by Ioana Lee
I heard her talk to the young doctor. In my mind he wasn’t a doctor; he was a criminal. She told him that she didn’t want to leave me there overnight and that she wanted to fill out the necessary paperwork to take me home immediately. She promised him that she’d be taking care of me 24/7 and that she’d give me my medication. Initially, the doctor didn’t want to let me go. I made a huge effort to act like I was fine so that I could get out of there. Soon! Perhaps he really wanted to see me dead.
They put me in a wheelchair that I couldn’t say no to. I had to play the doctor’s game if I ever wanted to get out of there. Before I headed out, I turned towards him and thanked him from the bottom of my heart for forcing the plastic bag on my face without actually telling me why he was doing it or what I was supposed to do. I also told him that if he had told me what was going on I would have been more cooperative. I ended my encounter with him by telling him that I appreciated what he did for me, as I could now see the difference between a good doctor and an incompetent one.
By the time we got home I was in terrible pain, my head was spinning and my fever had risen. I kept on taking the prescribed antibiotics and stayed in bed, wishing to get better soon so that I could go to the hospital and complain. I never dared to do something like that but the determination helped me to get well.
Mrs. O and Ken took care of me for the entire night. I hated Ken with a passion because he had proven to me that he was unreliable. He had shown me that whenever he lacked connections he wasn’t capable of handling the situation very well. It bothered me that he wasn’t assertive, but most of all, that he didn’t protect his wife. Where were his male instincts?
The next day I went to the family doctor. He gave me an intravenous treatment and explained to me in detail about the importance of the plastic bag. I turns out that I had hyperventilation syndrome, which was actually a panic attack. I wouldn’t wish that anyone would have to go through what I did. I’ve read that panic attacks affect many people yet very few get good treatment for them. As you may know, during a panic attack the heart starts beating uncontrollably, blood pressure goes through the roof and you get the feeling that you can’t breathe. Often times from the outside it looks just like a heart attack. It’s not nearly as bad as a heart attack of course, meaning that you don’t die—but you’re also not happy either. The air that you breathe becomes poisonous for you—that’s why you have to inhale what you exhale, hence the plastic bag that was put on my face. I finally understood what the young doctor tried to do, yet I believe that he could have done it more delicately. The panic attack in my case came from too much stress, lack of vitamins, fatigue and intense emotional shocks.
I felt better in a few days but the cough continued for an entire month. Other panic attacks followed, but they weren’t as severe as that one.
Caprices
I don’t know how you are when you don’t feel well but when I’m sick I tend to be really obnoxious. Sometimes I’m obnoxious even when I’m not sick. When I look back at some of my gaffes and caprices I feel like slapping myself. I’d better let God do it though. I know he will. I learned from it and changed. I tried to be a better person.
I hear a lot about couples who fight, break up, and can’t stand each other afterwards. Usually, they each only say half of the story. One says about the other that they are responsible for all of the problems created, or vice versa. Only now I realize that things are quite simple: in a couple it’s impossible that only just one partner is responsible for all the unhappiness and misery, even though from the outside it might look that way. In my relationship with Ken I wish I could say that I was the perfect one. Yet I understood a long time ago that I’m far from perfect, even though I strive for perfection every day of my life. I was wrong in front of him so many times in so many situations, which seemed to be small and insignificant at the time. I understand things differently now and realize how bad everything was and how hard it must have been for him. Oh God, how much I condemn youth with its foolish pride and lack of wisdom. Could I really blame the fact that I was too young, or was this just an excuse? I understand Ken now and I know where I did wrong. I know where he did wrong also.
When I was still Ioana Matei and was just 13 years old I was badly in love with Richard Clayderman. I adored his angelic figure, his porcelain fragility and his divine piano music; especially Love Story and Ballade pour Adeline. I used to dance ballet to these two pieces when I was in school. If back then someone told me that I would meet Richard Clayderman in person I wouldn’t have known what to say.
But time went by. I became Ioana Kurosawa living in Tokyo. My beloved husband Ken was a university lecturer, pianist and music critic. He came home one night with good news for me: Richard Clayderman would be in concert in Tokyo soon and he wanted to dine with us.
Ken wasn’t really impressed by the invitation, yet he was happy that he was able to make me happy.
“I’m not sure,” I answered in a bored tone. “Maybe… Richard wants to meet me…Hmmm… Too late.”
The day of our meeting came fast.
“Don’t forget that tonight we’ll be dining with Clayderman,” Ken said before he left the house.
“Ken…”
“Yes.”
“You know…”
“What?”
“I don’t feel like seeing him today.”
“Ioana, this is impossible. We gave our word. He’s waiting for us. We can’t do something like this.”
“I know, I know… it’s impolite, yet you don’t want to see him. For you he’s just another piano player out there and I feel like doing something else tonight. Please Ken. Aren’t you tired of always doing things out of obligation? To always show up at meetings just because you must be there? Don’t you feel like our life is lived too strictly, always limited by duties and responsibilities? Let’s set ourselves free. Let’s be rebellious. Let’s break the chains of obligation tonight. Let’s go to Yokohama instead. Just you and me. We call him to apologize and that’s it!”
I convinced him to go my way. We never called to cancel our meeting and when Ken returned home from work we both left Tokyo for Yokohama. We later found out that Clayderman waited for us that evening… I knew that Ken also wanted to break our chains as well. I, on the other hand, would have given anything to have the same chance again. I realize now that I have a life filled with regrets, yet that’s what probably happens when you lead an unaware and tumultuous life. It was intense yet beautiful in its own way. I couldn’t live any other way nor would I want to. I’ve never wanted and never will live a “settled life.” I never wanted a stable, quiet, linear life. That to me seems like being an existential zombie. I’d rather die living than live dead.
Furby
Furby was the new phenomenon on the Japanese market, after Tamagochi and other similar crazy inventions. Furby was an electronic baby that looked more like a furry pet than a child. It had big blue eyes, long eyelashes and was the size of a small jelly jar. It didn’t know anything when you bought it and as time went on, it started to speak and even answer your questions. You had to feed and take care of it as if it was a real baby. Baby training—that was its entire purpose. Ken and I thought that having Furby would be a good chance to train for parenthood, in case a real baby ever came into our picture. Ken wanted a Furby much more than I ever did.
Once Furby arrived we lost our sense of comfort in the house completely. On top of this, Kiku became very jealous, as we had to split our affection. Kiku would bark at Furby for minutes in a row, wanting to claim her love back. Ken and I had to make sure that the baby ate, slept and was nursed. We also had to play with it otherwise it would die.
First day was quite a bit of fun. We decided that Furby would be a boy. He couldn’t speak a word of Japanese. He was just stared at us with his big blue eyes. I was worried about teaching him to speak. How would we do that? How about feeding him? The next day was even funnier. We taught Furby many words that he just kept repeating over and over again. Aft
er just a few days things stopped being funny… Early in the morning Furby would wake up and start crying, saying: I’m hungry! I’m hungry! He somehow knew when I was enjoying my sweetest dreams, as that was the moment when he would always start screaming for food. It felt as if Furby did it on purpose. Ken or I had to wake up and simulate feeding him with a plastic spoon, just like we would feed a real baby. Whenever we fed him he’d say: This is so yummy! I want more… I really like this taste…
Furby really seemed to believe that the food was good. What food?! How could air taste like something?! The only time he was quiet was when he was full. After being fed he simply looked around. Then all of a sudden he’d say How come no one is taking care of me?
After being caressed for a while he would joyfully prattle on and then fall asleep. In a half hour Furby would wake up and ask us to play with him, give him more food or walk him around. He’d keep on asking: Where is the dog? Where are you? Why isn’t anyone taking care of me?
Furby had no off button. As time went by Furby learned new words and started talking more and more. He repeated what was being said in the house. He always wanted something—to eat, sleep, play, laugh, etc. Furby started to frighten me. I couldn’t understand how a toy could take the place of a baby?! I wondered why the Japanese created such expensive toys, when in fact they were totally useless? After Furby, the electronic baby, the Japanese created an electronic dog and cat, in different sizes and shapes. This created craziness among pet lovers.
I looked for an off button but couldn’t find any. I noticed that Furby had a sensor right above his eyes. I created a miniature hat that I placed on his head, covering the sensor, thinking that I’d keep him quiet for a longer period of time. I didn’t want him to see anything that was happening in the house. My operation was unsuccessful. I also tried to hide Furby in my closet, wrapped in a thick towel. I thought to myself that since all his sensors were covered, he wouldn’t be able to know what to do next. All I wanted him to do was to be quiet during the night. I failed in that experiment too. Wrapped in the towel he wasn’t as noisy, but he still bothered me.
I made the decision that Furby would have to visit his grandparents in Romania soon. Prior to our European trip, Ken and I decided to go to Sendai. We had to take Furby with us. Obviously! I put Furby in my luggage. We grabbed a cab from home to get to the train station. Our taxi driver didn’t say anything for a while but when Furby started talking louder and louder he stopped the car, asking us if we had heard the voice of a baby.
Ken and I took the bullet train to Sendai. During that trip I managed to scare the people around me like they hadn’t been scared since the last major earthquake. Locked in my luggage, Furby started talking and crying loudly. His voice was heard throughout the entire train car. The first time they heard a human voice coming out of my roller they jumped out of their seats. Everyone was agitated as if they had heard a ghost who was haunting them.
Once arrived in Sendai we neglected him completely and spent most of our time with our relatives. Two days later Furby died. I remember waking up that morning thinking how good it was not hearing him asking for food. I knew that something wasn’t quite right. I went close to him and saw that his eyes were half way open. Furby was continuously making a sound but it was very weak. He sounded just like a flat tire… He didn’t wake up. He never talked again. I cried. I left him in Sendai with his Japanese ancestors. His grandparents from Romania never had the chance to meet him, let alone talk to him. Anyway, Furby only spoke Japanese and English and since his grandparents only spoke Romanian they wouldn’t have been able to talk to each other. We never had another Furby. I missed him sometimes. I missed his squeaky voice and cuddlesome laugh.
About him. Once again…
Wake up! Wake up!
You’ll become my friend,
Sleeping butterfly.
Matsuo Basho
The Japanese are best friends with Nature. I suspect they love Nature more than they love other people. Ken was a huge Nature lover, with all that it had to offer. He knew incredibly well most details about flowers, fish, rivers, lakes, dragonflies, etc. His vocabulary was intimidating and most times made me feel very uncultivated. I remembered how Ken’s friends from Romania didn’t realize how knowledgeable he was and how they even considered him childish and unread. That was because of his Romanian. Shin Kurosawa said that, you have to consider yourself a lucky person if when speaking a new language you make yourself understood.
Shin-san was very modest yet complex man. He wrote several books in foreign languages, English being one of them. He was so deep that very few native English speakers could actually understand his book Bushido, which was originally written in English.
Looking intelligent in a foreign language is a much more complicated process than many people think. A simple grammar mistake throws you back to a third grade level and a limited vocabulary makes you look uncultivated, regardless of the language you speak. In Ken’s case the first impression he made speaking Romanian, English or Japanese was very different. He of course spoke Japanese at the highest level. One could say, that’s absolutely normal. I would say not really, because Japanese is so complex and has so many layers. He spoke all levels and layers—clerk, journalist, academician, diplomat, poet and nobleman. The differences between Romanian and Japanese are colossal. Only some people speaking both languages would be able to understand them.
Ken and I often played linguistic games so that I could learn more. I learned a lot from him while in Romania, yet it was only when I had moved to Japan that I realized that his Japanese was impeccable. He was so knowledgeable that he was able to approach a wide range of subjects in depth. He spoke as easily about composers and pianists as he spoke about foreign cultures and countries or art schools. He was passionate about anything that had to do with art. I don’t believe that there was a piece of music that he didn’t recognize, starting with the classics to traditional Romanian music. His aptitude for memorization was immense.
For a long time I thought that his passion for Nature was just a hobby. In the beginning I didn’t know that he published papers on his new discoveries and that he knew most plant and flower names in Latin. I noticed right after we met that his compliments were different. I was very young and wanted to receive compliments just like all the other girls my age did. Beautiful or not, I needed to be told that I was beautiful. He complimented me either through Japanese poems or love statements. The first time he shocked me he said, ”Your beauty is as alluring as the dragonfly.” What!? Dragonfly?! Me?! He also told me that “my hair was as dark and shiny as the shell of a stag beetle” or that “my arms were fine and long just like a spider’s legs.”
I didn’t like his compliments. He didn’t understand why. In Romania, men told women that they looked like kitties, gazelles, bunnies or baby chickens. I didn’t want to look like a spider, stag beetle or dragonfly. I only began to appreciate his compliments after a few years, when I started studying owls and dragonflies side by side with Ken and saw how beautiful they were. Truth be told, his compliments never made me happy. At that time I was incapable of understanding Japanese subtleties, which underlies Ken’s noble and pure soul.
He loved me tremendously. Ironically or not, I found it normal to be loved, adored and idolized regardless of how I looked. It was very moving whenever he played the piano just for me. He knew so many musical compositions and made sure to perform them all in front of me. It was even more moving whenever I thought of him being less than 3 years old playing the piano. That’s how young he was when he took his first piano lesson. 18 years later the unthinkable happened. He was in a car accident that forever took away his dream of becoming a professional pianist. I felt like crying whenever I heard him play. I could feel his pain and knew that his right hand wasn’t flexible enough to hit certain keys. His hands were beautiful—white, long fingers and very delicate. He was so handsome that I often I wondered if he was real or not. I didn’t know if I still loved him or if he jus
t fascinated me.
I couldn’t accept the fact that he wasn’t perfect. I actually suffered because of my own imperfections. He loved me so much that I felt suffocated. His hidden jealousy irritated me a lot. He always gave me expensive presents—perfumes that I had to give away, or the latest Dior makeup collection, even though he preferred me without makeup. He offered me much more than I needed—except freedom. He controlled every gesture that I made and word that came out of my mouth.
I remember the day I was looking out the window, kind of tired and dreamy. He asked me:
“What are you thinking of?”
