I Am a Japanese Writer

by Dany Laferriere

“They were Agamemnon’s army, coming to free her.”

  “Now what are you talking about?”

  “See that guy over there with the six dogs? That’s Achilles. No joke, he took that name. And that guy who looks like he’s thinking, over by the tree? That’s Ulysses. They’re all here. Ajax too. Our gods accompany us.”

  “What did you do for a living before this?”

  He smiles.

  “I knew you were going to ask me that. I was a teacher, just down the hill. I taught history to teenagers. I used to go through the park twice a day and not notice a thing. One day a kid who could have been one of my students sold me some heroin. I wanted to have the experience. I figured that, since it was only an experiment, it wouldn’t change me. But it wasn’t an experiment—it was reality. One day I just didn’t see the point of going in to teach anymore. What could I teach those kids when I didn’t know anything about life? I bought myself a sleeping bag. It was the only thing I needed. I settled in under that tree across from Helen of Troy... Now, I have to go and sleep.”

  He curls up on a bench. He makes me think of Basho. To live beneath a tree. To change your life. Could I do it? I watch him for a minute, then decide to go back to salmon. There is no danger at the big fish market at the next corner.

  Any minute now, night will fall and the park’s fauna will change. The girls from the tourism school will go home and be replaced by young prostitutes who, most of them, are former students from the same school, the big building across the way whose only interest is the subway station underneath it. The souvlaki-eaters will be replaced by coke dealers. The businessmen from downtown will drive in slow circles around the little park under the watchful eye of the policeman, who gets a percentage for every customer—not for every car, the way it used to be.

  A DISH OF SPAGHETTI

  IN FRONT OF THE TV SET

  I HEARD HURRIED steps in the stairway behind me. I was already fumbling for my keys.

  “Didn’t Plato show up?”

  “What Plato?”

  His face grew dark.

  “My rent.”

  “You’ll get it ...”

  “I want it today!”

  “But Mr. Zorba ...”

  “My name isn’t Zorba.”

  I’d never seen him in a mood like this.

  “We still have time.”

  That drives him crazy every time.

  “I don’t feel like chasing after you all night.”

  “You’ll get your money, like every week.”

  “Well, I didn’t get it this week.”

  Poor guy—the fear of being ripped off! I can hardly put him off even a half day. Once I went to New York with friends, and he didn’t get his rent until three days later. That look of his! He went back down the stairs, murmuring peasant curses between his teeth. I opened the door, placed the rent money on the table, pulled off my clothes and got into bed. I had time for a little snooze, and I’d be up before he returned. That doesn’t happen every day. I even had time to make a spaghetti sauce out of garlic, onions and green peas, then eat it in front of the tv set as I watched an old Columbo episode. I discovered some low-rent wine in a bottle lying under the table—enough for one glass. Lucullus receives Lucullus. I sat down to the left of the set; I was both audience and antenna. The old TV and I know each other well. Actually, it’s more like a radio, since I can make out only vague shapes, though the sound is still good. The TV is perfect for Metropolitan Orchestra concerts, if you like that sort of thing, which I hate. Sometimes I listen, hoping for a miracle. Most of the time its gray eye stares at me in dumb accusation. Zorba is only good for demanding his money. Every time I ask him to get a better television, just to bug him, he acts like he doesn’t understand me. He can broadcast, but he can’t receive.

  THE COP'S NIGHTSTICK

  A KNOCK AT the door. It’s eleven o’clock. I won’t give him his money until ten minutes to midnight—not a second before. Those ten minutes are his tip. Another knock. Someone’s insistent. He knows I’m here. Okay, I’ll open up. Two cops. They barge in without wiping their feet. They begin a minute inspection of my room without bothering to tell me who they are (though I can clearly see that), or what they want, which I can’t know without their help. When it comes to the police, you just have to wait. And that’s what I do. I sit down. Downstairs, the landlord must be going nuts. Not only does he hate the police the way all immigrants do, but he’s wondering if he’s going to get his rent if something happens. The cops move around my place like they own it. They look this way and that. They open the dresser drawers and come upon a pair of women’s panties which they start playing with in the crassest kind of way. They go to the window, speaking to each other in low voices. I sit and wait patiently. Sooner or later they’ll have to talk to me. And here they come: now they’re standing in front of me. Two cops and a black man in a crummy room in a bad part of town in Montreal—the scene is set. The oldest of the two comes so close to me his knee brushes my thigh. Suddenly the room starts smelling like shit.

  “Let me tell you how it goes,” the older one says. “You’re her pimp. She shows up to give you her money. You do some coke together. Then all of a sudden she really gets on your nerves, I can understand that .... What I don’t get is why you threw her out the window when you could have got rid of her down the stairs. A little fall downstairs wouldn’t bring me running. . . But you were too stoned to know the difference, am I right?”

  I don’t answer. He turns to the younger cop, who is gaping in amazement at his seamless demonstration.

  “That’s thirty years of experience, kid .... Now let’s run him in, I’ve got other things to do tonight.”

  I don’t stir from my chair. I know this is only the beginning. I’ve seen too many episodes of Columbo. The young cop (if it isn’t his first day on the job, it’s his second) moves towards me, ready to handcuff me. If this really is about the Hideko business, that happened days ago. If they had the slightest suspicion that a murder had been committed in this apartment, the whole neighborhood would be sealed off. And they wouldn’t have sent these two assholes (a young one and an old one), but a whole army. These two have just dropped by to see if there isn’t any coke on the premises. Just don’t move— that’s all I have to do. Don’t say anything, don’t do anything. On the other hand, I’m starting to have serious doubts that any of this has even happened. As Paul Veyne reminds us, “truths themselves are simply imagined stories.” For him, what is imaginary can become reality. I could have been drunk and brought a woman back here with me, and then she threw herself out the window, and I fell asleep afterwards. The next day, with the fragments of images that lingered in my head, I dreamed up the whole story. It’s true that I did go to see Midori at the Café Sarajevo, but I didn’t feel well, and I left after the Kiss Inc. show. Instead of walking home, which would have calmed my nerves and my stomach, I took the subway. The closed-in atmosphere didn’t help. I was reading Basho with my eyes on the Chinese girl across from me. I lost consciousness as I was leaving the train, and she had the presence of mind to catch me before I fell. Aren’t I building a new story because of the police? Did she come back with me? I have no idea. But something did happen. The morning after my illness, I stole the landlord’s newspaper in front of the building, and that’s when I saw the girl’s body on the sidewalk—right under my window. On page one. The shock of seeing yourself publicly involved with death. Death is a misunderstood star. It wears dark glasses in order to go incognito. It attracts everyone’s eye. In an instant, a nobody who dies becomes a somebody. Maybe I was too quick to conclude that she’d fallen from my window, just because she was lying underneath it. I was thinking like the police, who see murder wherever they go. For every murder, they need to find fifteen suspects. And never the right one. So I’d better think fast. First of all, this is not a fiction film. Next, which death are we talking about? Maybe Zorba pushed the beautiful Helena out the window. Agamemnon sacrificed his daughter, right? But I don’t
think it’s a good idea to embark on that kind of discussion with two cops on a Thursday night.

  The young cop starts pushing me to one side to slap on the cuffs.

  “Now, wait a minute,” the older one says. “You have to wait till he goes along with my little demonstration . . . You got something to say?” he threatens me, moving in closer.

  He’s turning up the heat. I can see in the young cop’s eyes that he feels the difference too. He doesn’t know what might happen in this room either.

  “I already talked to the police.”

  “And who the hell are we?” he bursts out.

  He rolls his nightstick along my thigh. We move into the sexual mode, the most dangerous part. The slightest reaction could be taken as a provocation.

  “I mean the two other policemen who were here the night of the accident.”

  “Hey, there, not so fast! It’s up to me to say whether there was an accident or not. In my book, there was a murder, and I’ve got a suspect.”

  “They took the earrings and the letter...”

  “What letter?” asks the young cop, who knows nothing about the case.

  “The letter she wrote to her parents.”“Are you trying to insinuate that the Montreal police would steal jewelry from a whore?” he challenges, pushing his nightstick against my penis. The nightstick is an extension of his hand. The young cop notices his little game and immediately turns red.

  “They put everything into a little bag,” I continue, paying no attention to the sexual game.

  “Slap the handcuffs on him,” he says, looking me in the eye.

  I don’t move. They push me again. At the last minute the older cop puts a stop to the ballet. A real burlesque. Meanwhile, I’m still somewhere in ancient Japan. I’m no longer part of the circus unfolding before my eyes.

  “Now you’re going to show me where you hide the coke.”

  “I don’t do coke.”

  He moves on me again. As close as he can, with his nightstick. It’s becoming an obsession.

  “I’m talking about the coke you sell.”

  “I don’t sell coke, either.”

  I’ve made the mistake of answering too quickly. We’re in dialogue mode. I had better slow down, and fast. The cop keeps moving closer, which makes his young partner uncomfortable. Don’t worry, in a few years he’ll master the art of playing with black men’s penises with his nightstick. And he’ll fondly remember his first lesson.

  “What with you selling coke . . .” Now he picks up the rhythm. “The neighbors are complaining.”

  I don’t answer. He pushes my thighs apart with his leg. He is so close all I can see is his stomach (he’s in good shape for an old guy)—though, from the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the younger guy. A look of interest has replaced his discomfort.

  “Where do you hide it?”

  A pause. Rhythm is everything here. Interrogation demands a special tempo. Too quick, and you’re in confrontation mode. Too slow, and you’re impertinent. Discreetly, I tap my right foot to the rhythm, which creates a light but insistent pressure on the policeman’s thigh.

  “Screw you!”

  And he hits me in the shoulder. The young cop is worried. You’re not supposed to hit a citizen who represents no apparent danger. He tells himself that if he doesn’t react, he’ll become an accomplice. His career has just started. He’s wondering what is happening. I can see that in his worried mouse eyes. The older cop heads for the bathroom. He slams the door on his partner, who was following after him. The older cop spends a while there. I hear the water run. The younger cop gives me a look, trying to understand what has just happened. A neutral face. A young guy who just joined the force. A lot of times, young kids from the country have no idea how big-city cops act. They’ve never seen blacks or Arabs in their part of the world.

  “Where do you come from?”

  He hesitates.

  “Gaspé.”

  “I’ve been to Trois-Pistoles.”

  His face brightens.

  “My mother’s from Trois-Pistoles . . . What’s happening? Why did he hit you?”

  “No idea.”

  We heard the toilet flush. The cop came out, a big stain on his pants.

  “I got soaked,” he said with a sheepish look. “Let’s go. I got a desk full of paperwork to do.”

  I understand then that his little raid has been a personal initiative. He saw the file with my address. He came here to intimidate me, knowing that I wouldn’t be stupid enough to complain.

  THE TIME OF THE MIMOSAS

  SOME PEOPLE OWN their time: “I’ve got all day.” Others are owned by it: “I don’t have the time.” Then there’s the “lost time” of the suicide. Mishima refused to enjoy the time that was rightfully his, not wishing to abuse the instinct to conserve. The worldly man’s need to conserve frightened him. The adventurer Morand tried to go faster than time. Spur on the horses! Desire is an excellent compass. The more you desire something, the shorter time seems. Unless you’re waiting for a phone call from a woman you met the day before. In Tokyo, a place I’ve never been, time is kept in pretty little lacquered cases. If you want three days, they will sell them to you. For money? No. You can pay for time only with other time. They will sell you three gray days for two sunny days and one sad night. Or an hour for one fresh kiss. I would like to buy Japanese time with mimosas running with rain. Basho makes you think he is traveling outside of time.

  THE WEATHER GIRL

  I TURNED ON THE TV. Actually, I just bumped up the sound, because I never turn the set off. I remember an old Hungarian immigrant I met at the airport when I first got here. He insisted on giving me this piece of advice: “Here, in America, you never turn off the television.” I’ve been proving him right all these years. I want to see everything without really looking. I did some channel-surfing and came across Midori dressed as the Weather Girl. She was on a local cable channel I never watch. I don’t know anyone on it. People watch tv to see the people they’ve seen on other channels. Virtual socializing. They feel less alone. It’s a busy world out there. People arriving, people leaving. New faces that hope to be the latest on the scene. Others come on only at dinner, then disappear. Actually, they end up somewhere else, on shows I don’t watch. Sometimes you can spot them when you’re doing your TV window shopping, and you’re amazed to see them in some less desirable district. Some of them have frayed collars. Ah, times are tough. All it takes is one small intellectual breakdown, and they end up with the hoi polloi and those hayseed stars with their loud ties. That is, if they don’t fall all the way down to the circus acts, guys who laugh when some woman gets beat up or want to send all the immigrants back where they came from. The former star host who discovers that the fall, when it comes to TV, can be endless.

  “We haven’t seen you much lately, sir.”

  “I’m around,” replies the former host with a thin, cathoderay smile.

  “I liked watching you . . . Are you coming back with a new show?”

  Since he never left the screen, the question comes as something of a surprise. He wonders for a brief moment whether it’s worth telling a total stranger the sad story of his fallingout with his bosses, the resulting years in court.

  “Please excuse me, but I have some errands to run.”

  “Of course, I understand . . . There’s no one like you on tv anymore, it’s really too bad.”

  “Thank you.”

  He disappears into the milky landscape of a screen without pictures. The stranger grabs him by the sleeve, as if they’re in some vaudeville comedy.

  “Just a minute, sir... Tell me your name again, would you? It’s for my wife, you know, otherwise she won’t believe me when I say I met you.”

  The years spent making a name. Forgotten already. TV death. Everything depends on the audience. The critics, the prizes, the congratulations, none of that matters anymore. Only one thing counts: that they pronounce your name right. Even a name as easy as Leo can take years for people to
get into their heads. First they have to wipe all the other Leos from their memory—and that can include close relations. He’s the only Leo now, the one and only.

  The number of channels is out of control. One channel is dedicated to nothing but the Second World War, and Hitler is on it so often I call it the Nazi Channel. Another gives the weather, twenty-four hours a day. What’s the weather like today? I don’t care. I watch everything, undiscerning. You don’t judge TV; you watch it. The way you watch a wall. Some refuse to leave, and that causes a traffic jam of failures. It’s impossible to disappear completely now, like in the old days when there were only two channels. Nowadays, before you hit absolute bottom, there are several stages of impact-softeners. A gentler fall. From A to Z. You start your real descent at F. The slope is steeper after L. You land on your S. From then on you hit the channels where you have to pay with your flesh and blood; you accept the surgeon’s scalpel for an extreme makeover. Some starlets will go under the knife live for three miserable points of market share. Channel U, Channel V, Channel W. Z is for zombies: people dressed in black whose voices are barely audible. Forget about ever making it back to the surface. If you want to prolong your descent, there’s always the third world. In any case, Midori looks great in her colorful kimono with sticks in her hair. It’s a disguise; normally she wears jeans and a T-shirt. By dressing up as Japanese, she is less herself. Midori as a Japanese woman is not really Midori. Anyway, Midori doesn’t interest them: all they want is a geisha. Midori, I suppose, needed the money. Or maybe her agent sent her there for the experience, to get used to the camera. She gives us the weather until next Thursday—I’d like to hear it for the rest of the year. What if her prognostications are wrong (it’s like being at the racetrack) and it’s sunny next Thursday? Tomorrow, she’ll predict the weather until Friday. Every day erases the memory of the day before. The weather report can’t be associated with journalism. You can’t fact-check the weather, you can only observe it. Notions of truth and falsehood are not at issue here. It all depends on magic, superstition and inflated hopes. Strangely, the weather report is more respectable than the horoscope. Lonely drinkers use both in bars downtown, on Thursday nights, to try and pick up girls. It’s fuel for conversation. Now Midori is smiling at the camera for the first time. That’s her weak point: she never smiles. It won’t take long before the viewers start to complain. That’s why they watch the weather on tv. Otherwise, the radio would be good enough. On TV, we want someone who will smile at us no matter how lousy the weather will be the next day. The future must be bright. I should write a letter to the station to balance out the hateful hordes who will surely point out Midori’s exotic appearance: the first unsmiling Weather Girl. You don’t mess with the weather—not in this country of intense and endless cold. Giving the temperature is like being a doctor providing a diagnosis. It doesn’t matter whether it’s Midori or someone just dressed as a Japanese woman (the problem with being a foreigner is that you’re not allowed to play anything but folklore). I’ll mention Midori’s absent but elegant smile. Now I’m writing letters to the tv. I’d better go to bed.