by Ryu Murakami
“A Cuban guy?”
“It’s Cuban dance, so, yeah. He’s half white and half black, and two years younger than I am.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“I told you, I got involved with him. I had saved some money—which wasn’t hard to do, with you always buying me things and paying for my meals and so on—and I used it to bring him back to Japan a couple of times. I’m planning to marry him. That’s why I won’t be seeing you any more.”
“Whoa. Wait a minute.”
“I’ve made up my mind.”
My voice was trembling as I tried to reason with her, asking her to rethink this. I even told her I was willing to marry her right away. She smiled at me sadly and shook her head.
“It’s over,” she said, and that was it. She left.
I suffered for more than a year. I called her almost every day for the first month or so and always got her answering machine. She never picked up or called me back. I was in bad shape but had no desire to return to the reckless lifestyle I’d indulged in before meeting her. To distract myself, I took on more work, and ironically my reputation as a director only grew. But whenever I so much as saw the name Cuba in the news it was like a knife in my heart, and a cloud of gloom would settle over me. The only Cubans I’d ever seen were volleyball players, and remembering those sleek, chocolate-colored bodies gave me a sense of utter defeat. Every night before falling asleep I found myself envisioning Mieko’s body entwined with one like that. I’d imagine a long black penis sliding into her mouth or vagina or, even worse, those hands of hers. Still, I knew better than to try to seek comfort in alcohol or easy women. My career was going well, and pre-production work on a new film was proceeding smoothly, and just when I was finally freeing myself from the depths of despair, no longer seeing her hands when I closed my eyes or noticing the inferiority of every other woman’s fingers, I heard about a Cuban dance troupe touring Japan. After a fair amount of anguished inner debate, I went on my own to see one of their performances. At first I was afraid I might bump into Mieko there, but once the show began I forgot all about her. The dancing truly was extraordinary, and the rhythm, the complex syncopation of the percussion instruments, was overpowering.
From that night on, I started listening to and learning more about Cuban music, aided by an old friend who was something of an expert. My ability to surrender to those sounds became a kind of gauge against which I could measure my recovery. It was strange, but rather than being a painful reminder, the music actually helped loosen the grip of those intrusive, obsessive thoughts about Akagawa Mieko.
I hadn’t seen or spoken to her for about a year and a half when she telephoned me suddenly one day.
“I’m sorry for calling like this.”
I thought about hanging up but wasn’t able to.
“Do you have a minute to talk?”
She sounded a little drunk, and depressed.
“A lot of things have happened since I last saw you,” she said.
I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say.
“Hello?”
“I still haven’t got you out of my system, Mieko.”
“Oh. Is it all right if I’m pleased to hear that?”
“What do you want?”
“It didn’t work out with the Cuban guy. Is there any chance you and I could start seeing each other again?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Is that a no?”
“A definite no.”
“I don’t blame you. Who would want to, after what I did? Cubans, you know, they’re so strong, in every way. A coward like me didn’t stand a chance. I’m still in love with him, I’m afraid. But there’s the language problem, and Cuba is so far away, so out of reach.”
She sounded tearful.
“After he left, I took up with a young guy I met, a really nice kid. I was going to go to Cuba with him but chickened out. I’m such a fool, I never even realized how weak I am. I bought a ticket and everything, and was supposed to meet him at Narita, but I stood him up. I must be the flakiest woman in the world.”
She was silent for a while, and so was I. Then:
“Sakurai-san, you... Sakurai-san...”
“What?”
“You taught me something. I can’t describe it very well, but you taught me... how to believe in myself, I guess. So I tried to use that. I did my best to follow my heart, but I only ended up losing everything.”
I had nothing to say to that either.
“You know... since I met you, every single day, every morning when I wake up, and during the lunch break, and before I go to bed at night, I spend time just...”
“Just what?”
“Just taking care of my hands. Applying lotion and things.”
Images of those hands, in various poses and settings, flickered through my mind.
“It’s laughable, isn’t it? What an idiot.”
She fell silent again, and I felt I ought to say something.
“I’ve been listening to Cuban music lately.”
“You have?” She sounded almost happy, half-laughing the words.
“It really is good stuff, isn’t it?” I said.
“Have you heard Javier Olmo?”
“No. A singer?”
“Yes. I had never heard of him either, until the young guy I was seeing gave me a tape.”
“I’ll check him out.”
“He has a song called ‘Se Fué.’ It means ‘She’s Gone,’ but whenever I hear it I think about those gloves.”
“Gloves?”
“The satin gloves you once bought me.”
“Oh. I wouldn’t have thought you’d remember that.”
“How could I forget?”
She paused again before saying, “I still plan to go to Cuba eventually. As soon as I can muster the courage to go alone. This time I won’t ask some poor college kid for support. May I call you again when the time comes?”
“Sure. And I’ll listen to that song by Javier What’s-his-name. ‘She’s Gone’?”
“Thank you,” she said, and we hung up.
Some months have passed since then, and she hasn’t called to say she’s on her way.
I’ve listened to Javier Olmo’s “Se Fué” dozens of times now. It’s a gorgeous, plaintive song that always grabs me by the throat but leaves me with a strange sense of liberation. There’s something about his voice that really does remind me of those satin gloves. Peel them back, and the world’s most beautiful hands are revealed. Those pale blue satin gloves, with their intricate embroidery...
All of Me
“Look, I’m Sakurai’s friend, not yours. Think about that for a minute.”
Akagawa, the rather plain woman sitting across from me, bows her head when I say this. Her given name is Mieko, if I remember right. Sakurai Yoichi and I have been friends since we were classmates in high school. We went to the same university too, and then, without really planning it that way, we both ended up working at ad agencies.
Because he was such a clever, talented guy, Sakurai quickly landed a position in the creative department of Japan’s second-largest agency. I managed to join the marketing division of the largest, but in my case it was entirely due to my father’s connections. The old man died about four years ago, but he’d been something of a big shot at a certain TV network. My mother was the “Japanese princess” type, down to the marrow of her bones. I was thoroughly spoiled by her, and developed into a bit of a wag and a playboy.
Unlike me, Sakurai Yoichi was a serious guy. He left the agency to set out on his own as a film director, and soon achieved the sort of success you can’t help but envy. One thing he never had much luck with, however, was women. You have to question his taste in that area. When I look at this Akagawa woman, for example, I can’t help wondering what he saw in her.
I met a number of his girlfriends over the years, though, and none of them struck me as anything to write home about. They were all somewhat dim and not nearly as attractive or interesting as he seemed to think they were. He always looked pleased with himself when he introduced them: “She’s a fashion model.” “She plays the violin.” “She’s working in a bar right now, but she’s studying flamenco.” There was a nurse in there too, come to think of it, but all of them were the types of women you can pick up easily enough anywhere in the city—women as lightweight and slippery as rayon. When a once-serious man starts rolling down the wrong path, the brakes tend to fail. Eventually Sakurai got taken for a ride by a third-rate actress, and it cost him his marriage. His wife was no beauty queen herself, but she was a decent person.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Akagawa says. “But you’re the only Japanese person I know who’s actually spent time in Cuba.”
I met this woman occasionally when she was with Sakurai, but the last time must be a couple of years ago now. They’re not together any more. She dumped him for a Cuban dancer. Sakurai took it hard, and he was a mess for a while. He phoned me almost every day, in such agony that at times I actually feared he might do himself in.
It’s true that I’m fairly familiar with Cuba. My involvement with the place began several years ago, when our agency put together a summer festival and I was charged with looking after a band we brought over from Havana. I’ve been to the island a number of times since then, and though my Spanish is still pretty hopeless, I’ve made a lot of friends there. Most of these friends are singers or musicians, and I’ve helped arrange for several of their bands to get CDs released on Japanese labels. So, yes, I have spent time in Cuba. But what sort of woman dumps a man, breaks his heart in two, and then casually comes asking his close friend for travel advice? Answer: the worst sort. I suppose I mentioned Cuba once or twice over drinks with Sakurai and her, but I don’t remember saying much about it. I’ve found that when you try to explain what’s so special about Cuba over drinks, nobody gets it. I love the music in particular. Cuban music is as refined and universally appealing as classical or jazz, but it’s not easy to describe in words.
“I know it’s presumptuous of me, but I really do need your advice, and it’s not something I’d feel comfortable discussing on the telephone.”
She’s dressed in the sort of career-woman fashion you’ll find on parade in any big office building. From the expression on her face it’s clear that she’s troubled about something; but as someone who made a good friend of mine miserable she has earned my heartfelt enmity, and I’m not inclined to sympathize.
“Let’s be clear about this,” I tell her. “What you’re doing is inappropriate. I don’t know how serious you are about whatever it is, and I don’t care. But you want some sort of information from me, right?”
“Yes,” she says, in a small voice.
She has the look of a woman who’s bitten off a lot more than she can chew. Cuban dancers are world-class in terms of skill, with distinctive and breathtakingly sexy moves, so it’s not the least bit surprising that a Japanese woman might go weak at the knees over one of them. And Cubans, including even famous dancers, are all poor. This allows the infatuated woman to feel good about herself by treating the object of her affection to meals, and buying him clothes and things. But Cubans are proud, tough, and clear-headed, and associating with them, whether in business or in private, requires a good deal of energy. Much more energy than this career woman can possibly have. Energy isn’t wishful thinking or good intentions. Wishful thinking is close to amae—a childlike interdependence that doesn’t really work outside Japan. Energy means tangible resources, and it’s expressed in terms of money, personal connections, influence, even style. Akagawa is only playing at romance, living in a world of enka lyrics: Ahh, my love for you is so sincere, how can you turn away from me? And it goes without saying that she doesn’t even realize it.
“What gives you the right to ask me for anything, after you put a friend of mine through hell?”
“Through... hell?”
“It’s not important which side is to blame. The blame is always more or less equal in these things, if you look at it objectively. But the point is, I’m on Sakurai’s side.”
“Surely he’d have no trouble finding a replacement for someone like me.”
“You may like to tell yourself that, but it’s only an excuse for not giving a damn about his feelings. Anyway, enough of that. You say you need some advice. You need. It doesn’t matter how I might feel about it; all you can think about is yourself. Isn’t that so?”
She surprises me by nodding repeatedly, her eyes now blurred with tears. Having been coddled as a child by a Japanese princess mother, I can’t stand seeing emotionally restrained women break down. Which is just another way of saying I’m a sucker for tears. It doesn’t help that we’re sitting in the lobby of my company’s offices, at one of the more prominent of the randomly placed sets of sofas and tables. If any of my colleagues or staff see us, they’ll be too intrigued to want to keep it to themselves. Section Chief Murata brought a sad-looking woman to tears in the lobby today.
“Would you mind not crying?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll leave now. But, Murata-san, just let me say this. I respect both you and Sakurai-san tremendously. Please don’t think I’m being insincere, I really feel that way. And I’m just as you said I am. Too preoccupied with my own problems to be sensitive to other people’s needs. I know that about myself.”
She said she was going to leave, but she’s still sitting there sniveling. Though all I did was tell her the straight truth, any casual observer would probably assume I’ve been bullying her. I work mostly on TV commercials and am the de facto head of the casting section, and because my image as a bit of a rogue helps qualify me for dealing with the bigger, more intimidating production companies, I associate with a lot of high-profile talent, from pop idols to performance-art rockers. Normally no one would mistake this plain-looking woman for showbiz material, but with her face buried in her hands, who knows? I can hear it now: Murata was getting his rocks off making some underperforming young talent miserable.
At this point I should just say, “Well, if you’ll excuse me, then,” and get the hell out of here, but I can’t. I’m a born pushover. My mother, watching some old samurai drama on TV, would always shed a few tears at the inevitable scene where the bad guys murder one of the poor peasant’s relatives. That’s the sort of woman she was, and her blood runs in my veins.
“All right. What was it you wanted to ask?”
Akagawa wipes her eyes and looks up at me. Her mascara is so comically eroded I have to look away, but at the same time I’m thinking maybe this woman is a lot tougher than I realized. Sakurai was a fool for getting entangled with somebody like her.
“It’s about marriage in Cuba.”
“Marriage.”
“Yes. Let’s say I go there and get married to a Cuban man. Can I keep my Japanese citizenship?”
“How should I know? That’s a question for the authorities. I’m not an immigration lawyer.”
“If someone had a baby in Cuba and then got divorced, would they be able to bring the baby back to Japan?”
“I don’t know that either. My area of expertise about Cuba is the music. Only.”
The tears have stopped flowing. She doesn’t ask, What good are you, then?, but her eyes do. She stands up, bows, and excuses herself. As she’s leaving, she says, “I really am planning to go there, you see.”
“Well, do as you please,” I tell her.
I decide I’ll have to call Sakurai and let him know I just talked to Akagawa. He was despondent for a full year after she dropped him, and my heart is heavy as I punch in the number. He might just slip back into depression when I tell him about her plan to get married. But it wouldn’t be right to hold out on him. If it reopens the old wound—well, sometim
es that’s how old wounds are healed.
“Hello?”
It’s like a voice from the Underworld, and I sense right away that something’s wrong. Shit. His career has been going well, and lately he’s been in remarkably good spirits, but now he sounds like the Sakurai of a year ago.
“Oh, it’s you, Murata? I was just about to call you.”
The vibe is definitely not right for sharing my news. He sounds like someone facing bankruptcy, or the death of a family member.
“Did something happen?”
“Yeah. I’m at the end of my rope.”
“Does it have to do with Akagawa?”
“It does concern Mieko, but not directly. Murata, you’re pretty familiar with the adult video world, right?”
“I know something about it, but...”
“You know a guy who produces pornos, don’t you? And didn’t you once tell me you had a library of over a hundred tapes?”
“That was long ago.”
“Were any of them hidden-camera type things?”
“There’s a whole series of hidden-camera vids, but most of them are bogus. There’s also a genre of leaked celebrity tapes, usually filmed on the camera equipment in love hotels, but you don’t hear about those much any more. Don’t tell me...”
“There’s a video of me and Mieko.”
“What the hell’s wrong with you? A famous guy like you, getting filmed in a love hotel?”
“It wasn’t in a love hotel.”
“Where, then?”
“My bedroom at the Regent Park.”
“Yeah? Who filmed it?”
“I did.”
“What?”
“I filmed it. Somebody brought me a couple of miniature video cameras from Germany, and I made several tapes of Mieko and me together. Remember I told you how she would have these hysterical spells, and how intense the sex would be afterwards? How we’d do things I couldn’t even tell you about? It was like all the energy of hysteria channeled directly into sex. I wanted to have a record of it.”
“You think she sold it to somebody?”