by H. K. Bush
Sensei bowed, and as I bowed back. “Of course, Sensei. Whatever I can do, please call on me.” And with that, I began to turn away and start down the path to the front gate. Again, the last image of the house was of the slender and beautiful Mika, bowing ever so slightly, as the electric gate slowly closed behind me. The sun was behind some clouds, nearing sunset; it had been a long meeting. I hiked down the mountain, and soon enough, I was back on the train, headed for my apartment.
Oddly enough, though, it was not the prospect of further literary discussion of the young Hemingway with an elderly Japanese professor that preoccupied me that evening, or throughout the following week of classes. Rather, it was the hope of seeing again his luminous niece, arrayed in another of her lovely silk kimonos. The moon, more than the sun, began to haunt me.
Suddenly as I read this chapter, the name began to emerge from the fog of my memory. Once, in London many years ago at a conference on Henry James, I had dinner with a colleague who brought along a friend from Kobe. Oddly, the man, whose name I now forget, mentioned a faculty member at his school who owned numerous wonderful collectibles, which he often would bring out to show his guests. This professor lived in one of the most fashionable sections outside of Kobe and often hosted extravagant, Parisian-style literary salons for any visiting writers or artists in whom he had even the slightest interest. My colleague told me that this particular figure was famous for his whim, his hospitable good will, and his eccentric passions for such things as Tiffany glass, earthenware ceramics, or the first editions and autograph letters of famous Americans.
But I also recalled there was some minor mention of this professor’s shady family connections, including some aspect of the Imperial family and the war. Now, when I read this section, I suddenly realized he’d been speaking of Professor Goto!
It is one of the mysteries of the human memory, how all these things get stored away, possibly never to be revisited, and then, all at once, a song comes on the radio, or a scent wafts abroad, and the memory is reborn.
CHAPTER 6
The politics of my emerging friendship were often on my mind. I began wondering what Miyamoto and the other office spies/rats would think of me, having regular meetings with Sensei. By this time, even a glimpse of the slimy Miyamoto, with his ill-groomed suits and his pock-marked face, gave me the creeps. And I wondered why exactly, this rather negligible person should exert so much anxiety over me, so I started trying to fill in a few of the details.
A few days after that second visit, David told me that Miyamoto was formerly an “assistant” to Professor Goto, and had evidently helped him with certain “important” tasks. David had overheard a fairly loud (by Japanese standards) conversation, in which Miyamoto had been complaining rather vigorously to a colleague. David was a quick study in the language, and despite the colorful ornamentation and other assorted colloquialisms, he felt he could make a decent translation of some of Miyamoto’s complaints: “I have been demoted to a mere go-between, an errand-boy. I must now consider Springs-sensei to be my rival—my enemy,” he’d said.
Or at least that’s what David thought he’d said. Whatever Miyamoto was ranting about that day (and David admitted he could only catch parts of the conversation), it was clear that Miyamoto saw me as some kind of threat— and not just to Sensei, but also to himself. So I began to return the paranoia, and started watching my back.
It had seemed at the conclusion of that second meeting that Sensei and I might be together again very soon, perhaps even the following week, but in reality things like relationships often do not gel as quickly in Japan as they might in the United States. So again, I went about my teaching, kept fairly busy, and promptly forgot about Goto for a while. But, I must confess I did keep picturing his lovely niece in her silk kimono.
Several weeks into October, I received another Sunday invitation, and then again two weeks later. Each time it was Miyamoto who would ask me politely (though stubbornly and rather glumly) to visit the home of Goto-sensei. These invitations became formal and sterile, but evidently everyone concerned somehow understood them intuitively to be the proper way of proceeding.
As my respect and fondness for Professor Goto grew, my disrespect and even loathing for his messenger Miyamoto grew in direct proportion. Once, as I came into the main, common office where all the teachers had a desk, I noticed Miyamoto surreptitiously peeking into one of my drawers, looking for who knows what.
“Can I help you, sensei?” I said, holding back the anger.
He was obviously surprised to see me. “Ah Jack-san. My apologies. I was looking … for a copy of your syllabus.” He looked both ways, then back at me. “For Professor Aoyama.”
It was an obvious lie, but protocol forbade me from calling him on it. So I refrained from any response except to glare at him, hopefully making my feelings abundantly clear. My blood pressure shot through the roof, and I leaned toward him ever so slightly. After a moment, he spoke again.
“Sensei, I have also been instructed to inform you that Professor Goto is again willing to host you this Sunday. Will that same time be convenient?” I believe he felt threatened by my surprise encounter, and of course since I was much taller and far stronger than he was, he actually managed to act a bit humble.
“That would be fine, sensei.” He remained standing precisely where I would sit in my chair, and I began gently to edge him away from my desk, the drawer still slightly open. I slammed it shut—at least, as much of a slam that would not seem improper in a Japanese office. “Now please, do you mind if I get to work?” And with that he bowed slightly, turned away, and left without saying another word.
It took me a long while to settle down. Six months into my contract, and already I sensed there was something desperately wrong with my situation. Well, something definitely wrong, I should clarify, with Miyamoto. Looking back, I recognize that even when I found him going through my desk, some tingling sensation arose from my inside—not exactly nausea, but some otherworldly sensation, ultimately unnamable. I associated Miyamoto with a malevolence of some sort, something I couldn’t quite pinpoint. I still remember his uneven face, his overuse of cheap aftershave, and his smarmy indifference to me as a person. Even as I am writing this sentence it all comes rushing back. The deadness of his creepy eyes. And the shame and horror I now know was yet to come.
Soon enough, the Sunday meetings with Sensei all began blending together. Sometimes I would take him a book I wanted him to read, one that I had mentioned and that he did not know about. Oddly, given his adoration of Hemingway, he had never read the book most directly reminiscent of his best work, A River Runs Through It, so I bought him a copy. More often, he would offer in return a few Japanese novels to read, in translation, of course.
He urged me to read Kawabata, for instance, and to think of his stark language in terms of American Modernism. He insisted I study Mishima and Oe. “Two Japanese writers with, shall we say, very different views of our nation,” he said. And he gave me a couple of books by the American Lafcadio Hearn, deeply romantic tales of the Old Japan.
“Yu-san, I should have mentioned that the word ‘Yu’ is a common sound in Japanese, and that with a different Kanji, it can also mean ghost,” he told me. “Hearn felt that ghosts were a prominent feature of Japanese culture. I think I can agree with that.”
During one of the visits, Sensei got to his feet, disappeared into the other rooms, and returned with an old volume with a dull black cover. He sat down and slid the volume across the table toward me with both hands. It was called Japanese Homes. “Do you know about Edward Morse, Yu-san?”
The name rang a bell, but not much more, and I shook my head. “Not really. Some American from New England, I seem to recall, who spent time here in Japan, yes?”
“Mr. Morse was a true hero of the American spirit, and a true interpreter of the spirit of Old Japan. This book of his describes the homes of the Japanese in the old style, about one hundred years ago. This room in which we are sitting is o
f that style, called wabi. It is a room of emptiness and of purity, I think. Somehow Morse understood the Japanese better than most Japanese.
“Did you know that even a hundred years ago, many Japanese were already ashamed of the old Japan, and wanted to leap ahead into the modern era? But Morse understood the very great price of doing that, Yu-san. Even by the 1880s, Morse was worried about the loss of Old Japan. That’s why he convinced so many wealthy Bostonians to come to Japan and buy up large quantities of Japanese art— ceramics, pottery, paintings, katana, everything. Morse was himself a great collector. He began with sea shells, collecting for the pure joy of collecting. His accomplishments are still to be seen in the great collections now held in museums in the Boston area. Morse understood the beauty of these older things, even when almost no Japanese people could understand them.”
He sipped his tea and thought for a moment, then proceeded. “He immersed himself in Old Japan. And then he shared his learning with other important Americans, like Fenollosa, who became an admirer of Japanese art and culture, and then the teacher of Ezra Pound. I have great respect for Morse. Please take this book and read it. I think it will help you to see how foreign eyes are often the most perceptive about the things of beauty in a culture.”
Then the discussion went in a direction it rarely did. Sensei complained of his own family, and its rush into commerce and big business, and how his own sensibilities dictated that he must somehow resist it. “My brother was the perfect successor to my father. He was trained as the perfect business samurai: cagy, feisty, even ruthless, and willing to do whatever his master would ask of him. Even die, if he must. Meanwhile, I was more like Morse. I wished simply to observe, to study beauty. And while my brother was learning the ways of business, I was studying Basho and the haiku, flower arrangement, and the way of tea. I believe they resented my bookish ways. But they forgot that in the Old Japan, all samurai immersed themselves in such artistic pursuits. The way of the true samurai involved the whole person, including the artistic.
“During the war, I became a great enthusiast of ukiyo-e (wood block prints) and that is when I began my own collection of prints, scrolls, and old pottery. In college I became fascinated with the heroic and youthful literature of America, and so I also tried to immerse myself in it. These things became a refuge for me, at a time of great upheaval.” He stopped and sighed just slightly. “General MacArthur understood the Old Japanese way—that when a nation is conquered, they must worship the gods of their conquerors.” Then he put his right hand up along the side of his face, resting in thought. “For me, the great artists were the true gods of American culture—Emerson, Whitman, Hemingway, and many others … Their words were like holy scripture to me.”
He waited, thinking. “You are here in Japan, now, largely because of my love for these things, Yu-san. Our mutual love.” He sipped slowly, letting this sink in. “I was drawn to your research primarily due to your impressive knowledge of Hemingway and his friend Ezra Pound. We share a common fascination with what you have so aptly called ‘epistolary friendships’—the literary remains of the great authors.
“In fact, I will tell you many things of Hemingway in the future. Much of what you have written is of course correct, but I believe, shall we say, I may possess some … items, that will prove invaluable in your future work.”
“Items?”
He sat motionless, gazing out toward the hallway beyond me. “Books. Manuscripts, letters, that sort of thing. Items of rather rare notice.” He even managed the tiniest of smiles as he said this. “Indeed, I own numerous things that might reopen certain debates regarding the … well, central facts of Hemingway’s and Pound’s early years.” More waiting and sipping. “The detritus of friendships, the fossils of the dead, like Morse’s seashells, cast up onto the shore.”
“Tell me more about these items, Sensei.” I was ready to turn our talk in that direction, but again revealing myself as the eager, impatient American, who must learn to wait.
He lingered a moment over my request. He seemed to savor my desire, just slightly. Then said, “Yu-san, there will be much time for that, for extensive talk about Hemingway and Pound, and all the others. We are in no hurry for those … secrets.” More waiting. “For now, I wish to talk about Japan.” He fanned himself, looking away, adjusting his pillow. Soon enough, he continued onto the earlier topic. But he had given me some intriguing clues.
“It may sound odd to you, Yu-san, but I chose to worship at the altar of these other, stranger American gods. I longed for the Old Japan of Professor Morse and Lafcadio Hearn. Hearn was obsessed with an incurable yearning for the inscrutable, for the deep layers of Japan. So was Fenollosa and Ezra Pound. My father recognized that I was, at an early age, a hopeless romantic, but he and my brother indulged my passions. To them, I was the spoiled, effeminate younger brother, an impractical man, of no earthly good in the New Japan. And possibly a traitor, in my study of the Americans.”
A lengthy pause ensued, and I finally tried to fill it. “Do you have much contact with your brother?”
A gentle sigh. “He is in his world up in Tokyo, and I am still down here in my own, separate world, Yu-san. The remnant of the old world, Kansai, with its ancient capitals, Kyoto and Nara, both of which are now nearly spoiled. Just decadent old vestiges of a lost Japan, I’m afraid. Much of it defaced by tourist traps for foreigners.” I thought about the contrast. “In any case, it is my brother’s responsibility to return here to visit the relatives, and honor the dead and the place of his youth. Our family tomb is located in a famous temple in Kyoto. And of course the old family hometown in Yamaguchi. But Tsukasa has not been here in many years, and he would never consent to return to Yamaguchi. He wanted only to escape that world, and he succeeded. I, myself, have not traveled to Tokyo in an even longer time. So the answer is, no, we do not have regular visits.
“Fortunately, there is the one connection. Mika is my brother’s only living child. His son died many years ago of an illness, without leaving him any grandchildren. Tsukasa was rather old when Mika was born, almost fifty I believe. She was a great surprise to him and his wonderful wife, now also dead. It was in the sixties, just prior to the Olympics in Tokyo, and of course the Games signified the emergence of a new and vibrant Japan. Hosting the Olympics was our entrance onto the world stage, a new beginning after the tragic war years. We were all extremely proud as a nation.
“And Tsukasa was such a proud father. His hope was that Mika could give him a grandson, or better yet two grandsons, for carrying on the family line.” A wistful tone emerged in recalling those days. “She is the gem of my family, I think. But she is more like me than like my brother. She loves the Old Japan, and has worked very hard to master the arts of the tea ceremony and of flower arrangement. Of course she is also a beautiful young lady, as you can see for yourself.” At which point he actually paused to gaze at me and grin. “And so she frequently takes the bullet train up to her father’s home in Tokyo. She has access to much good fortune, and so she loves to visit the shops in Omotesando or Ginza and spend some of her good fortune on Italian shoes, handbags, jewelry, and other things that are of interest to young Japanese ladies. She is like me—a collector, but of the trinkets of Japan’s modern culture, imports, I am sorry to say!” He laughed at this. “But I think it is a wonderful thing for an old man to have such a beautiful flower as her, who prefers to spend most of her time here in this tiny replica of Old Japan, rather than being colonized completely by the bourgeois culture of the New Japan in Tokyo, don’t you think, Yu-san?”
As if on cue, Mika appeared with another tray of snacks and tea. She swept in, kneeled before us, and with the gentlest touch refilled the cups. “She is like a bridge between us, two aging, alienated brothers. A kind of interpreter between the old and the new, I suppose. Isn’t that so, Mika?”
She bowed and then smiled, and actually laughed just a bit, an unprecedented development. “Yes, Onii-san. I adore both sides of Japan! When I visit the ol
d temples of Higashiyama in Kyoto, my feet always feel much better at the end of the day when I wear my latest pair of Ferragamo sandals, rather than the traditional Japanese wooden geta.” Evidently she had overheard his catty remark about her expensive Italian shoes. And then she disappeared once again, smiling. Turning back to Sensei, I noticed him peering at me with a rather sly grin. And so I made a tiny nod in his direction. It surprised me that Mika could be a little sassy, which made her even more attractive to my American sensibilities.
In my mind’s eye, Mika’s lovely smile at that moment, followed by Sensei’s wry grin, now seems pregnant with significance. Her slight gesture warmed me, and made me shake the tiniest bit. Even now, as I write this line, it produces a quiver of something primal. I think Sensei already understood the bewitching effect that his beautiful niece had on a young man like me, still in the prime of his sexual life, so to speak. And he was right. As the weeks went on and I returned again and again for tea and crackers, I was increasingly drawn to Mika. It was hard to resist, given her natural endowments and her stylized Japanese way of speaking and serving.
Yes, perhaps the feminist critics I befriended back at Yale will cringe at my depictions of Mika, and they are surely correct in ridiculing my lusty “gaze.” In truth, women seem to underestimate the sheer power of the visual for healthy young men, as I was in those days. Just catching glimpses of feminine beauty and grace can produce intense, pleasurable feelings—the lust of the flesh, it’s called. Yes, I felt them—increasingly with Mika, and by the end of those first few visits, I had developed a crush on her. I recall lying awake, unable to sleep, picturing Mika. I would imagine the smoothness of her hair, or conjure the Parisian perfume she dabbed on her unblemished skin. Simply stated, she was adorable—in a visceral way.
