The Cherry Blossom Rarely Smiles

by Ioana Lee

  Food courses are continuously served and Ken is being told that he needs to make a speech into the microphone in front of our table. He speaks beautifully, with a distinct linguistic elegance. After Ken’s spectacular moment sharing his thoughts, Mr. Murakami, an internationally renowned pianist and good friend of ours, plays the piano, sublimely enchanting our spirits. Meanwhile the guests are coming to take snapshots of us even more closely, which is tremendously exhilarating for any narcissist out there, but terribly uncomfortable for a normal person. I’ll let you put your imagination to work and guess who the narcissist was at our table, who couldn’t stop from posing for the guests.

  The moment continues with speeches by our family members, each expressing their wishes for us in a succinct yet meaningful way. All of a sudden, Mr. A, a good friend of Otoosan and a favorite of mine, stands up and announces that in addition to his earlier remarks, he has something else that he would like to mention: “Four years ago I had the honor to meet Ioana-san, whom I immediately liked. After just a few conversations, I asked her if she would like to get married. In her European style, she answered with a polite yet definite NO... And now I am here as a guest at her wedding. I’m wondering what made change her mind?”… He smiles at me and takes his seat, while all the guests smiled delightedly. I immediately ask for a microphone, even though the bride is not allowed to stand and speak without being asked to do so. But I am now myself and it doesn’t make sense to pretend I’m someone else, or something else. As I’m being given the microphone I read tremendous disturbance on Ken’s face.

  “I would like to thank everyone for being here…” I start with the customs, appreciation, gratefulness, wishes, etc. “I would like to answer the question addressed by Mr. A, even though it’s a rhetorical one. I obviously remember our conversation four years ago, but I feel like Mr. A misinterpreted my words, and I would like to take this opportunity to clarify the situation. When Mr. A asked me about my marriage, indeed my answer was a definite NO, meaning: I will never marry you, Mr. A”.

  The whole crowd started laughing aloud (which is a rare thing in Japanese culture), and Mr. A’s and Otoosan’s jaws dropped in horror. Ken was holding back giggling, asking me how I was capable of saying something like that. While Sorana was asking me what was happening, with that deep curiosity of an intelligent person to whom the meaning of the conversation is inaccessible, my parents were trying to find out from Ken how big of a mischief I had gotten myself into. Later on I found out that Mr. A lost his credibility, refusing to come out of his house because of the embarrassment created at our wedding. Being taunted by a young foreigner casted a reflection on his very important social status. Many people were wondering which story was true, and the story was going to percolate in their minds for a long time. Perhaps it is present even now…

  After being served two more courses of food, the master of ceremonies makes the announcement that it is the bride’s turn to make a speech. Without allowing the MC to even finish his sentence, the valet pulls my chair. No one ever mentioned to me anything about a speech, and I’m taken aback beyond belief, yet I’m thinking to myself that in the approximately three meters between me and the microphone, I’ll have time to formulate some ideas in my head. The applause follows me with confidence and I find myself in front of the crowd reflecting on the teachings of Mrs. Sei Shoonagon: a young’s woman speech must be short…

  I was proud that my speech began ex abrupto, just like I learned from Cicero. The result was as expected: a standing ovation… I don’t accurately remember what I said at the time, perhaps ordinary statements that rose to the occasion, but what inspired our Japanese guests to applaud me so enthusiastically was the fact that a young foreigner was capable of citing Mrs. Sei Shonagon in Japanese.

  A court lady at the Imperial Court in the tenth century, Mrs. Shonagon was the one who invented zuihitzu, a Japanese literature genre that was first used in Europe by Marcel Proust, Virginia Wolf, James Joyce and others, and was also the author of a well-known book called “The Pillow Book.” It took the guests by surprise because the people present in the room had to be pass a certain age to have known or heard about her writings. I knew her life and book by heart; I could always cite paragraphs from the book and I consider her a formidable writer with a fine psychological sense. In Romania, any student studying Japanese had heard of Mrs. Sei Shonagon, yet the Japanese people present in this room were unaware of her notoriety in my country. Had they known this, they would have rapidly understood that I was passionate about the Japanese culture and that it would have been impossible for me not to have read anything by her.

  I don’t remember exactly how and when our wedding ended. Before leaving, each guest received gifts from us; some small lacquered wooden bowls embossed with the family’s regal crest in gold dust. Also, the valets who’d been attending to the guests that night made sure that each of them received a bag with all the food that they couldn’t eat—this is an unheard-of custom that surprised my family and me beyond belief—but we finally understood that this is simply how they do things here.

  By the time we arrived home we were all exhausted, yet extremely happy that the Romanian/Japanese connections were a notch stronger. I was personally hoping that there would even be improvements on an economic level “between our nation and their country” – as Ceausescu was fond of saying in communism – as well as a progressive Japanese development in tourism and investments in my country. We continued our night of celebration in the living room, talking, telling stories, singing, amusing and delighting each other. Otoosan kept on smiling at me, asking how was I capable of saying what I said about Mr. A, especially in front of everyone.

  “I believe he’ll avoid me for a few months, because he left the wedding quickly after the incident looking very embarrassed. Everyone will be talking about him for a long time…”

  “Otoosan, nothing would have happened if he didn’t provoke me. He initially thought that he’s being good-humored and would make everyone laugh, but I couldn’t allow him to affect Ken’s and my reputation by saying that I never wanted to marry Ken. That’s why I decided to reveal the truth.”

  “But you even told me that you didn’t want to marry…”

  “Well Otoosan … I talk a lot and sometimes I miss some of the linguistic nuances in Japanese. More than that, four years ago I was way too young for marriage, and I actually deeply believe that most of our lives we are too young to take on all the responsibilities that come with marriage. Don’t you agree?”

  We all got a good laugh out of it and decided to go to bed because the second day we were having a small memorial service in honor our grandfather, who had passed away ten years ago and was Obaachama’s husband. My mother, my father and my sister were not able to understand why we are having a memorial service right after a wedding celebration. This was hard to grasp even for me, and I imagine for any person who doesn’t know anything about the Shinto religion. Everything was so new and different compared to our Romanian culture. I wasn’t able to explain to them the meaning of this ceremony because I honestly couldn’t understand it myself.

  Memorial Service

  Reeling and sad world,

  Emptiness is all we hear and see!

  What is life?

  But just a cloud in the infinite sky

  Ready to perish at any moment.

  Fujiwara Kiyosuke

  We all woke up early, had breakfast and then headed to where the memorial service was going to be held. The official ceremony was lead by Eiji—Ken’s younger brother—and an uncle of theirs. Both of them were Shinto priests. I always found it very interesting how multiple religions co-existed harmoniously within the same family: Shinto, Buddhism and Christianity (both Orthodox and Catholic). Shin Kurosawa (Obaachama’s husband) used to be catholic, Ken and I were Christian Orthodox, the rest of the family was either Buddhist or Shinto. Despite this we all had deep respect for one another. We lived harmoniously and peacefully together.

  The cerem
ony was very different for someone who didn’t know anything about Japanese religion and rituals, yet my parents and Sorana handled it pretty well. As part of the ritual, we all had to wash our hands in a fountain, using a tiny wood bucket. The water fountain was placed right next to the entrance, by the main door. The washing of the hands was symbolic, as it represented the purification of our thoughts and spirit. We did it so that we could enter the ceremony room clean and filled with serenity. In the front of the room there was a huge portrait of our commemorated ancestor, Shin Kurosawa. Right next to the portrait there was an altar that was dedicated to him. Shortly after we entered the room I looked at Ken and saw that he was on the verge of crying. He had to force himself not to, as it would have been embarrassing. Most Japanese men carry their sadness and sorrow unseen, with dignity. Ken was very different though. He was sensitive. I squeezed his hand and looked him straight in the eye. I wanted him to know that I could feel his pain and that I also felt like crying, thinking about my grandparents who weren’t here anymore.

  We all sat down and waited for the ceremony to begin. As usual, Ken and I were seated in the front row, even though both of us would have liked seats somewhere in the back to be able to hide our tears. After just a few minutes the Shinto priests entered the room. They were dressed in white, long religious robes. It’s hard for me to describe how they looked, especially when you know how different they looked in real life. Their attire had an ancestral feel to it, commanding power and respect. I was astounded. The two priests started their prayers and mantras in the memory of Shin Kurosawa. Everyone in the room was solemnly quiet. I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop smiling looking at their robes. I was actually afraid that I’d break out laughing at any moment. Ken was flagging me to look at him. He could hardly stay serious too. I didn’t dare to look in any other direction, as that would have been disrespectful. It took both of us 15 minutes to get used to seeing our uncle and my brother in law, the young and handsome Eiji, dressed in the weird looking long white robe. And their hats… The hats looked very unusual too. As part of the ritual they were both humming prayers in old Japanese.

  I understood something profound in that moment—that there is always a strong reason that two people come together and marry one another. I understood that people have subtle affinities that bring them together. These subtle things are sometimes strong enough to hold a relationship together. In our case, we were the only ones in the room who couldn’t stop smiling, while all the other people, including my own family, were very serious and sorrowful. I finally stopped smiling when I saw my mom tearing up.

  Towards the end of the ceremony we all had to stand up, keeping our heads leaning forward and our eyes closed. Something strange happened then—everyone in the room claimed to have strongly felt the spirit of Doctor Kurosawa. I’m not sure I felt it, yet I remember feeling weird. The ceremony ended joyfully, with a feast and my mom crying. She was deeply impressed by the ceremony, especially when we had to go in front of the portrait and bow three times. She, my father, sister, Ken and our close family members said that they clearly felt the presence of Doctor Kurosawa in the room and even saw fog around his portrait. Many other people present at the ceremony said the same thing, including Obaachama. I kept quiet.

  Goodbye…

  The time for us to return to Tokyo finally came. Saying goodbye to our relatives who were all going back to their homes and lives was really touching. They liked each other so much and became so close that saying goodbye was too intense. We had all enjoyed each other’s company tremendously and had shared many unforgettable moments together. While saying their goodbyes they were all very serious. The Japanese side of the family made sure to keep their distance so that they wouldn’t invade my parents’ privacy. Slowly but surely they shook hands and got closer, touching their arms, their shoulders and finally hugging each other. My parents were tearing up while my Japanese relatives were sadly smiling. They were not allowed to cry. Despite this, no Japanese woman left without being hugged and kissed, which was extremely unusual. It must have made them feel good since they hugged and kissed in return. The linguistic and cultural barriers vanished and our families openly showed their affection like they had never done before and probably never will.

  Once arrived back in Tokyo I became very agitated. I realized that very soon my family would be returning home to Romania and I would be left alone, continuing to brave Japan on my own. I lost my appetite and became more and more sad. I wanted them all to stay there in Japan with me, but they missed home and the rest of our family.

  It’s summer,

  that’s why I get thinner…

  Kitamura Kigin

  It was my family’s last night in Tokyo. I started crying. Uncle Koji invited all of us to a famous Japanese restaurant in Ginza. It was a wonderful night, with memories that will never fade away. We were all very different, yet the same, radiating happiness, peacefulness and harmony. I don’t even remember how many courses we had but I remember that the food kept on coming and we were all joking about it, each in our own language. Time seemed to stop so that we could all preserve the aura of joy that surrounded us.

  My father and Uncle Koji started their male competition again—“whose muscles are bigger?” It is hard to imagine a middle-age Romanian judge and a serene Japanese Buddhist priest taking off their shirts, laughing like two kids, drinking sake and measuring their biceps. Oh, how much fun that was!

  After our little competition on masculine beauty, my sister noticed how things worked at the restaurant: right after we were done eating one round of food, a geisha discreetly opened the paper door, bringing us more food—invariably. Another geisha poured sake into our glasses. Sorana noticed that during the muscle competition, in spite of the fact that there was no more food on the table, no one opened the paper door to interrupt us. As soon as our competitors put their shirts on, the parade of more food and drinks continued.

  “Do they have cameras in this room? How else would they know when to open and not open the paper door?” Sorana asked.

  We were dining in a private area of the restaurant. Our room was spacious and had a tatami on the floor, sliding doors and low tables. They had nice drawings, paintings and wood decorations on the wall. It also had big, plushy teddy bears on which Ken, Sorana and I lounged. We captured those moments in pictures, including the moment when the three of us were laying on the plushy teddy bears.

  Sorana’s question about the cameras really made us think: How did the geishas know when to enter our private room? We looked for hidden cameras but saw nothing that looked like one. “Maybe… they are politely listening at the door?” added Sorana, to further her confusion. We all started laughing. Both options were funny yet viable. They could have also timed our meal courses. If that was the case their timing was too perfect. Sorana started pointing towards the empty bowls where they could have hidden cameras… and surprisingly… the geishas immediately showed up at the door. How interesting!

  The night ended in a traditional Romanian way, with many hugs and kisses and exchanges of addresses and telephone numbers. Usually, after drinking sake, the Japanese become more relaxed and are more open to adopting foreign rituals, like the Romanian ones. In our case, sake played a big role, yet the affection and friendship that was born between us made the separation seem unbearable and nostalgic.

  The next day we headed for Tokyo’s Narita Airport. We spent the night at the airport hotel so that our family could start their travels across the globe well rested.

  I followed the airplane in which they were in until I wasn’t able to see it anymore. They took away a part of my soul. I didn’t cry. I went with Ken to a restaurant near the airport. I couldn’t eat anything. The only thing that I was able to force myself to swallow was an ice cream. I fell asleep in the car on our way back home. Once arrived in Tokyo, Ken suggested avoiding going directly home. It would have looked too empty and sad. He suggested going shopping instead. We were young, beautiful, wealthy, and yet u
nhappy. We were too pampered by life…

  Sorana’s Memories

  A long time after her visit to Japan I asked Sorana what she had found extraordinary there and what she remembers the most. She answered to me in an email, digging through her memories:

  “I have a lot of wonderful memories but I don’t know exactly what you’d find extraordinary since we each had different experiences in Japan. I remember vividly how alive nature was there. Their vegetation was much greener, moister and filled with sap. Their forests were wilder and served as a welcome home to all of the little creatures. Their forest seemed to be more inhabited than in Romania… and those trees that were one thousand to two thousand years old impressed me beyond belief. They were still green and alive. I still can’t get over the fact that those trees are as old as our country’s recorded history.

  Their forests had a different, ancestral sound. It wouldn’t surprise me if they still had creatures living in those forests that disappeared thousands of years ago. The soil was so fluffy due to the thick layer of fallen leaves that I could only walk on trails and paths. My feet were sinking in the bed of leaves as if it was snow on the ground. I still have that leaf from the Ginko biloba tree that was 500 years old. Otoosan decided to give it to me, even though it meant breaking their unspoken respect of nature law. He saw how fascinated I was by that secular (even millennial) forest. I appreciated his gesture tremendously and I think of him every time I look at my framed leaf. When I’m asked what that leaf represents to me I say that it’s the portrait of an old, green ancestor.