The lights dim.
‘That’s what I think,’ she says. ‘He changed his mind and then changed his mind again and wished he’d sent it. Have you ever thought about the things that could have been?’
The lights swell.
‘You really are a good, clever house. It’s hard not to speculate where we could have gone had we chosen a different path.’
The Tani House bunches up the paper lantern above her head. A spider jumps from the lamp to avoid being crushed.
Kazuko asks, ‘How long have we been together? Forty-two years? I remember when my husband and I built you. Well, I didn’t do as much building, but I did help with the small details.’
A cabinet spills open. A few sticks of incense fall to the wooden floor and twist into a number. Kazuko gazes down at the number fondly. ‘Forty-three years. That’s right. I keep forgetting. It’s a good number, a lucky number. Oh, but I should be retired by now.’
She sets the letter aside and lies down on the small futon. The Tani House wobbles a stool near the door. ‘I know, I know. Just for a minute,’ she says, yawning.
Sleep balloons around her like an Osaka fog. Gray images of her life whistle past. Some linger, freeze frame long enough for her to gather details. Others fade before they become discernible. The Tani House spies the cat outside and wakes Kazuko by shifting the floor beneath her.
‘What is it?’
The Tani House rattles the wind chimes fixed to the slats that barely hold up the front porch.
‘The cat!’
Kazuko slides open the front door to find the neighborhood cat pawing at the coy fish in her small pond. Darkness swells into the foyer; the Tani House does what it can to sweep it out. Keeping the darkness at bay is a valiant but ultimately fruitless pursuit.
Slipping into her sandals, Kazuko grabs a clear umbrella near the door. She steps into the rock garden that her deceased husband built thirty years ago. The cat hisses and a troupe of frogs croak in the thick weeds guarding the fence. She swings into the darkness, paints the shadows away with the light reflected off the clear umbrella.
The cat scurries off, ramming headfirst into a row of ceramic pots. The Tani House catches the pots by stretching forward, moving the kaya tree that is rooted near its foundation. The branch extends, saves the ceramic pots from smashing. Using its leverage, the house lowers the pots onto the ground.
Kazuko feels a crunch in her knee.
A sharp pain cauliflowers from her knee to her thigh. As she falls forward, she reaches out for the nearby bench. She’s too far for the Tani House to do anything.
‘It’s ok,’ she tells the house, ‘please don’t worry…’
The house begins to wobble. Hanging plants skydive to the front porch. They spill into the rock garden, blade their way into the darkness. Movement in the house from the guests causes it to shake even more. ‘Stop!’ Kazuko pleads with the Tani House. The house continues to throb and so does her knee.
Kazuko hunches forward, her elbows splayed, her fingers scouring the wooden bench. Intolerable pain. Lip-biting grimace, full body sting. The neighborhood cat perches nearby licking its paws, tasting a bit of tail from the coy fish that got away. Kazuko is on the bench now. Her knee feels like it has been bludgeoned off.
She hears a loud crack. Dust and small slivers of wood sprinkle from the roof of the house. She calls out to her son. Above her, one of the windows slides open and the Belgium man looks out. The bewilderment in his eyes is nearly covered by his bushy eyebrows.
‘I’m coming!’ he yells.
In the foyer, the Belgium man collides with Kazuko’s son. Their faces meet and they both snap backwards. Her son falls into the private area, crashing through the shōji door. The two American brothers quickly round the corner as the Belgium man falls backwards onto the stairs. One of the Americans tumbles down the stairs with his trekker bag under his arm. The other isn’t far behind, struggling to slip his glasses on.
They flip-flop over the Belgium man and land on top of Kazuko’s son, who emits such a terrible cry of pain that the Tani House compresses in response. Calligraphy paintings strip themselves from the wall. Violent tremors dislodge dishes from the cupboard. The paper lanterns hanging in the foyer bounce up and down. Lights strobe and the floorboard crackles.
A pillow goes tumbleweeding past and a wooden Buddha statue chases after it. In the kitchen, a geisha hairbrush spins like a throwing star midair and stabs into the wall. It’s followed by chopsticks and other sharp utensils including a rusty deba bōchō. The Tani House continues to vibrate madly.
‘Enough!’ Kazuko says, standing entrance to the house.
Dust and debris blow past her; a flying chopstick slides to a halt at her feet. Kazuko balances her bodyweight using the tip of her clear umbrella, trying her best to ignore the pain in her knee. Everyone freezes: her son, the Belgium man, the two American brothers. Even the Tani House stops mid-shake.
Kazuko staggers into the foyer.
The smile on her face pushes the clutter aside, sweeps the dust away that has fallen from the ceiling. The slats of the Tani House come to attention and the rafters overhead pull taunt. The fallen items right themselves, the shoji door fixes itself, and the utensils jump back into their appropriate drawers. The tatami mat un-rumples, lifting the two brothers, the Belgium man, and Kazuko’s son into upright positions. It stands them up like toy soldiers.
‘So sorry,’ Kazuko says, bowing profusely. ‘Just a small earthquake. Very small. It’s no problem. So sorry.’
Outside, the neighborhood cat creeps by on the fence and the Tani House wops it on the behind with a loosened slat. The cat screeches and bolts away.
Things quiet down as they always do after midnight. A cold breeze blows in from the mountains surrounding Kyoto. It billows down the forested slopes, dancing from lamppost to lamppost. It doesn’t take long for the soothing gust to arrive at the rock garden. It slithers up the walls of the Tani House, escapes into crevices hidden and not.
Kazuko settles onto the futon in the foyer. She reads Vince’s letter once again. How can we ever hope to know what could have been? It’s a complicated question, a silly useless question. She folds the letter into a paper crane and sets it next to the guest book. With her eyes closed, and her hands clasped over her stomach, Kazuko tries to forget the pain in her knee.
A paper lantern hangs in an empty guestroom on the second floor. A moth flutters around inside the lantern endlessly, tossing its body side to side in a macabre dance. It has somehow lost the light and will die before morning.
Pouring Hearts
[6]The young Korean woman poured a heart-shaped design into the foam on the top of his latte and set it on the tray.
‘This is for you,’ she said, ‘Gamsahabnida.’ She pointed at the heart; at least Henry imagined her pointing at the heart.
Henry knew that all the lattes at Café 8 came adorned with frothy milk hearts. He knew it was procedure, second nature even – he knew that the milk heart wasn’t specifically for him. Hell, in front of the register was a giant sticker of a coffee cup decorated with a poured heart.
It doesn’t mean anything.
He sat at a table near a window that looked out onto the busy streets of Seoul’s Hyehwa district. Korean college students continued on with their lives outside the window away from him, oblivious to the man inside the coffee shop, the man watching them. Damn things have changed in twenty years.
The door chimed and Henry watched the friendly barista greet a couple wearing matching yellow jackets. There was something unique about her, something that set her apart from her Korean co-workers. Her eyes had a subtle shade of green like his. Her hair was light brown, her face shaped differently, slightly more angled and Western. She was a fine specimen, that’s for sure.
Probably plastic surgery.
The barista’s eyes settled onto Henry and she smiled softly. No way. He was at least twenty years her senior. You’re imagining things. His eyes sailed down to the
milk heart that had started to sink into his latte. He sprinkled sugar on it nervously, watching it slowly dissolve into the brown lava like second hand smoke. Impossible, Henry, impossible.
‘You left this.’
The barista stood in front of Henry holding his worn leather wallet.
‘Oh my God, gamsahabnida. That could’ve been a disaster!’ Henry tucked his wallet away. ‘Thanks.’ He said, squinting at her name tag.
‘Min-ji,’ she said with a shy nod of her head.
‘Henry Latchman, nice to meet you.’
‘Why have you come to Korea?’ she asked as they shook hands. ‘Vacation?’
‘Not really. I was searching for something, but I’m leaving tomorrow.’
‘Maybe adventure?’
‘Less or more,’ he said.
‘Less or more? I don’t understand. My English very poor.’ She lowered her head in shame.
‘Anyo, your English is good. The fact that you can say a sentence like that proves this to me.’ An awkward silence settled over the table as Henry stared up at Min-ji.
‘Ok, enjoy the rest of your adventure.’ She turned away from him, the tips of her apron spinning Cinderella-style.
Am I even capable anymore?
‘Hey,’ Henry called after her. Min-ji turned and smiled at him.
‘Yes?’
‘What time do you get off work?’
₪
Henry Latchman was shocked when he’d first arrived in Seoul.
The place felt like a disturbing glimpse into the future. It hustled and zoomed around him in a fit of technological breakthrough and conspicuous consumption. The sheer size of Incheon Airport gave him the shudders. People bustled past him, their faces buried in their smart phones, typing and watching live video feeds. Connected. The future had happened and damn it had happened fast. Henry grew weary of the task that lay before him.
After a day in Seoul to acclimate, Henry took the express bus to Osan. He would begin his search for Hee-yun there. Osan had grown up and out in the twenty years since he’d been stationed there, but it had still retained its docile atmosphere, especially when compared to Seoul. Henry took up residence in a hotel that was suspiciously inexpensive. He later found out it was one of Korea’s ubiquitous love motels after connecting the dots between the glowing blue ceiling and the bag of condoms handed to him at check-in. The following day came and he took a taxi to the one place that might cough up a clue: Songtan.
Once a place of senseless debauchery filled with clubs such as Easy Riders, The Soul Train, Skinny Moms and the AMMO bar, Songtan had miraculously transformed into a family friendly shopping strip, at least during the day.
Gone were the roadside vendors selling Vanilla Ice cassette tapes and fake mink blankets; gone were the mangy dogs and cats; gone were the open sewers and bile-covered sidewalks. The road had been barricaded, and the only thing remaining from the Songtan Henry remembered were the signs of two bars: My House Up and My House Down. Even the entrance to Blow Row had been replaced by a bright Dunkin’ Donuts.
Henry continued around Songtan until he arrived at the section that catered to troops stationed at Osan Air Force Base. Hunger pangs sent him into a small bulgogi restaurant that reeked of kimchi and spice. A trio of airmen with closely shaved heads anchored the corner closest to the restroom. The tallest of the three was discussing a recent night out in which he’d almost got caught by American military police.
Henry listened to the three young soldiers while pretending to study the sticky menu:
‘…drunker than hell, man. My Korean friend tipped me off as soon as the MPs arrived. Pays to know the bartender. Shit, we’re thirty minutes passed curfew and Seth is in the bathroom puking or getting head.’
‘Puking. Last time I got head was from your mom.’
‘Nice one. So anyways, I go in there and knock the girl off him, just throw that bopper off. ‘We got to get the hell out of here,’ I tell him. ‘Next time, Honey,’ I tell her.’
‘I was puking, dude, puking.’
‘Seth, I’m the one telling the story here. Do you want me to make you look like a player or a drunken little bitch? You tell me. Anyways, I’m looking around for an exit. Got Seth on my arm, about to hoist him up over my shoulders and carry him out all Saving Private Ryan style. Only problem is, he’s fifty pounds heavier than I am and at the same time, I’m also trying to find and corral Dan, who’s taking body shots off this big-titted Australian teacher he’s been porking. So I grab Dan, he spills the shot down the lady’s shirt and she screams. We hoist Seth up together and the bartender signals us.’
‘Signals y’all?’
‘I told you, he’s my friend. We crawled under that little divide between the bar and the club. You know, the thing that lifts up like a draw bridge. Basically just stuff Seth under there like a duffle bag full of damp MREs. We head into the backroom and hide behind a bunch of boxes of booze. Shit, Dan is trying to crawl into an empty box and Seth’s just lying in a pool of fresh puke. I’m standing there trying to secure the perimeter, and praying that those MPs didn’t hear Dan’s Aussie girl scream like a goddamn kangaroo at the bar. Close call.’
‘I’m glad I don’t remember any of that.’
I should say something, I really should.
Henry wanted to tell the young Airmen of his days stationed in Osan and his mouth even opened to relay the memory. He wanted to tell them about the time the guys in his shop had stolen a pink bicycle, taped tampons and condoms to it, and left it in the general’s front yard. Or the time Cliff ended up naked in a nearby dorm, and how they’d searched the entire afternoon for his clothing. But those stories weren’t really about Henry; he hadn’t actually participated in any of those illicit acts. Aside from what transpired with beautiful Hee-yun, his tour of Korea twenty years ago had been especially dull and uneventful.
Henry Latchman wasn’t really a people person, preferring his tools and fantasy novels to actual human interaction. Besides, he could never understand the appeal of getting wasted. Not until Margo left did he even begin to enjoy drinking for that matter. The three young soldiers were the exact opposite of what Henry had been during his tour of Korea twenty years ago.
The waiter saddled over to the table and Henry ordered the bulgogi special, listening to the three soldiers laugh in the corner about their night out. He smiled over at them, hoping one would see him and nod. They never did.
Regardless of what happened later – the divorce, the separation, the infidelity on her part – Margo had been the one who had cultivated him. They’d met when he was twenty-five. She’d turned him from a boy to a man, and it couldn’t have come a moment sooner.
The pressure to marry or start dating had mounted every time he spoke to his family or his fellow airmen at that time. His mother would tell him constantly of his high school friends who had eloped during their phone conversations. She would mention it in an offhand way, but even Henry, who could be a bit obtuse at times, knew what she was hinting at.
His two older brothers, Bob and Roy, would tease him and call him gay every chance they got. The guys in his shop had christened the mop his girlfriend and named her Moppy McLovedoll. He’d become the butt of everyone’s joke, and his constant underdog antics only added to this status.
Margo had shown him how to transition from a somewhat introverted child to a slightly introverted adult. She’d proven to him that responsibility lay not in how tight you could make the corners of your bed, or what was happening in the fantasy novels you read, or how well you could repair something, but in the power to listen, the ability to sympathize with someone else – the strength to put someone else before yourself.
When he had first met Margo, she was working at a grungy little diner, silver and bullet-shaped, near Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada. Henry came in late, hankering for a cup of coffee. Never did break his caffeine addiction. Not at twenty-five and not at his current age of forty-eight.
They’d talked, flirted a little, an
d after finishing two cups of coffee, he turned to leave. The question struck him, the urge to suture a connection that was dangerously close to being severed. Even though she was way out of his league, Henry had turned back to Margo and asked, What time do you get off work?
The rest, as they say, was history.
₪
‘My work finish soon.’ Min-ji stood in front of Henry, wiping her hands on her black apron. ‘Why?’
‘It’s my last night in Seoul,’ Henry paused and waited for the next part to escape his lips. ‘Are you busy tonight? I want to do something interesting.’
She laughed. He didn’t expect that. He expected her to run off. Twenty years ago she would have run off, but Min-ji stayed. She took a few bold steps closer to his table.
‘Something interesting? Like what?’ she asked.
‘Dinner, drinks, a walk?’
‘Dinner and drinks, ok. Walk, no. Outside very cold.’
‘Are you sure? It’s a little cold, but the walk could warm us up.’
‘Maybe,’ she smiled at him, ‘but only if you tell me your adventure.’
‘Deal.’
₪
Henry stayed long after the three soldiers had left the dingy bulgogi restaurant in Songtan. He’d found a copy of The Howler abandoned on their table and spent the greater part of his afternoon reading it, reliving memories he’d nearly forgotten. More Airmen would be arriving soon; bars were already opening up. This would give him a chance to ask around.
Maybe he would be able to locate the mama-san who had run the string of brothels that Hee-yun had worked at in Blow Row. She’d know something – they always did. Mama-sans were older women who managed the juicy girls and prostitutes that catered to the soldiers. They were something like pimps with tattooed eyebrows, only more cunning and louder when they got angry.
Twenty years ago, Blow Row had been a backstreet of propped open doors and bars in Songtan. Inside each open door lay a prostitute, ready and willing for a small fee. Mama-sans would collect money at the entrance; patrons could then select whichever woman they wanted. Henry had seen the entrance to Blow Row several times, but always stopped shy of the alley. This all changed one evening in early October during his first and only tour of Korea.
Tokyo Stirs: (Short Stories about Asia) Page 5
