that I spoke to her, just days after the announcement of the longlist, it's that song in a little bookstore in Bath that really captured the author's imagination. To Ozeki, this kind of evidence of her work's reverberation in the hearts of her readers is the greatest award. “It felt like such a precious gift that I was getting,” she remembers. “It's a beautiful process.”

       
A
UTHOR
C
OMMENTARY

I became enamoured with Ruth Ozeki and her book
A Tale for the Time Being
just after I had returned from a visit to the Tohoku region of Japan, where I travelled to places that had been destroyed, and I collected stories with an eye to writing a book. I was searching for meaning in the unthinkable, and here was a novel that explored all the themes that had been on my mind—disaster, grief, and profound human connection over time and distance. It was as if Nao, the fictional Ruth, the real Ruth, and I were all part of this grand conversation about what it meant to be human in a time when the world seemed both smaller and larger than it ever had before. —
Erika Thorkelson, 2015

       
A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

Erika Thorkelson was born in Winnipeg, grew to adulthood in Edmonton, answered phones in Dublin, Ireland, and taught English in a little town called Shiroishi, in northern Japan. She now lives in Vancouver, where she writes nonfiction, tells stories, and teaches writing.

Creative NonFiction

Light at a Window

Ricepaper
15, no. 1 (2010)

Terry Watada

Tomeo Shoyoma was a good-looking teenager living in the east end of Vancouver, 1941. He was at the top of his class at Britannia High School and looking forward to UBC and a wonderful career like his big brother's. True, Tommy, a UBC graduate in commerce and economics, couldn't become a chartered accountant because of the times, but it was a temporary thing for both him and his brother, Tomeo reasoned. After he graduated, he knew the world would be different, and he'd be all right in the long run.

He lived with his brother in a rented room in a house south of Powell Street Grounds, the park that formed the centre of the Japanese community back then. Their parents still lived in Kamloops, BC, not wishing to be anywhere near the big city. They consented to their boys moving to Vancouver to attend school.

Like so many others his age, Tomeo had a nickname based on some prominent characteristic. There was “Hammerhead” Nishihata for the shape of his head, “Fuzzy” Seko because of her Japanese name, Fusae, and “Windy” Gotanda who had the nasty habit of passing wind in public, hence his moniker.

Tomeo's label was appropriate enough: “Romeo.” Besides the obvious rhyme, he was very popular with the girls. On a Saturday night, when most went in groups to a movie at the Palace or an old vaudeville show at the Pantages, Romeo always had a date. He looked real sharp with his slicked-back hair, wide-lapelled suit, and two-toned patent leather oxfords bought with money he earned at a part-time
job at Soga's Department Store on Powell Street. The girls, too, were real dolls—Hedy Shimizu, Addie Kodama, and Helen Yoneyama, to name three. They always wore the latest styles, dresses from back east and high-heeled shoes from the women's department at Eaton's downtown. The girlfriends did each other's hair, copied from movie fan magazines, because Viola's Little Beauty Salon on East Hastings just couldn't cut it. Good for their mothers but not them.

Whenever there was an occasion, say the Valentine's Dance thrown by the Bussei, [a.k.a. Young Buddhists] in the Peter Pan Ballroom of the Ambassador Club, Romeo and his date really were a sight to behold. Of course, the music was hip: Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, even Duke Ellington. The lights were low, and a glitter ball revolved, casting stars all over the floor. Romeo's girl always had that dreamy look in her eyes as he led her around the dance floor. They looked exactly like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.

That was why none of his gang could understand his falling for Julia Sato. She was pretty enough, but in that “good girl” and plain kind of way. Her dresses were strictly bargain-basement, and she wore flats. Her hair was always in a ponytail. She never wore makeup. Most knew she could afford more. Her mother had died in a car accident, but her father was Shigeki Sato, the top judo sensei in British Columbia. His club, the Hinomaru Dojo, attracted everyone and anyone interested in the Japanese martial art from as far away as Hope, BC. He also had alleged ties to organized crime; people believing that his dojo supplied the muscle for Etsuji Morii and his Black Dragon Society. Whenever the
oyabun
, or crime boss, wanted something done, for whatever reason, he'd call on Sato and his students for help. For a high price, of course.

Murakami's Confectionery and Soda Parlour was an excellent example. The quaint shop stood at the corner of Main and East
Hastings, serving “the best handmade ice cream in Vancouver,” as the sign boasted. It did a brisk business in the summer, on hot days, when a cold, tall vanilla cone was just the ticket. It got by in rainy weather with pies and coffee and sodas for the kids. It was in a prime location in any case.

One spring day, when Murakami-san himself was behind the register, Morii, a small man in a dark oversized suit and bowler hat, walked in with three judo thugs behind him. He strode to the counter, while the judo boys took up strategic positions in the place, and called over the aging owner.

“Murakami-san,” he started. “You've accumulated quite a debt to me.”

“Yes, oyabun,” he answered with his head lowered in shame.

“You know you shouldn't gamble.”

He nodded, eyes averted.

“Makes it hard for your family,” he observed. “Well, at least you do it at my place and not Chinatown. Well, well, well, I'm here to help you with your debt. I'm not unfeeling after all.”

“Thank you, oyabun. Thank you.”

“First of all, you are no longer welcome in the Showa Club. You come in, we'll throw you out. Second, my men will be watching you, so you don't go to the Nanking gambling dens. If you go there, I'll know about it, and you don't want me to have that kind of knowledge, do you?”

“Yes, oyabun. I mean, no, oyabun,” he said nervously.

“Good, good. Now, as to the matter of your debt to me, you will sign over this little place of yours to me.”

“But … but, no, oyabun, I couldn't.”

“What?” Two of his boys moved. One knocked over a large jar of candy, the brightly coloured confections spraying across the floor
like cherries on a pool table after a break shot. The few customers enjoying their sundaes ran for the door, leaving their dishes behind.

The third thug stood at the ready with fists clenched.

Murakami-san reached out as if to prevent the deliberate mishap. “I mean … I mean I can't until the bank manager comes back from holiday. I'll see him next Monday and get the papers to hand over to you.”

No one understood what Morii wanted with the property, because it stood vacant for the longest time after the Murakami family surrendered it. Everyone concluded that he took possession of the place simply because he could.

So maybe Romeo liked the danger in dating Julia. His brother, Tommy, as editor of the
New Canadian
, was a dedicated and outspoken critic of Morii and his political activities. But the paper never reported on the oyabun's crimes. That would've been pure suicide. Instead, the Nisei newspaper, being the voice of the younger generation, the first Canadian-born generation, focused on the criminal boss's support of the Japanese military in China.

The stories focusing on the atrocities by the emperor's army in China were bad enough for the oyabun, but the personal-attack editorials brought him to the point where he fumed at the mention of Tommy's name or at the sight of the
New Canadian
. Because of Sensei Sato's connection to organized crime, Romeo knew he and his brother were in for a rough ride if the judo master ever discovered his relationship with his daughter. He wondered what the old man would do, but then again he wasn't in a hurry to find out.

Romeo met Julia at Ernie's, an innocent soda shop where the kids hung out. It became popular after the closing of Murakami's. The jukebox always had the latest songs from the hit parade, the malts were sweet, and Ernie was friendly enough. Julia sat at a table with
two girlfriends with the same conservative, unremarkable looks as she. Romeo came in after a ball game at the park with a few of his gang.

“Did you see that Yamamura guy hit that homer? I bet it still hasn't landed,” Frank claimed.

“Yeah, sure. Them Asahi are one powerful team.”

“Romeo, you oughta join. They could use your arm. Romeo? Romeo?”

He was distracted for the moment. “Well, lookee here,” he began as he walked across the floor. “Well, boys, the Andrew sisters are in town.” It was clear that Romeo wanted to tease these girls. The boys laughed, and the girls squirmed in their discomfort.

“Hey, Gladys, sing us a tune,” he said to Julia.

She turned and, with her nose up in the air, said, “First of all, that's the
Andrews
sisters, and second, their names are Patty, Maxene, and LaVerne.”

“Hey, Romeo, nice line!” shouted one of his gang. “You ain't dealing with no square!”

Everyone laughed out loud.

Romeo walked right into that one. Good thing he could take as much as he could give. “Hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter, doll face,” he said, and then immediately offered to buy her a soda, much to everyone's surprise, especially Julia's.

From that day on, they were inseparable. If she could best him, he was heard to say, she was worth knowing. The only problem was he had to see her on the sly, once they learned of each other's families. Julia couldn't tell her father, but Romeo did seek his brother's advice.

He sat in the
New Canadian
office among the mountains of paper and bottles of India ink while Tommy worked to get the paper together. His older brother was slight in build but always
commanded respect. There was such an aura around the man; all who met him knew they were in the presence of greatness.

“You look worried,” the editor said, reacting to his brother's silence.

“I am,
oniisan
, I am.”

“So what's the problem?”

“I got this girl, see.”

Tommy nodded as he fussed.

“She's nice and all. She might even be the one for me, but—”

“But? You aren't in trouble, are you?” he asked, alarmed. “She's not in trouble!”

“No! Nothing like that,” Romeo assured. “It's her
otosan
. He doesn't approve of me.”

“Really? He said that?”

“Not exactly.”

“You're speaking in riddles, Tomeo.”

“I've never met him, but I know he won't like me. He's Sensei Sato.” The revelation fell with a thud as Tommy turned to consider the consequences. “I know you and him got something going—”

“Only because he's connected to Morii.”

“Yeah.”

“Tomeo, you be careful.”

He was careful. Romeo and Julia decided not to be seen together at community events like the annual Buddhist Church bazaar or the Obon festival every summer. Whenever a dance came up, they were careful to go with their group of friends and eventually meet on the dance floor. To arrange a date, Romeo couldn't phone her or walk up to her front door and ask for her. He instead had to stand on the sidewalk in front of her stand-alone house on Jackson
Avenue after dark and toss pebbles up at her window. Fortunately, her room faced the street, and he only did it when the window was lit.

That way they could meet for walks, a soda at Ernie's, their special place, and an occasional afternoon movie downtown on Granville Street. One of his favourite stars was Errol Flynn. When he saw
Robin Hood
, he got hooked. He saw, in rapid succession,
Captain Blood, The Dawn Patrol, Dodge City
, and
They Died with Their Boots On
. Julia tolerated the swashbucklers but really liked romantic films like
Gone with the Wind
, despite Rhett Butler's swearing.

Sometimes the theatre ushers questioned them, but the questions were of no consequence to them. Romeo just whipped out his government-issued identification card, which all Japanese-Canadians had to carry, and that was that. They weren't spotted by anyone from the Powell Street area after all. They giggled about their situation on the balcony, Romeo stealing a kiss now and then. Within the danger and secrecy, they fell deeply in love.

All went well until that fateful day when Romeo came to a decision. Late one night, he stood in his usual spot in front of Julia's house. This time, however, the house was dark; everyone had gone to sleep. It couldn't be helped; what he had on his mind couldn't wait. He grabbed a handful of pebbles and started tossing. It took awhile, but finally the light went on, and the window opened. A rather sleepy Julia leaned out for a look.

“Julia! Julia!”

“Romeo? What are you doing? It's so late.”

“I'm sorry, but I just had to see you. Can you come down to the veranda?”

“Now?”

“Come on, it's important.”

She closed the window and a minute later appeared at the front door.

Romeo thought he had never seen her more beautiful than in the moonlight. “Julia, I've been thinking a lot. I think we're pretty serious about each other.”

“We are?”

“Aren't we? Ah, cut it out,” Romeo smiled. “We're going to university soon, and it's gonna be a different world.”

“What're you trying to say, Romeo?”

“I'm getting tired of all this sneaking around. I feel like some kind of … I don't know, criminal or something. Sorry, but we oughta bite the bullet and tell your otosan about us.”

“Oh no,” she said, horrified.

“Wait a minute, hear me out. If we go together, we can do it. We'll present a union.”

“You mean, united front.”

“That's what I said.”

Suddenly the porch light came on, and a Japanese voice boomed from inside. “Junko-chan, who's at the door at this hour?” It was Sensei Sato.

That was Romeo's cue to cut out of there, leaving Julia standing at her door with a looming shadow behind her.

A couple of days later, Julia sat by herself at Ernie's. At their table. A couple of minutes later, Romeo joined her. She wasn't herself; she wasn't sitting in her usual prim and proper way. In fact, her hair was down and not in its comfortable ponytail. Some of the strands partially covered her face.

“Hey, you changed your hair.”

She said nothing.

“Something wrong?” He touched her arm and she flinched, revealing a small splatter of lndia ink underneath one of her eyes. It was a bruise.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Your old man? He hit you?” His anger spiked.

“Never mind, it's nothing. I'm here to tell you something.”

“What kind of animal is he?”

“Tomeo, we've got to stop seeing each other,” she said insistently.

Her words went through him like an electrical shock.

“It's never going to work,” she continued. “The way we sneak around is shameful and embarrassing. You said it yourself.”