I Am a Japanese Writer

by Dany Laferriere

  MAGIC MOMENT

  AFTER A WHILE, he ushered me into his office, which was filled with photos of the two of us in different settings in Port-au-Prince. In front of the Rex Cinema, next to an ice cream vendor, playing soccer in the big square on the Champ-deMars, in our school uniforms across from the girls’ high school. I have no photos from that time. I’d forgotten François was so interested in photography, and that he’d even taken a correspondence course. He showed me a small picture, rather blurry, taken with some Japanese tourists. Japanese people in Haiti—I hadn’t remembered that. Nothing like a photo to cast you back to another time. We all have two lives, at least. One that settles into memory like a stone at the bottom of a well, and another that disappears as it unravels like a vapor trail. The tourists had actually been journalists from a big Tokyo daily who’d passed themselves off as innocent travelers in order to write an exposé about life in Haiti under the Duvalier dictatorship. We spent a lot of time with the young lady interpreter, Miss Shikibu Murasaki, who worked at the Japanese embassy. It was a very Japanese summer. The blushing Miss Murasaki would invite us all the time to the embassy for cocktails. I suppose everything started between François and her back then. I hadn’t noticed a thing, too absorbed at the time by Diderot and my fascination with the beginning of Jacques le fataliste. I read it as I walked down the street. You can’t read that book sitting down. That sense of speed suited me perfectly. I was always bugging François with Diderot. He thought the guy was lazy. The idea of laziness was fine with me. A lazy writer—now that was a life for me! Not too many descriptions and a lot of dialogue. Diderot is still an influence on me. There’s plenty of talk in his books. I like books where you see people talking. I hate it when the narrator talks for them. That method never got too far, though, because although Frenchmen love to converse, they don’t like to let their characters talk. Apart from crime novels, you never hear anyone even saying hello in a French book. It’s too easy, so writers skip that step, which you can’t do in real life. Unfortunately, Miss Murasaki had to return to New York to study journalism at Columbia University. All summer, we accompanied the journalists through the country, despite the Tontons-Macoutes who stuck to us like glue. We didn’t really notice them, so subjugated were we by Miss Murasaki, who led the expedition with wonderful grace. We would have followed her right into one of Papa Doc’s prisons. The journalists told her that her studies at the famous American university would help her find a job at a Tokyo newspaper. Unless she preferred working in television, in which case it would be simpler to go back to Japan and get a job doing the weather. Television is much more image than intelligence. Miss Murasaki turned as red as a beet at the very word “television.” We understood then that she was too shy for the small screen that sucks in human energies and spits out wind in return. François went to be with her in New York after I left Haiti. Now it’s François telling the story. We lived together for a while, but we were too different to share life as a couple. That had nothing to do with the fact she was Japanese. She considered love from the accountant’s point of view. Every week, she had to draw up a statement of our romantic and financial life. I spent, and she saved. We quickly understood we couldn’t live together. Since our desire still burned, we remained lovers, going from my little room to her spacious apartment in Manhattan (her parents were in banking and the diplomatic service). I continued to see her friends, who were all Japanese. Then I moved to Brooklyn, where I found something bigger. We saw each other less and less: I spent more time at my place, since I had sun in my room now. A love affair in New York is a fleeting thing. The sun is more reliable. Just before I moved out of Manhattan, I ran into a girl at Columbia who was a cousin of Shikibu’s. She lived in Brooklyn too. Destiny is made of many coincidences. Well, that didn’t work out either. I came back to Montreal, and that’s when I met Shônagon, at McGill where she was doing her master’s in accounting. Shônagon never knew I’d had two Japanese women before her. I convinced her that our meeting was the fruit of chance, and not the result of a path set out before me. You don’t just meet a girl, I’ve come to see, you meet a culture. And you don’t leave that culture easily. It takes five unhappy affairs to break free from a culture as powerful as Japan’s. Once you meet your first Italian girl, you’ll be eating spaghetti the rest of your life. That’s what makes people suspicious of interracial romances: they wonder if it’s really them or their culture that interests their partner. Blacks want to know whether they are really loved, or if someone just wants to support a cause. And rich people, if it’s just about their money. That’s why I never spoke of Shikibu in front of Shônagon. Sometimes I wondered if it wouldn’t be better to tell the truth, since I’m always afraid of running into someone who knew me in New York. Maybe she hasn’t told me everything about her life, either. Maybe she keeps a secret diary. So we’re even. We laughed. And with that laughter we left his office.

  Shônagon was busy wrapping something when we came into the living room. She offered me the tightly tied package and forbade me to open it until I was by myself. François wanted to go hear some jazz at the Rising Sun. He was friends with the owner, a certain Doudou Boicel. I informed him that I didn’t have a dime—and he smiled kindly. Tonight was on him. We heard Dizzy Gillespie. A great sound, but it would have been better without all the exaggerated facial expressions. Then we went for a nightcap on Rue St-Denis, in the East End. The West was for meeting his friends. The East was where he went out with his wife. He ran his life like an accountant, with two columns: debit and credit. That’s all he’d kept of Miss Murasaki—the banking side. François was beaming. Even when I wasn’t saying anything, he was sure I was the most brilliant person he’d ever met. There was no curing him of that illusion. It was my karma. Fortunately, very few people share his opinion. The rest of the world, to reach the same conclusion, would demand proof—of which I have none. François weighed me with his heart, not his mind. That’s great, but hard to bear. Another nightcap. A little drunk, François wanted to introduce me to the customers. Shônagon kept her eyes lowered. After lengthy negotiations, I managed to convince him to give up his plan. I helped him to his feet. We headed for the car, climbing the hill that lead to Sherbrooke Street. Leaning on my shoulder, François started muttering things I had trouble making out. Like that he’d never loved Miss Murasaki, but seeing that I was interested in her, he got to her first. He wasn’t going to let me win in the woman area. I was in books, that was okay. The rest just sort of happened, he said, and here I am in the Montreal suburbs with a new Japanese girl. In life, we always take the wrong path at the right time. François wanted to drive me back, even though I kept telling him I’d rather walk beneath the glowing moon, which always makes me feel closer to Basho. Pretty soon, these wonderful mild nights will be over—winter is coming in. Life, for François, ended with adolescence. He filled up with memories back then, and everything has been frozen in that emotional space ever since. He’s never wanted to leave that magic moment. We weren’t far from the car when his wife slipped a matchbook into my hand with her cell phone number written on it.

  ARE YOU PLAYING THE

  WHORE NOW, HARUKI?

  IF YOU BUY only things that are expensive and carry a designer label, does that mean you’re a snob? That’s what Haruki asked Tomo in front of the bathroom. No, Tomo told her, not unless you’re doing it to bug your girlfriends. But how can I tell? When it’s just guys complimenting you, that’s a sure sign. You know them, Tomo, the girls would rather die than notice I’m in the room. I’m just part of the furniture. Sometimes I feel invisible. I take on the color of the landscape. I merge with the group like ivy with a wall. I’d like to be the water you drink that ends up drowning you. Why are you talking that way? What are you trying to prove, Haruki? I don’t get you! I’ve always talked this way. I’m just asking for a little attention. Just to tell you that, I had to get drunk as a skunk. Aren’t you always drunk? No, but I’m doing everything I can to get people to pay attention. And it’s
no use. I’ve noticed, Tomo, that we’re only interested in people who despise us. I’m talking crap, right? I don’t do this every day. Normally I only talk inside my head, and I spend two days rehearsing something before I can say it out loud. And then nobody hears me anyway. I’m just a stop along the way. Seen, then forgotten. I’m the ugly duckling waddling after the others. If I want to occupy the main stage for more than ten seconds, I have to say something like “Your dress is on fire, Hideko.” My record stands at one minute, and to even get that I had to faint dead away. I earned myself a passing remark from Midori that day. Otherwise I’m the one doing the listening. I’m not getting on your nerves, Tomo? It’s weird to be talking so much. Most of the time I analyze what other people say. I’ve gotten good at it. I observe. I know what the others like, and that lets me imagine their hidden desires. I know that sounds pretentious. I’ve had too much time to polish sentences in my head. At night, I read Proust. As soon as someone mentions something that interests one of the group, I rush out and buy it. They go out of their way not to notice my new blouse or my brooch set with purple stones. That’s because everyone knows, Haruki, that you’re just a rich bitch. You never talk to anyone, you despise us, you’re here just to give your parents shit. What are you talking about? Tell me you’re joking, Tomo. You wear the kind of clothes that make our mouths water. Someone just mentions a dress they saw and the next thing we know, you’re wearing it. Happens every time. You really bug us, you know. You’re the biggest snob I know. You always put on this bored look every time we try to have a little fun. I’m supposed to be rich? I don’t have a penny. Me, a snob? The jealousy is killing me. Where do you get your money? You can always find money downtown. Are you playing the whore, Haruki? It’s not my fault there are so many guys with more money than brains. You fuck them? No, I suck, and only when I want new clothes. I’ve got a friend who works in a gym near the department stores, that’s where I spend my lunch hour. The bicep boys come by after their workouts. They don’t really need me, they’re more interested in their own muscles. They do push-ups till they drop, they get up off the floor, they look at themselves in the mirror, and that’s all they need to get off. I prefer the businessmen with their charming little bellies. They swing by to burn off a few calories before packing them back on again at the stripper bar next door. Beer and chicken wings and the girls sliding up and down the pole. What a choice—a snack or a blow job. I wait for them by the showers. That way they’re already clean. I have the key to the little room at the back. Quick and nasty. Some of them want me to swallow, and that costs double. Cash, of course. I rinse out my mouth. I go down to the sidewalk. I like to feel the sun on my face. The sun is my pimp. He’s always waiting for me downstairs. I buy my clothes next door, and a new brooch at Birks. There’s a silence. Finally, Tomo says, I don’t listen to the other girls and I don’t talk to them, either. I’m only here for Midori. But I’m not in love with Midori, the way everybody thinks. Stop, Tomo, everyone’s in love with Midori. Not me. All of us, in our way. I owe my life to her. She’s the air I breathe. I was dying of boredom before I met her. Don’t you think it’s strange that you can love someone so much without being in love? What are you really trying to say, Tomo? (A pause.) If she dies, I die—isn’t that clear? Okay, enough’s enough, I don’t want to hear about death. The rest of you girls, that’s your favorite subject. It makes me puke. Is it the season, or what? Who told you that you have to die if you love somebody? Maybe I’m weird, but if I love someone, I want to live. That’s because you’ve never really loved, Haruki. Can’t you just go ahead and die and stop beating us over the head with it? I didn’t say I felt like dying, Haruki, I said that Midori takes all my time. We’re all living off her. I’m different from the rest. We all say that. What do you know about the other girls? Everyone knows everything about everybody else. Whatever you do, there’ll be a pair of eyes watching you. And reading your mind too. I wouldn’t last long like that. We’re talking, right, but the other girls think I’m mute. I’m sure, Haruki, someone is making you buy all that stuff. I live in my head too much for anyone to manipulate me. That’s our national pastime. You’ll never know anything if you don’t ask questions. Listen: here, when no one’s manipulating you, it means you’re being manipulated. That’s how it works. Your favorite colors— are they really your favorites? Your favorite jewelry—is it really your favorite? Your favorite perfume—is it really? Your favorite panties—? Think about it, Haruki, and you’ll see that there’s someone else who has the same tastes you do. Yeah, but I don’t see it. Stop trying to defend yourself. Let yourself go. Act like we’re talking about somebody else. Make an effort. I don’t see anything, Tomo. Who dresses like you? Who wears the same perfume you do? Who wears the same size as you? I still don’t see. You’re some kind of dumb whore, most of the time they’re smarter than you are. Who do you see everywhere you go? Oh, shit, it’s Fumi. What does she want from me? Go ask her, Haruki. No way. You won’t find out anything. One day, maybe.

  A HOTEL ROOM

  SHôNAGON CHOSE the hotel, and she also set the date and the time of our rendezvous. A small hotel in the West End, made of red brick and covered with ivy. I wasn’t late, but she was already there. I gave my name at the desk and was told I was expected in room 12. Shônagon was sitting quietly by the window. She didn’t look embarrassed or intimidated. She smiled and motioned for me to sit next to her. This wasn’t the same woman I had met the other evening.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked, in her gentlest voice.

  Now I was embarrassed.

  “No.”

  “May I?”

  She placed the basket on a low table at the foot of the bed and began unpacking every possible kind of seafood.

  “I always thought you were a man of the sea . . . François is earthbound. I am of the sea too. That’s why François attracted me. They say that opposites attract, don’t they?”