The Cherry Blossom Rarely Smiles

by Ioana Lee

  “Look at this gal! She must be a model for sure. See ya’ll, even if you’re beautiful the guys will still make you wait for them… and it looks like this is happening to the foreign chicks as well!”

  While they were looking at me I acted agitated and upset. I pulled out my phone pretending several times to call someone, only which he didn’t pick up the phone.

  “Poor girl… this is crazy! I think the gal truly loves him. I feel bad for her. Her beauty doesn’t help her too much. She’s dressed too cool… The gal is awesome!”

  “Do you think that the guy is a foreigner as well or Japanese?”

  “I think he’ll never show up…”

  “Hey, maybe he got the day wrong!”

  “Then why the heck doesn’t he pick up the phone? What a jackass…”

  “Man, he must be a foreigner. A gal this hot would never look at a Japanese guy…they usually hang out with their own people…”

  It was evening time and Ken was supposed to come pick me up. I left the area, yet before I left I turned around and faced the group of young Japanese men and told them, in Japanese slang: “Now you guys tell me… If the guy never showed up, doesn’t he deserve to be dumped and replaced? Perhaps I should look for a hotter guy?”

  I had tremendous pleasure recalling the scene to Ken, especially the replies that abused the Japanese language and the shocking reactions of the youngsters. All of them were perplexed that a foreigner would know all of their slangy words. Their jaws dropped upon hearing this unexpected linguistic boomerang. Their facial expressions, with their mouths open, looked just like the Japanese cartoons with heroes that I had watched as a child.

  House scenes

  I didn’t always get along with Ken. As a matter of fact, now when I look back, I realize how much we were fighting. He didn’t want me to have any girlfriends from other countries, thinking that they would have a bad influence on me. He didn’t want me to go through some form of undesired emancipation. He was also very unhappy that I had learned how to navigate Tokyo all by myself. Of course, he never dared express those feelings in words explicitly, yet it was more than obvious from his way of dealing with some details and meaningless facts. As much as he tried to hide them, his frustrations and hidden jealousies made their presence known.

  I used to spend countless days in the house, reading a lot, listening to music, watching television and writing letters to my Parents back in Romania. I was accepted by a few fashion agencies as a model. My dear husband was the one managing all the job offers and casting opportunities—rejecting each and every one of them. After dropping all my opportunities, he would tell me that the offers were either too low, untrustworthy, of poor quality, or a combination of the three. Every single time he had a well-documented justification for each denied job. He was happy as long as I was in the house, not talking to anyone, not even with my family or his. He was absurd and insecure, grouchy and jealous.

  My mornings in Tokyo started at 4 o’clock in the morning, when the strong outside light was indiscreetly penetrating into my eyelids, forcing me to wake up. After all, Japan was the Country of the Rising Sun! I never got used to the Japanese sunrise. It was too early and too blinding for me. I would t fall asleep again by 4:50 a.m.

  After 10 minutes of sleep, at 5 a.m. each morning, the newspaperman came relentlessly. To call that unusual man a postman would be too ordinary and inaccurate because he didn’t look anything like the postmen I saw in Romania. He looked more like a bank executive. He used to drop the newspaper through the door’s hole and Kiku would always start barking loudly when she heard him. She didn’t stop until she heard that he was out of the building. I chastised her every day, yet it was useless. This was one thing that she never did understand: that she shouldn’t bark at people she couldn’t see. Once she was able to see them she would stop barking and start wiggling her tail, expressing her happiness.

  One morning I made the effort to go to the front door at 5 a.m. sharp to apologize to the postman for Kiku’s unacceptable behavior. The postman said:

  “You have a very dangerous dog. I think that it’s the biggest and most dangerous one in the building.”

  “Oh no—I said to him—I’d like you to see her…”

  I brought Kiku out so that he could see her: a small puppy, weighing a little over 6 pounds, looking like a white, fluffy ball of fur, wiggling her tail.

  “Oh!!! Is that it?!” he asked surprised and slightly disappointed.

  After seeing the postman that morning, Kiku and I went back to sleep. Ken woke up around 6am. Shortly after he woke up, he came to wake me up as well to ask if I wanted to join him to catch some dragonflies for his new insect collection. He knew all the creatures on Earth and was really passionate about biology, always wanting to deepen his studies in the field. Unfortunately, not only did I not share his passion for insects, but they went against my heart. I said no to him.

  “It’s all right, if you don’t want to come, but please don’t go anywhere before I return. Ok?!”

  “Yes, Ken. Of course!”

  “You have to stay home to take care of Kiku.”

  “Yes, of course!” I answered in my sleepiness.

  7 o’clock came. I took a shower and washed my hair as well. According to the Japanese ritual, one should wash their hair daily, even if it’s too long and thick. On top of that, not washing your hair daily was considered hugely shameful. I’d have to admit that it felt very good when in the city crowd everyone smelled nice and fresh, regardless of the time of day or season. After my shower, I fed Kiku and grabbed a yogurt for myself. I turned the television on to watch the news about the potential morning earthquake.

  I didn’t know what to fear most: the morning earthquake which gave me 30 seconds to prepare, as shown on the television screen, or my neighbor’s unexpected visits, Mrs. O? After a while I got used to both of them.

  Mrs. O was a very unique Japanese woman. She was part of the high class Nipponese society. Her age was indiscernible. This was and still is typical of many Japanese, for which time seems to pass differently than for the rest of us. Considering that she had children my age, she must have been around 55 years old. She wasn’t beautiful, ugly, intelligent, un-intelligent, elegant, amiable, or indifferent… Then… why do I write about her? Well, she was interesting because she exhibited nothing of the qualities, yet she seemed to have and be everything at the same time.

  Mrs. O was extremely wealthy and in her case this didn’t bring her happiness, nor supported it. Actually, in my opinion, it didn’t serve her at all. She happened to inherit land in Tokyo from some distant relatives. Her family built apartments, which based on their comfort and elegance are called apatoo or manshion (the most expensive ones), and all she did was collect rent from the tenants. The price for those places started at $2000 per month for a room a little bigger than a closet, and went to $10,000 per month for a 3-bedroom apartment in a good section of Tokyo. The problem with livable space in Tokyo deserves its own special report…

  Mrs. O and her husband had a high number of tenants and one didn’t need advanced math knowledge to calculate that, based on their income, the two of them wouldn’t have to work, not even for a minute, for the rest of their lives. Not working is an option that, if not generally preferred by many, is certainly a desired one for many Romanians… Had I been in their situation, I would have liked work to maintain my sense of measure. I often found it quite unpleasant when hearing reasons such as “I’m a woman and I have money, therefore I don’t have to work”… Anyway, things like my independence, self-esteem and spiritual evolvement through wonderful work adapted to my personality, weren’t things to consider as the wife of a Japanese nobleman.

  Even though Mrs. O and her husband were both extremely wealthy they made the decision to act like real Japanese, in the true sense of the word. Mr. O worked long hours for a national company, as it was considered a shame if a man wasn’t in the work field. I would add to this that I didn’t see any Japanese men si
tting around doing nothing. While Mr. O was a workaholic, Mrs. O—here is the thing!—was a house wife, in the traditional sense of the word. She would wake up at 5 o’clock in the morning to water the plants in her little garden (which in Tokyo was considered quite big), and then she would do laundry, iron the clothes, clean up the house, cook, etc. In other words she continuously ran around the house until 11p.m.; every evening I felt relieved when I no longer saw her working around the house.

  I know that laziness is a sin, a sin that I am guilty of in some areas of my life. Yet running around like a crazy person when it could be avoided and is totally unnecessary seems to be an even bigger mistake. I’m saying this because one’s energy fritters away and the body gets exhausted for nothing. In reality all that energy could be oriented towards doing more creative and inspiring things. Going back to Mrs. O, the things in her house had a shocking perfection, which was very intimidating for someone like me. I didn’t know if I was even allowed to breathe or sit down, as I was afraid that things would get wrinkly or messy. Their house made me become aware of how many objects wealthy people collect. Most of them lack esthetics. Millions of baubles in different shapes, colors and arrangements made me wonder who was more important in that house: the people who seemed to have been invaded by objects, or the objects themselves which were fighting for a continuous territorial expansion. Each bauble was cleaned of dust every day. Authentic Galle pieces were placed next to plastic flowers and fruits that not only did not match but also were visually unpleasant and considered kitsch. My taste could only adapt to a certain point, as it had well defined limits. I couldn’t like something like that…

  Unfortunately, in my area lived a lot of housewives. I perceived them as being offensive because of my different lifestyle. “A Japanese housewife” sounded somehow redundant since most of the married women preferred to stay at home and not work. I also had the chance to meet many modern, elegant women who spoke several foreign languages, yet this happened because I attended some higher-class events where they could be found more easily. The vast majority of women were housewives and the modern ones that I met were the exception to this nationwide accepted rule.

  I have to clarify what a Japanese housewife means. Rule #1: make-up and lipstick always on (red or pink depending on one’s age). It is considered a form of respect for you and also for others to wear make up all the time, so that you don’t visually appear unpleasant to the people around you. Rule #2 (exasperating for any European woman): you wear simple shoes with colors that usually elderly people wear. The shoes have little flowers, knots and fringes just like the ones that kindergarten children wear, and are usually covered by a kitchen apron that has to be worn during the day inside and outside the house (balcony, garden, visiting neighbors etc.). Perhaps your imagination takes you to an ordinary, modest kitchen apron, bought from a department store or a thrift shop, with wrinkles and drops imprinted in the fabric. No way! This never happens in the Country of the Rising Sun, which is also the country of clothing snobbism. Japan is the only country in the world (maybe South Korea comes close) where the well-known fashion designers produce and export insignificant things. The products are all branded (it’s a must!)—tooth brushes, kitchen towels, saltshakers, slippers, and of course, aprons.

  I felt offended when I initially moved to Japan because I received many aprons as gifts. I had kitchen phobia and I couldn’t understand and appreciate their quality. Nevertheless I still had to bow and thank each person for each apron that I had received. I liked the imprints on them, but most of all was shocked by the exorbitant prices that had to be paid for those branded aprons: Dior, Christian Lacroix (still unused with the tag on it), Kenzo, Hanae Mori, Elle, etc. Seeing all of those aprons made me think of the traditional Romanian saying “pearls on a pig’s path.” I think that even a pig would have had more appreciation for them than I had. Shortly after receiving them I discovered their role and meaning and got to wear them with elegance.

  Robinson Crusoe versus Friday

  Unfortunately, during college in Romania I didn’t learn about modern Japanese society, about the subtle connection between the spoken language used nowadays and the unwritten norms and social values of the Nipponese lifestyle. I’m afraid that even to this day; they still practice the same old teaching system, which doesn’t keep up with what’s modern, new and evolving. Too many Japanese characters are being taught and very few students really know and understand their full meaning. In the Romanian teaching system there is too much structure and too little grammar to build a good foundation for the language. The professors used to teach too much about the culture of the old world and disproportionately less about the modern, sophisticated and stunning Japan.

  So, I found myself catapulted into the stormy eye of the modern Japanese universe in its full complexity. The knowledge acquired through books and lectures proved to be poor and inadaptable. I had to learn countless new things, most of them through the trial-failure method. Because of this I found myself in humiliating and embarrassing situations. I was very disappointed to realize that some of the concepts that I acquired through my “live” experiences in Japan, from the fundamental principles of their civilization to everyday life, weren’t valued in Japanese studies back in Romania.

  When it came to social relationships and making friends, for instance, the reality that I had to face was rather surprising. I naively thought that in Tokyo it would be fairly easy to make friends with people my age, go shopping together, have them teach me about their culture and vice versa. Very soon I came to realize that I had chosen the wrong island and that I was a modern, feminine Robinson Crusoe, who wished to “overpower” 123 million Fridays…

  When Mrs. O came to visit us for the first time Ken was the one to open the door. She was in total shock that my husband was still at home at 8am and that he opened the door. This was very atypical for them! I admit that I had slept until 8am that day. Ken tried to elegantly explain to Mrs. O the most believable reason why he opened the door that morning: “Ioana is in the kitchen cooking Romanian food and she can’t be interrupted. Anyway, I have to leave the house soon.”

  “Why did she come so early?” I asked him with my specific European naivety.

  “She wanted to see what we were doing and also to become friends with the Kurosawa family so that she can tell stories to the neighbors and her family.”

  I was happy to find out that she wanted to befriend me. She brought us a bouquet of flowers from her garden. “Oh how wonderful," I thought to myself. The next day she came again, only that this time at 7 a.m. I rushed out of my room holding Kiku in my arms, with my pajamas on and, of course, no makeup. At the time I spoke Japanese fairly well enough to understand that something wasn't right in my conversation with Mrs. O. I apologized for the way I appeared in greeting her, saying that I had fallen asleep again after the postman's 5 a.m. visit. She had come that time to see us again and also to bring some strawberries, as she had heard that I liked them very much. I thanked her and ritually bowed for about 10 times, thinking to myself: "I got myself in serious trouble!"

  The next day Mrs. O didn't honor us with her presence because of the morning earthquake. The earthquakes in Japan were, if I could say so, pleasing. They were usually easy shakes that seemed to have certain “logic" when they happened. Or perhaps this was the feeling that they gave in a country where they were usually predicted and announced with accuracy. Their frequency integrated them into the culture and lifestyle of the Japanese. All their buildings were built very solid to resist the continual visits of the earthquakes. They predictably showed up either in the morning, after lunch or later in the evening, right after dinnertime.

  That day after the earthquake I took a shower, turned the music on and started dancing, while arranging my books on the small bookshelf. Guess who rang the bell at 9am that morning? Mrs. O ... Bummer!!! She was wearing an apron made of denim on the bottom and a t-shirt on the top. The only polishing that I had time to do on my outfit, before o
pening the door, was to grab Kiku in my arms, to cover my bellybutton at least. We went through the same ritual filled with politeness and bowings:

  " Good morning!”

  “Good morning!"

  "What food will you be cooking today?" she asked me.

  "Romanian" I answered evasively.

  "Romanian food again? What exactly?"

  Why doesn’t she mind her own business I thought to myself?

  "You know, it is very hard to explain this in Japanese as I don't know all the words ... But it's a meat and vegetables dish... I don't understand everything you say..."