by H. K. Bush
I didn’t smile at her joke, as I was taking a moment to interpret this jaw-dropping news. It was hard to let it sink in. But within two days, we were on the phone to Professor Aoyama—which I learned was pronounced Ahoh-yaamaa. And just like that, within three weeks I had held a moving sale, said my goodbyes in New Haven, boxed up the rest of my stuff and moved it back to my parent’s house in Indianapolis, boarded a jet from Indy to Chicago to Osaka, and found myself settling into a wonderfully furnished condo, or “mansion,” on the fifteenth floor of a tall building with a stunning view of the Port of Kobe and Osaka Bay. In Japan, the school year begins in April, and I barely had time to unpack my things and clear my head of jet lag before I was in the classroom, inspecting the Japanese students as they inspected me right back. I didn’t have a dog, but otherwise I might as well have been Dorothy among the denizens of Oz.
The week after my arrival in Kobe, cherry blossoms sprouted, schoolchildren donned their freshly laundered uniforms, and the brand new school year began. April 1992. Somehow it made sense for the academic year to begin unsullied and new in springtime, as it does in Japan. The cadence is different than in America, where school begins at the end of summer, and progresses immediately to the cool weather and the fall of leaves. Japan’s academic rhythm is more hopeful, beginning at the moment of fertility and renewal.
My schedule was pretty simple: six classes per week, ninety minutes per class, about thirty to thirty-five students in each class. That sounds like a lot of students by American standards, but the system in Japan is set up in such a way that the vast majority of students are disengaged, completely unprepared, asleep, or absent. But there are always in every class a handful of eager, bright-eyed, and passionate young people whose souls entirely revolve around both the learning of the English language and a love for all things American. Plus they all immediately called me “sensei”— Japanese for teacher—and treated me with far more respect than I’d ever encountered in America. It is obviously this group that makes teaching English in Japan (or anywhere) not just tolerable, but often both stimulating and powerfully rewarding.
The teaching was simple enough, but the office politics were a puzzle. Professor Aoyama, the head of the department, had assigned a “sempai”—an older, more experience faculty mentor, called Professor Miyamoto—to be my primary caregiver as I made the transition into the Japanese university system. “Miyamoto-sensei has some acquaintance with your area. He has written some interesting works on American writers, including Hawthorne and Melville. He is most experienced with foreigners, having spent two years at the University of Oregon. I am certain you will have much to discuss.”
We didn’t. Unfortunately, I immediately disliked Miyamoto. He looked oily to me, unkempt in appearance and attitude, very thin, with a pock-marked face. Every time I saw him, he seemed to be wearing the same old blue suit and silvery-blue necktie. His English was passable, but his gestures were unfriendly and his air sometimes snobbish.
“If you would need anything, Springs-sensei, please give your requests to Miyamoto-sensei,” Professor Aoyama instructed. Miyamoto bowed in my general direction, and so I bowed slightly back, not really knowing what else to do. I fumbled with my hands, not exactly certain where they should go as I bowed. “Miyamoto-sensei is one of our most trusted colleagues here at Kobe University, and I know he will be a worthy guide for you in the coming days.”
Again, a slight bow. Miyamoto, however, would not look me in the eye, which made me nervous, and would not even speak to me beyond the standard “hajimemashite” and “yoroshiku onegaishimasu.” At the time, I wondered why he had been appointed guide dog for the poor foreigner. In retrospect, I realize there were other forces at play, and that, it turned out, Miyamoto had connections in high places. Even though I had no knowledge of what was going on behind the scenes, I picked up the distinct odor of something gone bad. So from the start, I kept my distance and rarely spoke with him. Initially, he had little impact on my life—that came much later. But he always seemed to be a specter lurking just beyond my field of vision.
Life was foreign, but good. I taught my classes, went for long hikes along the steep mountain trails above campus, read books, graded miserable student papers, drank more lukewarm green tea than I had thought humanly possible, and generally kept busy with my own writing. I quickly became a regular at one of the campus hangouts, the Munchen Café, a sort of hipster coffee shop named after the owner’s fascination with the southern German city, minus the umlaut. It was roomy for a Japanese bar, with a number of old sofas, and it had some prints of German Expressionist paintings all over the walls, especially Kandinsky. They also had special “Oktoberfest” pricing, on Monday and Friday afternoons, which was nice, so it was popular with students.
Since Kobe is a city set into a narrow plain wedged between Osaka Bay and the dramatically sloping foothills of the Rokko Mountains, the largest peak of which rises to 3,000 feet or more, the hiking was marvelous. Rokko National Park borders the campus and was only about half a mile up the hill from my apartment, so I could leave the somewhat depressing urban landscape behind by simply going for a walk.
The park itself was lush, with refreshingly cool, damp air the farther I ventured. I liked to hike uphill for a good distance, and then look out over the great, sprawling city: the tall buildings, the trains going east and west, the huge cargo ships being loaded and unloaded by massive red cranes, and beyond the port, the wide expanse of Osaka bay. It was so different from the flatlands of central Indiana or the urban grittiness of New Haven that I never tired of gazing down upon the hectic city scenes from a serene perch, 1,000 feet above the din.
Within the first few months of teaching, I discovered another hidden pleasure: the department had a fairly well-stocked, though rarely used, library on the top floor of one of the office buildings. I was given a key, and Hiromi, one of the departmental secretaries who spoke some English and laughed with her hand over her mouth whenever I spoke directly to her, showed me how to sign books in and out. The library’s impressive contents covered the gamut of English and American literary studies, though its holdings petered out after about 1980 or so. But unlike many of my colleagues back in the states, I was never one for chronological snobbery. I still think that much of the best work ever written on American literature was from the ’50s and ’60s, and was thrilled to find scores of old volumes hidden away on those dusty shelves. Some had evidently never been opened. And in all the months of going there for long hours of quiet study, I never once encountered another professor. The departmental library became one of my little secrets—a place where I spent many hours of uninterrupted joy, alone and in silence, like a Benedictine monastic. Thanks to the contents of that library, the miracles of inter-library loan, and the judicious use of my book allowance for the newest works, I had available almost anything I might need for continuing my own research.
Eventually, I wondered about the riches of this musty old storeroom, and when the opportunity arose, I asked Professor Aoyama about it. It was June, and the air was sticky in his un-air conditioned office (Americans have become addicted to air conditioning). Professor Aoyama waved a fan back and forth as he talked to me. He was slow to respond directly, but after a few moments, took to his subject with gusto, bragging about the legacy of outstanding professors that the department boasted in the decades after World War II. Several of these professors—Saito, Urawa, and Goto—had gone abroad to the best universities in the world for the study of American literature: Harvard, Yale, and Princeton. It was through their tireless efforts that the library had been established and well stocked in the two or three decades after the war and occupation, he said. “These three men, and especially Goto-sensei, have been the guardian angels of the department—I believe that is the phrase you use sometimes back in America?”
“Goto? Is that the same as the Goto Fellowship?”
“Ah, yes, of course, sensei, that is correct. Thanks to him, we have hosted seven foreign professors over
the years in our department. This year is the first time we have been fortunate enough to host two of you. And it was largely due to the generosity of Goto-sensei that these volumes were purchased over many years. As you know, Goto-sensei comes from a family of some affluence.”
“Well, no, sensei, actually I don’t know anything about that.”
Aoyama recognized his error, paused, then shrugged his shoulders, and nodded. “Ah, yes, I suppose not. Well, you see, in the old days Goto-sensei himself would welcome the winners of the Fellowship with a wonderful dinner party at his old house up in the hills, but now, as he is getting quite old, he is rarely seen down here in the department. It is through the generosity of Goto-sensei that these fellowships exist in the first place. He is now nearly eighty years old, I believe, and retired from the department, though occasionally he is seen wandering around campus or spending a few hours in his private office, which he still maintains. He also remains chair of the fellowship committee, so he has some little influence in the choosing of the candidates.”
Professor Aoyama paused and looked at me. Not knowing what was expected, I nodded appreciatively, but said nothing.
“Goto-sensei took a great deal of interest in you,” he continued. Surprised and a bit confused as to why the man would be interested in me, I simply smiled and waited. “He actually provided an additional fellowship this year for you, after the committee had already made the first offer to Professor Kilcoyne and he had accepted it, last fall. But once he saw your vita, which Sherri sent to us, Goto-sensei took a strong personal interest, allowing your recruitment to be—fast-tracked?—I believe that is how you say that?” He worked a paper clip between his fingers. “He is also, like you, a great fan of Hemingway. And so, as you can see, your appointment was largely due to the patronage of Professor Goto.”
It was intriguing information. David Kilcoyne, a British teacher from Leeds whose work was focused on the Victorians, particularly Dickens and Kipling, was a decent enough fellow. On several occasion we had already enjoyed together a few bottles of Asahi Dry beer, usually over fried noodles and gyoza—fried dumplings. I knew he was also considered a Goto Fellow, but hadn’t realized that traditionally there was only one fellowship award every three academic years. I remembered the fax Sherri showed me, which had said something about a “special provision” of some sort.
“What is it about my work that interests Goto-sensei?”
He hesitated, and I wondered if I had made a conversational faux pas. I sensed he was studying me, so again I waited for him to continue.
“So, desu-ne?” Perhaps the most common staple of Japanese conversation, the phrase can mean many things: “Yes, isn’t that a good question?” Or, a more general comment of agreement, such as saying “you know?” or “OK?” As time went on, “So, desu-ne?” or its shorter forms, including the simple syllable “ne?” (meaning, “isn’t that right?” or simply “right?”), became a regular feature of my own conversational life in Japan.
I wondered if the conversation was over and shifted in my seat, but Aoyama set his paper clip down and said, “Yes, well I think I can say this much—Goto-sensei is … a collector of literary objects and artifacts. Yes. And like you, he favors the letters and personal papers of certain American writers, whose works he values above … all else, shall we say. Especially those of Hemingway, I should say, ne?”
I nodded in agreement, but was, in fact, very confused. I considered this revelation a moment. “And when will I get a chance to meet Goto, so I can thank him personally for his generosity?”
“Well, yes, of course, I think that will be arranged at some point in the future. Perhaps it would be better to say ‘if ’ you get a chance,” Professor Aoyama corrected me. “I am not suggesting that Goto-sensei is opposed to meeting with you, or anyone for that matter. However, I am sure you understand by now that the way of the Japanese can be rather difficult for foreigners. And never refer to him as simply ‘Goto,’ by the way. It is much too rude. It must always be respectful: Goto-sensei, or Professor Goto, ne?” He winked. “I must tell you that any meeting with Goto-sensei, assuming that there is to be one, will be entirely of his choosing. If you do see him on campus, I would urge you not to approach him and introduce yourself. Allow him, in his own timing, to be the one to initiate any contact. This is the Japanese way of the old days, of the elder being the one to arrange for a meeting with an underling.”
I was getting more, not less, confused, but kept nodding anyway. “Yes, sensei, I think I understand.”
“And Jack-san. I hope you will understand, but do not be intrusive in asking questions about Goto-sensei, or about his family, especially with anyone here at the university. This sort of gossip would be extremely unfortunate for you, should he become aware of it. He is an intensely private person, and his family has a storied past from before, during, and obviously, after the war. The university is like a very small village in that respect.” He leaned to look out his door to see if any staff happened to be nearby. “You may feel at times that you have great freedoms here at Kobe Univeristy, and in many ways you do, but do not be fooled by the outward appearances. The other teachers and administrators are always watching you very carefully, since as a Goto Fellow, you are such a … special foreigner. Again, it is all part of the Japanese way.” Aoyama waited a moment, then proceeded. “I have known for some time now, for example, about your frequent visits to the library.”
“Yes?”
“Of course, Jack-san. Your status here is very prestigious; it is quite an impressive fellowship, and it is in the name of a very powerful family, so of course we must be careful that … well, that nothing is done that will bring dishonor upon that name. You must have suspected that for some time now, yes?” Aoyama cocked his head, smiling a little. “That Japan is a land where everything … is observed?” He smiled coyly at this last comment.
I hadn’t noticed, at least not yet. “Well—actually, not really. But I do thank you for your honesty about this.”
“You are most welcome. And of course, as the chair of this faculty, I also must watch over you, and be responsible for any, shall we say, indiscretions? Of course, I had thought that you would have known all of this already. I sometimes forget that Japan is a country full of mysteries for gaijin.”
Talk about mysterious. At that moment, I truly felt like a gaijin—a foreigner, an outsider—and was more confused with every word.
“Please respect all of this advice, Jack-san, and understand that there are very many ways to endear yourself to elderly Japanese men—but also many ways to alienate yourself from them. Older men who grew up in the pre-war era are especially difficult to please in this respect. There are certain rules of behavior when in the presence of the sempai—the master, I mean. Do you know that word? Sempai?”
The phone rang on Aoyama’s desk, and after answering, he held his palm over the receiver and told me that he must take the call. It was my cue to leave, which I did, gladly.
It was the last I heard about Goto-sensei for many weeks. I never brought him up with any of my acquaintances on campus, except for one, David Kilcoyne, of course. Even he warned me about what Aoyama-sensei must have meant when he talked about the Goto family as having some amount of fame in Japan.
“These old-time Japanese blokes,” he said, quaffing a cold Kirin beer, “they see the world quite differently, it seems to me. Look, I’m not saying it’s 1984 or any of that rubbish. But there is a bit of the samurai spirit still around, yes? Surely you’ve felt what it means to be a foreigner, an outsider, a gaijin?” He took another long draught. “And you must have noticed that people are always watching you, hey? Out of the corner of their eyes, as it were. Personally—” he sat back and waved his hand as if taking in all of Japan—“I would venture to stay on the safe side, and keep my nose out of the closets. And gents like this Goto fellow are hidden in some closet somewhere.” He took another long drink. “The social obligations get tiresome, anyway, as you must be noticing. The en
dless bowing, and the formal dinners and such. Who needs it?”
Kilcoyne had been here only four months longer than I had, and yet his thin seniority had an authoritative ring to it. He was also nearly fluent in conversational Japanese. So I took his advice, kept my mouth shut, and tried to find out about Goto through other means.
Admittedly, when I first read the name Goto, it did ring a faint bell. But I was initially unable to place it. A surge of mystery and caution filled me, however, though I could not say why exactly. Only later did the name and its myriad insinuations return to me, according to some sort of alienated majesty.
Common as it surely is, the tale of Jack failing to land a permanent position in the States is an embarrassment of riches in today’s academic market, I’m afraid. This condition fills me with shame, to think he was unable to find a suitable position here in America, to lose a gifted young scholar like Jack to another nation, even if temporarily, seemed somehow unjust.
And yet, it stirred in me the memories of my own first experiences abroad as a participant in a generously funded NEH symposium hosted by a university in Lisbon, Portugal. As with Jack, my selection to this prestigious award was magical. I’d never been farther from home than Florida, but in Lisbon, the sea breezes off the massive harbor, the windy and sweeping vistas, the nightly walks up the ramshackle hills of Alfama— home of the Portuguese folk style of music called Fado—the spicy seafood stews accompanied by the passionate and mournful songs of the singers … it was heady stuff for a first adventure abroad, a powerful narcotic I like to call that “anywhere but here” addiction we all suffer, from time to time. It comes, as Ishmael put it, “Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth.” Perhaps, as they say, everything happens for a reason.
