by Tracy Slater
I knew then that underneath our traded recriminations were the real questions we’d never ask or even understand. About how I ended up my mother’s favorite and Lauren the child shunned, or why parents sometimes choose so clearly among their children. About how Lauren had gone to live with another family, and how any of us could have let her. About why I hadn’t done a better job protecting her when we’d all lived together, and how she could have expected such a thing from me, terrified and not yet ten. And about why there was always some damn Holocaust movie looping in the background anyway.
As Lauren and I hung up the phone in mutual frustration, my bond with Toru started to make better sense, too. Although our relationship frequently skirted the verbal and our life in Japan left me stranded both linguistically and geographically, I’d found solace in a world that expected no eloquence from me.
The next morning I called Toru, who was packing for Boston. I complained about my fight with Lauren, telling him I was reluctantly going to meet her for breakfast.
“I’m still annoyed at her.” I sulked.
“You know, this is okay,” he said. The rhythm of his syllables rose and fell with his accent. “Just remember to be generous,” he told me. “Just remember how you have the love of her.”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
• • •
THE DAY OF our wedding blessing, Toru and I spent the morning at a café having scones and tea, then jogging along the Charles River. Later, while Toru napped off some of his jet lag, my friend Demaris came over and straight-ironed my hair as a wedding gift. “Wow, looks great,” Toru said, when he woke up. “Such a cute!”
That afternoon, we took a taxi to the temple. Holding hands on the sidewalk, we saw a small handful of picketers. When they began protesting the West Bank settlements, although I found their noise annoying, I silently agreed with them. Then Toru’s father, sister, brother-in-law, and aunt and uncle showed up, piling carefully out of a van-sized taxi. They’d arrived only the day before, and now they bowed to us from across the sidewalk. The protesters watched for a moment, and as if invigorated by the diversity on display, one pointed out, “Israel oppresses Asians, too!” (which I conceded could technically be correct, as Israel sits at Asia’s western edge). Then another clarified, “Including the Chinese!”
Toru’s family stiffened almost imperceptibly, a split-second pause in each of their formal bows. I knew Hamatani-san and Kei understood the protesters’ English perfectly, but even Michiko-san and Kei’s husband, though far from fluent, could easily translate the “Chinese” part. I widened my eyes and turned toward Toru. But then we both just laughed. His family straightened one by one, none of them betraying any other sign that they’d just been mistaken for people from an entirely different country and culture by a group of angry white liberals.
Inside the synagogue, I introduced Toru’s family to my father and stepmother, my siblings, and my stepgrandmother. I’d only met Nippy, my Texan stepmother’s mother, once, but she seemed delighted to be included, smiling a huge red-lipsticked grin and drawling greetings to Toru’s family as they each bowed again. Kei’s husband, Funaki-san, remained pink-faced, as if terrified someone might ask him a question in English. My oldest sister, Robin, colored along with him. Nonnative speakers made her nervous, I knew, left her afraid she’d laugh during some awkward pause of mutual incomprehension.
My mother and stepfather had met my new in-laws the night before at a dinner they’d hosted at their apartment in Brookline. I’d been alternately anxious and amused at what Toru’s family would make of the two uniformed caterers my mother had hired for a dinner of nine people, but they’d been so jet-lagged I wasn’t sure they’d even noticed. “Your father will probably think, ‘Of all Tracy’s sisters, I liked those two who stayed quietly in the kitchen and just served dinner,’” I joked to Toru. But Toru just seemed relieved that at the dinner my mother forbore mentioning “his country’s” empress again and the Japanese public’s reaction to the lack of a male heir.
Now at the temple, my mother nodded her approval as she noted Toru’s dark suit and the yarmulke perched on his head. From outside, the chants of the protesters echoed softly through the synagogue’s thick walls, like voices in a faraway schoolyard. Under the chuppah, Rabbi Friedman smiled beatifically, then turned to Toru’s family and, still smiling, his arms now outstretched, acknowledged the beauty and inconvenience of America, where everyone could speak their minds, at volume. Toru’s aunt and uncle bowed again.
When the holy man began intoning the marriage prayer, Toru started nodding in time. I remembered that his executive MBA program had taught the importance of providing verbal cues of understanding when communicating with native English speakers. Now, Toru deployed this practice faithfully. “In the name of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob . . . ,” the rabbi chanted, Toru interjecting with “un huh, un huh,” then dutifully nodding again to confirm he was following.
Finally, Toru stamped the wineglass, binding us together in the tradition of my forefathers. As the goblet snapped under his heel with a cold, clean crack, I knew, despite all my cynicism, the day was perfect.
THIRTEEN
IN DECEMBER, I RETURNED to Osaka. Over the next few months, I tried to arrange a few double dates or participate in social events with some of my new expat friends and their Japanese husbands. I remembered how uncomfortable Toru had been in America going out with groups of my friends, but I hoped with other Japanese men—especially ones married to foreigners—he’d be more relaxed.
One night, a woman I’d recently met named Helen had people over to her apartment above the ramen shop her Japanese husband owned. Helen had come to a Four Stories event a few months earlier and told me she was a regular reader of the food-and-foreign-life column I’d just started for one of the expat magazines, about the city’s best restaurants for squeamish eaters. My miserable failure at writing about Japanese cuisine for the Boston newspaper a few years earlier had prepared me perfectly for the gig. Helen was outgoing and friendly, and we’d both gone to Tufts for college, although she was young enough to have missed me there.
It was a Friday night, and Toru texted me from work telling me he was going to be late to Helen’s gathering. That morning, he’d been reluctant to join, but eventually he’d relented. “Why don’t you want to come, love?” I’d asked.
“I don’t know. Just seems tiring after long day at work.”
I’d brushed aside his lack of enthusiasm, thrown on some sparkly eye shadow, and headed to Helen’s. The plan was to have cocktails at her apartment and then head around the corner with a big group of people to an okonomiyaki place—inexplicably named President Chibo—that made savory Japanese pancakes with shredded cabbage, pork, and a choice of fillings such as cheese, spicy Korean cabbage kimchi, and mochi, a kind of sticky rice cake.
At the party, I gave Helen a quick hug, handed her a bottle of wine I’d bought at an import store, and sat down next to a woman I’d never met. “Hi, I’m Lisa!” she said in a loud American accent, her big blue eyes shiny, her hair and dress both solid black. She held out her hand, and then she smiled a mouthful of the whitest teeth I had ever seen.
“Hi!” I said, blinking into the wattage. “How’d you get your teeth so white!”
Lisa laughed, raised her glass of red wine, and told me she guessed she was just lucky in the dental department. I liked her immediately. I told her my name and learned she was from Montana, was single, had been in Japan off and on for almost fifteen years, and was an assistant professor at a nearby university.
Around us was a collection of other people I’d never met. A few were Western women with Japanese husbands or partners, and some were friends of Lisa’s from her university or the American consulate in Osaka. A mix of languages tangled in the air.
Toru showed up just as we were about to leave for dinner. I introduced him around, waiting for him to strike up a conversation with one of t
he Japanese men. But after quick greetings, he stayed quiet, sipping his beer and looking relieved when Helen soon announced it was time to leave.
At the okonomiyaki restaurant, Toru and I sat at the end of the long table holding our large group, an American woman named Jesse and her ponytailed Japanese boyfriend, who was a musician, to our left. It was loud, and the corner end where Toru and I sat abutted a wall to our right. I tried to lean across Toru to ask Jesse and her boyfriend questions over the background din. “Where are you from? Have you been in Japan long? Is music your career, or do you have another job as well? Where do you play?”
Then, turning to Toru, “Love, have you ever heard the name of that club?”
“No, never heard,” Toru said, looking down and arranging some food with his chopsticks. The conversation plodded on for another minute or two, then spluttered, Toru smiling tightly into the awkward silences. Soon Jesse and her boyfriend turned to the couple on their left.
Later that night, walking home, I asked Toru what had happened. “Why didn’t you want to join the conversation?”
“I don’t know. Just tired after long day at work.” Then he said, “I’m not like you. I’m not so social. Not so good at talking to people I don’t know.”
I tried, not totally successfully, to understand: Toru’s long hours at the office where he had to project formality, politeness, and eagerness at all times; the fact that Japanese couples tended to live very separate lives, with work, home, and friends divided into firm boundaries that husbands and wives didn’t cross together. I thought about how I’d never been invited to Toru’s office, not even for their New Year’s parties, since company events were employees only. Once, when Toru had a friend from college getting married in Tokyo, I’d assumed I’d go with him, but, no, Toru told me, spouses weren’t invited. “Why would they be?” he’d asked.
I was still frustrated with Toru, though. I was a social person, and in my culture, partners spent time with each other’s friends. The other Japanese men at the restaurant were more willing to blend into their partners’ social expectations, or at least have a conversation.
“Okay. I know you don’t really like socializing,” I said, “and I know how tired you must be after work. And I know this is Japan and maybe it’s unusual for couples to go out together with other people. But I’m American. You married an American. And I need my spouse to at least try to make an effort with my friends.”
“I did try,” Toru said, staring at the sidewalk.
“So, I need you to try harder. If you can. I mean, I moved to Japan for you, and I need a little of my own life, my American life here, as much as possible.” Listening to myself, I thought about how I’d once hoped not to become an expat spouse who harped on the refrain “But I moved here for you!”
“Okay,” Toru said, after a moment, as if he’d just agreed to attend a Saturday seminar on the history of the widget.
Over the next few days, I turned our conversation over in my mind. Maybe Toru would be more comfortable one-on-one, with just one other couple. It had been noisy at the restaurant, and Jesse and her boyfriend were younger and obviously a little more funky, Toru in his suit sitting next to the long-haired musician. Maybe he’d just felt out of his element.
I called Helen and asked if she wanted to have a double date. We’d eat at her husband’s ramen place—how could that not be interesting?—and I could write a column about Hiro’s family’s restaurant business. We chose a weekend night so Toru wouldn’t be tired from work. On the day of our plan, he spent much of the afternoon sighing as if stricken by some deep personal woe, but he agreed to come.
The restaurant was open-air along one whole wall, and we sat on little straw tatami mats, steam from our kimchi-laced bowls rising in the cool air and reddening our cheeks. Helen and I gossiped and laughed while Hiro and Toru spoke stilted English, even to each other. “Um, love,” I finally said, “you can speak Japanese to Hiro, you know. Helen and I don’t mind.”
“Seriously, Hiro.” Helen rolled her eyes at me and we laughed again.
Eventually, the men eased into a flow of their own tempo, talking rapidly in Japanese, grinning now and then, and even letting loose an occasional laugh. Success! I smiled triumphantly at Helen.
Later that night, Toru and I walked home again through the neon-splattered Osaka streets. “Did you have fun?” I asked. “It seemed like you did! They’re nice, right?”
“Yeah, pretty fun,” Toru answered, a lilt of surprise in his voice.
“So, do you want to get together again with them sometime?”
“Oh . . . no,” Toru said, as if one idea bore no connection to the other.
I laughed at first, mostly at the sheer unexpectedness of his response. Then I stared at him, disbelieving. I was running out of ideas about how to make him want to join me and my friends, and forcing him to socialize was failing to produce the results I’d hoped for.
A few days later, I called Helen in frustration. “I know!” she said. “Hiro had the same exact reaction. Had fun. Has no interest in doing it again. What’s with these guys?”
I hung up, staring into a situation beyond my control. I thought again about the separate lives of most Japanese husbands and wives, the supposition that spouses would not—even should not—be everything to each other. Though Toru was nontraditional in some ways, I needed to accept that, socially, we’d remain divided. I felt a little lonely at the idea and unsure once again about what limitations and differences one was supposed to accept in a marriage. What’s too much to sacrifice? And how to even know?
Then an image came to me of a former therapist I’d had. She’d recalled what her mentor, an elderly psychologist, had once told her: “The most important part of a good relationship,” she’d said, as I leaned forward, “is not the symmetry, but what you do with the disappointment.”
• • •
I BEGAN MAKING more plans alone with expat friends: afternoons at a chocolate café in an antique Japanese storehouse with wooden beams across the ceiling and dense cups of liqueur-spiked hot chocolate; dinners during the week at new Italian or Spanish restaurants I wanted to try. I appreciated that Toru was always enthusiastic about my own socializing, urging me to go out whenever I wanted. “It’s not even that I necessarily have to have you join us,” I told him. “It’s more that I wish you didn’t seem so uninterested in the prospect. For instance, if you could just say something like ‘Well, it sounds like fun and another time I might really want to come, but tonight I’m just really tired from work.’”
Toru considered my objection carefully. One evening, when I told him I was planning a girls’ night out that weekend at a new wine bar, he looked me in the eye and nodded. “Well, it sounds like fun, and another time I might really want to joining,” he said, perking with enthusiasm, “but, you know . . . ahhh, it’s girls’ night out!” Then he beamed me the confident smile of a husband secure in his own supportiveness.
Most weekends, when I wasn’t going out with friends or to a restaurant with Toru, we spent an evening at Otosan’s apartment, where I’d cook for both of them. Preparing dinner there for Toru and his father filled me with a simple contentment that both surprised and intrigued me. The apartment was so tiny. The kitchen so old and cramped. But Toru’s father seemed so easy to please. I’d bend over the egregiously low kitchen sink, chopping scallions or rinsing rice, the muffled sound of Japanese news or their version of Animal Planet coming to me from the living room, where Toru and his father sat on a sloping couch. Then I’d remember my parents when we still lived as a family, before I was ten. My mother’s voice taut and severe as she tried to corral all four of us kids, my father, and our shih tzu onto the plane for our summers in France. We’d be dressed formally for travel, the dog neatly groomed in his cage before the airline attendant took him off to cargo while both my parents looked on, tight-lipped. Or our winter skiing weekends in Vermont, groceries lo
aded in the station wagon trunk to restock the house in Stowe, my father absently holding the wheel, my mother staring furiously out the window while we kids silently flipped through Mad Libs in the backseat. The only time I remember the entire family laughing together was the day the dog woke from between my parents in the front seat, shook off the sleep from his tiny furred torso, ambled over to my father, bit him, and lay back down. Or at least my mother and we kids laughed.
In Osaka, Toru’s father would smile when I laid out the fish, rice, and stir-fried lotus root on the old kitchen table. He’d nod or laugh at my questions about Toru growing up or my miserable attempts to speak polite Japanese to him. When I handed him printouts of a few new recipes I wanted to try, urging him to pick his favorite, he read through each one slowly, looking the pictures up and down, running his finger along the list of ingredients in English, sometimes sounding them out under his breath. Finally he’d grin and hand me his choice. After dinner, he’d pat his stomach and accept his cup of tea, saying “Shank you, To-ray-shee.” Then he’d shuffle back to the living room couch, turn on the TV again, and settle in with an easy sigh.
There was nothing more he really wanted in the world other than dinner at home with his family. Toru had once told me that even when his father was working he’d insisted on coming home for dinner in time to eat with his wife and children despite the Japanese expectation that businessmen work late and then go out drinking with colleagues. He’d probably limited his corporate advancement by so unapologetically choosing family over work, but he hadn’t cared. Now, though sometimes I worried about the potential impact on Toru’s career, I admired that he tried to repeat his father’s precedent whenever possible.