by Ioana Lee
Since I first moved to Japan the word had spread that Prince Kurosawa Kenijiro and his wife Ioana had arrived. The phone rang off the hook and the local news contacted me for interviews. Eventually I accepted two interviews that also included a photo shoot. Everything was coordinated by Otoosan, who selected all the photographs to be featured in the articles, and also controlled all photographers’ access to me. During the interviews I had to pay very close attention to the words that came out of my mouth. Ken stayed next to me every second along the way and checked each answer I gave.
Shortly after I moved, I found out that I was the one responsible to pick up the phone and open the door for the ones who wanted to congratulate us or offer us presents. I was also the one in charge of writing and sending thank you cards. As if this wasn’t enough, I also had to memorize the names of the people I came in contact with, their hierarchical position and their connection with the rest of the other Japanese people. I tried to conform to the rules, obviously, under the permanent watchful eye of Otoosan. At that time, Ken used to actually defend me to some extent, but rather quickly he reverted to being very Japanese. I found it necessary to defend myself from the Japanese aristocratic mindset.
In spite of all of this, I enjoyed the public events. They made me feel like I was in a play where I was an actress as well as a spectator. However, when I finally understood that I had to take it all seriously, I became increasingly exhausted and revolted at the same time. There were too many new things that had to be considered simultaneously. All of a sudden I was expected to know, learn and use them in my everyday life. While I was willing to do this over time, I wasn’t expecting to be overwhelmed by such responsibility, so soon after getting off the plane.
Soon enough I came to realize that many people were calling our home just to hear my voice, especially after being featured in the newspaper. I was followed whenever I went out. Most phone conversations unfolded this way—the phone rang and I answered, according to custom: “With humility I announce you that you called the Kurosawa family.” “Good evening! Is Kurosawa-san home?” the caller asked. I immediately had to think of the logic behind their question, as the Japanese language doesn’t have any forms of masculine or feminine. Kurosawa-san could have meant me, Ken, Otoosan, Okaasan or Obaachama. How could I have known which Kurosawa-san they wanted to talk to? I only had one second to think. If they had referred to me, their voice tone would have been different, considering that they were calling our home. Therefore only Ken could have been the one they asked for. “Kurosawa-san is not home”… “He’s not home? But who are you?” “Me? I’m his wife.” “Oh really?” Yes indeed, I was thinking to myself in Romanian, being very frustrated. If you are Japanese and you call my house, then you must know who I am, because you know that it is my responsibility to pick up the phone. “Oh, actually I’d like to talk to your father in law…” “My father in law is at his house.” “You don’t live together?” This is a short example of my meaningless telephone conversations. Recounting most of them would add too many pages to my confessions in this book.
It was impossible for me to memorize all their names and faces, all of the symbolic presents such as dolls, drawings, letters, flowers, fruits… I was feeling desperate whenever anyone rang the doorbell to offer me anything, because it meant that I had to go downstairs countless times, always with my make-up and lipstick on. I had to welcome the guests wearing a nice apron and slippers, bow twenty times and say all the exhausting, useless words to formally thank them. On top of this I had to memorize the name of each person that was bringing me the insignificant gift, which was tiring. As if this wasn’t exhausting enough, after the visit, I had to call the person back to thank them for their nice gesture. A thank you card was shortly sent, and at the end of the day I had to, at all costs, write in my journal everything that happened that day… Repeating these endless tasks made me question why people in the western world were complaining about working 9 to 5. After all, they were free once their workday was finished.
Under these circumstances I quickly got sick and totally refused to pick up the phone, open the door, or talk to anyone. Many times I even had to say no to Otoosan, who paid us many unannounced visits daily. I know that he did it out of love, but at that time I felt like I was going crazy. I didn’t belong to myself anymore. I couldn’t pronounce my own name or remember where I came from. My privacy and identity were taken away.
I was beleaguered daily by subtle brainwashing cues, with discrete yet strong attempts to alter my personality. These included a remodeling of my behavior to different norms and values and an eradication of any other cultural imprints other than the ones of the Japanese culture, especially the Japanese nobility. While many foreigners married a Japanese person, and lots of them wrote books and made movies about this, not many married a Kurosawa…what an honor and a torture at the same time… agony and bliss.
So, I arrived again at Ken’s uncle’s hospital. I would have liked to see him under different circumstances. In the hospital’s hallway we had to take off our shoes and wear special hospital slippers. Any real emergency would fade away in front of their never-ending customs, e.g., taking off one’s regular shoes and putting on new special ones. After a while, even the changing of shoes and slippers at the hospital, bathroom, fitting room, special shoes for guests and for hosts… was enough to make you become a neurotic wreck. Ken’s uncle took care of me. He told me that he had to run some tests, after which he’d have to administer an intravenous treatment with vitamins and antibiotics. I had abnormal fatigue and insomnia, plus a skin rash and a minor case of strep throat. My fever kept on going up.
It was obvious that Japan didn’t understand whom it was dealing with… So you want to take blood, my blood, pure “Trajan blood” for your Japanese tests?! No! No way! I was having a gloomy and alarmed inner monologue (or who knows, perhaps an outer monologue) to justify my refusal. My outrage was meant to heroically hide my fear that I’ve always had when it comes to blood. Donating blood, loosing blood, or even talking about it was terrifying. I couldn’t conceive of such a barbaric assault happening to me!
“No way! I’ve never done this in my entire life, and today won’t be the day I start. Not here! Not now! NO!”
“Ioana-san, you MUST!”
In less than two seconds the head nurse came and rushed me into a beautiful large room where I laid down. I was feeling sick. I was in doubt that any foreign doctor would be able to alleviate my pain, my Romanian pain. I kept wondering, nostalgically, where my favorite doctor, Mr. Daniel, from my hometown in Romania was. Where was he then, when I needed him the most? Or, where was our funny family doctor, Mr. Parvulescu, who knew everything, from surgeries to comforting the soul, to giving free medical explanations… to making you feel totally calm while listening to him?
The Japanese nurse covered me with a warm quilt. She went out of the room and left me alone. She returned quickly followed by another nurse to whom she said to write down that my name was Ioana Kurosawa and that I was a new patient born in 1948. I don’t recall if I had high fever when I left the house, but I know for sure that since I entered the hospital I was burning and at that moment it reached the highest point:
“EXCUSE ME!? I snapped at her with a gruff and quaky voice. Born in 1948??? What does this mean? I was born in 1973!”
I’m not a very diplomatic patient. I am skittish, whiny and hard to deal with.
“How is this possible…1973? Your husband said that you were born in 1948.”
This was way too much for me. It looked like some sort of conspiracy… Calmly yet ironically I explained to her that, even though I was never a math genius, if I was then 25 years old, it meant that I couldn’t have been born in 1948. I continued by telling them that that’s when my mother was born. I asked them to call my husband so that he could explain to them the whole misunderstanding and also to save me from the two nurses who not only insisted that I’d be my mother’s sister, but also wanted to take my blood. They g
ot back to me saying that I was born in 1948 and that my husband is not allowed to be in the same room me.
Generally I’m quite nice and relatively tolerant. Sometimes I’m way too nice, but never when I have a fever or when I’m feeling sick. I stood up and explained to them kindly, yet visibly very agitated, that this is my uncle’s hospital and that I want my husband next to me, otherwise I’d leave the room. I’m not sure what convinced them, my facial expression or the words that I used, but the fact is that Ken showed up within seconds. I asked them to leave me alone with him for a few minutes.
“Here’s the challenge: please explain to the nurses that won’t take my blood that I wasn’t born in 1948, and that it would benefit them to take some private math lessons. If you disappear on me like this again, I’ll severely discipline every employee in this hospital.”
Ken cracked up laughing. His reaction didn’t help my fever and nausea one bit.
“Ioana, you still don’t understand that this is Japan and the rules that you have to obey here are different.”
“No, I only obey God’s rules.”
“Alright! Alright! You were born in 1973 (the foreign year) but remember that here in Japan we calculate the era of the earth: we are now in year 11 in Heisei era, and you were born in year 48 in Showa era, meaning 1973 as an international year. They don’t know that abroad time is calculated in a different way. These two nurses know how the system works here in Japan. My uncle said that it’s very important to get your blood tested. Listen to him. Please!”
To be a foreigner always has pros and cons. In that situation the disadvantage was that, beforehand, they administered some substances to see if my foreign body was allergic to anything. They left some needles in my arm, under my skin, while I was howling that its hurts and itches. I made myself known much faster this way, than if I would have behaved like any 5-year-old Japanese—no tears or words, no protests while visiting the doctor. But I wasn’t Japanese, nor had tolerance for physical pain. Ultimately, Ken wasn’t allowed to stay with me in the same room.
I was given intravenous treatment that day and the next. After less than 48 hours I was feeling excellent. Over time, after getting all the possible and impossible Japanese bacteria and viruses, the doctors came to the conclusion that for me the fastest way to get better was to give me an intravenous treatment with antibiotics and vitamins for two hours. Within 24 hours I was myself again. In Romania I was kept in bed for 7 to 10 days… but at least I was affected by only Romanian germs. Being sick back home was better!
Where is the resentment coming from?
I was in North Japan for a little over two weeks and was really excited to discover that in the same district I was living in were two Romanians that I knew quite well—a guy and a girl who had come to study there. We were good friends back home in Romania and I wanted to see them again. So, I proposed to Ken that we invite them to our house for a weekend or at least for an evening to enjoy a cheerful Romanian dinner and soothe the nostalgia and homesickness we were feeling. As usual, Ken accepted this, yet a challenge occurred with Otoosan. Discreet yet absolute, he tried to prevent this reunion from happening. Not being able to understand where he was coming from, I asked him directly to lay it on the line (in so many words): “Why?!”
I knew very well that in Japanese one should never ask anything in a direct and unambiguous way or ever answer in the same manner. The Japanese language is like a fine fog, or like a soft silk veil, delicate yet decisive. When the veil is touched it is felt and perceived by each person in a different way, based on his or her mind and soul. It imposes a certain delicacy in one’s approach to using words… I was so thwarted by Otoosan’s reaction that I broke the veil. I cut right through it with my alarming question. Otoosan, a master of the Japanese language, always took advantage when it came to using words, meaning that he wasn’t explaining himself clearly. Very often he left me totally confused, having to come to my own conclusions. I suggested to him, through the same silk veil, unseen yet palpable, that because we were talking about two Romanian friends I needed a concrete explanation.
I’ve had multiple moments in my life when I regretted the fact that I understood a foreign language, including its subtle nuances. I regret that I asked questions and received answers that I wasn’t ready to fully understand. Yet these experiences toughened my character, made me stronger and helped elevate my consciousness above the mediocre level.
Otoosan began by saying, “A few months back, right before your wedding in Romania, I was called by a lady, a Japanese professor. She said that she’d like to introduce me to two Romanian students who knew pretty well the one that would become my daughter in law—meaning you. Although I was extremely busy, I made it a priority to find free time to see them. I treated them for dinner. I did this because I knew from you that they were your friends and that you had known them since college. I considered it to be a nice and polite gesture to get to know them, considering the fact that you were going to move to Japan soon.”
“Yes, thank you so much Otoosan. And?” I asked him with childish naïveté.
“And that’s it,” said Otoosan.
“What do you mean…that’s it??? What did you talk about? How did you feel?”
Otoosan’s head dropped, his eyes cast down and got red with anger… Bad sign… I kept quiet. After a few minutes he continued talking, looking down…
“If these two people would have been the only Romanians I’d ever had the chance to meet, I would have never wanted to hear again about this country. These two students represent Romania here in Japan. Therefore, supposedly, they are part of the Romanian elite. In the beginning I wouldn’t have guessed anything. I thought that maybe the problem was their impolite Japanese language, although I doubted it. I welcomed them in my own house, I treated them for dinner and they started talking badly about my dearest person and also the only daughter that is close to me—You.”
Stupor! I couldn’t believe my ears. I couldn’t understand what “bad things” they could have said about me. They knew me personally and based on our interaction I thought that they had a good opinion about me.
“They told me that I shouldn’t allow Ken to marry someone like you because you are a stupid peasant from Valeni village, coming from an uneducated working family and that you graduated from college based only on your looks. Ioana, you were the one wanting to find out about this. I won’t be able to tell you everything.”
I couldn’t hear anything. I felt the world around me but I couldn’t see anything. Time stopped and my world was spinning out of control. My character had been denigrated many times in the past and I came to live moments like these in my future, yet this was truly an unpredicted shock. It seemed to come from a needless hatred.
I then recalled memories from my childhood, when my mother was extremely affected by the baseless malice of others. I was familiar with the sorrow caused by the hatred and envy characteristic of some women and men. I noticed the same effect on my sisters and many friends. Usually this happens because some people rise above the average human condition—and mediocrity can only stand mediocrity. Envy, malice, jealousy and hatred are very often written about in Japanese art and culture. Nevertheless, unfairness and hypocrisy are things that are hard for me to get used to.
I am now a bit more experienced due to struggles like these. It made me stop believing in the dignity that supposedly everyone should have in their souls, if not for others, at least for the simple fact of feeling good about themselves and their lives. Back then I was a novice and going through such difficult moments was like walking in virgin territory. I don’t know what made me smile all of a sudden: perhaps the hypocrisy and naïveté with which those two people had lied about my family’s status and even my hometown, about my intellectual capability which, such as a passport, doesn’t need any explanation and can be easily and directly observed. Maybe their lack of understanding that Otoosan had known me very well for over three years, therefore he knew who I was and wher
e I came from; possibly their unawareness that Otoosan always had a tremendous ability to measure people with an incredible accuracy.
I felt sorry for them, for their ethical and spiritual ugliness. It was the perfect image of mediocrity, often expressed with such depth in Japanese paintings, where mediocre and bad people are represented as dragons. Extreme evilness has an overt way of manifesting itself, and therefore it can be easily perceived, identified and avoided. Mediocrity, on the other hand, is more insidious and dangerous through its disguise as simplicity and its cowardly outbursts in inopportune moments.
