I Am a Japanese Writer (15 page)
Shônagon was busy wrapping something when we came into the living room. She offered me the tightly tied package and forbade me to open it until I was by myself. François wanted to go hear some jazz at the Rising Sun. He was friends with the owner, a certain Doudou Boicel. I informed him that I didn’t have a dime—and he smiled kindly. Tonight was on him. We heard Dizzy Gillespie. A great sound, but it would have been better without all the exaggerated facial expressions. Then we went for a nightcap on Rue St-Denis, in the East End. The West was for meeting his friends. The East was where he went out with his wife. He ran his life like an accountant, with two columns: debit and credit. That’s all he’d kept of Miss Murasaki—the banking side. François was beaming. Even when I wasn’t saying anything, he was sure I was the most brilliant person he’d ever met. There was no curing him of that illusion. It was my karma. Fortunately, very few people share his opinion. The rest of the world, to reach the same conclusion, would demand proof—of which I have none. François weighed me with his heart, not his mind. That’s great, but hard to bear. Another nightcap. A little drunk, François wanted to introduce me to the customers. Shônagon kept her eyes lowered. After lengthy negotiations, I managed to convince him to give up his plan. I helped him to his feet. We headed for the car, climbing the hill that lead to Sherbrooke Street. Leaning on my shoulder, François started muttering things I had trouble making out. Like that he’d never loved Miss Murasaki, but seeing that I was interested in her, he got to her first. He wasn’t going to let me win in the woman area. I was in books, that was okay. The rest just sort of happened, he said, and here I am in the Montreal suburbs with a new Japanese girl. In life, we always take the wrong path at the right time. François wanted to drive me back, even though I kept telling him I’d rather walk beneath the glowing moon, which always makes me feel closer to Basho. Pretty soon, these wonderful mild nights will be over—winter is coming in. Life, for François, ended with adolescence. He filled up with memories back then, and everything has been frozen in that emotional space ever since. He’s never wanted to leave that magic moment. We weren’t far from the car when his wife slipped a matchbook into my hand with her cell phone number written on it.
ARE YOU PLAYING THE
WHORE NOW, HARUKI?
IF YOU BUY
only things that are expensive and carry a designer label, does that mean you’re a snob? That’s what Haruki asked Tomo in front of the bathroom. No, Tomo told her, not unless you’re doing it to bug your girlfriends. But how can I tell? When it’s just guys complimenting you, that’s a sure sign. You know them, Tomo, the girls would rather die than notice I’m in the room. I’m just part of the furniture. Sometimes I feel invisible. I take on the color of the landscape. I merge with the group like ivy with a wall. I’d like to be the water you drink that ends up drowning you. Why are you talking that way? What are you trying to prove, Haruki? I don’t get you! I’ve always talked this way. I’m just asking for a little attention. Just to tell you that, I had to get drunk as a skunk. Aren’t you always drunk? No, but I’m doing everything I can to get people to pay attention. And it’s no use. I’ve noticed, Tomo, that we’re only interested in people who despise us. I’m talking crap, right? I don’t do this every day. Normally I only talk inside my head, and I spend two days rehearsing something before I can say it out loud. And then nobody hears me anyway. I’m just a stop along the way. Seen, then forgotten. I’m the ugly duckling waddling after the others. If I want to occupy the main stage for more than ten seconds, I have to say something like “Your dress is on fire, Hideko.” My record stands at one minute, and to even get that I had to faint dead away. I earned myself a passing remark from Midori that day. Otherwise I’m the one doing the listening. I’m not getting on your nerves, Tomo? It’s weird to be talking so much. Most of the time I analyze what other people say. I’ve gotten good at it. I observe. I know what the others like, and that lets me imagine their hidden desires. I know that sounds pretentious. I’ve had too much time to polish sentences in my head. At night, I read Proust. As soon as someone mentions something that interests one of the group, I rush out and buy it. They go out of their way not to notice my new blouse or my brooch set with purple stones. That’s because everyone knows, Haruki, that you’re just a rich bitch. You never talk to anyone, you despise us, you’re here just to give your parents shit. What are you talking about? Tell me you’re joking, Tomo. You wear the kind of clothes that make our mouths water. Someone just mentions a dress they saw and the next thing we know, you’re wearing it. Happens every time. You really bug us, you know. You’re the biggest snob I know. You always put on this bored look every time we try to have a little fun. I’m supposed to be rich? I don’t have a penny. Me, a snob? The jealousy is killing me. Where do you get your money? You can always find money downtown. Are you playing the whore, Haruki? It’s not my fault there are so many guys with more money than brains. You fuck them? No, I suck, and only when I want new clothes. I’ve got a friend who works in a gym near the department stores, that’s where I spend my lunch hour. The bicep boys come by after their workouts. They don’t really need me, they’re more interested in their own muscles. They do push-ups till they drop, they get up off the floor, they look at themselves in the mirror, and that’s all they need to get off. I prefer the businessmen with their charming little bellies. They swing by to burn off a few calories before packing them back on again at the stripper bar next door. Beer and chicken wings and the girls sliding up and down the pole. What a choice—a snack or a blow job. I wait for them by the showers. That way they’re already clean. I have the key to the little room at the back. Quick and nasty. Some of them want me to swallow, and that costs double. Cash, of course. I rinse out my mouth. I go down to the sidewalk. I like to feel the sun on my face. The sun is my pimp. He’s always waiting for me downstairs. I buy my clothes next door, and a new brooch at Birks. There’s a silence. Finally, Tomo says, I don’t listen to the other girls and I don’t talk to them, either. I’m only here for Midori. But I’m not in love with Midori, the way everybody thinks. Stop, Tomo, everyone’s in love with Midori. Not me. All of us, in our way. I owe my life to her. She’s the air I breathe. I was dying of boredom before I met her. Don’t you think it’s strange that you can love someone so much without being in love? What are you really trying to say, Tomo? (A pause.) If she dies, I die—isn’t that clear? Okay, enough’s enough, I don’t want to hear about death. The rest of you girls, that’s your favorite subject. It makes me puke. Is it the season, or what? Who told you that you have to die if you love somebody? Maybe I’m weird, but if I love someone, I want to live. That’s because you’ve never really loved, Haruki. Can’t you just go ahead and die and stop beating us over the head with it? I didn’t say I felt like dying, Haruki, I said that Midori takes all my time. We’re all living off her. I’m different from the rest. We all say that. What do you know about the other girls? Everyone knows everything about everybody else. Whatever you do, there’ll be a pair of eyes watching you. And reading your mind too. I wouldn’t last long like that. We’re talking, right, but the other girls think I’m mute. I’m sure, Haruki, someone is making you buy all that stuff. I live in my head too much for anyone to manipulate me. That’s our national pastime. You’ll never know anything if you don’t ask questions. Listen: here, when no one’s manipulating you, it means you’re being manipulated. That’s how it works. Your favorite colors— are they really your favorites? Your favorite jewelry—is it really your favorite? Your favorite perfume—is it really? Your favorite panties—? Think about it, Haruki, and you’ll see that there’s someone else who has the same tastes you do. Yeah, but I don’t see it. Stop trying to defend yourself. Let yourself go. Act like we’re talking about somebody else. Make an effort. I don’t see anything, Tomo. Who dresses like you? Who wears the same perfume you do? Who wears the same size as you? I still don’t see. You’re some kind of dumb whore, most of the time they’re smarter than you are. Who do you see everywhere you go? Oh, shit, it’s Fumi. What does she want from me? Go ask her, Haruki. No way. You won’t find out anything. One day, maybe.
SHôNAGON CHOSE
the hotel, and she also set the date and the time of our rendezvous. A small hotel in the West End, made of red brick and covered with ivy. I wasn’t late, but she was already there. I gave my name at the desk and was told I was expected in room 12. Shônagon was sitting quietly by the window. She didn’t look embarrassed or intimidated. She smiled and motioned for me to sit next to her. This wasn’t the same woman I had met the other evening.
“Have you eaten?” she asked, in her gentlest voice.
Now I was embarrassed.
“No.”
“May I?”
She placed the basket on a low table at the foot of the bed and began unpacking every possible kind of seafood.
“I always thought you were a man of the sea . . . François is earthbound. I am of the sea too. That’s why François attracted me. They say that opposites attract, don’t they?”
She prepared our little picnic as she chatted about small things. I understood that for her, conversation is like music. There is no subject. We could imagine a world run by someone as subtle as Shônagon, but that much delicacy inevitably attracts brutality. Our balance depends on a mixture of things. Our meal progressed in orderly fashion, and she slowed time to such a point that I could feel her impact on the city’s energy. I felt as though the city were turning around a single central axis: this room. The room was full of sunlight, and the window looked onto a small inner garden. The white sheets. The colorful fruit. The white wine. A daytime feast. She rose with unbearable grace and went to lie on the bed. I joined her without haste. I didn’t want to make the first move. I waited. She brushed my forearm.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll understand if you say no.”
Good Lord! Is that how a Japanese woman asks a man to honor her?
“I would like you to talk to me about François. I would like to love him, but through your voice. I want your voice to flow into my body and enter my heart. My heart can belong only to François.”
“I see.”
“All François talks about is you, ever since I’ve known him. Everything he does has a link to you. The other day when you were at our house, I thought his heart would burst. I’ve never seen him that way. Normally he’s so taciturn. I know he’s different with his colleagues. At the house, sometimes I think he’s following the manual for the perfect Japanese husband. He can say what he wants—my Spanish side doesn’t interest him at all. When I become passionate, it shocks him.”
“You hardly know me.”
Her voice nearly broke.
“But I eat with you, I listen to music with you, I’m sad with you, I’m happy with you, I sleep with you, and when my husband makes love to me, I feel you’re there too. . . What am I saying? I know you’re there. Maybe even more than he is . . . You can’t imagine the life I live.”
Softly, she began to cry.
“As soon as I met François, I knew this would be a triangle.”
“But you stayed.”
“It was a challenge. But how can you compete with memories from the teenage years? He doesn’t have a single unhappy memory with you. Even the dark days grow bright in his mind. You are his sun. I can’t take that away from him. Memories help him survive the winters. When it’s twenty below, he climbs into a tub of hot water with his little suitcase full of memories. And that’s enough for three days’ happiness for him.”
“You love him very much.”
She looked me in the eye, the first time she’d done that.
“Do I love him? As much as he loves you. I think only of him, I breathe only for him, I dream of him alone, I love only him... and to understand what he feels, I’m ready to love the man he loves.”
She laughed, then pressed against me.
“Talk to me about him,” she whispered. “I want to know him a little.”
“The only thing I know is that half of what he gives me credit for belongs to him. When he talks about me, he’s talking about himself.”
“I don’t want to hear logical things . . . I know all the stories by heart. I want to hear his name, because François never says François. He always says your name, never his. Sometimes, when I want him to listen to what I have to say, I slip your name into the conversation.”
I glanced out the window, long enough to see a bird fly past. I turned and looked at her. She was at the end of her rope: running up against a wall for so many years.
“I’ve forgotten it all, you know.”
“How could you forget? No one can forget everything. Memory goes on working without our help.”
“I’m sure you know more about me than I know myself.”
“Just tell me one little story that’s about him, and him only. . . Do it for me. Some little detail, some insignificant thing. Something he could never remember.”
Silence. More silence. We listened to the birds in the garden.
“There was something... We were supposed to meet on the main square. I was late, very late. He was sleeping on a bench.
There were four or five birds perched on his chest, as if they were watching over him. I stood there for a long time and watched him. I didn’t want to disturb him. I waited for the birds to fly away on their own before going to his side.”
“There,” said Shônagon softly. “A story he couldn’t know. And you were watching him, instead of him studying you. Thank you, my love . . . I have to go now, but you can stay as long as you like. If you’re hungry, order something from downstairs. I’ll tell the front desk.”
THE MAN WITH THE SNAKE TATTOOS
JUST DOWNSTAIRS, BENEATH
the hotel: the underground city. Stores crowded with old ladies in flowered hats making themselves useful by watching out for shoplifters. Restaurants where you can get something quick before going back to work. I sit down at a free table. A newspaper is lying there. A half-naked girl on page 7. That’s how you attract readers. For thirty-five cents, you get your money’s worth. The coffee costs twice as much. Since I didn’t pay for the paper, I come out all right. On page 36 is the picture of one of my old neighbors from back when I lived next to the deaf and blind school (it took me a while before I realized the girls couldn’t hear me). I read the story and learn that my neighbor has changed his address: he’s been transferred to a maximum security prison. He’s a star in the world behind the walls. It’s rare that someone looks exactly like what he is: a killer. It’s a form of honesty. His body is entirely covered in tattoos of snakes, tigers and dragons. And plenty of girls’ names inside big red hearts—tough guys are so sentimental. A few men’s names too—guys unfortunate enough to have crossed his path. What happened? His face is closed. I insist. Mute reaction. He used to spend hours just sitting there, without a word. At first that intimidated me. As time went by, I learned to tolerate his presence and not try to drag any information out of him. I did it out of curiosity, without moral judgment. As far as I was concerned, he could have killed them all. Or he might have just been a Sunday killer: what did I know? We all want to meet someone exceptional. Sometimes he would come upstairs to see me and tell me how his day went, down to the smallest detail. At times like that, he couldn’t stop talking. In the middle of a sentence, he’d get up and walk away. He’d keep his mouth shut for a month afterwards. I liked to watch him. Always on the alert. He missed nothing: not a sound, not a movement. Once in a while he’d go to the window to see what was happening in the street. He’d call me over.