by Manai, Yamen
She was the sole survivor of the three burglaries they’d experienced in two years. With the revolution, the people were taking their revenge on the police in every way possible. Previously all-powerful and frequently unjust, the police had become fragile, overwhelmed by the explosion of petty crime and the emergence of small terrorist groups. It was no longer surprising to hear that individuals had burned down this police station or attacked that patrol unit. After every robbery that left their home trashed, Tahar would look at the impassive geisha and ask her in a tired voice, “Did you see those damn thieves? Won’t you tell me who they were?”
He looked at her again, then stretched out his hand to open the door to her glass house. He took out a card yellowed by time. He had received the geisha by mail, in a package he had unwrapped before his children’s amazed eyes. Had the robbers judged it to be of no value? Now it was more valuable to him than ever. She was more than a piece of decoration.
Tokyo, October 1984
Dear Professor,
Allow me to offer you this geisha, guardian of the Japanese tradition. I hope she’ll find a place in your living room and will remind you of our delightful conversations.
Sincerely yours,
Shinji Saiko
The card included an address in Tokyo and a telephone number.
“You think that Shinji is still around and that he has the same number?”
“We’re still around, and our number hasn’t changed in decades.”
“What if he doesn’t answer?”
“We’ll go anyway!”
“Can you imagine if he does answer?”
“That would be amazing!”
Jannet had never met Shinji Saiko, but she knew that he had been her husband’s student. In the eighties, Tahar had given Arabic lessons at the Institute of Modern Languages for several summers in a row. At the time, the country was still known for its social harmony, relaxed lifestyle, and beaches of fine sand. Lots of foreigners visited, notably for language immersion courses, as part of international programs with students from France, Spain, Cuba, Canada, Germany, China, and Japan, among other countries. Established Arabic speakers, or hoping to become so, they all came to celebrate this fascinating language, how it sounded and how it was written. For a long time Tahar exchanged letters with many of them. At its height, this epistolary network numbered some fifty correspondents and just as many new worlds reaching him through the post. His children would expose the envelopes to a cloud of steam, carefully removing stamps to add to their collection, as he read and corrected letters from students now scattered across the world and wrote his responses in return. He had even visited some of them during private trips or conferences in Europe.
He remembered Shinji Saiko and the summer of 1984 very clearly. A multilingual translator for the press, Saiko had impressed him from the first day. Taking a long bow before Tahar, he had wanted to remove his shoes before stepping onto the classroom’s sacred ground. Tahar found his attitude fascinating but asked him to keep on his loafers.
“What is Japan like, Mr. Saiko?” asked Tahar during his traditional round of the class, during which every student presented his or her country to the others.
“It’s very different from here,” he answered. “But our countries have something in common. Both are a delicious mix of tradition and modernity.”
Tahar and Shinji often found themselves alone when class began at eight a.m. Foreign students were generally surprised by the country’s lunar rhythm and nightlife, conducive to staying up until all hours: they would arrive late in the morning. One day, Shinji took advantage of the one-on-one time with his professor to tell him a story.
In the seventeenth century, in the city of Kushiro on the island of Hokkaido, two samurais on leave ran into each other during the spring festival. They were old friends who had lost touch because they served different masters and were both overjoyed at their reunion. They enjoyed the celebration together, having such a grand time that they promised each other they would return on the same occasion the following year. When spring came, one of the samurais, unable to make the trip in time, unsheathed his katana and performed hara-kiri. His ghost appeared to his friend in the city of Kushiro during the festivities, thereby honoring his promise.
“My friend, if everyone who was late in this country did hara-kiri, there wouldn’t be anybody left. There would just be ghosts wandering through the cities,” laughed Tahar, and his student with him.
At the end of the course, Shinji went back to Tokyo. They wrote each other for a while, exchanging best wishes, a few gifts. But as the years went by, the relationship, like Tahar’s other correspondences, faded.
“Call him, and you’ll see soon enough!”
At noon local time, six p.m. Tokyo time, as Tahar was dialing Shinji Saiko’s number, his two female students, bearing medical certificates describing their injuries and granting them a three-week medical leave, were filing a complaint against him for assault and battery.
The ring tone confirmed that the number was still active.
He found the long beeps stressful.
After a dozen rings, the Japanese greeting came, soft and reassuring: “Kon-nichiwa.”
“Shinji Saiko?”
“Hai . . .”
“Salam Aleik, Shinji Saiko!”
Tahar’s student recognized his voice, and the two men eagerly plunged into conversation, happy to hear from one another once again.
They talked for a while. They brought up shared memories and described their paths since those happy bygone days. They had both lived through a lot at their respective ends of the world. Nearly one year ago to the day, Tahar had been confined to his home with his family, respecting, like the rest of the country, a military curfew established following weeks of postrevolutionary unrest and a wave of assassinations. Shinji Saiko had been confined with his family as well, in the basement this time, respecting a radioactivity alert triggered by the tsunami that had ravaged the nuclear power plant of Fukushima, fearful of black rain falling down on them.
“Here, strong collective choices were made. Life first! The last nuclear power plant will be closed within a year.”
“Here, weak collective choices were made. Death prowls everywhere, among men and insects alike.”
“What . . . ?”
Tahar explained the main reason for his call. He told Shinji the story of Sidi’s bees, then mentioned Jannet’s firm desire to go all the way to Japan.
“What a wonderful idea!” Shinji exclaimed.
“Yes, at least I think so,” replied Tahar. “Shinji, would you be our guide during our trip? I’d be incapable of finding a queen bee breeder here, let alone in Japan.”
“Professor, allow me to offer you my aid and my hospitality!”
26
“Douda, come out of your shithole.”
The call wasn’t clear. The voice just a nocturnal murmur, barely perceptible amid the whispering wind, howling wolves, and snoring of his pregnant wife lying next to him. But for having long awaited it, Douda heard the voice and got up. It was his friend, a brother from a different womb, as he liked to say.
He didn’t believe his ears, and still he ventured out quietly, careful not to wake Hadda. As his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness on this moonless night, he made out Toumi’s shadow in front of his home. He hurried over, arms open, and the two men exchanged a long hug. Douda felt the cold of iron between their bodies and the whiskers of an abundant beard on his friend’s cheeks.
“Toumi, where were you? I’ve been really worried!”
“I’m back. You knew, right? Tell me that you knew!”
Douda didn’t know a thing. He hadn’t had any news in three months and had been worried sick, but in the grip of emotion, he said, “I knew. I knew.”
The two friends let go. Douda could see now and distinguish details. Toumi had changed. His barbarian beard wasn’t the only new thing. His metamorphosis appeared much deeper. The many accessories complement
ing his black tunic attested to that: around his waist, a machete and two grenades; over his shoulder, an automatic rifle; diagonally along his torso, a large-caliber cartridge belt. Douda touched the bullets on his friend’s chest.
“What happened to you, Toumi?”
“First off, don’t call me Toumi anymore. Call me Abu Labba!”
“Abu what?”
“Abu Labba!”
Douda didn’t understand.
“Uh, Abu meaning ‘father’? Did you have a kid named Labba?”
“No, you idiot! It’s my war name.”
Douda could see a little farther into the deep of night and realized that his friend wasn’t alone. A stone’s throw behind him, between the olive trees, were a dozen bearded shadows armed with Kalashnikovs. Surprised, he took a step backward.
“Don’t be afraid! I came here with my unit. That’s my katiba there.”
“War name? Katiba? What are you talking about, Toumi?”
“Abu Labba!” his friend growled. “The war I’m telling you about is the holy war! Have you forgotten the sermon we heard together? We’re going to restore the kingdom of God to this land of unbelievers before the impending apocalypse!”
Douda was shocked. “But this isn’t a land of unbelievers!”
“Yes, it is, Douda! Yes, it is! People are hypocrites. They say they belong to one religion and do the complete opposite of what it decrees. Even the Party of God makes concessions in order to rule, under the pretext of democracy. It’s not radical enough. It allows communists and atheists to live. We must impose the law of God! It’s time to put everyone back on the right path!”
Douda cast another glance at his friend’s lethal accessories and asked him, “And you, Abu Labba, are on the right path?”
“Absolutely, Douda! I’m on the sirat !”
Douda looked down.
“Trust me! You’ll see that I’m right soon enough. Now listen to me. How’s Hadda doing? Is the pregnancy going okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Here, buy her some real sea bream!” he said, slipping something into his friend’s hand. Douda felt a thick wad.
“Where’d you get this?”
“God gives to those who take His path.”
“So God gave you this money?”
Toumi insisted. “Take it and buy her some real sea bream and anything she wants until she delivers. Your child won’t have an ill-fated life, you hear me, Douda?!”
Douda was taken aback. What fate could you promise a child brought into a world of grenades and submachine guns?
Toumi prodded his friend’s chin up and placed a second wad in his hand. “Listen carefully, Douda! I’m heading to the mountains with my katiba. We’re going to set up our camp there. Take this money and go into the village. Get some groceries for me. Buy sugar, coffee, tea, rice, pasta, potatoes, some canned food. As much as you can load onto your mule’s back. Be discreet. No one can know that we’re up there. We’ll meet at the spring in two nights. Okay?”
Douda remained silent. Toumi shook him by the shoulders. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now tell me, how’s Baya?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“She left a month ago to work in the capital.”
Abu Labba’s eyes gleamed in the night. “Soon the capital will fall. Soon I’ll get her back.”
“You guys want to bring down the capital?”
“Right into our hands, with the help of God! We’re going to restore His kingdom, from the Far East to the Far West. Our brothers in Iraq and the Levant have begun the conquest. We have a caliph, Douda! Did you know that? We have a caliph, like in the golden age!”
Toumi hugged him again, then let go and retreated to rejoin his katiba. Their shadows were quickly swallowed up by the darkness, leaving Douda stunned, mute, frozen in place.
“In two nights, Douda. At the spring. Everything your mule can carry.”
27
Within the week, Tahar had requested time off from the university and Jannet had freed up the pilgrimage money. She bought two tickets for Japan. The administrative formalities, which they had stumbled on for every previous trip, were less complicated than they feared. In fact, the Japanese government didn’t demand an entry visa for citizens from their country. You simply crossed the border with a valid passport.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” commented Tahar. “Who from here would go so far away?”
“Us!” Jannet answered with delight.
A few days later, they were aboard a long-haul aircraft heading to Tokyo.
They held hands for the whole trip. They had traveled separately before. Now, they were taking the plane together for the first time.
One layover and twenty hours later, they arrived in the Japanese capital. They had slept for much of the flight and woke when the plane was beginning its descent. They admired the sprawling archipelago from the window. The landscape was like nothing they’d seen. Hundreds of islands scattered across the ocean, with verdant flora and countless volcanoes and hills. As the plane descended lower, they made out rice fields gleaming in the setting sun, and farther away, cities stretching between mountains and ocean.
The bright Haneda airport was so efficiently organized that it only took them fifteen minutes to go through border control. Once the formalities were complete, they found their luggage had already been sent to a conveyer belt.
“Unbelievable!”
“What?”
“The twenty minutes between an international flight landing and us leaving the airport,” he replied, pushing a luggage cart.
In the arrivals hall, a man in casual attire was waiting for them with a sign written in Arabic: Tahar and Jannet.
“Is that Shinji?” whispered Jannet.
“Yes, it is,” answered Tahar.
“I thought he’d be younger than you,” she whispered.
“He’s almost ten years older! Back then, I was younger than most of my students.”
With a broad smile, Shinji advanced to meet them, and the two men warmly shook hands. Shinji spoke in slightly rusty Arabic.
“Professor Tahar! What a joy to see you again.”
“After all these years. And without hara-kiri,” joked Tahar. “Allow me to introduce the instigator of our trip, my wife, Jannet.”
“Jannet! I’m so honored,” said Shinji, bowing repeatedly.
“The honor is all mine!”
“My wife is waiting impatiently for you. Follow me. My car is parked on the basement level.”
Jannet complimented their host during the drive.
“Mr. Saiko, your Arabic merits admiration.”
“Well, that’s because I had a good professor! A good professor!” he repeated as if to double-check his words.
“You were a brilliant student. The only punctual one,” recalled Tahar.
“I’ve been studying a lot since your call,” he laughed, before continuing, “Professor, one day you asked me what Japan was like. You’re going to see for yourself.”
Looking out the window, Tahar was already immersed in the lights of Tokyo. Shinji made sure to drive slowly, giving him time to observe the landscape. The city streamed by before his awestruck gaze. It wasn’t as cluttered as he had imagined but actually gave the feeling of space thanks to its wide roads. The buildings varied in height and the neighborhoods in density. Impressive skyscrapers on the outskirts of the city gave way to low buildings adorned with giant screens and signs, hosting boutiques, bars, and restaurants in which the nightlife was just awakening.
“Tokyo endured terrible bombings during World War II. Nearly the entire city was rebuilt.”
The residential neighborhoods far from the center were markedly calmer, like Itabashi, where Shinji and his wife, Inoue, lived alone. Grandparents for a few years now, they too were questioning the future of their grandchildren and the world they would leave them.
Opening the door, Inoue
bowed to them and they followed suit. She repeated several warm phrases in her language.
Shinji served as interpreter. “She welcomes you to our home!”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, and thank you for welcoming us,” they answered.
In keeping with Japanese tradition, they removed their shoes at the entryway and put on slippers. Although small, the Saikos’ house was comfortable: the space was mastered and optimized as best it could be. Everything was tighter than the standard to which Tahar and Jannet were accustomed. Even the indoor plants had been adjusted to minimalist dimensions.
“Those are bonsai plants, miniature trees. They require care and particular attention,” explained Shinji.
Before leaving them to rest in the guest room, Shinji took Tahar aside and warned him, in all seriousness: “Professor, you will notice that there are several buttons in the bathroom that generate multiple sprays of water. Do not panic. Trust your instinct.”
28
“A delicious mix of modernity and tradition. How very true . . . ,” repeated Tahar as he was exposed to Japanese culture.
And exposed he was, during the small discovery tour Shinji, hoping to enrich his guests’ short visit, had designed for them.
Early in the morning, he brought them to Tokyo’s famous tuna auction. At the insistence of Shinji and the fish seller, Tahar and Jannet reluctantly swallowed pieces of raw fish before joyfully taking seconds.
At the ancestral temple of Asakusa, the Sensō-ji, they were lucky enough to observe a prayer recited by Buddhist monks, whose chanting was echoed by devoted followers. They wandered through the temple’s Zen gardens, whose ponds boasted carp serenely floating near the water’s surface.
One evening, near the Sumida River, they dined in a ryōtei, a traditional restaurant, where they watched a show of songs and fan dances performed by apprentice geisha. “You’re not in your glass house anymore!” And Tahar no longer knew, as he finished his sentence, whether he was talking about the geisha or himself.
They visited the electric neighborhood of Akihabara by night, observing the light-drenched buildings, amped-up gamers, and stream of oddly dressed figures walking by.