“Though the last one cannot be categorized as an internal organ, you know,” she says with an embarrassed smile.
It is crowded inside. With his mouth shut tight like a bronze statue, the close-cropped owner points at a small table for four near the door to a toilet. That happens to be the only unoccupied table in this eatery.
As soon as Mr. Hirose is seated on a low wooden stool, the owner’s wife opens a huge refrigerator and brings us a stainless-bowl full of leaves of a cabbage.
“What is it that you want tonight?” she asks him with a blunt look.
“I think two glasses of shochu will do for a start.”
She nods and turns her face toward me while stealing a glance at Nancy.
“What about you?”
“I’d like to have a glass of Coca-Cola.”
The middle-aged woman looks at me in a frown and then points to the sliding door.
“Okay, missy, you can see that Pachinko parlor across the street, can’t you? There is a vending machine over there.”
Mr. Hirose breaks into our conversation.
“This young lady will have a glass of oolong tea.”
“That’s what I call a good choice.” The woman nods.
*
The cabbage leaves seem to have been torn into pieces by hand. Nancy says, “I’ve once heard from an elderly woman in Kyoto that using any cutlery spoils the spirit of a vegetable, you know, the pure taste of a fresh vegetable.”
Mr. Hirose smiles pleasantly as he shakes salt into a tiny plate and then asks me to apply it to a torn leaf.
“It probably tastes better with salt than with some fancy dressing.”
I am still wondering why Mr. Hirose is trying to entertain me so desperately.
Nancy orders an assorted dish of ten skewered meats that are completely left at the owner’s choice which is in turn affected by his impressions made on this Caucasian woman so that she has no idea what kind of meats will be served several minutes later.
I stealthily look around, especially under tables and chairs, for I had this impending feeling that Yukio the ghost might show up out of nowhere.
“Is there anything wrong with your chair?” asks Mr. Hirose with knitted eyebrows.
“No, sir. I love this chair.” I quickly make a smile.
Almost everyone sitting at the horseshoe-shaped counter is now stealing a glance at Nancy, a Caucasian woman, who fluently manages Kansai dialect.
I look up at a large handwritten menu on one of greasy walls. There are a variety of motsuyaki such as chicken cartilage and gizzard and skin, ox-tongue, pork intestines, et cetera, et cetera. According to Nancy, kobukuro, a pouch, means the uterus of a cow, and sao, a pole, means the penis of an ox.
Mr. Hirose orders two skewered ox-hearts for himself and asks the close-cropped owner to grill two skewered chicken livers and three skewered small intestines for me.
We drink a toast to each other and this opportunity.
Mr. Hirose says, “Try to sip it slow, Nancy-san. Shochu is a very strong liquor.”
“It certainly is. That’s why I love this Japanese vodka.”
Nancy smiles back at Mr. Hirose as she gently drops a pickled ume fruit into her tumbler. The pickled fruit is face-twistingly sour and salty but my favorite.
“You’ve missed being born as a Japanese, Nancy-san.”
“I think so too.”
“As you know, we are originally paddy field people. We used to stick young rice plants one by one, scraping leeches off our calves. I believe there is a considerable difference between those who have been sowing the wheat over the dry ground and those who have been sticking young rice plant into paddy field.”
“Could be, yes.”
Nancy turns her face to me as she nods softly.
“You have beautiful sad eyes, by the way.”
“Beg your pardon?” I cast an upward glance at her.
“I mean, you have wistful eyes,” answers Nancy.
“Do I?” I am afraid if I blushed.
“Your eyes appear as if you were searching for something that can be found nowhere.”
Surprised, I shrug off her remark in silence.
*
Skewered chicken livers are tender, whereas skewered small intestines are a little too chewy, although both are tasty.
They have left a certain sweet aftertaste in my mouth.
Three customers at the horseshoe-shaped counter are chatting about Japanese ballplayers playing in the major leagues in the United States. Two couples in their thirties are grumbling at their works over chicken wings and meatballs. Two men in leather jackets near the sliding door are talking about a male police officer who was arrested for molesting a woman in a crowded train last evening. He was off duty and suspected of further charges.
Nancy says that Legitimation Crisis is everywhere: For example, there is a guard at a public park who raped a young woman when she asked him for help from a molester who had thrown his arms around her from behind at that same park. She was on the way home late at night from a cooking school. There is a group of bank clerks who stole money from their own clients by using computers in their bank. Allegedly the branch manager is also under police investigation because of his possible involvement in the affair with the group. There are two nurses who poisoned five elderly patients by injection. The reason was that those five elderly patients smelled bad and gave them a lot of trouble. There is an advisor, who had been working in a finance corporation for the small and medium enterprises, were arrested for his having embezzled public funds. There is a firefighter who was arrested for arson. There is an executive of a credit card company who was arrested for committing a fraud.
Nancy smiles at me and continues, “Whatever happens out there, we have delicious motsuyaki here.”
I utter banzai in a small voice.
“Banzai,” she follows me, chuckling.
I am so elated that I raised my hand toward the close-cropped owner with my thumb folded in the palm.
“I’d like to have four skewered chicken livers, please.”
Suddenly everything seems to be frozen in a flash. It feels as if the oxygen of this motsuyaki restaurant were sucked out in a nanosecond. I realize that I must have said or done something terribly wrong. Several customers are staring at me with their brows knitted. No, they almost appear to be scandalized at what I said or did. But I have no idea what I said or did was wrong, nor what has produced this kind of a negative response. I am utterly confused.
After taking a long look at me, the owner simply says: “Missy, we don’t take order of four here.”
“Pardon me?”
“No four things.”
“Can I then order three chicken gizzards and two livers?”
“No problem.”
A man in the leather jacket tells me in a small voice: “You had better not utter Japanese numeral four here. Japanese numeral yotsu, four, can be a pejorative for certain people. So when you straighten your four fingers out like the way you did, it can also be taken as an insult for certain people.”
“I’m sorry. I knew nothing about it.”
Mr. Hirose says, “Please forgive this young lady. She meant no harm.”
“It’s okay. Most of us know she was not conscious of what she was doing on that occasion.”
“I guess she belongs to a new generation,” another customer says matter-of-factly.
The owner looks me squarely in the face.
“That’s why nobody is actually offended with you. You don’t have to feel ashamed for this.”
Nancy whispers to me, “You’re like a color-blind Asian schoolgirl in Queens in New York City.”
*
I am now being left alone with Nancy at a table in a cafe to which Mr. Hirose took us after the meal. He has received a call from his business associate a minute ago and is being in a telephone booth at the corner of this tropical-garden-like cafe. You can see him talking over his Mobile inside the booth. There are a lot of dazzlin
gly colorful flowers and exotic-looking indoor plants around us. Unfortunately, I am familiar with none of them.
Nancy is drinking a cup of double espresso and I a glass of melon soda.
She seems to have been lost in thought for a long while but finally opens her mouth.
“Why am I here? Well, it’s probably because nowhere can be found so-called aborigines anymore. Today they’re carrying the Mobile with them, wearing big-name brand goods, watching music videos, or carrying an advanced machine gun on his or her shoulder. In short, they have become ex-aborigines.”
“Still you can learn their cultural heritage, can’t you?”
“Yes, they show us spears, tattoos, and the dance of war, only when we are there to be tourists or customers for their folk art and other products. There is no longer the other to be found anywhere out there.”
“The other?”
“Yes, it’s something that exists outside your system. The different kind, in short.”
“Ah, I see.”
“I believe that the different kind can be found in so-called advanced countries. Actually, there are new kinds of aborigines here in Japan, I think. Did you check up morning news today?”
“No, I didn’t. I had to charge my Mobile.”
“There is this businessman, or I must say a salaryman, who began slashing everyone around him with a fruit knife in a densely packed commuter train for the reason of his having lost half of his salary in Pachinko the previous day.”
“Wow, he’s extreme, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is. He looks more interesting than an aborigine who does bungee jumping.”
“Mr. Slasher the Pachinko addict,” I utter in excitement.
Nancy chuckles as discreetly as a well-bred Japanese woman and continues: “According to Web News, Mr. Slasher allegedly made an excuse that he had been possessed by Oni the Japanese devil. He seems to believe that Oni is able to smell of a lost soul and that he has been the lost soul since he became a Pachinko addict several years ago. So it was not his fault, he claimed. The reasoning is quite interesting.”
“So you’re now studying insane-looking urban crime in Japan rather than cultural anthropology, aren’t you, Nancy-san?”
“Yes and no. As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about what really happened in that motsuyaki restaurant.”
“It was really embarrassing.”
“Don’t be. It’s true that yotsu in Japanese simply denotes the numeral four. Yet it also implies a quadruped, a four-legged animal, which reminds us of a beast, you see? And the beast signifies a life form that is below a human. It’s therefore considered untouchable as well.”
“It sounds a little far-fetched to me.”
“There are indeed a certain group of people who have been regarded and treated in the same way as animals. They are called Burakumin. I suppose you should have already learned of that particular minority group in Japan through social integration education in your school. They have been referred to Eta or Hinin.”
“Well…I remember having heard of it back in junior high. Eta means full of filth and hinin nonhuman, doesn’t it?”
Nancy nods approvingly.
I add with my brows knitted, “But Burakumin in Japanese originally means small villagers, I guess.”
“That’s right. But, today, Burakumin specifically implies the descendants of outcaste. In your country there used to be this rigid class system, which is more or less akin to the caste system in India you know. As you have already learned, there were the classes of warriors, farmers, artisans and tradesmen. But Eta and Hinin were being forced to live outside the class system. They were placed at the bottom of the bottom of Japanese society.”
“I know that.”
“Then the term Yotsu became a pejorative expression aimed toward them. Raising four fingers included.”
“I see.” I lower my eyes, biting my lower lip.
“Please, don’t be offended. I’m not criticizing Japanese culture or society. There is always seen various kinds of discriminations in any country, any community, or any group. You can never do away with discrimination. Our ability to discriminate the same from the different is one of our defense mechanism and is essential for survival. You have to know who is one of us and who is one of them. Oh, I’m sorry. You seem to be upset.”
“Well, I just don’t like to be told all those things.”
“By me?”
“No. Well, maybe, yes.”
“Because I am a foreigner.”
“No, not exactly. I think it’s because you’re just a visitor.”
She looks straight into my eyes and then gives me a plastic smile.
“You’re right. I’m only a foreign student.”
I have seen Mr. Hirose walking out of the telephone booth few minutes ago. He is still talking over his Mobile, standing right outside of the entrance of this cafe.
I raise my eyes from the table.
“Is it true that there was no freedom of choice with respect to Burakumin’s occupation?”
“Yes, it was. Because it was patrimonial. Burakumin have been exclusively leatherworkers, tanners, shoemakers, papermakers, undertakers, garbage collectors, or butchers. They are the ones who touch the entrails of freshly killed animals for the rest of us. This is why you don’t want to utter yotsu in a motsuyaki restaurant.”
“I see.” I cast down my eyes again.
“Do you think you’re able to distinguish the descendants of outcaste from those who are not?”
“No, I don’t think I can. Can you do that, Nancy-san?”
“Perhaps I’m able to spot them by their birthplace, name, and facial features.”
“You’re kidding me, aren’t you?” I say with a titter.
“They have been confined in specific areas such as riverbanks, deltas, ravines, under bridges, and around graveyards for a long time. Since marriage between different classes were taboo, consanguineous marriage had been put into practice in their isolated communities, that is, marriage between close relatives. It is therefore easy to assume that their gene pool became homogeneous.”
“What you’re saying is that they didn’t have much choice when they had to find a bride or a groom.”
“That’s correct. There was no other choice.”
“And Mr. Hirose is one of them, isn’t he?”
Nancy looks at me in surprise.
“How would you know he is a Burakumin?”
“I’ve come to realize it now because of your lecture,” I say.
“My lecture?” She laughs short.
“Yes, your lecture.”
“Did Mr. Hirose tell you of his family by himself?”
“No.”
“You guessed it by his name, didn’t you?”
“No. His niece happens to be one of my girlfriends.”
“Aha, that’s why.”
“Her name is Maya. Have you ever met her before?”
“No, I have not. Unfortunately.”
Then Nancy tilts her head to the left somewhat guardedly.
I continue, “Maya seems to have this tendency to keep her uncle at a distance.”
“Did she tell you about her family tree?”
“No.”
“But you’ve found out that she’s a descendant of outcaste.”
“It’s perhaps an open secret,” I say without being conscious of why I needed to tell her a lie, “Everyone in our gakko probably sensed it already. But it means nothing to me.”
“Of course.” Nancy smiles at me with a hesitant shrug.
“Her eyes are as cute as those of a chipmunk. She’s a would-be artist.”
“Good for her. And you?”
“I don’t have time to think it over yet. I usually have to worry what I must do, not what I want to do.”
“I see,” says Nancy with an uneasy smile.
Collision
The train joggles as it accelerates. I am leaving Neon Forest. Several minutes ago I made a call to my mother. She t
old me that a classic glass bottle of Coca-Cola would be in the refrigerator and an original Cup-Noodle on the kitchen table and that she would have already retired to her bed. I said a good-night and she answered, ‘Study hard.’
I blankly watch evening news streaming across a display installed on a wall right above the door of the train. It is ten past nine. There are a lot of empty seat. You can see an empty can of green tea rolling on the floor over toward an adjacent car. I wonder if it might have done it of its own free will. There are advertising posters hung in the car. One of them shows a portrait of the president of a telephone company, which is brought to a financial crisis. The picture of his face reminds me of an agonized look of Mr. Hirose I had faced in the tropical-garden-like cafe half an hour ago.
He was drinking an Irish coffee, talking about Maya. What Mr. Hirose expected me to do was to tell her how eagerly he wanted to see his niece. Her father is Mr. Hirose’s elder brother who has cut off a relationship with his own parents and siblings a long time ago. And his close relatives were no exception. For Mr. Hirose, Maya is an only hope to be left to bridge the gap between him and his brother.
When I smooth my hair upward with my fingers, the evening news on the display draws my attention. Allegedly there was a crash involving six cars one after the other. What has caught the sight of me is a two-second shot of a tree-lined road and a pedestrian bridge spanned over the road. The view is too familiar to ignore. It is the pedestrian bridge from which Maya dropped things with her eyes shut tight.
According to a female newscaster, a sedan is crashed into a bulldozer after breaking through the guardrail at a tight corner of the road. The bulldozer has been allegedly there for site preparation. Two children are now in critical condition and their mother is killed instantly on the spot and father wounded seriously. In addition, five other people are badly injured. The police have found that there are colorful glass beads scattered around the spot. They have also found a torn vinyl bag that seems to be used for stuffing with those beads. According to an eyewitness account, there was someone on the pedestrian bridge, dropping things, just before the accident took place.
A Japanese Schoolgirl Page 19