by H. K. Bush
I nodded, and she graced me with a smile.
“Yes, to reconnect with my uncle down here in Kansai, near the old capitol, Kyoto. He was rather shunned by my father, since he was the one who had left the family business in pursuit of these other things. Literature, prints, things of beauty, the finer things in our world, I think. My uncle understood when I wanted to spend several years studying flower arrangement—ikebana. But my father considered this to be a great waste of time, and saw no practical reasons for doing it. Except, of course, that it might make me an even more attractive ‘catch.’ He was always the … pragmatist—I believe that is the American phrase, yes?”
Another nod from me.
More pauses.
“My father wished for me most of all to marry into a wealthy and prestigious Tokyo family. He had even had one chosen for me. Father had arranged for a nakodo—a go-between, or matchmaker—to find a worthy son-in-law, and I was ultimately introduced to one who had been approved by him. He was a son of the wealthy Uchida family, most famous for their factories near Nagoya and outside of Tokyo in Saitama, producing car parts and other machine products. The Uchidas did much business with the automotive companies—Toyota, General Motors, Audi, Fiat, Mercedes. They had deep roots in industry, like my own family. Their younger son’s name was Kentaro, but he liked being called Ken, and actually he was a handsome and funny boy. But we had very little in common. He had no use for the things of beauty in the world, or old things; only pleasures and the things of wealth. He loved loud music, dancing, sports cars, and surfing in Hawaii, Australia, South Africa—wherever the big waves were at the moment. Or skiing at the biggest and most elegant resorts: California, Utah, Austria, Italy— anywhere but Japan, which he considered too “dasai”— meaning, old-fashioned. He seemed to be a good man, and yet somehow he was still the product of his environment, and sometimes acted very much like a child, and I was not able to go through with it.” She looked at me and saw the astonishment in my eyes. “Yes, Jack, sometimes a Japanese woman can even turn against her elders! Does that surprise even you, an American?”
I looked at her in silence. What surprised me was she called me by my given name!
She blinked, diverting her eyes. “And so I said no, to Ken Uchida. This kind of rebellion is almost unheard of in powerful Japanese families. It was just after that when I decided to come south to Kyoto, and my uncle graciously provided a place to live temporarily and many important connections for me. That was almost ten years ago.
“I believe my father still has some hope that one day I will relent and return to Tokyo, and begin a family for him, with a carefully selected millionaire husband. Of course, I want children—but in my own timing. My silly dream of a romantic spark, of true love—I suppose it comes from all those American novels.”
As she looked up at me and grinned shyly, covering her mouth and snickering softly, the image of a dashing hero sweeping a delicate Japanese maiden into his arms flashed through my mind. As ridiculous as the image was, my pulse quickened.
“My father has often told me he would immediately begin a new search for a worthy successor, if I were to give him notice. And he wants most of all for me to give him grandchildren—in fact, I should say, a grandson. He would like to enlist my son, if I ever have one, into his army as a potential successor for the family business. It is his way of thinking about me, I would say. Until I do this, my life is not meaningful for him. But I am now into my thirties, Jack-san, and this sort of success is becoming more and more unlikely. Here in Japan, it is not common for a woman my age to marry. I believe the American term is ‘old maid,’ yes?”
Mika, an old maid? The term conjured up a vision of the Widow Douglas, or of Emily Dickinson hiding behind her bedroom door in Amherst. But before me sat an attractive, even luscious, bright, bilingual, and extremely gracious young woman, just entering her prime. I shook my head, perhaps a bit too vigorously, and said, “No. Mika, that’s not the right saying; ‘old maid’ doesn’t refer to young women like you. You are—” I hesitated before blurting out, “Well, you’re beautiful!”
This pleased her and she smiled, then covered her mouth again and bowed, slightly shrugging her soft shoulders. “But here in Japan, I am—damaged goods? Yes, and so for most men of any prestige, they would assume there is something seriously wrong with me, not being married with children at my age. I am afraid sometimes that I have missed out on all that, but I am not sad. In college I read many British and American novels about young women finding men to love, rather than simply ones to follow and obey, like house pets. Books by Jane Austen, Louisa May Alcott. Anne of Green Gables. I loved them all, and still do. I am afraid I have been bewitched by these western stories of falling deeply in love. All of this is why I felt I must escape the world of my father in Tokyo, and return to the world of my past, my family traditions. And so I came back to Kansai, and entered the world of my uncle, who has been for me like a father ever since. He truly does understand the value of words and symbols and true love, as matters of the heart that are superior to the matters of the business world and what my father calls ‘the real world.’”
These last words echoed through the room just as another set of echoes emanated from the front of the house, and then, the hallway. It was the sound of footfalls, and evidently signaled the return of Sensei. Just as Mika completed her sentence about the “real world,” I heard Sensei call her name from the hallway. “Mika, Tadaima! chotto kochira ni. I’m home. Come here, please.”
She quickly got to her feet and slid open the door to receive several packages that Sensei had brought along from his outside visits. With them in her arms, she scurried off to the kitchen. Sensei spied me over her shoulder as he gave her the packages, and immediately his face betrayed a kind of irritation toward me that was subtle yet obvious, his body language questioning the propriety of a young man in a room alone with his “young” niece, though again, in this case, she was over thirty. He was indeed of the old school.
But the tone of his voice, in perfect Japanese form, did not betray any such irritation—at least, almost none, to my untrained ear. “Ah, Springs-sensei, you have come. My sincerest apologies for being late. I trust that Mika has taken good care of you, yes?” His use of the formal “Springs-sensei,” rather than the affectionate “Yu-san,” was another subtle signal of his displeasure.
“Hello Sensei, yes, we enjoyed a small conversation about art and literature. I only arrived a few moments before you did,” I lied. I still don’t know why I said that, about having just arrived. In fact, I had been there half an hour before he showed up.
He seemed to catch me in this minor canard, and hesitated just slightly in taking off his overcoat, as if to study my slip-up. Then he said, “Art and literature? It is just as if I were here, then. That is our typical subject, is it not?”
He remained standing, stretching his arms, looking each way, bending his knees. Then he sat. “Let us begin by looking at an old set of papers I have here.” He reached for a green library box, handing it to me. I opened it to discover hand-written notes that looked like a draft of an essay or lecture. The title was simply, “Friendship.”
“That’s a title of one of Emerson’s essays, yes?”
He nodded, still seeming a bit ruffled by the idea of his niece being unchaperoned with a gaijin, I suppose. Nevertheless, soon enough the enchantment of the words on the page took over, our conventional tutorial-style meeting began, and all complications due to his absence were left behind.
Not long after that day, I learned there was more gossip going around the department, though David pretended to hesitate in telling me. He was a bit overly dramatic at times, playing his news to the greatest advantage. We were down at the Munchen Café on a cool and cloudy afternoon, tipping a few ales. David had been seeing a lovely young Japanese singer who went by Ryeiko. He had noticed her in one of the local clubs, and soon became infatuated. She was flashy, pretty, and boisterous, and he loved speaking his improving Japan
ese to her and taking her to expensive restaurants in Umeda, on Osaka’s trendy north side. She also knew all the insider joints, the ones that stayed open all night and served twelve-year-old Scotch at reasonable prices—well, reasonable for Japan. And he loved regaling me with their drunken adventures. “She’s wearing me out, pal,” he winked.
Then he looked at me, slightly more seriously, and said, “The water’s fine, old boy, why not come on in?”
I froze. “Meaning what?”
“Word around campus is that you have a thing for a certain lovely young Japanese maiden yourself—is it true?”
“Excuse me?”
“Drink up, mate, this one’s on me.” He motioned toward the waitress for two more of the same, then hunched forward toward me and lowered his voice. “Listen. Everyone knows about Goto’s niece, and about your many visits to his home. Word is, she’s quite the sorceress. Why play games? I saw her once walking around the marketplace near the station with the old man, and she is quite the doll. Why not go for it yourself?”
The two beers arrived swiftly, and David emptied almost half of his in one long draught. He looked at me, but I had no response. So he took another long drink, sighed, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Oh come on, Jack. You know by now that everyone’s business is public news around here. The university is like one big, unhappy family. You just haven’t quite learned yet whom to ask about such things. Believe me, your many visits to see Goto are common knowledge. He’s quite the legend in these parts, Jack old boy. And his luscious niece—she’s just about your age, yes? I bet if you asked your students, they would even know about the rumors.”
If true, I had once again underestimated the sinister aspects of this claustrophobic culture I had entered. And I was stunned enough to lie about my feelings toward Mika, even to one of my closest confidantes in all of Japan.
“David, the thought never crossed my mind about her. Anyway, she’d never have anything to do with a gaijin, right?”
That question was a dead giveaway, of course. He laughed, took another drink, and shook his head at me. “Jack, you never know with these girls. Some of them are fascinated with westerners. Look at me, I’m no Brad Pitt, but my girl is as lovely as a cherry blossom, yes?” Gulp. “She shows me off like I’m Prince Charles.”
David peered at me with a knowing smile. “One more small detail, sensei.” He leaned forward, voice low. “It seems our boy Miyamoto also has a bit of a crush on your Mika-san.” Another gulp. “Word on the street is, he once made a play for her. Can you imagine? That toad with a rich beauty like her?” Pause, drink. “I may be off, but it sounds like he has been threatening to break your neck, or some such nonsense, if you ever touch her. Ha!” Gulp. “And you know, they say he’s quite skilled at the martial arts—karate, kendo, that sort of thing—he’s quite the bushi, a warrior, they say, despite all appearances.” Gulp, gulp. “That’s what my sources tell me, anyway.”
Was Kilcoyne razzing me here? He had that sly humor one often finds in highly intelligent Brits, all deadpan and seemingly in earnest. Miyamoto a samurai? Whatever those “sources” might be, and assuming David wasn’t pulling my leg, it seemed plausible that Miyamoto saw me as some kind of threat—and not just to Sensei, or to his access to whatever treasures Sensei might have hidden away in his house, but also to Mika. But most serious of all, evidently, my own private and emerging crush had already been noticed—by David Kilcoyne, his “sources,” and possibly others as well. Like Miyamoto.
A few days later, I happened to run into Miyamoto—or rather, perhaps it was his strategy to make me believe it was just a coincidence. Again, I was sitting in my home away from home, the Munchen Café, having a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper, when suddenly Miyamoto appeared. I was virtually alone in the café one moment, and the next he was looming over me, holding a cup and saucer. “May I sit, Springs-sensei?”
“Yes, of course, sensei.” I had to pretend to welcome his presence, despite our edgy relationship. “Please sit down.” I even pushed out a chair for him, though my paper remained on the table, giving him little room for his own coffee.
He took his time, and presently it became clear that he had a specific agenda. “And how is Profesor Goto? Is he well?”
“Yes, he is fine.” I decided then and there to pursue my own agenda, since he had barged into my afternoon. One of my tactics was to show Miyamoto that I knew some things about him. “I have heard that you formerly worked closely with Professor Goto—is that true?” Sip. Sip.
He absolutely glared at me for a moment, signaling his intention to control the conversation. “Yes, sensei. I did some … research for him, previously.” He waited, and so did I. “And I should say, yes, I also traveled on his behalf. Many times, in fact. To Hong Kong, China, and even San Francisco, on one occasion.” Sip. Sip. “I have heard that you recently have been asked to assist Professor Goto, in this way—is that correct?”
We were quite the social pair, at that moment. It was becoming clear to me, and certainly to him, that in a perfect world, we would simply move the tables out of the center of the room, and have at it. “Why yes, sensei, I may be asked to ‘assist’ him. In the very near future.” I was lying about all this, of course—at least, I thought so, at the time.
“And what will you be … undertaking, on his behalf, if you do not mind me asking?”
Now I could twist the knife a bit. “It may be … unwise for me to say very much about the personal business of Professor Goto. I believe that you should ask Sensei for those kinds of details. Your previous intimacies with him should allow for that kind of information, ne?”
This approach clearly pissed him off. But like any good Japanese male of his age, he was calm and seemed almost unaffected. It was the stormy eye that he laid on me, just for the briefest moment, that gave away his ill mood. Then, “Springs-sensei, I wonder … How is Mika-san?” At this point, he took a moment to meet my gaze and smile in that almost imperceptibly Japanese way, in which a smile is the specter of a smile, almost not even there. I was proud of myself that day, I distinctly remember thinking, because I was starting to catch on to some of these minimal signals.
“She’s fine, sensei. And thank you for asking.” But his slight mention of her, now, made me uneasy and wary of his intentions. He was, in other words, twisting his own knife just a bit, tweaking me somehow with the reference to Mika. Since I began visiting Sensei regularly, Miyamoto had maintained a constant, though distant presence on the margins of my life, a malevolent one at that. And here he was again, irritating me, and now putting me on edge about Mika, just as I was beginning to think of her in more serious terms.
Miyamoto drained his cup. “Springs-sensei, I have had … a rather long friendship with Mika, as you may already know. I would be … very disappointed if you were to do anything that might … upset her. I hope you can understand my … concerns.” Evidently he knew something about my feelings for her, as David had intimated, and he was there to make some sort of vague warning. Perhaps it was even true that he himself had fallen under Mika’s spell, in his former life as Sensei’s assistant. That’s what I thought at the time, not understanding until much later, in fact, the month before my departure from Japan, the more sinister aspects of this “coincidental” meeting.
Before I could respond, he stood to take his leave. “Enjoy your afternoon, sensei,” he said with a slight bow. I mumbled something back to him, and he left. Just like that, the strange interview was over. But after he left, the ghost of Miyamoto burrowed deep into my consciousness. Though he had said almost nothing of consequence, there was a distinct message in his tones and gestures. And it was deeply unsettling.
I noted with some poignancy the brief quote from Walter Benjamin, which may have come to Jack through one of my lectures years ago: “to renew the old world is the collector’s deepest desire.” We collect, that is—at least, we tell ourselves so—for the purposes of renewal, first to know the Other in more precise detail, but ultim
ately, to make a better world for us all. To “bring or gather together,” which is the Latin root of the verb “collect.”
While there remains so much handwringing among academics due to the so-called “crisis in the humanities,” here we see reminders of why we do the things we do as teachers and as scholars. Our hope is to gather all things together, so to speak. And we hope that these dreams of unity are not to be deferred forever.
And yet, one wonders as we journey through this nether world full of outward tomfoolery and inward deceits. “The impenetrable nature of things,” as Professor Goto puts it in his ingenious reading of Melville’s white whale. His remarks bespeak a powerful yearning to penetrate both that whale, and more generally, the great Other. But alas, one can only penetrate so far. For the world is veiled, resisting collection, resisting a gathering together. A wise man once put it this way: “How often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing?”
CHAPTER 8
My weeks took on a new life, leading up as they now did to those Sunday visits with Sensei. I got my teaching out of the way with ease—just show up and talk—and time passed very quickly. More and more, Sensei enticed me with multiple items that were indeed of interest to me. Almost all of them, he explained, had been purchased through agents, or at auctions where his agents made bids. He took great pleasure in detailing for me the date and price of the assorted transactions, most of them at auctions in New York, London, or Paris during the 1960s or ’70s (evidently his heyday as a collector), and then he would carefully hand the item to me. Some of them I held in stunned silence, and he took obvious delight in watching me inspect his treasures: “Here’s a signed first edition of Hemingway’s In Our Time that I bought in 1961 for $800 at an auction in New York,” he would say. Or “Ooh! Here’s a set of typewritten letters (with a few autograph letters thrown in) from Hemingway to Adrian Ivancich, all circa 1950-55, around 120 pages total, which one of my agents discovered in 1968 for $12,000.” Or “Ahhhh! Look at this one, Yu-san, it’s the typed and penciled-over, original manuscript to Hemingway’s volume Death in the Afternoon, purchased at auction in 1963 for $15,575.” Ooohh. Ahhh! On and on it went. With Hemingway clearly at the center of his collection, he drew me deeper into his own obsessions.