Please Enjoy Your Happiness

by Paul Brinkley-Rogers

  The next day, late in the afternoon, I went to the White Rose, took a quiet corner booth, and waited for you to arrive. It was raining again. I had ducked into a ‘locker club’ where I kept some civilian clothes, including a plaid long-sleeved shirt with button-down collar, two pairs of corduroy trousers, and a brown suede jacket. Navy regulations did not permit swapping one’s uniform for civvies, but if I didn’t, how would I ever be able to visit you at your home? In my uniform in off-limits Yokosuka neighbourhoods I would be a moving target for the military police; Commander Crockett would be alerted and he might not be so forgiving next time. Maybe I would even be locked up in the brig, deprived of sunlight, raindrops, books, and the company of an extraordinary woman whose life was better than a book. I was artful and conniving and determined. I was standing my ground. I was taking a calculated risk. I was a youngster, so I could be cleverly foolish. At twenty, I might be mature and boring. At twenty-one, I might be dead, or married. Also, I had a British passport, and my fall-back plan was always to whip that out if I was ever challenged for wearing civilian clothes and committing the crime of loitering at the Mozart coffee shop.

  The White Rose was crowded with sailors in their white uniforms, sitting together in groups, noisy but sheepish, not knowing what to do except hope that pretty hostesses would pour their beer and tease them mercilessly for an hour or two.

  Reiko came to me with a pout, slid across the vinyl with a squeak, and nestled against me as if I were her big brother. ‘Excuse me, please. Do you know any gentlemen?’ she asked in her excellent high-school English. She had just had her hair permed into a series of waves, one of which hung over her right eye, in an imitation, maybe, of the style made popular by American film actress Veronica Lake.

  ‘What kind of gentleman, Rei-chan?’ I asked. I addressed her with the affectionate diminutive version of her name.

  ‘Well . . . a handsome gentleman,’ she began, ‘suitable for a Japanese girl.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Let me see . . .’

  I was curious to know what was appropriate, and what was not. I was curious, but not because I intended to have a Japanese ‘girlfriend’. Yuki and I had never used the term koibito – which means both boyfriend and girlfriend – to refer to each other. She always introduced me to people as either ‘my dear friend’ or as ‘the English boy’, to distinguish me, I suppose, from American sailors who, lumped together, were ‘barbarians’, according to Kaji Yukiko.

  I could not think of anyone at that moment, except for a couple of navy pilots who sometimes dropped by the office on the Shangri-La where the ship’s newspaper was published. These pilots liked to bombard me with politely voiced questions such as, ‘Have you met any girls you like a lot?’ and, ‘Where can we meet college girls?’ as if I, who was still a virgin at the time, had a secret life when I went ashore in Yokosuka. Little did they know! You would think that virile navy pilots would already know the answers to those questions, but the truth was that command policy, constantly enunciated by Chaplain Peeples as if it were an addendum to the Ten Commandments, dictated that virtually everything ashore was off-limits to commissioned officers. I knew I could not recommend to Reiko that she meet these pilots because if they were seen escorting a Japanese woman around Yokosuka they would be severely reprimanded by their superiors, and that reprimand would be entered in their service record and possibly result in a denied promotion. Navy fliers could get falling-down drunk in bars in Honolulu, for example, and they could chase American girls there without any chaplain’s disapproval. But Japanese girls were verboten. Lowly seaman apprentices such as myself were not restricted, as long as they remained in the Honcho district’s three narrow streets jammed with neon-lit nightclubs and bars, immediately opposite the main entrance to the navy base. Also, of course, fliers were discouraged by their chaplains and also by American embassy or consular personnel if they had the temerity to get married in Japan and then attempted to bring their brides to the United States.

  So, I asked Reiko, what kind of male qualities were acceptable to a Japanese woman? She giggled. ‘I am really too young to tell you that,’ she said coyly. ‘I am only twenty-two. I am a girl from the countryside. My father is just a farmer. What do I know?’

  I looked at her closely. Why did some of the girls at the bar call her ‘Pumpkin’, I wondered? She was no beauty, but she had already shown me that week you slashed your wrists that she was loyal, affectionate, and sturdy both in frame and in temperament. Reiko was a ‘sweet apple’, you said. ‘It hurts me when I see sailors touching her because she is such a good girl. Do you know that almost all the money she earns here at the bar goes back to her family in Aomori?’

  ‘Please, Reiko,’ I said. ‘Tell me. What kind of man do you like?’

  ‘Well . . .’ she began, followed by a big tumble of carefully phrased words. ‘I long for the special man appear in my life. I hope we could accompany with each other to walk together for the rest of the life, no matter if it is storm or wind. We will always join together to experience the sour, sweet, bitter, and hot in the life.

  ‘I am saving my love in four parts. One part I will give to my family, because they give life to me. One part I will give to my future husband, because he will be the one who will accompany with me for the rest of the life. The third part I will give to my husband’s family, because if it was not for his mother and father I would not have him. The fourth part I give to myself, because if a woman does not love herself, how she could love another?

  ‘Also, I believe that you can’t make someone love you. All you can do is be someone who can be loved. The rest is up to the man who recognizes your worth. That is what my grandmother told my mother, and that is what my mother told all her daughters including me. All my aunts agree too. Every woman in the village agrees. Every woman in Japan agrees too, probably.’

  ‘How many sisters and brothers do you have?’ I asked.

  ‘I am the youngest,’ she said. ‘I have five sisters and four brothers. At one time we all lived in my parents’ very big farmhouse. Maybe you have not seen a traditional Japanese farmhouse? In the far north where I was born and it is very cold in winter, we are all sharing warmth under the thick thatched roof. My brothers and sisters. My parents. My grandparents. Three cousins who lost their parents. Two aunts who lost their husbands in the war – killed by Americans. The family altar where we honour our dead ancestors because those ancestors are living with us . . . Oh, yes, also a horse. Many chickens. Several big lazy dogs. Several fierce small dogs. Cats with no tails that get fat in the winter. Big bags of rice and seeds and sweet potatoes. Big boxes of tea. Onions too. Many barrels of sake . . . Let’s see. Have I forgotten something?’

  I laughed politely. I was trying to imagine living that way. In my family it was myself, my mother and father, two sisters, a highly devious Siamese cat named Chang, and that was it. ‘Is there anything else?’ I asked her. She looked up at me. I think she sensed at that moment the vast differences in culture and habit. Also, maybe she was thinking that living on a housing estate in the suburbs with 2.5 kids and a Buick station wagon might not be a wise choice for someone raised in the Japanese countryside who suckled her mother’s breast – as was the custom in her family – until she was eight years old. (Reiko always enjoyed telling sailors that.)

  ‘Yes, there is more,’ she said. ‘I am very definite. This is the way I want to live my life. All the women in my family say that the measure of love is when you love without measure. Do you understand?’

  I nodded in the affirmative. In the back of my mind was the friendship I had with you, Yukiko.

  ‘In life there are very rare chances that you’ll meet the person you love and that he will love you in return,’ Reiko said. ‘So, once you have it, don’t ever let go because the chance might never come your way again.

  ‘It’s better to lose your pride to the one you love than to lose the one you love because of pride. All the women in my family believe that too. We spend too much tim
e looking for the right person to love, or finding fault with those we already love. Instead we should be perfecting the love we give. That is a woman’s duty in Japan. That is what we Japanese believe with all our heart.

  ‘So can I tell you the five simple rules in my family? You are not Japanese, but maybe you can remember these rules that will make you happy. I tell your friend Yuki-chan this, many, many times. But sometimes she forgets because she has so much on her mind.

  ‘One: Free your heart from hate. Two: Free your mind from worries. Three: Live simply. Four: Give more. Five: Expect less.

  ‘I follow these rules,’ she said, ‘because even though I am from the countryside, I know that the world is so big. I know there must be the one man who would love me and care for me. I would like to be his sweet wife only. I seriously want a simple love that a man could share with his woman.

  ‘Happiness is my destination,’ she said.

  She poked me in the side to make sure I was listening.

  I could see that you had just entered the White Rose, Yuki. You were shaking the raindrops off your big black umbrella. The collar of your tan trench coat was fastened high around your neck. You wore a black French beret. I could see the glitter of your cocktail dress – standard attire for the hostesses at the White Rose – as you hung up your coat and scanned the crowd for faces you might recognize.

  ‘Quick,’ Reiko said. ‘This I say to Yuki-chan a lot. She is my o-nesan [honorary big sister], and it is not my place to giving her advice. But she is the kind of woman who has to be guided because she has never accepted that people can be unkind. I tell her, so many person chase love and happiness here. I am a kind girl. I have a warm heart. I am serious about love. I am lovely, sweet, honest, and I can always be nice to my family and friends. I love life. I always have a smile in my heart. Like Yuki-chan, I want to share my life with someone special. But who? Please, can you help me find someone who knows how to cherish the beauty in life, and cherish a little happiness? Especially, please be honest with Yukiko and please be understanding and please remember my rules and remember that lies have short legs.’

  Before I could say anything, Reiko slid across the vinyl to the dance floor and ran with a little skip to your side. She had a smile on her face that I was sure every woman in her extended family had under the huge thatched roof of the farmhouse. She whispered in your ear and then she scampered to a table where there were many sailors and started making them laugh. I have wondered many times what happened to Reiko and whether she found a happy man.

  You waved at me. I felt the full flush of happiness spread across my face. Could you see it, I wondered, through the shadows and the darkness inside the bar? What did that flush of happiness mean? It was so unexpected. I think that even now, after all these years, that feeling I had on the cusp of adulthood has never gone away, never faded. I have to tell you that fifty-five years after the long summer of your letters that same happiness still emerges when I think about you. You are more than just memory. You are alive.

  Your next letter, by the way, arrived on ship after it docked at Yokosuka. I had read it just that morning, before I went ashore. Why it took so long to reach me I do not know.

  Dear Paul,

  It is a very nice day. That is because the air mail came. Yes, I got your letter but it took several weeks to get here and that is very strange, very rare. But maybe it is because it is the rainy season in Japan on my calendar. There has been flooding and terrible weather.

  I am so glad you had so nice time there in Hong Kong. Or was it Manila? You have made some good friends by talking and meeting people, I am sure. I am sure you spent a healthy time there, not like the bar in Yokosuka. Not like with me on days when life is cruel and you are fighting demons so that you can understand.

  You are growing up! I am very glad for you because of the way you live your life. Your character makes me imagine that one day you will go to Tokyo to be a student so that you can learn about my country. Maybe you can help me learn about Japan too. I came back to Japan only 10 years ago and still I am in big trouble. Still I do not understand. When I feel confused, it helps me put my imagination upon you – like this – so that you are discussing the arts and music with friends, and sometimes with a hard-looking face you are speaking of life and philosophy and politics. This always makes me feel relieved from any bad feelings – any sad feelings – when we part again.

  I imagine the day when you will be a civilian. You will meet many, many wonderful people. You will write a book yourself and you will be a big success. I will be here in Japan with such a warm feeling in my womb. It will be such a cold winter day, but I will feel warm. I will feel like you are my son. I shall read in the newspaper of your activities. I will see your picture. There will be an article that explains to me your life history and I will keep that article forever and never let you go. How wonderful your future!!! I say that with happy tears, because I know it to be true. I have nothing critical to say about your character. You are a brave and handsome man and I know that sooner or later I will have to let you go. When that happens, I promise that you will not see my tears. You will see me with a happy face. I want to let you know that, so that you will always remember me . . . this certain girl . . . Yuki.

  Please remember my name even if you cannot remember my face. I am Yukiko Kaji from Yokosuka. I am Kaji Yukiko from Harbin. I am “Japanese” and I am not Japanese. Please hide me somewhere in your big man’s heart. I want you also to know how happy I am today, and because I am happy I can laugh at danger. I feel that you are with me even when you are far away. Now I must hurry down the steps to the mail, so I will close now. Nothing will stop me from getting to the post office. Take care of yourself until we meet again.

  Love,

  Yukiko

  11

  The Police Know Everything

  Thus the ideal man is the leader type, the ‘manly’ man, one who has suffered, a man of courage and endurance, strong-willed, quick, decisive and forceful in situations where lesser men would hesitate out of scrupulous regard for detail, frank in the expression of his opinions without excessive regard for etiquette or convention, disdainful of underhand scheming, direct in his expression of emotions, a good loser, generously lacking in petty resentments, but ready to avenge insult whenever it is proffered, capable of deep passions but able to conquer them if necessary, a loyal friend, ready to act on the promptings of the heart, and as a leader of men ready to give his life for his subordinates and chivalrous in his protection of the weak.

  R. P. DORE, FROM A 1958 SURVEY OF JAPANESE HOUSEWIVES, IN CITY LIFE IN JAPAN: A STUDY OF A TOKYO WARD

  I walked into the Mozart coffee shop the next day to wait for you. You had made a plan to take me to see a black-and-white film from a Japanese director at a new theatre, where we could hold hands in the dark without getting disapproving looks and comments from those who thought it was unacceptable behaviour.

  It was Franz Schubert day at the Mozart. The café was celebrating the composer’s Impromptus Opus 90, to be exact, with its fantastic introductory chapter building upon itself until the complete landscape of Schubert’s vision was made clear. I remember my father saying the world was fortunate that Schubert wrote all of that just two years before he died, otherwise it would have been lost instead of remembered for eternity.

  I looked at the Schubert announcement chalked on a small blackboard posted at the entrance in Japanese script and in English. There were always engaging errors in the manager’s English: ‘Today so wonderful concert. Please enjoy your happiness.’ These errors caused me just the hint of a smile. I did not want to embarrass the manager, Mr Ito. He was one of the few Japanese in those days who appeared to accept our friendship as a harmless fact of life. He also seemed to be in awe of you and your style and your looks.

  I opened the door. The manager greeted me with his usual, ‘Mr Anthony Perkins, konnichiwa [good afternoon]! So nice to see you!’ which always made me blush deeply. Groups of uniformed high-school
girls reading Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir and Gigi by Colette – in French, of course – suddenly snapped their books closed and looked up with worshipful eyes above rosy cheeks. Their uniforms were dark blue sailor suits with pleated skirts, white ankle socks, and black leather shoes, and the girls wore no lipstick, no mascara, no jewellery, and no other embellishments of any kind.

  Mr Ito motioned me to my usual seat by the record turntable. There was always a humming noise coming from the amplifier in this shadowed corner, and the sound provided a good cover for discreet conversation. I slouched down, doing my best imitation of Jean-Paul Belmondo sans smoking cigarette.

  But then, a real horror, more horrible, maybe, than having to deal with Commander Crockett, or you when you were frightening children with shouts of ‘Urusai!’ Seated at the window, about a dozen feet away, was that detective, the one who yelled, ‘You! You!’ at me at the train station after he had subdued the man who growled like a bear. He was staring right at me, with no trace of recognition on his face – a seasoned skill that froze me in place and prevented me from adopting a cunning or calculating countermove. Then a scowl of some kind darkened his face. It reminded me of the scowl on the face of my family’s cat when it anticipated a live morsel. He lit a cigarette, got up, and thudded across the floor to where I sat. He bent over slightly and produced a business card, holding it out to me with the thumb and forefinger of each hand gripping either end of the card, as if he were a waiter delivering a tray. I could smell liquor of some kind on his breath, and his raincoat reeked of tobacco. I knew nothing, of course, at that time of my life, about the elaborate etiquette involved in exchanging meishi [business cards]. But I suppose that did not matter, as seaman apprentices, whose job it was to follow orders without question, did not have business cards. I am sure they do not have them now.