“Are you the writer?”
“Sometimes.”
“I am Mr. Mishima, but I’m not the writer. I am the viceconsul of Japan, and I would like to meet you.”
“For any particular reason?”
“I cannot discuss it on the telephone.”
“Next Wednesday, at the café Les Gâteries, at noon . . . Is that all right with you?”
“Of course. But why there?”
“Why not?”
Silence answered me.
“Fine . . . At the café Les Gâteries, Wednesday at noon. I’ll be there.”
I don’t know why, but I figured it was important to insist on that café. I set the time and the place for the meeting. You have to take the initiative in cases like this. I’d seen how it worked in The Godfather, the Coppola film. You set the place, you get there well ahead of time, you hide the gun in the bathroom, behind the toilet. But why the silence? It’s true, there are always periods of silence during this kind of telephone conversation. Sudden stops sometimes destabilize me. Absence of noise is not necessarily silence. And what is silence for the Japanese? Emptiness in a conversation does not have the same meaning in all cultures. Of course it’s not emptiness at all, but a subterranean conversation (we speak to ourselves as we talk to the other person). We hear the silence when both conversations stop at the same time. It’s like a Ping-Pong game: you have to wait until your adversary returns the ball. And if he doesn’t do it with a smooth rhythm, brief spaces where nothing is spoken occur. Sometimes it isn’t an accident. These days, you still meet professionals who can play silences on three levels: the short, the long, and the embarrassing silence. Since I couldn’t analyze his, I suddenly fell silent. Perhaps he wasn’t expecting me to stop so suddenly. In any case, he seemed to freeze (which happens when the body falls silent at the same time as the mind), and then I heard him murmur, “I will come with my assistant, Mr. Tanizaki. I hope you will not mind.”
I had made immoderate use of silence. That weapon can blow up in your face. “Not at all.”
“If anything concerns you in any way, for one reason or another, you will please tell me, sir.”
I had forgotten that style of politeness. One fact is always hidden behind another. Behind silence is politeness. Behind politeness—often cruelty.
“There’s no problem.”
Another lengthy silence (it was his turn now), though the onus was on him to thank me and hang up. Didn’t he know it was up to the person who called to put an end to the conversation? Was he, a diplomat, somehow unaware of this code? I decided to end things myself.
“Thank you for your call. I look forward to meeting you.”
Dead air, as if he were busy signing documents.
“Yes, I will see you soon.”
I heard a brief click, the kind that might betray that someone else was listening in on the conversation. Not being in the same room as Mr. Mishima, he couldn’t execute a fully synchronized sign-off. A tenth of a second too soon. It could have been his assistant, Mr. Tanizaki.
DO YOU LIKE SUSHI?
I OFTEN CHANGE hiding places in order not to be identified with one particular spot. I cover my tracks. A moving target in a dazzling city. That should tell you just how disappointed I was when Mr. Mishima changed our meeting to a Japanese restaurant, rejecting my small, intimate café on Rue St-Denis where you can see without being seen. I hadn’t created all these identity displacements just to end up in a Japanese restaurant with Japanese people. In any case, that tells you a lot about the capacity of people to imagine the world, even those who are paid to be more curious than the rest of us. For them, the universe is narrowed down to their mental space and their petty diplomatic chicanery. They intend to die in the spot where they had their first shit. As you can see, I’m in a foul mood this morning. God! All that for nothing. I’m pissing and moaning but it’s far from over. And here I’d pictured our meeting in a restaurant other than Japanese. Chinese, for example. A Japanese guy in a Chinese restaurant is more interesting. And in a Korean restaurant—that’s practically subversive. There are so many sushi bars these days, they must sprout up overnight. How would I recognize two Japanese businessmen in a room full of Japanese businessmen? Two moon-shaped faces were shooting wide smiles in my direction from the back of the room. The same black suits, the same haircuts, the same smiles. Which was Mr. Mishima? Where was Mr. Tanizaki? I decided not to try telling them apart.
They both rose at the same time.
“I am Mr. Mishima, Japanese vice-consul. Officially, I am the cultural attaché, but I have no well-defined responsibilities. At the consulate, everyone does what he can. I am embarrassed to receive you so modestly.”
Nervous laughter.
“And I am his assistant, Mr. Tanizaki.”
“Please sit down,” Mr. Mishima told me.
Maybe it was Mr. Tanizaki who actually said that; I wasn’t paying attention to individual identity. I sat down. I wasn’t going to wait for their permission. Though actually, Mr. Tanizaki (or Mr. Mishima) monitored my seating arrangements with obsessive concern; he seemed on guard for the slightest detail that might compromise my comfort. He was like an entomologist slipping a black insect into a handsome lacquered case. Black was the establishment’s prime color. The tables, chairs, plates and tablecloths were black, while the knives and forks were red. Quite suddenly, Mr. Mishima demanded we be moved to another table. Since all the tables were taken, he wanted to change places with me. I had to assure him I was just fine where I was. But he wasn’t satisfied. He turned to Mr. Tanizaki, who immediately jumped to his feet to give me his seat, which offered a view of the street. Okay, okay. The charades continued until Mr. Mishima was completely convinced that everything had been done to ensure maximum comfort for me. I knew this was his courteous, Asian way of making me feel welcome, but it really wasn’t my style. Maybe they were expecting me to make a similar effort; I had no idea. No—they’re the thousand-year-old refined culture, whereas I represent savage young America. I sucked in my stomach, jammed my knees together and hunched my shoulders in order to enjoy the small space allotted to me. A compact kind of happiness. I looked around the place and saw it was designed for a certain size of person, as if they wanted to discourage larger formats—black American basketball players, for example.
“Do you like the restaurant?” Mr. Tanizaki asked me.
“It’s fine,” I said, in a neutral tone.
“I am happy it pleases you,” Mr. Mishima said, smiling. “Other places of this kind have no resemblance to a real restaurant in Tokyo.”
That’s another thing I detest: authenticity. A real restaurant. Real people. Real things. Real life. Nothing more fake than that. Life itself is a construct.
“Do you like sushi?”
“No.”
I decided to keep my bad mood a while longer. They looked totally lost. It’s true, if the guest doesn’t like sushi, his tastes can cause problems in a Japanese restaurant.
“I don’t like fish.”
Which is completely untrue.
“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Mishima, astonished that anyone could dare not to like fish. But he did his best to hide his disappointment.
“I’m not allergic to fish, and I’m not a vegetarian. I just can’t agree with the idea of eating fish. In my opinion, it’s just not a good practise.”
“Fortunately, Japanese cuisine offers more than fish,” Mr. Mishima said in a quiet voice.
“In any case, we would have found something else to eat,” Mr. Tanizaki chimed in quickly.
ARE YOU A WRITER?
I ORDERED SOUP. Another silence settled in. I don’t have the nerves of steel this kind of game demands. I decided to get right to the point—which is, apparently, contrary to the rules of proper Japanese behavior.
“I had no idea the Japanese consulate was aware of my humble existence,” I said, in vague imitation of their obsequious tone.
I heard a peal of authentic laughter, but I couldn’t
tell if it was coming from Mr. Mishima or Mr. Tanizaki. Was one of them a ventriloquist?
“My assistant heard about you.”
“Really?”
“Are you a writer?”
“Not right now.”
They laughed.
“Are you writing a book?”
“Yes and no.”
“We are very interested in your book.”
“And that’s why you decided to investigate me?”
Synchronized laughter.
“No, we are not investigating you, sir. Nor can we do such a thing. It is all we can do just to read the newspapers. There are only three of us in the cultural sector. Tokyo is interested in economic aspects: there are seventeen agents in that area. We are not a priority, you understand.”
It wasn’t news to me that literature doesn’t count for much in the new world order. Third-world dictators are the only ones who take writers seriously enough to imprison them on a regular basis, or even shoot them. The waiter arrived with our order. How was I going to get out of this wasps’ nest? Four or five Japanese businessmen swooped past and conversed with Mr. Mishima on a subject that demanded smiles and cascades of laughter. I didn’t catch a thing because they spoke threequarters of the time in Japanese, and the rest in English—their Japanese wearing a strong English accent and their English equally weighed down with Japanese. They pretended not to notice I was there. Maybe they just didn’t see me. Some people speak only one language, and others have radar that picks up only one kind of person: people of their own religion, class and race. That behavior is found in all societies. Finally they scattered, one at a time, with lighter-than-air steps and brittle laughter—as if they were performing a musical comedy.
“And the poets?”
A moment of surprise. I always ask after the poets.
“Do you write poetry?”
“No.”
“Do you like poetry?”
“Why do you ask?”
“We know you are fond of our great poet Basho.”
“How do you know that?”
“You read him wherever you go.”
“You’ve been following me!”
“Please do not be alarmed, sir.”
“Listen, I have other things to do.”
“My assistant Mr. Tanizaki is an eminent translator.”
“You want to translate my book?”
“We would love to,” said Mr. Tanizaki. “Though I am no more than a humble teacher.”
“It’s easy. You contact my publisher...”
“We are speaking of your latest book, of course.”
“What latest book?”
“The one you are writing, about Japan.”
“I never write about anything but myself.”
Mr. Mishima and Mr. Tanizaki exchanged quick glances.
A moment of panic in Mr. Tanizaki’s eyes. Now I could see the difference between them. Mr. Tanizaki is the one who’s always afraid. The reason lies in the hierarchy.
“Isn’t there some sort of relationship with Japan in your new book?” Mr. Tanizaki ventured, timidly.
“Besides the title, of course,” Mr. Mishima put in.
“My Japan is invented and concerns only me.”
Mr. Tanizaki sighed in relief.
“We would like to help,” said Mr. Mishima calmly.
“Even if I haven’t even written the book.”
They grew lively all of a sudden, and their masks began slipping out of control.
“We know you have not yet transcribed it onto paper, but it is in your head,” said Mr. Mishima knowingly.
“For once Tokyo is interested in one of our projects,” Mr. Tanizaki added quickly. “If you wanted to visit Japan . . . We have an excellent guide to help you follow in Basho’s footsteps. We can organize a tour that will take you on the road our poet took 250 years ago.”
“But I don’t want to visit Japan... What kind of idea is that?”
“This is the perfect season for a trip,” Mr. Mishima said smoothly.
“You are a true artist,” Mr. Tanizaki summed up. “Your clear and open-minded answers have proved that. Of course we would not want to disturb you too much ...”
“Allow me to say, all the same, that the consulate of Japan and its personnel would be only too happy to serve you in any way in order to ensure the success of your literary project,” declared Mr. Mishima, vice-consul of the Land of the Rising Sun. He was a second away from calling it my “literary mission.” This was getting out of hand. If I surrendered the slightest authority over my work to them, even just a single comma, they would write the book for me. Behind their obsequious manners was an iron will. Whatever the reason, they wanted to control this book.
“We understand that artists hate it when governments want to involve themselves in their work,” Mr. Tanizaki added quickly, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “Naturally, you are completely free to say whatever you wish about Japan. I have been reading your books. I went right to the bookstore after I heard your declaration.”
“What declaration?”
“I was truly touched when I heard you come out and say, in the middle of that North American shopping center, that you were a Japanese writer.”
“I am not a Japanese writer. I’m writing a book called ‘I Am a Japanese Writer.’ That doesn’t make me a Japanese writer.”
“Excuse me, I’m a bit lost. Mr. Tanizaki, who is a specialist in literature, will surely understand what you mean.”
“Absolutely! That’s when it becomes interesting. It opens every possible perspective ...”
“Unfortunately, I have to go—I have another appointment,” I said, getting to my feet.
The two of them stood up so abruptly they almost knocked over the table. There were endless expressions of regret. I left with my soup untouched. I watched them for a moment from the street. They were talking so adamantly I thought they would come to blows.
MANGA DEATH
THE EMPEROR REPRESENTS time immemorial, that fabulous Japanese treasure that cast the author of The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea into a state of vertigo. Mishima was so moved by the Emperor’s personification of time that he offered him his own death as a rhetorical flourish. He committed hara-kiri on November 25, 1970 in the company of his young lover. Perhaps death is sweeter when your eyes are fastened on the nape of a man’s neck, offered up to your gaze, or when the object of your desire finishes you off. Mishima wanted to eliminate the present by establishing Japan in the future perfect, a tense that lives only in grammar books. Fascists are obsessed with rules, which allow them to intervene in the passage of time. In the real world, the past can be bought with a single currency only, and that is death. One’s own death. What a strange bird that Mishima was! Interesting, but a little nutty around the edges. There’s something manga about hara-kiri. Mishima should be reread in the context of graphic novels. The whole world witnessed the scene on TV. Mishima immediately became a rock star, the first writer whose death was filmed according to his wishes. And so he was able to steal the thunder from his old master Kawabata. Kawabata might have won the Nobel Prize, but Mishima came to represent Japan itself. Watch out for intellectuals who lift weights until their eyeballs pop out. This double potency (a refined mind in a muscled body) can go to a person’s head. An intellectual who can put you down for the count will always end up haranguing a crowd, sleeves rolled up and bathed in sweat. Mishima’s crowd didn’t show up that day, though he wanted his death to lift up the nation’s youth. Youth, rising to its feet, singing the pure song of the people. Mishima’s crowd was sitting in front of the tv set. The seated crowd. The “sitting men” who provoked such disgust in Rimbaud. Mishima refused to accept the new values Japan had adopted after Hiroshima, and he wanted to return the Emperor, the last guardian of Time, to his former glory. But by trying to legitimize the Emperor, Mishima himself became the Empire of the Rising Sun for the length of time it took him to die. The shepherd who counts his sheep is also
the guardian of sleep. Now that Mishima is dead, Japan sleeps on.
PLATO AND THE LANDLORD
I EXIT DOWN the fire escape to avoid the landlord, since I owe him two weeks’ rent. He’s Greek; hence my little jokes about the necessary relationship (even a philosopher has to eat) between Plato and souvlaki. He doesn’t know who Plato is. As a man of the sea, he’d likely be more interested in Ulysses. I couldn’t care less whether or not he knows who Plato is. I’m just trying to right the balance of power. He’s got me with money; I’ve got him with the mind. The fact that I know Plato doesn’t help me in any way whatsoever in our weekly confrontations. They come around much too fast. I’m supposed to pay the rent every Thursday, which I do at exactly ten minutes before midnight. That’s still Thursday, as far as I can tell. Then I settle in with Tolstoy in the bathtub. Only a guy on unemployment who’s paid his rent can read War and Peace without skipping any of the descriptions of the landscape. I’d add to this short list of marathon readers the secretaries who plough through Stephen King’s massive bricks with shawls around their shoulders because of the Arctic cold that reigns in the downtown office towers. Most people prefer slimmed-down books. “No more than two hundred pages or I won’t even crack the book,” a celebrated literary critic recently declared on German television. I belong to that group of people who don’t watch tv, but who can’t stop quoting it. It’s like a Chinese proverb: you can make it mean anything you want. You know that nobody can watch tv in every language, twentyfour hours a day. But let’s get back to the urgent business of me marshaling some resources this evening in order not to indispose my landlord. Sometimes I forget to pay the rent by avoiding my place on Thursday nights. I spend the evening in some crummy bar, watching the clock and imagining my landlord turning in circles like a caged beast. But when I do have the cash, I make a great show of my presence. I make a racket going up the stairs. I dance all by myself, making sure I’m right above his head, since I know he often stands by the window. On my seismograph, without even seeing him, I can trace his slightest movements. He always holds out for a while before knocking on my door. I open up and, before he can say a word, I trot out a quotation from Plato, ancient Greece’s intellectual superstar. He doesn’t know who I’m talking about; he figures Plato must be one of those bums who hang out in the park across the street. But the landlord is Greek, he must have heard Plato’s name at least once in his life. I’m almost proud of knowing a Greek who doesn’t know who Plato is. Besides, I can’t stand all that propaganda about Greek philosophers— give me an enigmatic Japanese poet any time.
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