Gaijin

by Sarah Z Sleeper

  From the back of the room a spectator shouted, “Gaijin,” in a low growl of a voice. Murmuring rose up from the spectators and the judge shushed them. The man yelled it again, “Gaijin!” and I saw him this time. He had pudgy cheeks he stared at me with squinty eyes. An officer hustled him out of the room. My cheeks flamed. Gaijin wasn’t exactly a slur, but it was an insult and it meant “alien,” or “foreigner,” a person who wasn’t where they were supposed to be. Owen told me he felt like a gaijin in the U.S. and in his own family. I glanced back at Hisashi and he shook his head, indicating I should ignore the rude spectator. But just as I’d felt embarrassed after being upskirted, I felt embarrassed now, wished I could run out of the room.

  Officer Tanaka stopped the video and called me up to the witness stand. I felt like I was floating, my feet off the ground, propelled forward by something other than my own volition. The court reporter turned out to be a translator too, typing at the same time as saying in Japanese what Tanaka and I said in English.

  “Miss Tosch, can you confirm that it is you in this video?”

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “How do you know it’s you?”

  I paused, considered the best way to phrase this. “Those are my legs and that is my underwear.”

  “Thank you. Do you have anything more you’d like to tell the court?”

  This was unexpected. I had no idea I’d be able to ad lib comments and my mind went blank. I stared at Hisashi, hoping maybe he’d give me a hint, but he stared back at me, didn’t offer an encouraging nod.

  “Anything at all,” Tanaka prompted, “anything about the effect this incident has had on you?”

  Fury creeped in to replace my mental blankness. My face was on fire and my throat felt strangled. I swallowed and said, “The street protests are scaring me and so is the anger I see in people’s faces. We’re getting violent threats at my office.” The judge was startled, and the courtroom had gone silent. “I thought I could go out for dinner and relax but then this moron on the street,” I pointed to Himura’s lawyer, “assaults me.” The pitch and volume of my voice rose. “I came to Japan because I love this country, thought I did anyway. Now, I hate Japan,” I yelled. A bead of sweat rolled down my chest and I stood shaking.

  The court reporter had been translating, whispering to the judge as I spoke. Now she stopped, hands paused over the keys. No one moved. The room was a vacuum of silent expectation.

  “Anything else, Miss Tosch?”

  “No.” I wanted to sprint out of the courtroom. I must seem like a crazy person. What had I just said? Why did I mention the protests and threats? They had nothing to do with my case. I was losing it.

  “Thank you then,” the judge said, and indicated that I should go back to my table.

  Rika and Hoshi gave me sympathetic looks and then turned away. Hisashi’s face was fixed in an emotion I couldn’t place. Anger? Disappointment?

  Officer Penn leaned over. “Miss Tosch, it’s a difficult time for you. Call me.”

  I wanted to bolt away from all this strangeness. But I sat through the testimony of the other two women, which were shorter than mine and without personal diatribes. They identified their legs and underwear on screen and then the session was over. Officer Tanaka told me that the judge denied Himura’s lawyer’s request that the case be dismissed and set an arraignment date for two months later. In the meantime, Himura would be on house arrest and would be fitted with an electronic anklet to monitor his activity. “At least he won’t be able to assault anyone else,” Officer Tanaka said.

  In the hallway, Rika approached me. She wore a pained expression. “Japan isn’t a bad place,” she said. “We don’t hate Americans.” She squeezed my hand and left.

  Hisashi took my arm in his powerful hand and jerked me out into the crushing heat and into the car. He got in the driver’s side and slammed the door, shaking the whole car. “You just told an open courtroom that our office has been getting threats. Do you realize that? Someone is going to tell the media. Ashimine-san is going to be furious. You might get fired.” He glared at me and a vein pulsed in his neck.

  I felt dizzy and overheated, like I might pass out. “I don’t know what happened. I’m not thinking clearly.”

  “Lucy, you know that the office is a place for discretion. You should at least know that much about Japan. Your comments might bring real danger to us.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say all that.” Tears soaked my cheeks. “It’s just too much. I didn’t expect Japan to be like this.”

  Hisashi gave me a hard look, then turned away. “Okay. I get that,” he said, speaking over his shoulder to me. “Let’s just hope the media doesn’t get wind of this. It’s not a good thing to publicize threats. It tends to bring more crazies out of the woodwork. Do you understand?” He was less angry now, speaking to me as if I were an incompetent child.

  “I do. I’m sorry. It’s just been too much for me. I’m going to leave, go back to Illinois.” I struggled to catch my breath.

  “Wow,” he said, turning toward me again. “You’d quit? Already?”

  It couldn’t get any worse, so I asked the question. “Please, Hisashi. Tell me why Owen did it. I loved him. I need to know.” A sob clutched in my throat.

  He paused, then looked hard into my eyes. “I’m sorry for all that’s happened to you. I wanted to help you. And I liked you. But maybe you’re right. Maybe you don’t belong here.”

  Confirmation. I was unwanted, unwelcome. Hisashi, once my ally, had turned against me. His usually smiling face was stony, guarded. He paused, frowning, and sighed. “Lucy, Owen is gay. That’s why he did it. He doesn’t date girls. You and Owen didn’t date. He almost died because my father couldn’t accept him”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I couldn’t face anyone at the office. I drove home as fast as I could, crying the whole way. I flung myself on my bed and sobbed. I was immature, idolizing Owen and glamorizing Japan in my childish imagination, when really, I understood nothing about Owen or his country. How in the world had I let a silly crush and made-up construct about Japan drive me all the way to this Godforsaken island? What kind of provincial idiot decided to live in a foreign country after two semesters of studying it in books? I’d created and believed my own fantasy about what it would be like—glamourous, exotic, modern, romantic—and it was nothing like what I’d imagined. It was a gritty, dangerous, boiling hot hell hole. The man who yelled gaijin had recognized me for who I was.

  And now the knowledge that Owen was gay. Hisashi had flung those words at me like daggers. “Owen is gay.” You idiot. How could you not have known? My thoughts were muddy, but a bolt of understanding shone through. Owen had been hot and cold to me in his fort because he was gay. He probably hated kissing me and that’s why he’d done it so awkwardly, holding my neck too tightly and then pushing me away. Why did he let me think he felt romantic toward me?

  I quickly knew the answer to my question. Owen undoubtedly recognized my crush and didn’t want to hurt me. My infatuation had forced him to act in a way that he didn’t feel. He’d said several times that we were “friends,” and now I understood, he meant it. Friends. Not lovers. We could have never been lovers. Owen’s mix of affection and aggression toward me had been driven by his own internal conflict. I’d mistaken it for passion. So stupid.

  “Sorry, Lu,” my father whispered in my ear, or was that Owen’s voice I heard in my mind? He’d tried to be a real friend. He taught me about haiku and tea ceremonies. He complimented me and told me I was beautiful. Just like a best friend would do. Only I was too blind to see the real Owen. He left Illinois knowing that I didn’t know him at all.

  I cried until I had no more tears. I would leave Okinawa as soon as I could make the arrangements. I texted Rose and she called me.

  “What are you talking about? You’re leaving?”

  I told Rose the story. All of it. My love for Owen, his hot and cold treatment of me in his fort, my fascination with Jap
an that was spurred by Owen, my fantasy of finding him and being adults in love in Japan, of learning right before I moved that he’d tried to commit suicide in Aokigahara, and meeting his brother, my coworker, from a fancy Tokyo family and learning that Owen is gay. I heard Rose exhale.

  “Wow. That’s some story. I can’t believe you never told me anything.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you’d think I was ridiculous.”

  “It was a crush,” she said, gently, which made tears spring back into my eyes. “I know you thought it was more, that it felt like more.”

  I had never thought of it as a crush. My feelings for Owen had been real. I had loved him. Even though I hadn’t known him for long, our moments together were locked in my memory, emotionally laden, more real than any other relationship I’d had.

  “Owen is a near-perfect memory,” she pressed. “Nothing in the real world can compete. You’ll be disillusioned by everything and everyone. You have to let him go.” I didn’t know what to say. She continued. “Did you tell him you loved him?”

  “Yes.” And there it was, the new emotional twist that had stabbed at my gut since I learned the truth. He knew I loved him and yet he still tried to kill himself. My love couldn’t have saved him.

  “Having a crush is sweet, Lucy. You’re sweet. But you have to let him go,” she repeated.

  I stared out my window at a careening seagull, floating up and around in circles. I inhaled several deep breaths. Then I promised Rose I would try to let Owen go. And I told her about all that had been going on, the upskirt assault, Hisashi’s disappointment in me after my courtroom outburst, the growing street protests and my chance to participate in a big, meaningful story.

  “So, you’ll stay in Japan, then,” she said, more of a statement than a question.

  “I was thinking of going to Suicide Forest. I just want to see the place.”

  “So, you’re staying.”

  Another thread fell loose from my heart. Right then I decided I would stay. I was a gaijin, a stranger in a foreign land, isolated and lonely and afraid. But I would stick it out, get through this terrible time, grow up and follow through with my commitments. It was my first adult decision ever, though I’d been playing at being an adult for years.

  * * *

  During the night I dreamed about the time Owen held my hand and kissed me so his mother would see. In my dream she was angry and ugly, some distorted version of the proud, loving mother I’d met. Owen’s father was in my dreams too, or maybe it was Ashimine-san, a small, dark figure with slumped shoulders, pointing a finger at me. I woke up in the morning with bleary eyes and a pounding heart.

  I knew I had to go to work and face the music, whatever the fall-out would be from my outburst in court. Would local media really seize on a statement made by an American nobody in a small, unknown court case? Had there even been reporters present? I showered and tried to wash the stress and sadness out of my face. I dreaded facing Hisashi, prayed he wouldn’t be there.

  I drove past the protestors and it was clear the size of the crowd had grown. They chanted and waved their signs and as I turned off of Kadena Gate Street, there he was, the rock-wielding teen I’d seen before. I recognized his black boots and his youthful face. He swiveled my direction. I wasn’t certain, but I thought he recognized me. He raised his arm and made a fist, shook it in my direction and I hurried on.

  At work, I huddled at my desk and poked at my university story, avoided talking to anyone. Kei, Jed and CeCe came in and out, but didn’t try to start a conversation with me. The day went by in a blur, with me fighting off tears. Rumiko shot me a concerned look. Amista was oblivious to me, concentrating on the rape story. I went over to her desk to ask what had happened at the press conference. She was too preoccupied to notice my swollen eyes.

  The lawyers had made a statement saying that Stone must be convicted and put in prison for his crime. They refused to answer questions. At one point a group of Americans had stood up and yelled from the back of the press conference, “Stone is innocent!” They yelled five times in a row before the cops yanked them out of the room. Amista showed me her screen, images of the press conference disruption were already posted. The headlines said, “Americans Protest Press Conference,” and “Ishikori Lawyers Call for Justice.”

  As we gathered our belongings to go home for the day, Amista said, “In court did you see the guy?” She stood close and spoke quietly, so no one could hear.

  “No. He wasn’t there, just his lawyer. Three of us had to identify our underwear and that was it.”

  “Lucy made her own protest statement,” Hisashi said, from behind us. He spoke in that comfortable, known-me-forever way he’d had when we first met. I stiffened; sure that his friendliness was some kind of ruse. I had no faith in my ability to read anyone anymore. He had yelled at me the day before and told me about Owen, and now he was acting cordial.

  “I was too hard on you. I’m sorry,” he said. “I realize things have been difficult for you. I don’t blame you for lashing out. And look, I don’t know what happened between you and Owen.”

  “I didn’t know he was gay.” I bit my lip so I wouldn’t start crying again.

  “He was well-practiced at hiding it,” Hisashi said.

  Amista had been listening and now her brow was wrinkled in concern. She came over and stood between us, eyed us in turn. “Sounds like both of you could use a break. Come to dinner at our house,” she said. “Lester is barbequing shrimp. You,” she said to Hisashi, “pick her up and bring her.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I changed into jeans and a cotton blouse, sipped a glass of cold white wine. My drinking had been escalating, but I gave myself the excuse of all the stress I’d been under. Hisashi texted me that he was downstairs. When I got into his car, he said hello like he always did, warmly with a smile. I worked up my courage. “I liked your brother very much,” I began.

  “You said you dated him,” Hisashi said.

  “Well, I guess I wasn’t sure if we were dating,” I said, cautiously, not wanting to be insensitive. “I only knew him for a month. But I definitely cared for him.”

  “Owen has that effect on people. Everyone’s attracted to him.” Hisashi’s fleshy profile bore no resemblance to Owen’s, but his voice had a similar sweet intonation.

  “You and Owen seem very different.”

  “I’d say.” Hisashi glanced over at me, his eyes narrow. “You didn’t know he’s gay?” A tumble of memories washed over me. In his fort, Owen had been affectionate and hostile at the same time, holding me too tightly, making out with me and then pushing me away. I remembered how he held my hand and kissed me while we were studying, long enough so his mother would see.

  “I didn’t know. I don’t think he wanted me to know. But we were more than friends.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I get that’s how you felt.” The busy street whizzed by outside and our headlights shone dully into the grey night. A new filter curtained my memories of Owen. It all made sense now, his strange behavior. I had been so attracted, so mesmerized, but to a figment of my creation, not a real person.

  “I decided to move to Japan because of Owen.”

  “Wow.”

  “Not just to be with him, but because his descriptions of Japan fascinated me. Now it seems so silly, chasing a man and an idea all the way across the world.”

  “No. I can understand. Everyone loves Owen, even my father. And even though my father told him he brought shame to our family; I know he still loves Owen. The thing is, he forced Owen and Mom to move back to Tokyo so Owen could attend some sort of anti-gayness retreat. Our dad wanted to drive the gayness out of him. Owen couldn’t see a way out of his situation. Either he lived a lie, or he disappointed our father.”

  I fought back tears, not wanting Hisashi to see me cry again. It would be so cruel, me crying over someone I barely knew, sitting next to someone who truly loved Owen. More and more my girlhood crush revealed itself for what is was. Silly. Immat
ure. Unrealistic. I said, “He told me once that he liked me because I respected him.”

  “I’m sure that was true. He was always looking for respect.”

  “I was heartbroken when he left.”

  “Owen breaks a lot of hearts.”

  I worried that Hisashi might think me a bit ridiculous, but I wanted to know more. “Why Suicide Forest?” I asked.

  Hisashi grimaced. “It’s a place people go to be anonymous. Owen wanted to disappear, to erase himself. Suicide Forest is an abomination, a place from Japan’s past that should be plowed over.” His voice was full of sorrow and anger and out of respect, I didn’t ask anything more. Owen Ota wasn’t mine anymore, and I knew really, he never was.

  * * *

  As if I’d been veiled for a year, my surroundings were suddenly stark, swathed in bright clarity. Palm trees and houses out the car window, and a friendly handsome man next to me. It was the first time since moving to Japan that I didn’t feel like I was in a fog. We drove into a quaint neighborhood with picturesque houses. I asked Hisashi if he’d been to Amista’s house before and he said he had, many times, that she invited him every few months. “Does she invite the others from work?” I asked.

  “Sometimes Ashimine-san, but you’re the first American.”

  Amista’s house was a one-story brick building, painted white, not the typical typhoon-battered grey concrete of so many Okinawan buildings. There was a pretty rock garden and bubbling fountain by a narrow stone path to the front door, which was guarded by two small stone shisas. Amista was shoeless when she opened the front door and we slipped off our shoes and left them on the tatami mat. The house smelled like jasmine with a touch of Okinawa’s ever-present ginger and simmering curry scents wafted from the kitchen. We sat on low-slung furniture, traditional Japanese minimalist black lacquer chairs, soft futons and cushions on the floor. Ex-Marine Lester turned out to be much smaller than Amista and he gazed at her, larger than him by two times, with adoration. He touched her any time he was close enough to do so. A hand on her arm, a touch on the back of her neck.