Gazing at the slightly open, near-white buds of cherry blossoms – Sakura1, those iconic images for which thousands travel thousands of miles, he fears the imminent return of summer weather. Even after years in Dubai, he dreads this new reality. Ubiquitous heat and humidity that drag on the functions of everyday-life. So fucking hot.
A line of three such trees adorns the edge of a small park and twenty-odd people maniacally camp out underneath, soaking up some magic of promised renewal. He can smell its sweetness, its false promises.
The expatriate has five months left on his contract as he walks in the labyrinth of the back streets off the tidal river. Through the cracks and folds of soft clothes gently swaying on industrial balconies, he hears a cry.
A scream, rather, in Japanese, and – seemingly – to no one, for there is no reply nor follow-up. He waits a few moments to be sure it isn’t someone asking for help. We’ve all heard those unanswered murderous cries in psychology class and faced our species’ disgusting limitations. But the space is again still. So quiet that he can hear the movement of dust particles pushed by forces beyond their control.
Thank god it’s almost over. The feeling comes unbidden and he doesn’t know why. He had always dreamed of living in Japan for a few years, of the superior culture, of the deep wisdom and beautiful art, of the bizarre technologies, once futuristic, now stuck in nineties-era anticipation of a sure binary: a new optimistic century…or apocalypse.
He is draped in silence. The streets offer no exposure to the privacy of lives. Urbanity is restricted; people put on a face and then retreat to their homes. More than once he has wondered what goes on behind those quiet walls, those always-closed windows. When the rituals end, who is left…exposed?
The realization that he will never understand saddens him. Inferiority blends with isolation in shy glances toward windows revealing nothing. How long would it take?
Nearly home, the crazy old man with the urban equivalent of garden gnomes waves and bows - Konnichiwa. He nods his head in return; he is tired and confused by these customs, constantly afraid he is committing a faux pas. If he could only give it some time.
The old man’s gray home is adorned with many strange trinkets, its door often open, unlike the others. The man is friendly, long-limbed, and wild like his plants piled up at the edge of the street. Today, like many other days, he works on a broken car, a Datsun 510 with the foam of the front seat and many wires exposed. It will never run again, but he moves around pieces of the engine and cleans corners of the old leather, reminiscing of a time when he was sane and when his wife rode alongside him.
Like other days, the old man talks to him, tells him many anecdotes or observations about his life and his car, all in Japanese but with the inviting gestures of an Italian. The expat nods and smiles affectionately. He has already made it clear he doesn’t speak the local language. This is simple companionship; two lonely men in the street sharing a moment. He wishes he could invite the man back to their place for a whiskey but imagines this is wrong, either the wrong way to do things or that he will be confused and alarmed by the suggestion.
His wife reminds him that she doesn’t want to leave, just as he is aggressively marking off days on the family calendar in permanent marker. She works for a foreign company from home and plans her day around the restaurant they will try in the evening. Ramen, soba, yakitori, mizutaki, mentaiko. It is a solitary world here for her, but she seems happy.
Why can’t he feel the same? He is surrounded by people at work and yet feels so lonely. Some of them are expats. Koreans, Chinese, Americans, Australians. They all seem content. They, too, talk about Japanese food incessantly.
His local colleagues treat him with respect. They bow for each other, smile, exchange pleasantries, share accolades. But the always has a little worry. He doesn’t know why.
One of the bosses he liked was recently put on leave. They all went out on a Friday evening. The guy had talked about how he felt stressed, got a bit sad. On the Monday, he was missing. The Korean told them he had been put on leave, had a freaked out look on her face. Be careful, she said, never complain about the work. She speaks pretty good Japanese – I heard two of the managers discussing how they wish Daisuke would just resign or kill himself, make it easier for everyone. She was horrified but hid it behind the pungency of embedded bites from her bento.
Every month, she offers them vats of perfectly fermented homemade kimchi, and, each time, he wishes he had some cultural delicacy to share.
◆
He goes to Akasaka to get his haircut. For the first time in his life, he wears it longer and lightens the top. It feels like a way to play with some version of reality, to make it a dream. His hairdresser is from Fukuoka but used to live in New York City; he is an insider-outsider. His joyful, critical, creative, rational personality is comforting.
He tells the expat about Kyoto because this is where people go for Sakura:
Here’s a typical story for you. It will kind of give you a picture of the place. You know, we Japanese, we like to sometimes dress in Kimono and these wooden shoes when we go to Kyoto. It’s fun because we don’t do it all the time. So, when my wife and I are on the wooden shoes, we like the sound, we kind of clickety clack through the quiet streets. And the locals poke out from their windows and say something like ‘what a beautiful noise’ but what they mean is: shut the fuck up. Yeah, I think that all Japanese can be a little like this. In New York, people just tell you what they think, you know?
The man is from London, but he knows.
His hair looks exquisite. The hairdresser tips his cowboy hat as they bow in unison.
There is nowhere to go with such a beautiful coif. Instead, he goes home for his wife and child to admire. He returns to a son who is waiting near the door, begging him to go back out again, to play baseball. Without seeing the hairstyle, the wife calls out from the dining room table where she is working: Can you both put hats on? The sun is so strong today.
The child skips ahead on the edge of the street designated for pedestrians by green paint. They pass the young Nepalese women who hang around outside, escaping small rooms and looking for life to come to them.
The park is busy with baseball and young children who frolic in and around the small playground. The man and his child have become accustomed to the terrain – instead of grass, the sand of reclaimed land makes all the parks and football pitches of the area. The dull brown lowers the expectation upon arrival.
They find a spot away-enough from the others – young teens with a Wiffle bat playing some version of rounders, two girls practicing tricks on a football, and a father and daughter playing catch with mitts. The man and his child throw and catch, throw and catch, throw and catch. Throw and miss and laugh.
A mother calls out from a balcony across the street and the responding child argues her way to a few more minutes outside with friends.
A car eases by with a blaring horn atop the roof, hurtling out political slogans in anticipation of a vote. Nobody stops what they are doing and the voice made artificial with crackling divisions blends into the background.
Throw and catch, throw and catch. Throw and catch.
Eventually, they turn to go. He nods to the other dad with his daughter, wishing he could communicate. They could be friends. Or at least share a laugh.
As they cross the street, they spot the crazy old long-limbed man turning the corner, driving by slowly in his car, the same green Datsun 510. No fucking way. He gives them a honk and waves like they are old friends.
The world rocks forward like leaves do, like they hang on by a tiny pinpoint through storms – until they can’t. At that point, they fall, albeit gracefully, to the earth. They reincarnate as the fuel of caterpillars or cherry blossoms or the animal whose leather makes the baseball mitt.
The man whispers in his son’s ear and they run home.2
桜 (kanji), 櫻 (old kanji), さくら (hiragana), サクラ (katakana)
About the word Sakura and associated words for cherry blossoms in Japanese.
At the end of Lost in Translation, Billy Murray improvised an inaudible whisper to Scarlett Johansson’s character. The concept is that they share a memory in this place, even though the future is (always) unclear. But make of it what you want (here and in Coppola’s film).
A terrific characterization of both the man and the place, Kathleen. Love the haircut and the footnotes, too. (My love of footnotes to be explained in a future post. :)
For relaxing times, make it Suntory times. - This will stick with me forever. Happy to see some writing from you, Kate!