The Hemingway Files

by H. K. Bush

  CHAPTER 2

  One steamy midsummer day, I was hunkered down on my sofa, half-reading a travelogue about old Japan, and half-watching a late afternoon match of the high school baseball national tournament, when the phone rang.

  “Jack-san? This is Miyamoto.” “Yes, sensei? How are you today?” I straightened up and, in fact, made a slight bow to him, though he was on the telephone. I was acclimating to the Japanese way, all right. Still, Miyamoto had the habit of getting slightly under my skin, making me feel edgy, as if I were a lab specimen always under the microscope.

  “Just fine. My days are rather full, with meetings and other matters. You gaijin teachers should be thankful that these matters are of no concern to you.”

  “I understand. You must be very tired from working so hard.” That’s a vague translation of the rejoinder statement common among Japanese in such situations, otsukare sama deshita. I remember David once advising me, “Begin and end with thanks, or else mention how hard someone has been working. And when in doubt, either bow, or say ‘otsukare sama deshita,’ or better yet—do both! Profuse thankfulness—that’s the ticket!” Followed by a long gulp of beer.

  “Sensei, I have some interesting news for you. Actually it is an invitation. I have been in contact with Professor Goto. He has some little interest in your latest work, as it turns out, and would like to consult with you about it and … certain other matters. He is wondering if it might be possible for you to join him for tea this coming Sunday at his home in Ashiya? About 4:00 p.m.?”

  I listened carefully, trying to crack the code that is often implied in the way the Japanese extend invitations or make statements. The nuance and the heightened awareness required for communication in Japan is easily overlooked by foreigners, and having been in the country for less than six months, I was still a beginner (and to this day, I still feel like a beginner). I also had an engagement for that particular Sunday—I was planning to attend the annual high school baseball tournament, always held at the legendary Koshien Stadium in Nishinomiya, outside Kobe, thanks to some free tickets provided by a friend of Kilcoyne. The tournament is a kind of national obsession, every spring and culminating in August, since the summer tournament is the most prestigious, with losing players famously scooping up some of the “sacred” infield dirt of the mythical arena. My first thought, typically American, was to negotiate another date for meeting Professor Goto.

  All of this may sound confusing, if you’ve never spent time in Japan. But sometimes an invitation is not exactly an invitation in Japan, and you are expected to turn it down. Other times, it can be a non-negotiable demand. In late summer of 1992, I was still in my honeymoon stage, my often bewildered yet always bedazzled lover stage, the codes of Japanese communication still perplexing. I couldn’t quite pick up the signals. But as far as I could understand Miyamoto, I was actually being invited to meet, finally, with Professor Goto, in his home. Somehow, I wanted to confirm my instinct. So I asked him:

  “Miyamoto-sensei, is this an invitation that I should accept? Actually I have other plans for this Sunday afternoon.”

  “Well, obviously you misunderstand the situation, Jack-san. Try to comprehend what is at stake here. You must cancel those other plans immediately! Do you somehow not recognize this?” His voice got louder, and tenser. I felt the stress he projected, stress he intended me to feel.

  “But sensei, I have tickets to the baseball tournament at Koshien on Sunday.”

  He was astounded that I would consider this information relevant in any way. He barked into the phone, “Meeting your benefactor is such an honor that you must accept it, immediately. In fact, I think you must understand that Professor Goto has never met individually with any of the previous gaijin teachers, and so I cannot help but tell you that it is an extremely generous honor. It is a summons, and yes, you must go, Jack-san. And you must be early, and take with you something valuable from America as a gift.”

  I’d learned enough about Japanese manners to recognize that several aspects of Miyamoto’s speech gave away his lack of respect for me. He frequently called me “Jack-san,” which is over-friendly and somewhat condescending, and calling me a “gaijin teacher” was also slightly offensive. Gaijin emphasized my foreignness, my outsider status. I could tell by these little mannerisms, not to mention the strains of anger in his voice, that he considered me a bit of a fool. But even though I felt a strong aversion for Miyamoto, I sensed that in this case he was giving me good advice. So I accepted the invitation.

  “OK. I get it. Thank you for … your help with this, sensei. And please convey to Professor Goto that it would be my extreme honor to visit him in his home this Sunday.” I was catching on, I thought to myself.

  “Fine, Jack-san. This is the proper and, in fact, the only response that is possible. I would have thought that you would know this immediately.”

  “Yes, sensei. I appreciate your humble advice.” I held my tongue, on this occasion at least, and thanked him profusely. The “humble advice” part was my little American dig, however, and I could not hold it back. I doubt he got it anyway. Most Japanese have absolutely no ear for American-style irony. Again, I recalled Kilcoyne, who came up with the “profuse thankfulness” mantra: when in doubt, bow slightly and say Domo arigato gozaimasu. “Thank you, thank you, very much.” So I did.

  It was time to meet the man behind the curtain.

  Five days later, armed with the directions prepared by Miyamoto, I was on my way up the hill toward Professor Goto’s residence. It was raining hard, a warm, driving rain that could easily turn nasty, flooding the innumerable streams and rivulets that wrinkle the hills and race down to the sea. After leaving my apartment, I’d jumped on a train and reached Ashiya station by 3:30, waited in line for a taxi, and by 3:45 I got my first glimpse of Goto’s property. He lived in a massive, walled compound at the very top of a long winding road, almost three miles up the mountainside from the station. Squeezed into a thin area between Kobe and Nishinomiya, the estate was in the most affluent neighborhood in the entire region.

  Upon arrival I stood before a medieval-looking wall and gate at least eight feet tall. The drive up had offered stunning scenery, and I wondered what the grounds within the compound were like. Outside the wall, large, exotic trees peered down upon me and lush plants, gleaming and swaying in the pounding rain, seemed to yearn for the inevitable arrival of cooler, gentler fall weather. Moss grew on shiny rocks and covered patches of earth in brilliant greens. The sound of gurgling water hung like music in the air. For a moment, I stood, mesmerized. Then, as Miyamoto had instructed, I buzzed the doorbell. Twice. Finally, a soft, feminine voice: “Hai!”

  I fumbled momentarily. “Hai. Yes, hello. This is Jack Springs, to see Professor Goto.”

  “Ah yes, Springs-sensei, dozo, please come in.”

  The sound of another, long buzz accompanied the withdrawal of the gate, which slid slowly to the right. Nobody was in sight, so I walked into the well-groomed garden in front of the main building of the compound and approached the entryway. I stepped up onto the front porch and again rang a bell. Immediately the door opened and I was greeted by a slender, radiant Japanese woman, of medium height and with the standard long, straight, jet-black hair. She was wearing a traditional kimono, a fresh light pink one with tiny flowers of blue, green, and gold, and she bowed deeply to me, avoiding eye contact. But she was perfectly made-up, highlighting the utter smoothness of her skin, and high arching brows that suggested a playful heart. Hers was the sort of pristine beauty that one usually imagines to be possible only in the movies. Encountering it in real time was dazzling, but petrifying. I trembled ever so slightly, and began to sweat. I tried guessing her age but it was impossible: she might be twenty-five or forty-five. Beautiful women in Japan hold on to an intriguing youthfulness much more successfully than most of their American counterparts, who suffer from too much fried food and sunshine, and not enough walking and other forms of exercise.

  “Springs-sensei, haji
memashite,” she said. “I am honored to make your acquaintance. My name is Mika. Welcome to our humble home.”

  I bowed back, in the tentative way of the slightly taken-aback gaijin. “Nice to meet you, I’m Jack Springs.” We stood in the genkan, the small foyer in almost all Japanese homes where you take off your shoes and step up into the house proper. The wood was a gleaming mahogany, and the walls were decorated with what appeared to be authentic Japanese wood block prints. I recognized several of them immediately, from seeing them reprinted in picture books or on postcards.

  “Please come with me, Springs-sensei. My uncle will be with you shortly. He is being detained and it may be a few minutes, and so he sends his apologies.” Her English was effortless and near fluent, with only the slightest trace of a Japanese inflection. I slid off my shoes and followed her. She led me down a long hallway that featured more beautiful Japanese prints and a few scrolls on both sides, until we reached a very large room with the shoji—sliding doors of wood and paper—already opened.

  It was a traditional tea room, fastidiously clean, the staple image Americans have of what an old Japanese home might look like. It was almost completely empty and spoke of austerity and purity. There was an alcove along one wall, called a tokonoma, in which a single vase of flowers stood, artfully arranged in a burst of color. Tatami mats covered the floor, and in the exact center of the room was a low table with a pit beneath it for one’s legs. A single, pale blue pillow, embroidered with what looked like a swaying dragon, was on the floor on each side of the square table. Stunning artwork adorned the walls: scrolls in the dramatic, yet subtle Japanese style of calligraphy known as shodo, the way of writing. And because the shoji screens had been pulled back to reveal a miniature garden, the patter of rain on glistening plants and smooth stones offered a soothing accompaniment to the art, like a living extension of the room. Just as Mika gestured with long, slender arms toward one of the pillows, a brief spray of sunshine broke through the clouds, illuminating the garden with an iridescent glow and filling the room with light.

  “Please sit here, Springs-sensei. My uncle should be arriving shortly. Shall I bring you some tea? Do you like Japanese tea?” I gazed at her, trying not to stare but failing miserably. She moved slowly, every gesture elegant and precise, sleeves sweeping behind her arms like wings.

  “Yes, please, I would like some tea. Thank you.” I thumped down rather clumsily onto one of the floor pillows. Japanese sit as gracefully as large, limber birds, while heavy Americans tend to be clumsy as they attempt to lower themselves onto the floor instead of into a higher, western-style chair. It all took some getting used to. As I landed and arranged myself, Mika bowed several times, and inched away from me, facing me until she reached the doorway.

  After disappearing, she slid the screen closed, and I sat alone in the splendid old room, listening to the rain, which had lightened up considerably, and the slight wind rustling the leaves just outside. I considered this new bit of information: “my uncle,” she said. But that seemed wrong somehow: I had already calculated that he would be in his seventies or older, if he did graduate study in the years after WW II, while she appeared to be hardly older than a young woman in her mid- to upper-twenties. In fact, Mika had the unjaded look of a young woman, and her mannerisms were refined. Possibly “uncle” was just a term of endearment? Or possibly, she was some other relative? She definitely seemed too young to be his niece, or so I thought at the time.

  I waited for the tea, which Mika soon brought in on a platter with some sembei, rice crackers. She served me without a word and vanished once again. The soft aroma of her presence remained, as did the memory of her movements in slow and graceful patterns, like a kind of performance imprinted in the air. I sipped the hot tea and gazed silently at the room’s impressive contents. Another twenty minutes passed. Finally, there was a bustle in the hallway outside the door and a quick exchange in Japanese, then silence. A minute later the screen door slid open once again and Mika appeared. “Spring-sensei, my uncle will see you now. Please, won’t you follow me?”

  I lurched to my feet and followed her down the hall directly into a similar room on the other side of the house, though this one was much larger with an even bigger table and more expansive window that opened out onto another splendid garden. Framed against the greenery beyond was a small, graying Japanese man, clothed in the traditional cotton robes known as a yukata. His shoulders were slightly hunched, as if he’d spent many hours bending over a reading table, and he wore large, black glasses. A tiny black and white dog sat at attention at his feet. The elderly man placed his palms on his legs just above his knees and bent slightly.

  “Professor Springs, hajimemashite. I welcome you to my home. Thank you for accepting my invitation. I am Goto Haruki. It is a pleasure to meet you finally.” Again, more bows.

  I did what any observant westerner might do: I mimicked him, bowing slightly again and again. I knew to wait until he had completed his bowing. Then he looked up at me, stood with a grace I found remarkable for one his age, and came forward, extending his hand in greetings.

  “Professor Goto, it is a great honor to meet you finally. Thank you for your generosity and for your invitation today.” We peered into each other’s eyes. I had brought with me a few items as gifts: omiyage, as it is called in Japan, mementos of a visit. It is common to bring some sort of gift when visiting another person’s home, and Miyamoto had made it clear I knew that. I presented the omiyage with both hands, bowing slightly. “Sensei, tsumaranai mono desu ga … dozo.” Please accept these small and insignificant gifts. I said it with all the humility traditionally expected, and then some.

  A wisp of a smile flashed across his face. He seemed surprised I had brought him some omiyage, though of course he would have expected it from any sane Japanese.

  “Thank you. This is quite unnecessary. I am honored by your generosity.” He seemed genuinely moved by my respect for Japanese cultural traditions, and I was, reluctantly, thankful for Miyamoto’s advice. He handed the unopened gifts to Mika, who was still attentively observing both of us. She received it with both hands. And there was more bowing.

  “Thank you for the honor of an invitation to your home,” I said with yet more bowing of my own.

  Looking back, I recognize how paltry my gifts were to this person of such importance in my life, almost an insult. I had given him a very ordinary box of bean cakes that I had picked up in the main train station at Takayama, on my way back down the mountain from a day of hiking, along with another box of some local mountain herbs. In fact, the gifts were ridiculous; it would have been much better to have hand-carried some elaborate keepsake from my home in Indiana, or possibly from Yale. I learned all of this a week later, in a late night session with Kilcoyne. How he smirked at my little miscalculation! And he never forgot, either, often calling me “bean cake boy” as a pointed reminder.

  But Professor Goto handled my silly gifts as if I had presented him with relics from the Lost Ark of the Covenant. He allowed my absurd presents to go unremarked, being too polite to laugh. Further proof that outwardly, the Japanese are among the most generous and refined people in the world.

  “Please sit here, Springs-sensei.” Again, I lowered myself to the floor with as much grace as an Indiana boy could muster. He sat opposite me, framed by the outside window, which produced a glare when I looked at him. “I understand you are a fan of baseball and that this was a great inconvenience to you to come up here today. For which I apologize.”

  Miyamoto! The man had obviously told Goto about my plans to go to the baseball tournament that day. “No apologies are necessary, Professor Goto. It is entirely my pleasure to come here today.” I fumbled a moment in the silence. “Do you like baseball?”

  “Of course. I love the old traditions, all of them. Koshien is one of the sacred temples of our national culture, and the high school tournament is a national icon, a wonderful comfort to us all. In fact, my own father took me many times to Koshien.” Hi
s English was flawless and refined.

  Silence. “My father was very fond of racing, and often took me to the Indianapolis Speedway. It was a very big deal in my hometown. Going to the racetrack every May was like Christmas to me growing up. Or like our fishing trips, every summer in Wisconsin or Minnesota. I think fathers and sons truly bond at such times.”

  He considered my analogy. “Yes. Those memories of Koshien are to me as precious as the ones you describe of the racetrack, with your own father. Baseball is one of the great imports from your country, along with Coca-Cola and Mickey Mouse.” He smiled at this last phrase, so that I wondered if he were being slyly ironic or not. “But tell me more about the Speedway. I have heard of it, of course, but here in Japan, we do not have much interest in auto racing.”

  At first, I described in detail how much the Speedway had meant to me as a kid. I painted vivid pictures of the parades, the release of the colorful balloons, Jim Nabors singing the traditional “Back Home Again in Indiana,” the awesome din of the race cars, the smell of hot dogs with relish and mustard, the harsh sunshine reddening dried out human flesh, the funny things that the inebriated folks did in the infield, the streakers running naked down the main stretch in the ’70s, that sort of thing. I also mentioned the race’s military components (it occurs over Memorial Day weekend): flyovers by fighters or bombers, the playing of “Taps.”

  He looked at me quizzically. “Taps? The military bugler for funerals?” I nodded. He thought a moment, then said, “I did not know the military element of this race. Being on Memorial Day, and including some of these elements— does any of this bother Americans?”

  I didn’t understand what he meant, and told him so. But it did seem odd, I acknowledged, now that he mentioned it. So I asked about memorials for the war dead here in Japan (another blunder, I later realized).