by Ioana Lee
Adrian started laughing loudly.
“This is not something to laugh about. It’s horrible… I have no words.”
“I apologize, but you’re very funny when you get angry.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. That means that I’m funny all the time.”
After those two hours of people watching at Starbucks we headed for the club. The club wasn’t big but it was beautiful. Many foreigners hung out there, 80% of them being women models that got in free. The entrance fee was $40. Adrian and I were the first ones in there, because we wanted to find good spots right next to the dancing floor. The rest of the crowd came much later from other bars and clubs. Once we arrived in the club, we bought juice and mineral water and headed to our spot from where we monitored the crowd and atmosphere. I was the first one on the dancing floor. After all, I was there for just one reason: to feel the music, to dance and forget about everything. I’ve always loved all types of dances. A certain paragraph from a book that I can’t remember the name of comes to mind:
“You don’t want to dance?”
“No, I don’t like it. I find dancing annoying and tiring. It also makes me sweat a lot too.”
“Oh, this is good then. This means that when you get old you’ll have one less thing to regret in your life!”
Besides the dancing, the two things that I enjoyed the most in that club were the linguistic variety and the cosmopolitan feel. It brought me tremendous pleasure to communicate with people and hear them speak in their native language about their life stories. They all came from every corner of the world and I found that environment to be a great one to learn new words and phrases in foreign languages. The first time I finally understood the meaning of the phrase global village was in Tokyo. We all lived in it. That was the moment when I finally realized that we weren’t only Romanians, French, Americans or Nigerians, but citizens of the world. The people who are part of the global village are transplantable everywhere on the planet, capable of making the best of any situation, to live and adapt in any given linguistic, cultural and culinary environment.
Whenever anyone asked where I was from, I took tremendous joy in telling them about my country, even though most of the time that meant giving them a short geography lesson. It was understandable for people not to know where Romania was on the map, since I didn’t know either where Benin or Belize were located. I wasn’t embarrassed to ask questions about their countries, their native language or their religion. I was simply curious to find out. If curiosity killed the cat, in my case it only helped me to learn a lot, to become a better person, more tolerant and understanding, and what’s most important, more fluent in foreign languages.
For Adrian the nationality exposure was quite different. He was always European and depending on the person that he was talking to, he would easily introduce himself as being German, English, Austrian or French.
“Why are you doing this?” I lambasted him. You should be extremely proud to be Romanian. On top of this, when we introduce ourselves as being brother and sister, there is a very high chance that people will find out that we are messing around…”
“Ioana, as I told you, I’m very proud to be a Romanian. That’s the reason I avoid talking about it because it hurts when I have to explain to people what our country is all about, where it’s situated and what the language that we speak is. It saddens me a lot. The world should already know who we are so that we don’t have to be caught in this situation of continuously explaining our origins. Therefore if you ever hear me say that I’m from Germany, France, Italy, or just simply Europe, it’s because most people around us know those countries with their good and bad things and it’s easier for me to avoid going down the same path over and over again.”
Somehow, I felt he was right. One evening we became friends with two Americans. We introduced ourselves as being siblings. It was best for both of us. No one would dare to come close to me since I was there with my brother and people wouldn’t encourage Adrian to drink alcohol or smoke because he was there with his older sister and it would have been inappropriate. At one point, Adrian said that he knows a lot of things about America because he spent some time growing up there. He also added that his favorite place is New York. I was shocked. Even though we have covered a lot of ground and we knew each other back and forth, I never knew that he had lived in America. I curiously asked him:
“Really! You’ve been to the USA? When? How long were you there for?”
“Yes, I went there two years ago…”
The two American guys looked at each other with suspicion. They both asked me at the same time:
“He’s your brother and you didn’t know that he went to America two years ago?”
I started laughing…
“He’s my illegitimate brother and…”
Another evening we befriended a French girl. I met her first and then introduced her to Adrian. We started dancing together. We both spoke English and it was hard to understand each other because of the loud music. I didn’t know anything about her and her name seemed a bit unusual. All of a sudden she asked Adrian where we’re from.
“France, he responded, thinking that her unusual first name could be Brazilian or something.
“A, c’est vrai?!”
At that time Adrian’s French wasn’t that great, that’s why I answered her saying that he intentionally made that joke because he most likely guessed, based on her accent in English that she was from France. I told her that we are from Switzerland, thinking that since they speak approximately four to five languages, we’d be able to swing it to our advantage. I did it because I didn’t want to give away the fact that we were from Romania, since there were lots of Romanians in Paris at the time and they weren’t leaving the best impression of our native country.
Later on I asked Adrian:
“What in the world are we going to do with Romania?”
“What do you exactly mean?”
“I mean, what can we do, as Romanians, to save the country’s image in the world. It’s quite sad what has been happening lately…”
“Well, what do you think that we and a few other Romanians could do since in Tokyo itself there are over 3000 “dancers” from our country?! I’m so sick of them!”
“Believe me, I know. It is terrible that they were able to get here. They get filthy rich through some form of masked prostitution. I’m sure that most of them are so young that they didn’t even know what to expect when they arrived here. I’ve never met any of them and I don’t think I want to. I don’t want to know where they live and what exactly they’re doing. They are part of the underground here. Actually I remember meeting one in Bucharest once. I realized what circles she was a part of based on the poor Japanese she spoke.”
“Yes, you are right. They’re going back to Romania with a fatuous attitude because they speak a few words of Japanese, yet rarely do they meet people who realize that they only use slangy Japanese, which shows what they have been doing here all along.”
“I’ll stop talking about them. I tend to judge people too much. I don’t like this situation and it only makes me think of how hard it was to learn everything I know about Japan; tons of sleepless nights, sacrifices, exams… And now I’m here. I have plenty of money that doesn’t belong to me and that can be taken from me at any given moment. I’m trying hard to find a job and build a name for myself and even to do my best at representing our home country. Yet quite often it gets so hard that I feel like leaving it at that… and I don’t even feel ashamed for thinking this way. It’s been too hard for me and it still is… Oftentimes I don’t even know what’s good or not.
Maybe I haven’t received the right education. I even lost my faith in God. I can’t eat or sleep. I don’t know how to be a wife, nor do I like being one. Everything seems to be too hard and too confusing and I’m wondering if it’s all worth it. It feels like every day is a lost battle right from the beginning. I like to work hard and fight for the things I want. I want to find my motivatio
n. It’s hard seeing how my own family throws obstacles on my way and how they don’t support me morally and emotionally. They are playing the guilt trip on me all the time. I feel guilty in front of Ken, who doesn’t want me to do any of this. I even feel guilty in front of his family, who expect me to be just an accessory, to blend in with the décor. I no longer know who I am and what I truly want.
It’s hard for me to see that I hurt people with my actions and behavior, yet I can’t be who they want me to be. I know that they love me and that they take care of me in their own way by offering me money, expensive presents and vacations all over the world. To make matters worse, none of this is enough for me! Many would think of me as being spoiled and a hypocrite, yet you can’t judge anyone until you walk a mile in their shoes. After all, we’re all so different from one another! Women from around the world would give anything to be in my situation, young, wealthy, living a luxurious life. I started crying as I spoke about it all. This is what people see from the outside. Frankly, I have never thought that one could be unhappy because of money. I don’t want more from life, I want something else. I want to make myself useful, not by cleaning up the house, which I’m not asked to do anyway, but by doing something that really matters and makes me happy. I want to give purpose to all the unrest that has been boiling up within me, to take a liberating leap towards something greater…
I don’t even know who I am; let alone what I stand for. I don’t understand the value of money because when you have it it’s valueless. I want to make money through my own hard work. I feel like I’m getting old without an aim. Indeed, I read a lot of books, yet I do nothing else. I nurture myself with other people’s lives and I identify with the negative and dramatic characters that I read about in my books. And yes, I do suffer from a severe form of bovarism. The only thing that I desire is to remember what is good and bad again. As of now, what is good for others is bad for me and vice versa. I’d prefer not to feel pain just because I desire good things for myself, yet it doesn’t seem to be possible. Because of this I hurt the people around me who love me just the way I am, with my tumultuous weaknesses and ambivalence.
I feel like Huck Finn, only that he was 12 years old when he was wondering: “why is it better to be clean and go to church if those clothes make me feel uncomfortable and I feel like being alone; a drifter, with no obligation to have to explain myself for what I want, what I do, where I’m going and where I’m coming from… and why is it better to not lie if by speaking that lie you could save a person’s life? What is more important: to save a person’s life or to tell the truth?” I feel so drained, psychologically and emotionally. I suffer from an existential claustrophobia. I don’t know what to do and I feel that regardless of what my decision would be, I would be severely judged, yet I can’t punish myself so badly to go through the life that I have known, pretending that everything is fine.”
I looked up and brusquely realized that I was talking to myself. Adrian was still sitting by my side. He was just a young kid who couldn’t understand what I was talking about anyway and for all the good reasons he shouldn’t have had to listen to all these details about my miserable life. Wordlessly, we were walking on the streets of Tokyo that were no longer crowded.
“Adrian, I apologize, I know that you have to go to school tomorrow morning and that our plan was for you to be home by 1am. Tonight I’d like to walk a little longer, to spend a little more time together. It’d make me feel less lonely and I don’t feel like having Ken come get me right now. I don’t feel capable of going through his interrogation until we arrive home. Please!”
“Of course Ioana” he said to me, reflecting on what I just said.
“Promise me that you won’t skip school tomorrow. If we leave by 3 am will you have enough time to rest?”
“Yes, don’t worry about it.”
I thanked him in my mind. It felt bad not to have him as my real brother. I was so proud of him.
“Let’s go to the Tokyo Tower,” we both said instantaneously.
We weren’t the only ones visiting the tower at night. At that moment I felt the need to be on top of the tower, to feel like I’m in Tokyo, to become overwhelmed by its 333 meters (0.2 miles) height and by the city’s immensity. The scene was familiar to me yet brutally reminded me that I was half a world away from my family.
The Tokyo Tower is a copy of the Eifel Tower, but 42 feet taller. Its construction was finalized in 1958 as a symbol of the economic rebirth of Japan. It is located in a park, glowing and lofty, yet lonely in a city so spread apart. It felt like the Tower was just as lonely as I was. Walking helped me air my brain out after all the cigarette smoke in the club.
Everything was magical. The city, the evening, the sky, the tower… yet I was feeling lost. Lost in a world that was far away from my family from which I felt alienated; alienated because of my exorbitant luxury, my huge aspirations that lacked meaning and depth, and also because I forgot the place I had come from. I was ignorant about the pain and struggle that the people were going though back in my home country. I could no longer remember the nest in which I had been molded and for which I was now just a stranger. I no longer belonged to Romania and I couldn’t even understand it either. I no longed belonged to my own self.
That night Adrian helped me understand that I was the one who changed. I became intolerant, authoritative, arrogant, extravagant, and I was treating him just like I was treating other people around me—as a servant. He surprised me by highlighting some of these aspects of my personality that I was unaware of. I was simply totally unaware of my behavior, always thinking only about myself, thinking that I had no clear direction to head to. I said things like “Adrian, hold my purse! Give me the brush. Bring me some soda. Do your homework. Get here faster! Leave! Come back! Give me some change. Give me the lipstick from my purse!”
That same night Adrian confessed a secret that was quite comical, that he was Ken’s spy. Until he came to realize who I really was, to know me, to understand what I wanted, he had accepted Ken’s request to spy on me. His mission was to breathe down my neck and watch every little move I made… I didn’t even know how to react to this. He told me that after we spent some time together he understood that the only reason I wanted to go clubbing was to dance and nothing more. He also said that he noticed that I was lost and desperate and that I needed someone to talk to, someone who could understand me, or at least pretend to understand me, as I wasn’t able to understand myself.
Late Portrait
What Adrian told me didn’t surprise me too much. I knew Ken’s way of thinking and his emotional reactions and I’d have to admit that I wasn’t guiltless and flawless… I started treating Ken terribly, saying that I couldn’t stand him anymore and that I hoped to find another man who would be capable of treating me like a human, not like a pet, a luxurious accessory or a bird in a golden cage. I told him that I didn’t want to see him, spending time instead by myself in my room and that I’d be better off divorcing him than living like an animal in a cage, always watched over, checked on and kept on a leash. I was too lonely and sad and Ken wasn’t guilty for any of it. He was simply behaving like traditional Japanese men do, unlike how he had been when I first met him in Romania.
We both changed a lot and had huge problems readapting to one another and understanding one another. I couldn’t accept the fact that whenever we went out he commented on every move I made or word I said, even though he wasn’t doing it out of malice, but more out of his Japanese roots and mindset. The Japanese are very sensitive to what other people think of them. They are shy and doubtful because they have to conform every day to the rules, which in many ways washes away their individuality and turns them into robots. They were embarrassed to make mistakes, as people would make fun of them. They forgot that they are humans too, after all!
Ken made no exception to this rule and he didn’t allow me to live freely, either. Whenever we were in public and I was feeling tired, if I’d try to lean on something, he’d
notice it and call it out, insisting that I sit straight. During meetings with people, God forbid I’d dare to speak ahead of him. Under no circumstances was I allowed to ask him to help me go up the stairs, as he was embarrassed to be in such situations. To top it off, whenever he’d open the car door for me the people around would be perplexed that he did it—the exact opposite of what we do in Europe. I was permanently terrified that I’d do something wrong and that he’d get upset because of it.
Whenever I was by myself I leaned on walls or rails and waited for the subway squatting down to rest, as I was tired because of the high heels. I also told people on the subway that in other countries out of politeness, men offer their seat to women. In other words I rebelled in any way possible. In the beginning I liked all Japanese rules and many of them became second nature, yet when they were forced upon me, mentioned every other second, presented to me as if they were more important than people, I had enough.
I started talking badly to Ken, using men’s language, which was aggressive just like a Yakuza([xxvii]) who was upset at his inferior. Was it his fault or mine? Or were the rules of Japan the issue? I thought of it often and I didn’t feel at ease until I found the answer. Perhaps none of us was guilty of it.
