I Called Him Necktie

by Milena Michiko Flašar

  51

  It looks like rain. He yawned.

  I followed his gesture towards the dreary pale sky.

  Tomorrow. What is it tomorrow? Right. Tuesday. The week has only just begun. If it rains ... he rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out a card. His tongue pushed forward, he scribbled in big letters: MILES TO GO. A Jazz café. When it rains, he said, that’s where I am.

  But.

  But what?

  I felt dizzy. The idea of walking past tables and chairs, across a sweaty room, sitting down, meeting the gaze of a waiter, sipping from a glass that God knows who had sipped out of before. Still trying to get used to the park and our friendship, this idea was beyond the bounds of possibility and my self-confidence.

  It’s just that. I stammered. Outside there’s more room between people.

  I understand. He stood up. Then until next time the sun shines. It was six o’clock. On the other side of the card I read his name, Ohara Tetsu, and his address. A business card. I am a coward, I thought. And: Another object which, in my room, in the drawer, under the age-old fossil. I did not complete the thought.

  52

  Quick, quick. Through the foyer. Who was smiling there? The picture of the untaken trip to San Francisco hung on the wall, carefully straightened and dusted, as if I hadn’t turned it around. Father’s hand on my shoulder. Mother’s “cheese” cried out from the frame. Me, pimply, crooked cap, two fingers spread in a victory sign. A frozen moment. A grain of sand in the hourglass. Soon it would slip through the narrow waist. A few grains of sand later and I would shake off Father’s hand. Mother’s “cheese,” it would collapse. What’s the matter with him, the boy. Let him be. It’s a phase. The truth is: They would rather not know. The truth is: I would rather not let them know. We had struck a pact: Better not to know anything about each other. And this pact is what holds families together for generations. We wore masks. Our faces no longer recognizable underneath, for our masks had grown onto us. It hurt to pull them off. It hurt so much that the pain of never meeting face to face was bearable, compared to the pain of showing your true face. Already this me in the photo knew that. It knew there’s no better place to hide than in a family, the ideal hiding place. It is the empty yellow-edged square that remains when you take a picture off the wall. I shoved it silently in the trash by the door. Crept back across the foyer into my room. Only after the door closed behind me did I ask myself whether my hikikomori identity, my complete indifference to the world, was also a masquerade. My answer: I am tired.

  53

  Two days passed. Drumming raindrops. Through the gap in the curtains I saw that the sky was sewn up. No tear in the clouds to be seen. I ran to and fro. An animal in a cage dreaming of the wide open plain. Again and again I brushed against the cage bars, cold iron on the pelt of longing. On the third day I outwitted myself and broke out. The cage had just been in my head.

  The water smacked down from the overhanging roofs. I ran, the umbrella slanted in front of me, in wet shoes. MILES TO GO. I intended to walk past it at the very least. Past the flickering illuminated letters and perhaps catch a fleeting glimpse. Perhaps. With this Perhaps in my head I ranged like an escaped animal, a lion maybe, or a panther, through the wind and rain lashed streets.

  It must be up there. The Perhaps was in my chest and from there had penetrated to all parts of my body, pumped me on, up to the door, and past it, around the corner, around the block, and again: Past it, around the corner, around the block. I can’t say how many times. In my memory I walked for miles. When I finally touched the handle, cold iron on a longing hand, I was exhausted as if from a long journey.

  A cloud of smoke in the cafe. Gentle clink of glasses. A subdued nothingness, nothing. Someone was on the phone. The melting of ice cubes. Crackling. The lighting was muted. Hiro! His voice was a thread. He reeled me in. Come and sit down. What will you have to drink? A cola! He snapped his fingers. Good to see you here. I sank into the soft padding of a leather armchair.

  54

  He looked different from in the park. Bigger in some way. Without the sky above him he was a bigger man. While I, growing small and smaller, didn’t know where I should look. With the chilled glass in front of me, I sensed I had walked into a trap. What did I really have to do with him? How had it come to the stage where I, with my neck in the noose, was listening to a trumpet alongside a stranger, surrounded by strangers?

  Simply fabulous. He swayed to the rhythm of the music. You lose all sense of place and time. What’s the matter? Are you feeling sick? You look so pale! What can I do? What can I get for you?

  I waved him away.

  But of course! You’ve taken a leap into the unknown! Don’t worry, now you’ve done it. Set your mind at rest: Nothing will happen. You’ll see. This is not the sort of place where anything happens, and everyone who comes here, comes because it’s like that. You step into a capsule of music bound by neither space nor time. Why do you think I chose this café? Well, just because I was sure it would be like your room. That’s better. Now you’ve got a little bit of color in your cheeks again. With these words he grew smaller, I became bigger, until we assumed our original size again. What disturbed me now was simply understanding how much courage there was in me. It needed courage to come here, to trust him.

  55

  To want a love that can’t be true. A throaty woman’s voice.

  Kyōko’s favorite number. He laughed. The song she puts on when she wants to cry. Funny, isn’t it? Sometimes she likes to lie flat on the floor and soak it with her tears, over and over again. She describes it as a sort of cleansing. It cleanses her eyes, she says, afterwards she can see more clearly. She doesn’t cry out of sadness. She cries to reach a clearer insight into the substance of life. The eyes are the windows, when she says it, it sounds like a new or recently rediscovered proverb, from which the soul shines. I wonder whether I want to understand that? Whether I can stand it?

  We were brought together by a matchmaker. I was shown a picture of her. Twenty-three years old, typist, likes reading and singing, draws. The father a bank official, mother a housewife, no siblings. That’s how she was described to me. Fine face in the photo, hands neatly folded in her lap. Only the hairdo! Not particularly flattering. I agreed to meet her, without having any particular image of her. She pleased me and she didn’t please me. Basically I gave in to pressure from the family. I was twenty-five and had a well-paid job. What was missing was a wife and child, a comfortable home. Judging by the example set by my parents, that was neither desirable, nor was it undesirable. It was simply what was expected of me and what I expected of myself, because you’re not complete as a man if you have no one beside you.

  56

  We met for dinner in a hotel. My parents, more nervous than me. Okada-san*, the matchmaker, with the corners of her mouth pulled up in a spasm. A wax doll, she could at times be very, very soft, then very, very hard. I found her simultaneously friendly and unfriendly. Some people are like that. They leave you unsure as to how to take them. Ah! There you are now! She waved with her waxen hand. Matsumoto-san! A stiff movement. I stood opposite a woman who bore not the slightest resemblance to the woman in the photo.

  Not even close. He laughed out loud. She behaved like someone who has resolved not to be loved. Her lips pursed, she looked me up and down and said: There you see again, how you can be deceived. A photo is only a copy after all. The original is equally uninteresting. She said it with a smile. That hit home.

  She likes reading and singing, this was intoned by Okada-san with particular emphasis. Most of all, interrupted Kyōko, I like books and songs which deal with marrying off a daughter who does not want that. Embarrassed silence. Okada-san dabbed her forehead and eyebrows with a handkerchief, the parents stabbed awkwardly at their plates. And in case you hadn’t noticed, Kyōko spoke with her mouth full: I’m wearing a wig in the photo. I choked. Coughed. She jumped up and dealt me a blow on the back. So now you know, I can hit hard. I can do more than read
and sing. I can, if it’s needed, deal you a blow you won’t forget so quickly. Oh how nice, intervened Okada-san, she has presence of mind. A quality often missing in young ladies. I broke into uncontrollable laughter. Forgive me! Nothing to forgive. A man should not apologize for his laughter or a woman for the tears she weeps. Sometimes, Kyōko put down her knife and fork, I have the urge to lie down on the floor and soak it with my tears over and over again. Can you understand that? Can you bear it? She furrowed her brow fiercely. Her face, her very own, propped up, chin on hand, scrutinizing me directly. Yes I can, I replied. I want to try. Surprised, she said: You fool.

  57

  He blushed.

  His blush was not that of a young man who speaks of his first love. It was the blush of a man grown old, who bows before the first and last love of his life. It was a serene blush. It shimmered through his slack skin and lit up the whole space around us for several seconds. I blushed with him. A crackling. A whirring. The record had ended. Someone shouted: Let’s have Billie Holiday again! Murmurs of agreement, toasts to that across the tables.

  Isn’t it strange? I had fallen in love with Kyōko’s Fool more than anything else. With her direct, open gaze. It saw through me. I wanted her to see through me.

  But it was hard. Whenever we met she went in a different direction. I believe she didn’t know where to go. She simply set off, not really in the hope of getting anywhere, but for the pure joy of going. I am a plant, she said, I need fire, earth, water. Otherwise I will be stunted. And: Is marriage not such a stunting? The fire goes out. The wind grows weak. The earth dries out. The water dwindles. I would die. You too. She tossed her hair over her shoulders. Purple lavender. And what if it wasn’t like that, I argued. What if the daily routine, our daily routine, is my promise to you? Your toothbrush next to mine. You get annoyed because I’ve forgotten to turn the light off in the bathroom. We choose wallpaper we think is horrible a year later. You tell me I’m getting a belly. Your forgetfulness. You’ve left your umbrella somewhere again. I snore, you can’t sleep. In my dream I whisper your name. Kyōko. You tie my tie. Wave goodbye to me as I go to work. I think: you are like a fluttering flag. I think it with a stabbing pain in my heart. For Heaven’s sake, is that not enough? Is that not enough to be happy? She turned away: Give me time. I’ll think about it.

  58

  I waited. A whole month. Then at last a letter came. Her handwriting. Round. She had put in pressed flowers. My answer is Yes, I read: Yes, I would like to lose a thousand umbrellas, so long as you do not get a belly. I wrote back. Awkwardly. Let’s go and choose wallpaper.

  That’s her. My wife. He pulled a photo out of his wallet. My first thought was: Mother. My second: She wants to make up for it. She wants to cry.

  Our wedding, he went on, took place in a Shinto shrine. Okada-san was there with a guilty smirk on her face. No more doubts: She was an unfriendly, an extremely unfriendly person. I’m sorry, she wanted to say. Instead she said, like hardening wax: May your happiness be everlasting! Kyōko thanked her with an innocent laugh: What is everlasting? We are fireworks. Glowing bright and fading, we scatter sparks that soon die out.

  Black coffee. A jug of milk. Two cubes of sugar. Slow stirring. Draining the spoon. He put it down carefully. Our first morning. Like coffee with milk and sugar. I woke up, Kyōko wasn’t there. Her pillow was indented, a hair stuck on the fabric. The sheet was still warm, I pushed my hand under the cover. From the kitchen came the sound of brewing from our coffee machine, a wedding present. I padded barefoot through the hall. I stopped by the gap in the doorway, saw only as much as was to be seen through it. Her back, gently bent over the stove. Sizzling pan. Her finger in a bowl. Quickly tasting. A pinch of salt, some pepper. She sneezed. As she sneezed she turned around. Her voice a bright bell: Breakfast is ready. On the counter, wrapped in a blue cloth, the bento box. For you. She added an apple. A still life.

  And that too was a decision.

  I once heard it said that the first morning together is of lasting significance. It is a commitment. It establishes who gets up first, who makes coffee, who prepares breakfast. Kyōko could just as well have stayed in bed, turned away and muttered: Buy yourself something on the way. The decision was what took my breath away, there by the gap in the doorway: I would not have loved her any less if she had.

  59

  We postponed our honeymoon. At that time all hands were needed in the firm, and you know how it is, we never got around to rearranging it. The old travel guides, Paris, Rome, London, covered in dust. A little while ago I found them again at the bottom of the bookcase. Dog-eared, notes here and there. Kyōko had marked all the sights she wanted to see with a felt tip pen. The Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum, Tower Bridge. Nothing but hearts. On one page I came upon a drawing, a portrait of me: Tetsu smoking on Montmartre, written underneath. She’d captured me well. The top button of the shirt open. Wind in my hair. Gaze directed into the distance. My younger self. It spoke to me. It looked fine to me, and I shut the book with a bang.

  Who could I have become.

  Who had I become.

  Who will I be when she finds out who I am.

  She’s just waiting until I bow my head before her: You were right. There is no such thing as a happy working day. You must strive for it afresh every morning. He coughed a little. The ashtray stood full to the brim between us. We never even made it to Miyajima*.

  60

  Miyajima. A catchword. He repeated it: Miyajima. What was her name now? Was it Yuriko? Yukiho? It’s on the tip of my tongue. Yukiko? Yes? So, the snow child. Please tell me about her. It would be fine by me to shut my eyes and just listen. It’s easier to talk when you’re not being looked at. Easier to hear without seeing. He took a deep breath. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes.

  The Miyajimas were our neighbors, I began. Their house right next to ours. As a little boy, I was eight years old, I would often ring the doorbell and ask for Yukiko. She was the only child my age in the neighborhood, and although my parents did not like hers, they said you couldn’t tell where they were from, they accepted that we two, only children after all, played with each other now and then in front of the temple a few blocks away. Too many words in one sentence. I know. Too many words that can’t express how comfortable we were, she and I, in a world where differences matter. Where a single word can be enough to separate one from another.

  I would ring the doorbell, I say. Yukiko’s mother would stick her head out and croak: She’ll be right there. The door would close and after a few minutes open again. A musty smell every time it opened and closed, a musty smell on Yukiko’s clothing. She wore a blouse, dirty frills, a skirt that was too big for her, tied around her hips with parcel string. On one of her shoes the lace was broken. Poor girl, I heard people say, as we zoomed past them, drowned out by Yukiko’s laughter: Today we’re going to fly! She spread her arms and flew ahead of me, up to the crooked pine tree where she folded her wings around its trunk. With one ear against the tree she chirped: It just grew a millimeter.

  61

  They were fantastic days. I mean, really, we were flying. The temple grounds were heaven, we raced over them. We picked flowers and laid them on unknown graves. Caught cicadas. Butterflies. Dragonflies. Let them go as soon as we had caught them. Freed ourselves. When it was hot we poured bowls of water over our arms and legs. Bitten by mosquitoes. Chased the temple cat. Listened in on the monk’s sleepy singing. He was a dark man with a hump back. Sometimes he turned around towards us. Then he called out: Buddha’s children. And threw a candy for each of us. That’s what enlightenment tastes like, so sweet.

  At home I seldom spoke of Yukiko. If I was questioned about her, I felt it was not out of interest, but out of a certain anxiety. You need to know who you are mixing with. And: The company you keep affects you, whether it’s good or bad. With such maxims she let me go and as I ran off, it felt as if someone had grabbed me roughly. Whether it was mother’s tone of voice, the face she made when the talk was o
f the Miyajimas, something told me that it was dangerous to give too much away. And so I kept it to myself that there were two buttons missing on Yukiko’s jacket, and so I kept it to myself, that it did not matter at all to me.

  The vague feeling of threat remained, however. A tiny thorn in my breast, it bored deeper, and even the smallest, tiniest thorn torments when it sits deep enough, a wound in the flesh. You’re aware of it as a foreign body that slowly forces you to your knees.

  62

  How come you’re so different, I asked once, as we sat in the shade of the pine tree. Yukiko’s answer, a sentence learned by heart: Because I fell from a star.

  From a star? I held my breath.

  She nodded. My parents found me. In a box by the river. There was a note hanging around my neck. It said I was the princess of the constellation Lyra, condemned to lead a life on earth far from home. But shh! It’s a secret. If anyone finds out, I swear, I’ll dissolve into stardust.

  And your clothing? I grew curious.

  She screwed up her eyes, meditated with closed eyes, flashed them open and cried: A disguise! It’s all a disguise! I wear beggar’s clothes so that I don’t dissolve. Winding the end of the string around her finger she added in a whisper: Sometimes I’m homesick.

  I said: Me too.

  Does that mean you believe me?

  Yes. I believe you.

  And you promise not to betray me?

  I give you my word.

  Her hand in mine.

  Friends. Forever and ever.

  With a pocket knife we carved our names in the bark. Our friendship tree, announced Yukiko. She pulled a red cord from her skirt pocket, tied it around one of the branches and pronounced further: The red cord will remind us that we are bound to one another. Since I confided in you, you are indebted to me. And since you promised not to betray me, I’m indebted to you. A solemn undertaking. The shadow moved on. High above us the sun, sharp needles trickled softly down on our heads.