She then moved off to another table, glancing back at me from time to time. It was an interested glance. She seemed to be thinking about something, perhaps wondering if I too knew her story.
I did, and I also wondered about her and the turn her story had taken. To have unintentionally killed a lover in a moment of passion, to have rescued from the catastrophe, in a moment of panic, an object which one, childlike, had loved—that was one thing. It was quite another, however, to connive with the crowd, to present oneself as a figure of vulgar terror and then as one of common fun.
She had certainly damaged the man initially but now she seemed to wound him doubly. And she was mutilating herself as well, making a travesty of an event of such importance to her, one that had so shaped her life. She was, I felt, precisely, faithless.
The laughter had now started up again. A few of the more daring yelled out that they were afraid to go and pee. Others shouted to hide the knives while she was around. She smiled, patted, poured, moving about in her striped Showa kimono like a teacher among unruly pupils.
Occasionally, however, the big smile faded. She seemed to be thinking. She stood there, saké bottle in one hand, abstracted. Of what, oh, of what was she thinking, I wondered, now half-drunk myself. It could have been that night twenty years before or it could have been present unpaid bills.
Whatever it was, she soon collected herself and went about among the tables grinning. Only for a time, however. Her nightly visits never lasted long. After an hour she was suddenly no longer there. No one saw her go back upstairs and no one in the drunken throng below missed her.
Perhaps she could no longer stand the travesty that her life had become. Or perhaps she had gone up to do the day's accounts.
Eiko Matsuda
- Oh, no, I really much prefer Europe, she said, dark in the summer heat, turning to watch the sun slide behind Saint Peter's.
I did not have to guess why. Many Japanese find freedom abroad but few had her reasons.
- It's so interesting. And, of course, I have friends here.
Originally an actress in Shuji Terayama's troupe, she was discovered by Nagisa Oshima and appeared in The Realm of the Senses, playing Sada Abé, strangling Tatsuya Fuji, cutting off his penis. Even though this scene, and many others, was missing when the film was shown in Japan, there was enough visible for newspapers and magazines to criticize.
It was shameless. It wasn't the way for a true actress to behave. And-perhaps the main motivation for the criticism—she seemed to be doing it all for foreigners, since it was they alone who were permitted fully to view the act. And yet it was a purely Japanese story. It was about, no matter what she might have done, one of our own. Why then was this cheap so-called actress exhibiting our shame abroad?
Why was she behaving this way, was the question. The man was never criticized. He, Tatsuya Fuji, then a minor actor, found his career enormously assisted locally by the film. Thanks to it he went on to be a star, to appear in cigarette commercials, and he never again had to appear nude.
Not so, however, in her case. She was a good actress, as she had proved, but no starring roles came her way. Only porno parts. She was also offered nude-dancer contracts. And more was suggested, amounts of money that would allow Japan to experience in the full flesh what had been denied it on the screen.
- Oh, no, that's not the reason at all, she said, her skin brown in the failing light, Saint Peter, black: I don't care what the press writes. If I did, well, I wouldn't last very long. No, really. I like Europe. I have this little place of my own in Paris now. And I do like coming to Rome.
She sat there in the twilight—black dress cut low in the back, necklace of ebony and amber, good black leather shoes, good black leather bag. And I knew what was under all this elegance. For I too had seen the film and so her naked flesh was more real to me than the poised elegance now sitting beside me on a Roman balcony.
- It certainly wasn't because of what they wrote. Actually, many women who've done less have had it worse. There were even some compliments—Nippon Sports called me brave. Did you know that? Well, they did.
She was very different from Sada Abé in the film. There, a housemaid, open, innocent, earthy, playing childlike games with the master. Now, black and elegant, chilled martini held between lacquer-nailed fingers, turning to speak in French to someone else, turning back to me to answer an earlier question.
- Every day? Oh, I shop. I see films. Friends—go to cafés, things like that.
She was brittle, sitting on the edge of the chair as though she did not belong there, as though she had only lighted, bird-like, on her flight to somewhere else, as though she might break if touched—and yet she was the same woman I remembered as all muscles, juice, and open thighs.
Every lineament now stated a firm, polite request—do not touch me, her body said, each line an unmistakable refusal. She was as though immured in a sexless chic.
And the real Sada Abé, had she too done this to herself? After she left the Inari-cho pub, she disappeared. The Nikkatsu film company had made a soft-core porn film out of her story and this had brought no complaints. Then Oshima had wanted to make his version and thought that he perhaps needed permission. She was discovered, after a long search apparently, in a Kansai nunnery—shorn, devout, and making no objections.
- It's easy to make out that I'm some kind of martyr, run out of my own country, Eiko Matsuda said, smiling: But, believe me, it wasn't like that at all.
One need not have one's hair shorn to expiate, one could also have it newly coiffed. Her Paris dress was black as a nun's habit. She had, in her own way, become Sada Abé; had paid something of the same price for doing so. There are various kinds of nunneries.
Kazuko Morinaga
One Sunday morning when I was walking by Otsuka Station, near where I used to live, a young woman suddenly stopped directly in front of me.
She was looking at me, mouth half-open, eyes half-shut. It was the face of someone determined to do something she did not want to do.
- Excuse me. I'm very sorry to bother you. Do you speak Japanese and are you by any chance an American?
I closed my face. It was Sunday—fanatic Christians were about. Nevertheless I said: Yes.
- I'm so glad, she replied, then hurried on: Really, I'm very sorry, but do you know anyone at the American Embassy? You see, my mother here and I are so worried we don't know what to do.
Behind her, I now saw, was a middle-aged woman, her mouth also half-open. She bobbed when she was mentioned and attempted a smile, but she too was obviously upset.
So I asked what I could do to help and they exchanged a glance of relief. The daughter then explained.
Her name was Kazuko Morinaga and she had been going to this club in Roppongi, a disco really, and her friend Midori had introduced her to this American and they had danced a lot. Really, that was all. Just danced.
She paused and her mother nodded fiercely, as though she had been contradicted.
And then Michael has started coming early to the discotheque and wanting to take her home after, wanting to hold her hand, wanting to dance close, that sort of thing. She hadn't been too concerned about this. She'd just wanted to dance and he was a very good dancer. And she wanted to keep her relationship with him the way it was. And he didn't.
She stopped, looked down at her hands. She was a beautiful young woman. Then I noticed that her knuckles were white—her hands were clasped that tightly. It was difficult for her to talk like this, to a stranger, in front of a crowded station.
- Anyway, Midori gave him my address and telephone number. I don't suppose she meant any harm. I never asked her to. And I don't see her any more. I stopped going there.
And then, she continued, the trouble began. Michael had started to call. This was awkward because he knew no Japanese and she knew very little English. So, after a time, she just took to hanging up.
Then he started calling at odd times, like in the middle of the night. And though she didn'
t understand very well what he was saying, it seemed to be that he wanted to take her back to America, wanted to marry her, that he loved her.
- I don't know what to do. He found the house somehow and came late last night. He knocked on the door for hours, it seemed like. My mother and I—my father's dead, we live together—hid in the bathroom till finally he went away. Then the phone began again. We ran out of the house, the two of us. We came here and then I saw you.
She stopped, her story told.
Her mother continued. They couldn't call the Japanese police, you see. It was none of their concern. And they would simply say that the girl here had got what she'd asked for.
And she felt sorry for this poor American, too. Until he'd fallen in love he had probably been nice enough. And so, wouldn't I do something, please? After all, we were fellow Americans, weren't we, he and I?
After a pause during which I tried to find something to say, I asked: Do you know anything about Michael—where he lives, for example?
- Oh, some camp or other, said the daughter.
- He's a soldier?
- Yes, and he comes to Roppongi on Saturdays. So it isn't as bad as it could be, you see. He can only get out then. So we only need worry on Saturday nights. But, of course, he can phone whenever he wants.
I considered, standing there in front of the station, wondering what I could do. At that point Kazuko's mother suddenly remembered her manners.
- Isn't his Japanese good, though? He must have studied for years. Very intelligent, probably. Why, he speaks better than we do, doesn't he, Kazuko?
And while the beautiful Kazuko nodded in agreement I felt very sorry for these two women, innocently victimized by American Love, yet still mindful of Japanese Good Manners.
- If he's a soldier then the army ought to make him stop, I said.
- But I wouldn't want to get him into any trouble.
I looked at her. Why not? I asked: He's certainly made trouble enough for you.
- Yes, but he couldn't help it. He's had a difficult life, you see. He just misunderstood. I was being nice because I felt sorry for him.
I wondered how she had come to know about his difficult life, and she, as though guessing this, began to rummage in her purse.
- I've got a picture of him, one of those machine-made things. After we danced one night.
She handed me a small square photograph—face down, which is the way one is handed things in Japan. Across the back I saw, penciled in a Western hand: Michael White.
Then I turned it over. Michael White was black. A pleasant-looking young GI in civvies, mouth half-open, eyes smiling, having a good time. I now understood.
- What should I do? she asked.
What, indeed? And what should I do?—someone picked out of the crowd for my presumed nationality, suddenly linked with this young lovelorn soldier I had never met and, with any luck, never would.
I was on her side. Michael ought not to go around forcing his problems on other people. Then I remembered that she had originally mentioned the embassy. So I suggested that she call and talk to the proper authorities, whoever they were, and ask for help.
And, since I am the kind of person I am, I had the number of the U.S. Embassy written down in my date book. This I copied out for her.
Mother and daughter were grateful—not, perhaps, for what I'd done, since I had done nothing, but rather for having been able to talk about this with someone, to tell of their concern.
We stood there, the three of us. People passed around us and we felt awkward. They seemed to think the crisis was over—they had actually stopped an American and received some advice. I was aware that I had not really helped them at all.
Then Kazuko's mother, smiling for the first time, asked if they might not know the name, address, and telephone number of their benefactor so that they could send a little token of appreciation.
And, standing there, I sensed a future in which Kazuko's mother and Kazuko herself, and Michael White too for all I knew, played a part. I imagined late-night telephone calls from the mother and polite raps on the door as Kazuko called with cakes. I found myself thinking that these people really could not go around forcing their problems on others.
So I shook my head, smiled, said I'd been of little use, that I wished them luck, that I must be on my way. And I left them there, Kazuko smiling in a puzzled fashion, her mother bowing.
For they had frightened me, just as Michael had frightened them. And neither Kazuko's beauty nor their need, nor my own curiosity, was sufficient to overcome this sudden trepidation, this glimpse into life as it is when the patterned surface cracks and we look beneath.
The two, mother and daughter, forced into the street to ask help from strangers, did not insist. They bowed. I smiled and turned away.
Saburo Sasaki
A youth of eighteen or so, he was was being bullied in the public bath by two grown men with tattoos. They made him scrub their backs, called him shombenkozo and kuso, pushed him into the cold pool. The other bathers, all from the neighborhood, ignored this. So did I, sunk in the hot water.
We ignored it because it was serious. This much even I knew—from the language. The first term meant bed-wetter and the second meant shit.
After they had gone, abusing him all the way, and I was drying myself, I heard the chicken man arguing with the bath lady. He was saying that of course they were gangsters, what with their tattoos and all, and she was saying that, tattoos or not, they weren't gangsters, they all worked at the local sushi shop. The big ones were the new staff from downtown and the little one was the kozo.
So he really was a kozo after all, an apprentice, someone who washes the dishes, sweeps the floor. It is not unusual for the youngest member to be mistreated by his elders, but this amount of abuse was uncommon. I was curious.
Consequently, several days later I went to the Fuji sushi shop around the corner from the bathhouse. It was early evening and there were a number of other customers, all sitting on the stools facing the counter, all watching what was going on behind it.
- Little shit, can't even fill a teacup proper, said the larger of the two, tattoo showing just beneath his crisp white sleeve.
The kozo was standing, head bowed, holding his hand in front of him. His fingers were bright red. He had apparently scalded himself on the tea.
- The little shit can't do anything proper, said the other, hands busy, slicing manfully.
The other customers, interested, stared at the young man with the scalded fingers. It is not uncommon for a crowd to enjoy the spectacle of someone ganged up on like this. There was some murmuring, most of it satisfied. The man next to me spoke of the low caliber of youngsters these days.
I did not enjoy my sushi, watching this and further humiliations, but then I had not come to enjoy sushi. I was there to satisfy my curiosity.
My curiosity unsatisfied, I called up the Fuji several days later and ordered some sushi to be brought to my house.
Sure enough, it was delivered by the kozo. One finger was bandaged, either caused by the scalding or some later enormity.
- Why do they bully you like that? I asked.
- Me? Bullied? I'm not bullied.
- I see, I said. And so, indeed, I did. Loyalty to the shop would prevent him from criticizing it, particularly to a stranger.
The next time we met, however, he apparently thought differently. This was again in the bathhouse. It was early and he was alone. I looked at his black eye and said nothing. He glanced at me several times, then joined me in the hot water.
- It's a tough life, he said after a while, now wanting to talk: And it gets worse all the time. I just don't know what to do.
After that it all came out. The two new sushi-ya from Asakusa, from the tough and manly downtown of Tokyo, had only recently moved to the Fuji. He himself, Saburo Sasaki by name, now just nineteen years old, had come up from the country. The two had been pleasant enough at first but then had changed. He pointed to his black eye.
The reason then appeared. If he wanted to stay and work with them and make his way up and become a sushi-ya himself, which he thought he did, then he ought to get tattooed, as they were. He had demurred, then refused—hence the present mistreatment. What did I think he ought to do, since I had earlier expressed an interest in his case?
Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the brutal pair. One of them had Fudo, guardian of hell, fanged and clawed on his back, which seemed appropriate. The other, I now saw, had, incongruously, Kannon, goddess of mercy.
- Hey, shit, yelled Kannon, get your ass out of the hot tub and start scrubbing.
- Yes, piss-pants, shouted Fudo, and on the double or we'll black the other eye for you.
The others in the bath joined in the genial laughter that greeted these sallies and I left, not wanting to see any more. That evening, very late, Saburo knocked softly at my front door.
Over cocoa we talked. Getting a tattoo would provide an entrance into the small world of the sushi shop, but it would slam forever the door to the great wide world. No one would hire a man with a tattoo, some uptown bathhouses would not admit him—why, he couldn't even go to the beach.
Yes, he knew all that, but if he lost this job he would have to leave Tokyo and go back to Ibaraki. No, he didn't think he could get another job this good. And did tattooing hurt?
Saburo was, I saw, a person caught in an archetypal situation; but he was already predisposed. The pain of being excluded was greater than the pain of having his skin needled.
- At least it wouldn't cost much. They said they'd pay half and the other half could come out of my wages. It's expensive, you know, tattooing.
It was not only the pressures he was thinking of. He was also thinking of the joys of conforming. And after all, he added, smiling, shikataganai de sho, it can't be helped, I suppose.
Japanese Portraits: Pictures of Different People Page 5