Midnight and the Meaning of Love (44 page)

Then my mind returned to murder. The author’s two sources were both eliminated. Pushing the puzzle pieces around, I figured that these were the same two guys that Nakamura paid the money to, to get his hands on Joo Eun. He made agreements with them, signed them, and paid out the proper sums. Then he merked them. I was realizing this was his style. He comes in the form of business. He makes agreements as though his word is bond, like any true man’s word is bond. Then he doubles back and betrays his own word and signature and agreement, the same way he did when he signed the marriage papers for Akemi and me. He gave his word, printed his word, and then doubled back and kidnapped his daughter, the same way that he had kidnapped his wife!
Deceitful motherfucker!
I thought to myself. Then I breathed some to erase my anger.

Returning to the few remaining pages of the chapter titled “Mysterious Marriage,” I continued to read on.

Joo Eun Lee’s or Shiori Nakamura’s loyalty to her husband Naoko Nakamura was solid and impeccable. During their first year of marriage and her pregnancy, she was seen only at selected high-profile social gatherings with her husband, where she was reportedly joyful, polite, alluring, and silent aside from introductions, greetings, and small nicities.

Readers and fans of her anonymous free pamphlets were not given any new writings from Joo Eun until five years later. Her new pamphlets, published as small, thin, softcover books, were not anonymous and were not free.
They were written, published, and advertised, and sold under the name Shiori Nakamura. After a careful and thorough analysis of the writing style, the word usage and placement, the passion and the philosophy driving the work, England’s famed historian Robert Barringer concluded that Shiori Nakamura’s books and the underground North Korean pamphlets do indeed share the same author, with an acknowledgment of an identifiable maturing as well as philosophical and intellectual growth.

Shiori Nakamura, the author, debuted as a young Japanese mother, convincing other mothers who read her letters, stories, and poems that women are the key to national security. She argued that if new mothers raised their children with an unreserved, unconventional love and emotion, a new and more compassionate generation would emerge and seize the reins of power. A more compassionate, loving, loved child will put forth a more compassionate philosophy, politics, and policy, thus saving nations from war and death and hunger and disease and chaos. She taught that only this new philosophy would save Japanese mothers from their depression. Shiori’s writings elevated the abnormally conservative and servile posture of the traditional Japanese woman. She issued controversial writings that were broadly discussed and debated. She emphasized a more balanced, well-learned, and peaceful global community. She delivered a best-selling manual called
How to Raise Strong, Feminine, Knowledgeable Daughters.
When she was not writing or offering her annual reading, she was an at-home wife and mother completely dedicated to the raising of her one child, reportedly in the manner which she described in her work.

Naoko Nakamura allowed her. Extremely clever, he knew well how to make maximum use out of each piece and person in his kingdom. He believed that his wife’s philosophy was not in conflict with his “Pan Asian” philosophical face, from which he benefited financially over many years.

Shiori Nakamura would read her work publicly only once a year. She appeared demure and lovely, speaking well-polished and perfect Japanese. She refused all interviews, nor would she answer questions.

Shiori Nakamura died tragically young at the age of twenty-eight from brain cancer. This author sympathetically submits that it must have been difficult and debilitating for her to live a life of secrets, particularly a secret
identity, which may have complicated her health in the end. Her daughter, Akemi Nakamura, is noted throughout Japan as a young artistic genius to watch for.

Below is Joo Eun Lee’s last poem, which offers subtle hints of her evolution and beliefs and secrets and sorrows and joys. The young North Korean woman having emerged from a Communist country, makes overtures to God in Sufi-like implications and pays homage to life and love. The first and only slight disagreement with her husband is hinted at here in the lines she penned. Perhaps Joo Eun saw her life’s end approaching.

Hananihm

People who love are different from everybody else.

People who feel are more fortunate than all.

Rich men who buy and grab up things are just moving them around.

They have bought these things with money, which they can never own.

A mother with life in her womb is the one who is truly wealthy.

A newborn in the arms is beyond oil in one palm and pure gold in the other.

Father says that there is no God, so that I might worship him.

But something is moving in the atmosphere …

Not for viewing, but for sensing and being changed by.

That I can feel. I am certain.

My first love was the sky. Who created that?

My second love was my mother’s eyes that revealed a reflection of me.

My father had a house of great beauty built for us all.

But who created the mind, the memory, and the imagination?

I’d sit in the soil surrounded with no walls just to talk to that ONE, even without words …

Diamonds are lovely, but sound is lovelier.

Roller coasters are thrilling. My clitoris clothed in my vagina is more, more, more.

Why turn on the lights when we can lie under the glare of the moon?

Why listen to the call for war when we can make love?

He wants revolution, but I want passion revolving in my soul.

A man invented the fan, but who created the wind and caressed it into a breeze

Then converted it into a storm?

A cloud holds the water, yet both clouds and water were created.

Impress me not with castles, cars, or clothes. I’d rather meet the Maker of rain—

But would be content with simply being showered while lying in the grass

Facing a darkened sky pregnant with thunder and leaking lightning.

My husband asks me, Do you love me? So gently, I answer him.

“I love the Creator of life. This is why I can love you.”

Yet everywhere that I see and feel a trace of the Creator, the Light of life,

There is so much love in it for me.

By Joo Eun Lee

The poem, I read it five times over. When I read the last words for the fifth time, I felt a new love born within myself for my wife’s mother, and an even deeper love and understanding of my wife as well.

Joo Eun Lee showed me the parts that make up the soul of Akemi, and the reason that Akemi was capable of such deep love for me. I could see now why and how Akemi was at ease with my faith and so captivated by my beautiful Umma, who has a soul similar to Joo Eun’s resting in her bosom. True, their methods and manners are extremely different, yet their intent and their meaning was beginning to feel the same to me.

Three hours passed in thirty minutes, it seemed. “Next stop Kyoto,” the soft voice announced in Japanese and in English.

When I looked up and through my window, the images that we were now moving past were not what I imagined they would be. As the train slowed to a halt, my first impression was that Kyoto was a place of dull metals and grayness. I was certain, however, that it would get better. It would become comparable to my wife and suitable to her artistic eyes. It had to.

When I stepped off at Kyoto station, it was almost noon. I threw my backpack and belongings into two secure lockers, dropped in the coins, and searched for a phone.

Chiasa answered with her sleepy voice. “Wake up, you’re on the payroll” was my greeting.

“You sound excited,” she said. “You got there safely, I see.”

“What did you expect?” I told her. “You got all the info?”

“About one more hour and I’ll have it all completed,” she said, making her voice sound more alert. “I know you think it’s just about the data, but her diary is really emotional and it pulled me into a secret world that was amazing and unfamiliar. I felt myself …” She paused, then never finished her sentence.

I filled the silence with my new requests. “I got a couple more things for you to look into.”

“Tell me,” she said sweetly, like any request was no problem for her.

“Go to the bookstore and look up an author named Shiori Nakamura and buy all her books,” I said.

“All of them?” she repeated.

“Yeah, and while you’re there, check out one more author. He’s an American.” I flipped the softcover biography around. “His name is Seth Arrington.”

“Got it,” she said. “Stay out of the direct sunlight ’cause it’s hotter down there in the south where you are. Call me later. I’ll have everything ready.”

“Aight.” I hung up.

Walking through and out of Kyoto station was like a stroll through Pastry Lane. There was a glut of bakeries displaying cakes decorated with fresh fruit slices, all assembled in intricate designs. Some of the Japanese fruits I couldn’t recognize. There were also shops with only fresh-baked cookies and some with fresh-baked breads. The smell of maple syrup seeped into the air and led to a couple of waffle stands. Lines were forming and customers were dipping fresh baked small waffle slices into the syrup. I kept it moving.

“Kyoto Women’s College,” I said to the bus attendant in the booth. He gave me the bus number using only his fingers.

The bus was not an “airport limousine” experience. It was smaller and the seats were positioned in an arrangement different than I had ever seen on public transportation. It was clean and organized. The driver was polite without words. I dropped my exact change in and tried not to stand out as the tallest, only black African man or person on board or in sight or even visible walking on the streets. The people didn’t stare. Most of them didn’t even look, glance, or peek. It was almost like I was invisible. The elders sat up front. The middle-aged adults sat and stood in the middle. The teens and college kids sat and stood in a raised section where the seats were up a few steps and raised up high.

The ride was completely silent. The Kyoto kids were more laid-back than the Tokyo cliques. There was no Harajuku crew sporting strange costumes. Nor were there any high-fashion types or naked females or freaks. Some passengers were reading. Others were nodding or sleeping. School kids were studying. The vibe was calm and ordinary.

The names of the upcoming bus stops were displayed on a digital screen in Japanese and then in English. After a minute, the scenery shifted, and rows of beautiful trees and flowers and plants began to
emerge. The town seemed old and special. Most of the shops were small and made of wood. I stood looking through the bus windows, especially when the bus would stop and lose some passengers as well as pick others up.

My stop was coming up. As I got off, surprisingly most of the passengers unloaded with me. Now we were all facing what turned out to be a temple. Many of the elderly people entered. I was still at first. I had never seen a real temple in person before. It was wide and mysterious. The architecture was attractive and appeared ancient. I could smell incense burning. Yet the place was designed so that you really had to go inside to discover whatever they had happening. You could not tell from the outside what the experience would be like. I was definitely curious, but I let it go and turned sixty degrees instead. The street sign read “Shichijodori.” It was not the easiest to remember, but I would remember. Now I was facing what seemed like a long museum situated across the street. It extended over and down a few blocks. When I turned directly to my right, I could see the sign for Kyoto’s Women’s College and the arrow pointed uphill. I began walking in that direction. The college was on a street named “Higashiyamaschichijo”—what the fuck?