Gaijin

by Sarah Z Sleeper

  Gaijin

  Sarah Z. Sleeper

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Notes

  Acknowledgments

  Bio

  Other titles by Running Wild

  About Running Wild Press

  Gaijin

  Text Copyright © 2020 Held by Sarah Z. Sleeper

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  Published in North America and Europe by Running Wild Press. Visit Running Wild Press at www.runningwildpress.com Educators, librarians, book clubs (as well as the eternally curious), go to www.runningwildpress.com for teaching tools.

  ISBN (pbk) 978-1-947041-67-7

  ISBN (ebook) 978-1-947041-68-4

  For Jimmy, Vivian, Dixie, Max and Mini.

  Prologue

  Mono No Aware

  Awareness of Impermanence

  * * *

  Love, tea and flowers.

  Impermanent, transcendent.

  Are you aware of beauty that flames up and out

  before it can root itself in the earth of truth?

  Memory is truth, like brown dirt

  smeared on a cherry-blossom pink canvas

  Inspired by antique Japanese porcelain gilded with makie

  A person or a memory can sit inside you and you might have no choice about it. You don’t have to think about a person for him to be part of you. That’s what my best friend Rose told me years ago, in a moment when she saw me more clearly than I saw myself, a moment when I was restless and heartsick and about to board a plane to Japan.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said. “You’re going to hunt down Owen.”

  I scoffed and lied, said I never thought of him.

  Now years later, I know Rose was right, that you don’t get to decide what sticks and what doesn’t, who gets in and who gets blocked. You like to think you control your destiny and choose your path, but that’s not always the case. Sometimes you’re propelled forward in the most unexpected way when something or someone takes hold of you and doesn’t let go.

  That’s how it happened to me. My college love, Owen Ota, burrowed his way into me one tantalizing moment at a time, over the course of a sweltering Indian summer at Northwestern University. He etched himself into the side of my neck and he took root in the pit of my stomach. He changed the trajectory of my life, set me in motion, and then he disappeared, like a puff of smoke or a phantom I’d hallucinated. He gave no feasible explanation, stopped all communication, and fled back to Tokyo in the same startling way he’d arrived. He was gone but I couldn’t let go. I needed to find Owen, and to experience the Japan he described. I clung to the notion that my dreams of the person and the place would match the reality.

  Nothing, not Rose, not the application of common sense, could have dissuaded me from leaving Chicago on that overheated afternoon at O’Hare, when car horns, screeching voices and jet engines drowned out our goodbyes. A jumble of images jostled around in my brain, crowding out logical thoughts. Delicate pink cherry blossoms on porcelain teacups, a thin ivory book of haiku, a red silk blouse on polished glass skin, steaming spicy cuttlefish served on a black lacquer tray; a dazzling collage of the things Owen had shown me.

  I was naïve and grief hollowed out my heart; I was determined to solve the mystery of his disappearance, as if finding him could erase the pain I’d felt when he abandoned me. I didn’t put it together then, the folly of searching for someone who didn’t want to be found, moving to a country I didn’t understand. And so, I went, flying into the unknown with a single suitcase of clothes, clutching my computer and cell phone as if they were life preservers.

  On the plane I read the latest news from Japan. There were stories about the failed economic policies of the prime minister, the scandal of the royal princess who wanted to marry a commoner, the looming threat of North Korean missiles. Of course, I’d studied Japan in college, but looking back on that day, I knew nothing of the true character of the country.

  The flight took an eternity and I immersed myself in a book of Japanese art filled with photos of ancient pottery and porcelain, chipped and faded, but glowing and glorious at the same time. I was striving to be a poet back then, a person who dealt in beauty and art, not only a journalist who worked with black ink and cold data. The art book held a luminous photo of a powder blue teacup swirled with feathery gold patterns, captioned, “Makie.” I Googled and learned that it meant “sprinkled picture.” Makie was an art object sprinkled with gold or silver powder, so that it gleamed with warmth. Inspired, I wrote a little poem on the plane, which I still have today. I titled it “Mono No Aware,” Awareness of Impermanence, a Japanese term I would come to understand deeply over time.

  On my way to my new life in Japan, memories of my moments with Owen colored my mind with a makie haze. The landing of the plane brought the crash of reality. I was confronted by a gritty, dangerous nation, so unlike the exotic islands he’d described to me. A place where coworkers gave me gifts wrapped in gold foil while darting disdainful glances at me. I found few of the glamorous, mannered people I’d expected, and instead found an angry schizophrenic culture, alluring and hostile by turns, that kept me constantly at bay and confounded. And as I ventured further, in my quest to discover Owen’s fate, I realized I might not be able to find him before Japan chased me out, like the gaijin I was, a foreigner, unwelcomed by my adopted country.

  Chapter One

  Japan, 2016

  At Okinawa’s Naha International Airport men and women stole glances at me. In the dank baggage claim, a boy grabbed my hair and refused to let go. His mother stood beside me holding him on her hip as he leaned over and clutched my curly ponytail. The father scolded, and the kid yanked harder. After a few uncomfortable moments, the mother muttered “sorry,” over and over. When the child finally let go his father said, “Not seeing yellow,” which confused me. Then I realized his meaning; the kid hadn’t seen blonde hair before. The family bowed and fled. The boy never took his eyes off me, leaning back over his mother’s shoulder to watch me as they exited. I slumped on a concrete bench and shivered with a rush of nervous energy.

  I dragged my bags into the closest bathroom and splashed water on my cheeks. My eyes looked swollen and droopy in the mirror. My skinny arms had become even thinner because I had eaten little in the past week. Walking through the terminal, shadowy angles from Owen’s face were all around me in other Japanese faces. I’d always been overly serious, but in the past two years, I’d become close to haunted.

  I had flown twenty hours, Chicago to L.A., L.A. to Osaka, Osaka to Okinawa, and when I walked outside the sudden smack of heat nauseated me. Amista Noga, a colleague at my new workplace, Okinawa Week, had offered to pick me up at the airport. Car exhaust curled into my nose and I coughed as I scanned the curbside for the beat-up white Nissan she’d described.

  When Amista said hello, she studied me intently, as if perceiving my heavy heart. I bucked up and offered my friendliest smile, trying to hide my unease and sadness. Probably I’d made a huge mistake by coming here and the hair-pulling inciden
t was a sign I wasn’t welcome. I got in the car anyway.

  Amista was about twenty years older than me, tall and tawny, long legs bent up under the steering wheel. Her hair shone like black vinyl and her black shirtdress was unwrinkled. I was struck by her appearance as my precise opposite. She was fleshy and full, not fat, but with thick dark limbs; I was all bony angles and translucently tan freckled skin.

  On the drive to my hotel I learned that she was originally from Guam, had married an American sailor twenty-five years ago and they had been relocated to Okinawa. Her husband, Lester, retired from the military, but they decided to stay here permanently.

  “I’d never make it without inhaling ginger and fish guts every morning,” she said with a wry laugh as she took off driving. We passed tall, gleaming buildings and crowded intersections. “Naha is the biggest city on Okinawa,” she said. I was having difficulty taking in the busy scene; I’d expected Okinawa to be more rural, more like the remote island I’d read about.

  “This has got to be the first time someone moved here just to work for the paper,” she said. We were at a stoplight and she turned her broad face toward me. “I mean, we have American reporters, but they always come from the bases. Military spouses mostly.”

  I was shy in the face of her straightforwardness, unwilling to share my secrets. I reached up a damp hand to try and smooth down my unruly curly hair. It was an ineffective and inelegant habit I’d developed when my anxiety spiked. As if flat hair would translate to calm nerves.

  When we started moving again, she dodged in and out of the narrow lanes, avoiding sideswipes here and there on the jammed roads. We zipped past gambling parlors, clothing stores, cell phone shops, restaurants, nightclubs and peep-show bars with red, green and electric blue signs blinking their invitations to come in. The neon flashed brightly, standing out against the pale-yellow sunlight. People crowded every street corner, and many had one foot off the curb ready to step into the intersection. If the crowd had accidentally shifted forward, they would have been pushed into oncoming traffic. There were more people than I expected, and they were sardined all around us. I cracked my window and inhaled whiffs of sulfur, spices and sweat.

  “So, what’s your story?” Amista persisted.

  “I’ve always wanted to live in Japan,” I said, still looking away.

  “Japan, I get,” she said. “But didn’t you do your research and see that Okinawa is the least Japanese place of all Japanese places?”

  “I guess I read that,” I admitted. I’d read textbooks and news articles that described the friction between Japanese mainlanders and the Okinawans who were sometimes treated as peasant cousins by those more affluent on the mainland. I’d also read about the simmering tensions between the Okinawans and the American military, which gobbled up the island’s land and resources.

  “Still, this is a first. Just saying.” She didn’t seem unfriendly but was insightful enough to know a woman from Illinois doesn’t end up in Okinawa by accident or happenstance. I changed the subject.

  “Do you visit Tokyo?” I asked her. She told me she did, once in a while, but that she preferred the island’s slower, calmer pace. I mentioned that so far, Okinawa seemed anything but calm. She gave a husky laugh and said we were seeing a fraction of the whole and that I’d be happily surprised when I saw the more natural parts of the island. I admitted I’d applied for jobs in Tokyo, but this was the only offer I’d received, and she said, “Ah,” as in, that makes more sense about how you ended up in Okinawa. She seemed open enough, so I nonchalantly asked if she’d heard of Suicide Forest, Aokigahara. She shot me a surprised look.

  “Horrible place. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. I read an article about it on the plane,” I fibbed.

  “I don’t know much,” she said, “just that people go there to kill themselves.” I told her the article about Suicide Forest, “Aokigahara” it’s Japanese name, had piqued my interest. “Morbid,” she replied, with a raised eyebrow and a sideways glance. I dropped the subject.

  I asked what it was like working at Okinawa Week and she said there was a pecking order that I’d learn about right away. “Reporters with the most tenure get the best story assignments,” she said, “and you’d be smart not to buck the system.” She went on to say that she, an older fellow named Jed, and the staff photographer were the ones with the most seniority. “You and our photographer, Hisashi, are the only people I know who moved to Okinawa just to work for Okinawa Week. He left a fancy family in Tokyo.”

  For a second, I debated telling her about Owen and that I knew Hisashi was his brother. She was friendly, but the previous weeks weighed heavy on me. I was too tired and spent to delve into it, plus she’d probably think I was nuts. I thought so myself at times, but it was too late to turn back now.

  She steered the car down a tiny alleyway between ramshackle buildings and storefronts as we crawled along. The crowds thinned but the buildings closed in, pressing toward us from pocked sidewalks. We snaked past a group of suited men sitting at an open patio bar, a woman chopping fish in a small store, a young couple kissing on the sidewalk. Tall concrete towers flanked tiny shops in a mishmash, so unlike the zoned organization of my Illinois hometown. We crept along, our pace slower and slower in the narrowing alley. A tan dog darted in front of the car, followed by black one. I peered between the buildings to see where the dogs went but couldn’t track them in the dimming evening light. Amista stopped the car in front of a bright glass double-doorway with a sign above it that said, “Seaside Hotel the Beach.”

  “Shouldn’t it be ‘Seaside Beach Hotel?’” I asked.

  “You’ll get used to it. Japanese-to-English translations can be awkward. By the way, this plush hotel is a bribe. The boss wants to make sure you’ll stay,” she said, trying to be funny. “Another thing. You might be surprised by how close people get to you. Okinawans don’t need as much space as Americans.”

  “I noticed that in the airport,” I said, and told her what happened with the boy who grabbed my hair.

  She laughed her husky laugh and said some locals had never seen foreigners. She told me technology had been slow to spread here, so access to media from outside Japan was limited. “It’s not like we don’t have the Internet, but let’s just say it can be sketchy.” She spoke with motherly patience, giving me time to process her words. “Oh, and here’s a tip. If you tend to blurt things out, you’ll want to watch that.”

  “Thanks,” I said, pricked by a new stab of anxiety. In school I had learned about the Japanese practice of being agreeable and never confrontational, especially at work. In my haste to take the job, I hadn’t focused on my new workplace, what the people would be like, how things might be different. Now with this unexpected scenery and this new information about Okinawa, I cringed, my stomach sunk. My office at the Sun Times had been a modern cubicle farm with rushing reporters and instant access to information. Before I arrived, I couldn’t have imagined a newsroom any other way, but now just an hour in, Okinawa already felt like a different world. Who knew what Okinawa Week would be like?

  Amista checked me in to the hotel, speaking fluent Japanese with the front desk clerk. Then she left, saying she’d see me in two days, and although I liked her, I was relieved to be alone. My best friend Rose told me I was a “pathological” loner, but I defended myself. I didn’t seek solitude all the time, just enough to un-fray my nerves. I wasn’t antisocial, but after long days at work, or long hours on a plane, a few quiet hours appealed to me more than happy hour.

  I exhaled and scanned the lobby. It was clean and modern, with mirrors, glass tables and leather couches and I was startled by its shininess. I declined the help of a bellman and rode the elevator to my tenth-floor room as layers of jet lag, tension and sadness took their toll. I played Leonard Cohen on my phone and collapsed on the bed, blanketed in cool darkness and cold sweat.

  * * *

  When I awoke thirteen hours later sunshine streamed in through tall windows, cutti
ng angles and shadows across the wrinkles in my blue jeans. The room was padded with white carpet, white pillows, white armchairs, and white curtains. I shook my head to clear my cobwebbed mind. Then, with a start I remembered I’m finally in Japan, but Owen’s not here, not in Okinawa. Dizzy, I stood.

  Out the window was a scene from Southern California, The O.C., come to life. There was the sparkling blue ocean with surfers floating beyond the break and gliding on top of white crests. A crosshatch of grey concrete pylons and a sturdy seawall fenced in a boardwalk where people walked dogs, skateboarded, and sat eating and laughing. There were no simple traditional wooden buildings, like the ones I’d studied, no raised homes, with shoji panels encircled by engawa, veranda-like corridors. This wasn’t a hip Harajuku scene from a music video either, with eccentric teenagers in colorful costumes. It wasn’t gleaming, sophisticated Tokyo, and it wasn’t the rural farmland dotted with military bases I’d expected in Okinawa.

  I showered and went downstairs. The wet heaviness of the air slapped my skin as I stepped onto the boardwalk. It was July with subtropical heat more oppressive than any summer afternoon in Illinois. Clothing stores crammed the beach boulevard and English-language signs advertised sundresses, bikinis and toe rings. The people were mostly American, moms and dads with kids and beach towels, young men with short military haircuts. There were only twenty or so Japanese amidst this throng of Americans. Thousands of American military people lived on the island, I knew that, but with a million and a half residents total on Okinawa, both Japanese and American, this ratio had to be off. The Sunabe Seawall, with its surfers and tourist shops, couldn’t be representative of Okinawa. I fought off the urge to sprint back to my room and away from this crowd.