My Almost Flawless Tokyo Dream Life

by Rachel Cohn

  “My turn to go home,” said Emiko. “I’ll see you again later today. Call me if you need anything in the meantime.” She handed me her business card and then bowed to me.

  I didn’t bother to bow back. Or hug. Especially not hug. “I hope you’ll have more brochures next time!” I chirped.

  “I will!” She stepped back inside the chauffeured car and was whisked away.

  I looked up. And up up up, trying to discern how high forty-nine floors was.

  My father was somewhere up there in the clouds.

  “Why different elevators? And how many lobbies does this one building have?” I was starting to feel like a three-year-old with infinite Why questions.

  Uncle Masa and I stood in a small lobby where there was one set of elevators marked for floors forty-four through forty-nine that required a swipe card to call, and opposite, another set of elevators marked for floors thirty-six through forty-three, with a sign in Japanese and English that said the Tak-Luxxe Hotel lobby was on the thirty-sixth floor.

  Uncle Masa said, “Tak-Luxxe isn’t just a hotel; it also has apartments. Your father lives in the penthouse apartment.” Uncle Masa swiped his card on the set of elevators for floors forty-four through forty-nine. “This is the private set of elevators for Tak-Luxxe residents. The other side has public elevators for guests, to take them to the Tak-Luxxe hotel lobby.”

  More rules. Of course.

  “Then what happens on floors one through thirty-five, and where’s their lobby?”

  “Those Harmony Tower floors are office space owned by Takahara Industries. It’s a separate lobby, very big. The entrance is on the main street, not the Tak-Luxxe side street.”

  That people even lived in a building so complicated blew my mind. There was nothing about this partitioned skyscraper that screamed HOME to me.

  Some Japanese businessmen entered the elevator lobby and pressed the button for the Tak-Luxxe hotel floors. They bowed to Uncle Masa, and he bowed to them. They got into their elevator, and we got into ours.

  “Seriously, I don’t get the bowing,” I said after the elevator door closed. “Why’s it such a big deal?”

  “Bowing shows respect. How far a person bows is also an indicator of the status of the person being bowed to.”

  “Status like how?”

  “Age, economic status, job rank.”

  “How could someone possibly know enough about a person they just met to then know how to bow to them?”

  “It’s something you learn from the time you’re a child. It becomes a basic instinct.”

  “Seems complicated.”

  “You’re right, it’s complicated,” said Uncle Masa. “But you won’t be expected to bow as Japanese do it. You are gaijin.”

  “What’s gaijin?”

  “Foreigner.”

  “But my father is Japanese.”

  “I know that. You know that. But Japanese people will see you and know you are not pure Japanese. Right or wrong, that’s how it is here.”

  WTF!? What an unwelcome surprise pop of information to the newcomer: You can assume you will be judged here by what your face tells the natives about your race—that you’re not really one of them.

  Did I make a huge mistake coming here?

  My sense of panic built as the elevator raced upward. I was about to meet Kenji Takahara. My FATHER. Did I look okay? What if he didn’t like me? What if he turned out to be an asshole? What if I bowed wrong or said something stupid?

  The elevator door opened.

  I gulped.

  No turning back now.

  We stepped into a simple, elegant hallway with wood-paneled walls, a large orchid arrangement on a centerpiece marble table, and tasteful walnut-colored carpeting with no blemishes, not even the smallest stain or tear. This place was so clean. Like, lick-the-walls-and-floors immaculate. I’d grown up in a barely tidy house where the cheap Ikea rugs and furniture were covered in cat hair, and then I’d gone on to foster homes that were sparsely furnished and “clean” only when social workers’ visits came due. I already felt like I didn’t belong here, and I’d yet to see my new residence.

  Gaijin.

  I could barely breathe I was so nervous.

  Uncle Masa walked toward a doorway where there was a peaceful Buddha sculpture surrounded by small, jade plants in ceramic vases at the corner wall. He started to place his swipe card against the door’s console, but I put my hand up to stop him. “Wait.”

  He pulled his hand back. “Why? Your father is waiting in there for you.”

  “I know.” I took a deep breath. I wanted to throw up. This wasn’t a fever dream. “Do I look all right?”

  “You look fine.” That wasn’t the answer I wanted. I meant, Do I look like trash? Maybe he read something in my face because Uncle Masa added, “You look strong, like always.”

  Uncle Masa swiped his passkey card against the console. The door clicked, unlocked. He pushed the door open, and we stepped inside the penthouse apartment into the marble-floored genkan that Emiko had told me about. On the other side of it I could see a posh living room with beautiful Oriental vases filled with tall flower arrangements and sleek, minimal furniture that looked like it should be on the cover of an interior design magazine. The apartment didn’t look lived-in at all. I was afraid to step farther inside. I’d probably tarnish or break anything I touched.

  “Take your shoes off,” Uncle Masa reminded me as he took off his own and stepped into a pair of slippers neatly lined at the wall.

  What did these people have against shoes? The soft slippers were the most comfortable things I’d ever had on my feet, and suddenly the No Shoes rule made total sense; their slippers were so much better than shoes. Uncle Masa beckoned me inside the living room. I cautiously stepped in and noticed a man was standing in the corner.

  His posture was perfectly straight, his hands clasped behind his back, and he looked like he was surveying his domain, a lord on a forty-ninth-floor perch. Uncle Masa said something in Japanese, and Kenji Takahara turned around.

  He was shorter than I expected, not much taller than me, but I had my mom’s 5'7" height. I could see his chest moving up and down. He was real. Maybe he was as nervous as I was? Despite how cool and collected he looked in his elegant dark gray suit that was clearly custom fit to his exact size, with a black silk tie and silver cuff links, he looked as awkward as I felt.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Welcome,” Kenji Takahara said. He bowed to me.

  I didn’t bow back for fear of doing it wrong, and because I didn’t want to lose sight of his face. I couldn’t believe how much he looked like me: the shape of his eyes and mouth, the high cheekbones. I wondered if he was thinking the same thing? No DNA test needed here. The evidence was staring us both in the face.

  He didn’t look like a dad. He looked like a wealthy businessman, but a ridiculously handsome one who could have been advertising men’s hair gels on an electronic billboard splashed across a Tokyo skyscraper.

  Then he killed me—by smiling. I could see how my mother fell for him in an instant. All he’d probably had to do was smile at her.

  Someone should say something, but I had no words and he didn’t seem to, either. I thought my anxious stomach would be my problem in this situation. It was so much worse. I burst into tears. I’d managed to suppress full-on sobbing when visiting Mom in jail. So why did the cryfest have to come forth now, at the worst time, in a sleek sky castle where it seemed like I was meeting a king? I wanted to be casual but aloof, not some transparent emo teenager.

  Kenji Takahara looked at Uncle Masa like, What am I supposed to do?

  Uncle Masa patted my back comfortingly. “It’s a lot to take in,” he reassured me. With Uncle Masa by my side, I managed to get my tears under control and regain my composure, even though I wanted to grab the perfectly cornered hanky from Kenji Takahara’s chest pocket and blow my snot all over it. Uncle Masa spoke to my father in Japanese.

  “I’m so glad to meet
you, Elle,” Kenji Takahara finally said as I wiped the embarrassing tears from my face. His English was more accented than Uncle Masa’s but confident at the same time. “I’ve wanted to know you for so long. You’re beautiful like your mother.”

  Great, a fresh new round of tears.

  Seriously.

  Was. He. Trying. To. Kill. Me.

  I had frizzy black hair and too-thick eyebrows and I bit my fingernails when I was nervous. Nobody had ever called me beautiful. This handsome father person ­thingie must be looking at my expensive new clothes but not really seeing me.

  “You must be tired,” said Kenji Takahara.

  Not really. I wanted to sit him down right now and hear how this king had gotten my mom under his spell and conjured me before the magic died and no one lived happily ever after.

  “I’m fine,” I said. Was our communication already like this? How are you? Fine. How was school? Fine. How’s it feel having your life radically change on your birthday with no warning whatsoever? Fine.

  “Excellent. Masa will show you the apartment. I’m sure it will be nicer than what I was told you’re used to. I have to leave for work.”

  Wait, what? I didn’t grow up in a fancy place like this, but it wasn’t the ghetto, either. Don’t act like you know me, Lord Skyscraper.

  “You’re going to work at five in the morning?” I asked.

  “There are dignitaries just arrived from Dubai who have leased five office floors in Harmony Tower. They will expect me to greet them personally.”

  But you couldn’t be bothered to greet your own long-lost daughter at the airport?

  Kenji Takahara bowed at a depth that gave me no indication of what he considered my rank to be. And he left. Just like that.

  What was with him flying me all this way to be with him, then bailing on me? “He’s rude,” I said to Uncle Masa as soon as the penthouse door had closed. “He basically said I grew up in a dump. How would he know? He was never there.”

  “He’s not rude,” said Uncle Masa. “Intense personal situations are difficult for anyone. Especially him.” That made sense. Kenji Takahara had quickly left my pregnant mother when his family ordered him to go home. What a big baby. “You’ll get used to him.”

  Great. Another parental relationship where I was supposed to be the mature one. “I’m not supposed to get used to him. He’s supposed to get used to me.”

  I walked—more like, skulked—around the living room and its adjoining dining area, inspecting, disappointed that I had to discover the place for myself without my father showing me around. Sofa, glass coffee table, side armchairs, TV and TV console table, vases with plants, museum-quality Japanese art on one wall, smoothest-wood-ever dining table and six chairs around it: check. Photos, books, mess, anything that indicated an individual with interests occupied the space: nonexistent.

  “He’s like instant ramen,” I pronounced.

  “What do you mean?” Uncle Masa asked.

  “One minute to cook, one minute to experience, and then it’s gone.”

  “He’s nothing like ramen.”

  “I’m hungry.” Saying the word ramen had reminded my stomach that I hadn’t eaten in forever. I walked into the kitchen. Spotless, empty counters. Stainless steel appliances including a fancy stove and oven that looked like they had never been used. I opened the fridge. It had basic condiments, some soymilk, and a takeout salad in a container. That was it.

  Uncle Masa followed me into the kitchen and saw the contents of the fridge. “I’ll advise Emiko to go grocery shopping. Make a list of what you like, and she’ll take care of it. Could I interest you in some genuine Japanese ramen now?”

  “I’m so hungry, you could offer me instant ramen and I’d probably eat it straight from the packet without bothering to add hot water.”

  “You will have the real thing, if you can wait about ten minutes.”

  “Hah! No ramen place will be open this early in the morning.” Restaurants in Maryland closed by ten at night and didn’t open again until eleven in the morning, as any latchkey kid with a single-mom waitress knew.

  “This is Tokyo. Awake and working all the time, like New York.”

  “Ten minutes? Come on.”

  “Have you heard of room service? Watch!” He walked over to a house phone on the kitchen wall, picked up the receiver, and spoke to some unknown person on the other end in Japanese. In the middle of the conversation, he stopped and asked me, “Are you one of those Americans who needs a dark sugar water with her meal?”

  I remembered that’s what Uncle Masa used to call Coke—“dark sugar water.” “I sure am!” I also remembered that the only time I ever got Cokes as a kid had been when Uncle Masa took me out to eat.

  Once his call finished, Uncle Masa gestured for me to join him in the hallway. “Come with me. I’ll show you the rest of the apartment while we wait for the food.” We walked down a hallway off the genkan that led to three different bedrooms—a large master bedroom, a small bedroom that was furnished as an office, and finally, a medium-size bedroom that had a twin bed, a dresser and chest, and a desk with a chair. The furnishings were top quality and the room was immaculately clean but other­wise unremarkable. I’d never actually stayed in a hotel, but I’d seen them on TV, and this apartment seemed like one, just with more space and nicer furnishings. We stood in the hallway as Uncle Masa gestured to the room with the twin bed. “This will be your room. We left it plain so you could decorate as you wish.”

  I ventured inside, and he turned on the light. The bedroom was small but had everything I could need. I opened the closet. It was filled with clothes—jeans and skirts on hangers, blouses with tags still on them, and hanging shelves filled with meticulously folded shirts and sweaters. A cubby had boxes of shoes—sneakers, sandals, slippers. “Did someone leave their clothes here?” I asked Uncle Masa.

  “Those items are all for you. Emiko can return whatever you don’t like or exchange anything that doesn’t fit.” My head was about to explode. Was this for real? Then he added, “And there’s a new iPhone in the desk drawer for you.”

  “Are you serious?” I ran to the desk and opened the drawer. Indeed, there was a new iPhone in it, still in the box. I picked it up and kissed it. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “I think Emiko took care of all the items you’ll need to start your new life here, but let her know if there’s anything she forgot.”

  She forgot to tell me that my father was apparently going to make up for all the birthdays he’d missed in one fell swoop.

  Uncle Masa wasn’t kidding about ten minutes for food delivery. In what felt like exactly-to-the-second that period of time, the doorbell rang. A uniformed ­Tak-Luxxe waiter did the bowing game with Uncle Masa at the front door and then wheeled in a cart with bowls that had silver tops on them and two Cokes in glass bottles. Uncle Masa told him, “You can leave the food here. We will set up the food ourselves.” He and the waiter then exchanged some words in Japanese. When they were finished, the waiter bowed at me and said, very proudly I thought, “Have a nice day!” before bowing to Uncle Masa and then leaving.

  Uncle Masa put place mats on the dining table as I brought the food over. I lifted the silver top from my soup bowl. The scent of the steaming broth was exquisite. The bowl teemed with thick, fresh noodles, tender meat, a soft-boiled egg and green onion garnishes floating at the top.

  We sat down and clinked Coke bottles. “Kanpai,” said Uncle Masa.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Cheers.”

  I took my first spoonfuls. Cheers was right. “OH MY GOD!” I exclaimed.

  Uncle Masa misinterpreted my outburst. “Too spicy for you?”

  “Hardly! I can’t believe how flavorful the broth is. And these noodles are so fresh. I’ve never had noodles so good.” I gulped down more broth followed by noodles, then added, “Honestly, it never occurred to me that there was a better level of ramen than instant, but this is probably the best meal I’ve ever h
ad in my life, except for that time when Coach Vickers took the Y swim team for Ledo Pizza after we won our district championship.”

  He laughed. “Do you still swim? I remember how good you were.”

  “I stopped after Mom’s accident, and then we moved. It got too hard to keep up with practices.”

  “You’ll swim again here,” he said confidently, which would have excited me, except I was cracking up watching Uncle Masa eat his own noodles. This elegant man wearing an immaculate, finely tailored business suit, who had lived all over the world and spoke several languages, was inhaling his noodles like a three-year-old, leaving spots of broth all over the bottom part of his face.

  “You slurp your noodles up! I can’t believe it!”

  “This is considered the proper way to eat noodles in Japan. Also fine to do this. . . .” He lifted his large bowl and drank directly from it. I gasped. Then he placed his bowl back on the place mat and darted his chopsticks into his meat so that the chopsticks stood directly up. “But not fine to do that. Also, when there is a small bowl of soy sauce placed by your food, dip your food into it. Don’t pour it over the food.”

  “You’re joking. Right?”

  “No.”

  I was starting to appreciate that Emiko had made me an Etiquette Notebook. Apparently, I had a lot of reading to do. And eating. Lots more eating.

  I said, “I wonder if the cafeteria food at my new school will be this good.”

  “You’ll find out tomorrow.”

  This shocker was almost as disconcerting as my new father walking out on me less than five minutes after meeting me. “No way, I can’t start school so soon. Don’t I need time to, like, adjust to the new place?”

  “That kind of laziness is not the Japanese way. You will have today to rest, and tomorrow you can get right back to schoolwork.”

  We’d left Washington on Tuesday night. The flight had been fourteen hours. But tomorrow was Friday! So confusing. And how stupid to start a new school at the end of the week. But maybe it was for the better. I didn’t need extra days to worry about how I’d fit in (or not) at yet another new school. Better to just dive in. “Will Kenji Takahara take me there?”