Japanese Portraits: Pictures of Different People (30 page)

- I was working in etching, and from the black aquatinted background the goddesses started to emerge. It was like Hesiod's description of the birth of Gaea: there was chaos, vast and dark; then Gaea appeared, the deep-breasted Earth. These newborn goddesses started to play in flowering fields of kimono brocade and swim in oceans of Hokusai waves. My free female figures brought old designs into the present.

They also brought more. They became the personifications of Mayumi herself—who she wanted to be, who she was becoming. And they helped her leave far behind that trinity of dutiful roles: obedient daughter, wife, and mother. For they have no other roles than themselves.

Mayumi stops to make a salad: crisp cucumbers, lettuce, endive, chicory, carrots, celery, anything else she can find in the refrigerator. Her California kitchen is sunny, the windows looking out onto the woods, the hills, and beyond to the open Pacific and, farther still, Japan.

A ship—a modern
karafune
—passes in the hazy distance, and Mayumi pours sunflower oil into a cup. Benten, taped to the wall, is drying, sitting securely on her lotus, looking out over the woods, the hills, over the ocean to Japan and, beyond that, to the lands she came from, long, long ago—Korea, China, Tibet, India.

We first met when he was about four, accompanying his father to the public bath.

- Oh, look, he cried, confronted with the sight of a naked foreigner.

- Yes, yes, said his father, embarrassed.

- Papa, look. All white. And hairy.

- Now, you be quiet, Toshikatsu. That's not polite. (This was said with an apologetic smile in my direction.)

A bit chastened, Toshikatsu nonetheless continued: And, Papa, look!

Then, pointing: He's a foreigner and still he's got one too!

This resulted in general laughter, in which both the father and I joined. It was thus that I got to know the Wada family. They lived just down the street, and after that they sometimes invited me over.

Toshikatsu always stared. He remembered that first encounter, and was already using it for purposes of his own.

- Papa. Donald-san is bigger down there than you.

- Oh, no, only at times, said Donald-san.

Toshikatsu's mother laughed, and the boy put down his tea to look about and wonder what was funny.

After reaching his own conclusion, he said: Yes, I guess so. My Papa's is probably the best! (He looked surprised at the further merriment.)

Ten years later, in junior high school, he often dropped by to ask questions about English.

- But why is it so difficult?

- Because you don't know anything yet, was Donald's unhelpful reply.

- Japanese is a lot harder.

- Now, how do you know that, Toshikatsu?

- Everybody knows that. It's so hard that half the time even we Japanese don't know what we're saying.

- Look. I'm not Japanese and here we are speaking in Japanese now, and you understand what I say well enough, don't you?

- No, not all the time, he said, warily.

- But most of the time you do, don't you?

- That doesn't count ... No—I guess that Japanese must be just about the most difficult language on earth.

And he was visibly pleased that this should be so, that he should have mastered this difficult tongue, should be in possession of, if not the best, the most.

This concern eventually caused him some unease. Since, like most children his age, he was addicted to TV, he was soon troubled that there should be so many bests; and with brand-new products
(shinhatsubai)
hourly even better, the problem of selection became acute.

At first he had importuned his patient mother to buy whatever the box had said was tops. But soon even he saw that if his pleas were heeded there would shortly be no room for the family in the house. After that he became more selective. He remained loyal to Kiddie-Krunch, however, a synthetic breakfast food, because its claims to solitary excellence had been heard so early that they endured.

Otherwise, growing older, he grew more discriminating. As he proceeded through an otherwise painless adolescence he became careful about his clothes, always choosing among the current teen fashions those he thought superior. No transient punk for him, rather the solid, lasting, ivy-league look scaled down: tweed coats, thick-soled brogues, and furry socks. Later, another criterion was added to sheer weight: cost.

- But, Dad, everyone knows that a Mercedes is best, or a Porsche. You get what you pay for. That's the way you get quality. (This argument was occasioned by his father's having finally saved enough to buy a new car.)

- Look, Toshikatsu, said his harrassed parent: Those big cars won't fit on our little streets. And I don't have that kind of money.

- Well, if you don't want the best, said Toshikatsu as though the man were past all hope. After a powder-blue Fair Lady was decided on, however, Toshikatsu acquiesced with some grace.

When in college—the best his father could afford, but not Keio or Waseda, alas: Meiji—he used to come around and speak in awed tones about Columbia, "my" school. He was convinced for some reason that it was better than Meiji.

- If you feel that way you should have tried Tokyo University, I said, naming the institution that was commonly considered the pick of the bunch.

- You've got to start in kindergarten if you're going to get in there, said Toshikatsu: And the old man just doesn't have that kind of money. So here I am at Meiji. And
nobody
goes there.

- Meiji has a large student body. Probably second only to Nihon University.

- Yeah. Well, at least I'm not
there.
Nichidai is the real pits.

All the same, Toshikatsu completed his four-year course, and then took his company entrance exams.

- I took the Sony one. But it's probably no good. I took the Sanyo too and a couple of others, just in case.

- Sanyo is a very good company.

- Not when you compare them. Sony's best. I sure wanted to get into Sony.

- Then you should have worked harder.

Staring ahead, neglecting his coffee, he looked into his future and was dissatisfied because it was only second-best.

Then, after getting his job with Sanyo: You know, I've got these two girl friends and it's about time I got married—

- And you don't know which is best, I said brightly.

- That's just it. How did you know?

- Well, Toshikatsu, you've got to set your goals and then see which one best suits your purposes.

- Yeah, that makes some sense. But how do I know?

- Look. I've known you for a long time, Toshikatsu. You just choose, and the one you've chosen will automatically be the best.

- That sounds a bit wild.

- But that's the way it is. Whether it's prospective wives or colleges or cars or languages or cocks.

- Or what?

- Cocks.

- What's that supposed to mean?

- Don't you remember? I asked. I then reminded him.

- Ugh, that's gross.

- Well, gross or not, that's the way you've always been.

- Okay, okay. But that doesn't help me with the wife problem.

So he married one of them and, sure enough, she turned out to have been the right choice. Then he got himself a car, the best, and a new color TV, the best, and took up golf, both to combat a growing pot and because it was, as everyone knew, the best.

I paid a call and, hoping to please, brought a fifth of Johnnie Walker Black, a beverage that Japan had long agreed was best. I found, however, that it had been surpassed.

- Hey, thanks, said Toshikatsu, polishing a driver: Oh, good old Johnnie Walker Black—then, seriously, confidentially—you know, nowadays, Chivas Regal is considered best.

I saw him less often after that, though occasionally I met him at his parents', his father now gray and petulant, his mother happy and busy with her women's groups.

Toshikatsu's wife was often there too. She was very self-possessed, uncommonly so for someone her age. Perhaps, I thought, it was because she was so pregnant. One hesitated to speak to her, she seemed so preoccupied.

Her husband did not speak to her at all. Whatever they had had to say to each other had been said. They were now united, it would seem, because it suited their purposes to be—for there was this big, important thing: the child.

This was what they talked about. He thought that a boy would be best. She preferred a girl.

- But everyone knows that boys are better, he'd say with an adult laugh.

One of the last times I saw Toshikatsu was at the zoo. He was there with his wife and child. Though he had quite lost the battle with the pot belly he seemed otherwise well.

He held up the child for my admiration. It was so young that I could not even guess its sex.

- Is it a boy or a girl? I wanted to know.

- Can't you tell? Boys never wear pink. It's a girl. Girls are best, you know.

Just then another couple went by with a baby about the same size. Toshikatsu turned to stare, then looked down at his little girl.

- Same age? I asked.

- Seems so. But just look at it. So scrawny. And small for its age too. Doesn't look too lively either. Then: Hey, look at little Noriko here, just waving her arms around. She's strong, and so big, too. Quite a handful she is. She's much the best.

As the landscape unrolled beyond the window, he turned from the passing fields and asked about my childhood. And I, being of my country and my generation, told him at some length how awful it had been. Then I asked about his.

Actually, I knew something of it already, and this was so disagreeable that I expected a tale to quite rival mine. You see, when he was still a boy the doctors had discovered something, water on the brain perhaps, some sort of liquid tumor, pressing. A dangerous operation was necessary, chances of permanent damage were great—a vegetable existence.

During convalescence, a painful one, the doctor ordered rest and quiet—not simply for the time being, but from now on, throughout his life. Young Makiyo, however, did not agree. So he began exercising, furtively at first, then more openly as little by little he moved further from the sick room, further into life. He took up fast walking, jogging, running.

And now at twenty-four, sitting opposite me with the afternoon sun behind him and the landscape streaming past, he was strong, healthy, a mainstay of the rugby team, winner of the marathon.

The only reminder of that dangerous operation was the white scar, from the crown of his head to the back of his neck, which was visible when he showered. This, and an understanding, a practical intelligence, beyond his years.

- My childhood? he asked, having heard all about mine: I was lucky. It was a good one. I had a nice childhood.

And forest following river, field following lake, he told me about it.

Growing up in a small town in Kyushu had been interesting in itself, and then the circumstances of his family had made possible a number of experiences he might otherwise not have had.

For example, when he was about six, and his younger brother about three. His mother was ill and his father had lost all their money by investing in one of the new religions, and there was never enough to eat. One day his father had taken him and his younger brother off to see the monkeys, which they liked a lot, but he didn't take them home afterward. Instead he left them at a kind of orphanage, run by Catholics; and a large woman came up and said: I am your mother from now on. And his brother had set up a terrible howling.

Life there was hard but interesting. They got enough to eat, but Makiyo sometimes had to protect himself and the three-year-old from the other boys, who were fairly tough.

After six months of this the two of them were sent back home. Makiyo had grown used to the stained-glass windows, the chapel, the prayers, the music, and the bullying, but was happy to return home to his parents. And there something else interesting happened. To help them out he was put to work.

From the age of seven or so he became a newspaper boy. Every morning, whatever the weather, his job began at five-thirty, and he ran through the town delivering the papers, getting back in time for school.

Here, finally, was something he didn't like about his childhood. It was a custom among the schoolchildren to compare what was in their lunch boxes and then exclaim, in envy or derision. Makiyo hated showing anyone his lunch because it was never anything but rice, and the poorest grade at that. There was also the fact that he owned only one pair of trousers, and these were for summer anyway. It wasn't the cold that mattered, though. It was the other kids laughing.

- Still, it was an education. I learned a lot. And I didn't cry any more. We cried a lot back at the orphanage. My brother cried because he was so young, and I cried too, though I couldn't let him see that.