Japanese Portraits: Pictures of Different People (34 page)

We all stood straight and in they walked, the Emperor in a black suit and what looked like a school tie, the Empress in a cream-colored kimono with a matching obi. They took their places in front of us, just as the diagram had indicated, and we looked at each other.

Both of them were half smiling, their expression solicitous, as though they were about to ask us if we felt all right, if we had enough money to get home. Despite their obvious goodwill, however, they were grave—surprisingly so. One did not, of course, expect laughter and tossed heads, but this gravity was so deep that I was reminded of the way people behave at funerals. Gravity can resemble sadness, and that of their imperial majesties certainly did. The graciousness was slightly mournful, like flowers slowly fading. And yet behind all this, I also saw something resembling curiosity and realized that we represented to them not only duty but, perhaps, diversion.

Though I had been anxious not only about what to say but how to say it—my grasp of
keigo
(formal Japanese) being completely insecure—the Emperor, with the air of a man used to coping with such minor problems, put out his hand, thus indicating that the interview should continue in a foreign manner; and, sure enough, he congratulated me in English.

It then being my turn to speak, I asked him if there were any animals in the forest. Yes, he believed so. Some rabbits—yes, as a child he had seen some rabbits.

Properly briefed, he spoke next about films. He was fond of Kurosawa, apparently, and remembered seeing Ozu once when the latter had been given some imperial award. Yes,
Tokyo Story,
he said, with a sort of distant relish.

The Emperor had been going up one half of our line and the Empress coming down the other. Now they met, and with an adroitness one doesn't usually see off a dance floor they pivoted around each other, and she stood before me.

- Yes,
Tokyo Story,
she repeated.

Her husband had looked straight at me in that affable yet detached manner I had noticed before only in the very rich, but her gaze was focused somewhere in front of me and slightly below, as though she were staring at my necktie. Her voice was soft, her English London-accented.

- And I feel, she said, that I ought to—no,
want
to—take an interest in younger directors and find out what they are doing.

I mentioned some recent films. Oh, I wish I could see them, she said, so I promised to send her a few cassettes.

After our little talk, I thought about her life. They were both sequestered here, and besides their duties there must have been little for them to do. Royalty is in this way held captive—displayed and then put back in the box. The temptation to escape must be strong. I remembered the princess in
Roman Holiday
and her escapade; but there had been no escape for Michiko. I remembered pictures of her I had seen when she was young; now she was frail, gracious, tentative, keeping her eyes fixed on my necktie. I resolved to send her all the cassettes I could find.

Later, talking to a chamberlain, I mentioned what I had promised to do and wondered how to do it.

- What a good idea. Just send them to me and I'll make sure she gets them.

He gave me his card and I discovered that the Imperial Palace had an address. It is: Imperial Palace, 1-1 Chiyoda, Chiyoda-ku, Tokyo 100.

Our audience had been scheduled to last thirty minutes and, exactly as arranged, amid gracious smiles and bowing heads, their imperial highnesses glided from the room. Glided—for their gait was also practiced. It was this that made me suddenly aware of a word that had been waiting there during the entire session and now came to mind: ghosts. Quite apart from the otherworldly aspect of all royalty and the sacerdotal roles these particular members of it are obliged to play, I saw a gentleness and sadness which went with a resignation so complete that it was as though life were already over.

After they had left there was a sudden lightness, and we realized we had felt oppressed. There was some laughter, much rubbing of hands, and a chamberlain, having overheard and mistaken my interests, told me all about the badger they had found in the imperial pantry.

As our limousine rolled smoothly over the gravel and out into Tokyo, I wondered whether
Okaeri,
the film I wanted to send first, was such a good choice. It is about this lonely and unhappy wife who develops schizophrenia. I remembered that when the Empress was recently attacked by the scurrilous press (claiming that she keeps the servants up after hours, demands food at night, is bossy), she responded by turning mute—did not speak for weeks.

And back at home again, looking out over the city toward the palace, I wondered whether that soft glint of curiosity had been satisfied or whether we too had disappointed her.