Meeting Luciano

by Anna Esaki-Smith

  Mornings at the Jaffes’ would be less ordered. He was a pediatrician, she my piano teacher. They lived in a sleek, modern house, all horizontal lines and glass. Their two daughters smoked French cigarettes and blew smoke out their noses. I envied their moody sophistication and imagined myself with dark circles under my eyes, leading a life far too complicated for a girl my age. But once, during my piano lesson, one of the daughters asked her mother where the bananas were. After a long pause, Mrs. Jaffe closed her eyes and replied tersely: “They’re in the oven, and don’t ask me why!” Breakfasts there, I thought, would be laced with tension, words filled with unexpected import.

  Then, I examined my own home. Having reached through the exercise some small measure of objectivity, I tried to see my family, their life, from the same mental distance as I did the Ericssons or the Jaffes.

  The house, pink, an early 1950s split ranch, ordinary to me; the father, brainy, good-looking, impatient, prone to dark moods; the mother, a music lover, an accomplished cook, proud, sometimes unrealistic, and likely, at inappropriate moments, to break out in spontaneous song.

  Both parents are emotionally opaque to their neighbors, even to themselves and their children.

  And then I pictured the children: my sister, Charlotte, standing in a red business suit, clutching a Coach bag, and pointing out to me her matching shoes. She was, I thought, a young woman intent on living the bright, shiny life of television shows. My brother, Pierre, wearing the sparse stubble of an affected beard, a boy who left home to reinvent himself. And me, a frowning girl, rushing because she’s late for an appointment that doesn’t matter anyway, stray strands of hair in her eyes, her cheekbones less high and sharp than if her last name had been Ericsson. She’s sleeping in the same small room she grew up in, with its pink walls and bay window overlooking the backyard. She feels a kind of comforting familiarity being home, but it’s an odd, skewed sensation, like wearing an old pair of somebody else’s shoes.

  “The ground’s too hard,” I heard my mother’s protesting voice say distinctly from outside. I got out of bed to peer out my window. My mother and Alex were crossing the backyard, their customary laughing and joking gone.

  Alex was carrying an old garden shovel, and they stopped at the border of the backyard where the woods began. I heard the shovel scrape on stone. Alex levered a rock out of the ground and quickly opened a small hole in the dark earth. My mother watched, and as she turned slightly, I saw she was holding the wooden box with Giuseppe’s ashes. It was quite a large box. Was it because Giuseppe was severely overweight when we put him to sleep, since my mother had insisted on feeding him manicotti and braised celery for the last three years of his life?

  She stood by the hole in silence. Alex finished and leaned against the shovel, watching her while the weakening sun cut through the trees. Finally, she squatted and placed the box in the ground. She remained there kneeling, her blue sweatshirt bright against the dark grass, as Alex gently shoveled dirt to fill the hole. He tamped the loose soil with the back of the shovel. And my mother, her face pale and uplifted, smiled.

  SIX

  Mariko opened the kitchen door just enough to show her face, wide as a plate, and called: “There’s a man at your table!”

  I didn’t budge from my seat on the counter, and continued to watch Hiro and Tetsu massage oiled stones with the blades of their knives.

  “You heard her,” Hiro prompted.

  I patted my thick patterned obi, searching for my order pad. “It’s ten o’clock. Doesn’t anybody cook at home anymore?” I said.

  “There’ll be a lot more tomorrow,” Hiro said, pursing his lips, making his long, thin mustache move. “And the day after that. One night, before I went to sleep, I tried to figure out how many people I had served since starting here.”

  He stood silently for a moment, feeling his blade with a wet, pink finger. I could hear cold water dripping from the faucet into an empty copper teapot. “I think it was about a hundred thousand,” he said. Tetsu laughed loudly and slapped Hiro on the back.

  The cavernous dining room was empty, except for Alex, who was sucking on a straw that protruded from the belly of a meditating, ceramic Buddha. He smiled and waved vigorously as I walked toward him.

  “Hey, that kimono’s mighty cute,” he called out.

  I approached his table quickly. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Don’t I even get a hello?” he replied, opening and shutting the miniature blue-paper parasol that came with his cocktail.

  I turned and glanced behind me. A busboy came out of the kitchen and I spotted Hiro craning his neck, trying to get a look as the door swung open.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked again, passing him a menu.

  “I’m here to enjoy Japanese food or, as the Japanese say, ‘wa-sho-ku,’” Alex said, enunciating each syllable. When I didn’t respond, he cleared his throat and opened the menu, shaped in the silhouette of the farmhouse. “Is the lobster fresh?” he asked.

  “Of course it’s fresh.”

  “It won’t taste like ammonia or anything?” he said, his eyes following his finger as it went down each column. The hair at the crown of his head shone platinum in the light. “I’m not crazy about eating shellfish that I can’t pick out myself,” he added.

  I tucked my order pad into my obi with a brisk, crisp movement. Alex looked up, his eyebrows high on his creased forehead. “I was just asking. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll have the Shogun Surf and Turf.”

  “Fine.”

  Alex leaned back in the upright wooden chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “No nails, huh?”

  “What?”

  “In the building.” Alex pointed to the menu. “Says here it’s built without nails.”

  “Oh, yeah. So the story goes.”

  “That’s quite a feat.” His eyes began searching the rafters that crisscrossed the ceiling. “I bet I can find one before the night’s out,” he said.

  “WHO IS THE man?” Hiro asked when I returned to the kitchen. Mariko, who had been noisily washing glasses in the sink, paused, her eyes fixed on the drying rack in front of her.

  I shrugged, scrawling down the order on my pad and tearing off the top sheet. I handed it to Hiro. “My mother hired him to work on our house,” I replied.

  Hiro wrinkled his forehead, holding the paper to the light, trying to make out my handwriting. He squinted, bringing the order closer to his face. “I’ll see if I can get him a really good piece of steak,” he said.

  “Don’t bother with too much,” I told him, and ladled dressing on a bowl of salad. As Hiro headed to the walk-in refrigerator, I called out, “He’s very picky about shellfish, though.”

  Hiro held up a hand and made an O.K. sign.

  “Very handsome, your mother’s friend,” Mariko said, wiping the area around the sink with a rag. “Looks so big and American.”

  “He’s Greek,” I said.

  Mariko rubbed the counter harder. “Your mother’s lucky to have a friend like that. Americans have something, some kind of spark. On the other hand, Japanese men are impossible.” She wrung out the rag and hung it over the kitchen faucet to dry. “Short and stupid,” she added.

  I laughed. “What about Hiro?”

  “Hiro,” Mariko said, “is the worst.” Her voice was toneless, low. She removed her apron, folded it into a trim square, and laid it on the counter. She took a wooden box off the shelf and went into the dining room to count the night’s tips.

  “YOU, SIT,” HIRO said to me, pointing to an empty chair next to Alex. He glanced behind him, reached into his cart, and produced an extra lobster.

  “Oh, no, I don’t want you to get into trouble,” I said, backing away slightly.

  “Just don’t tell Mariko. Who else counts the lobsters? There are hundreds in that freezer.”

  “No, really, I’m fine,” I protested. After so many summers of smelling steaks and lobsters cooking at the steak-house, actually eating some se
emed more a punishment than a treat.

  Alex smiled at me and bowed his head slightly toward Hiro. “He’s being nice,” he said. “Sit down, we can have a nice conversation. I want to talk to you.” Alex tried unsuccessfully to lift some salad with his chopsticks, and finally brought the bowl to his lips.

  “About your mother,” he added, before scooping lettuce into his mouth.

  I watched Hiro’s eyebrows lift as he finished oiling the grill. He pulled out a platter of zucchini and onions and began chopping them furiously.

  “We’ll talk outside,” I said.

  “What?” Alex said, his voice rising above the clatter.

  I cleared my throat. “I’ll meet you in the back garden when you’re done.”

  Alex sat forward in his chair, his forearms resting on the table’s edge, and stared with delight at Hiro’s flashing knives.

  Hiro was a little wild making dinner, swinging his decanter of soy sauce so violently that he shot a large slash of it across the front of his apron. When trying to slam a knife back into its holster, he missed, sending it straight into the wooden floor.

  His trademark close was to leave a piece of meat or fish on the grill. After bowing and turning to leave, he’d pretend to notice the bit, scoop it deftly on a knife, and send it flying in the air. Tonight, the last piece of lobster soared toward the end of the table, landing squarely on Alex’s plate.

  WHITE CHRISTMAS LIGHTS twinkled in the trees of the restaurant’s backyard. Alex was sitting on a stone bench, his eyes closed, when I came out. I stood across the gravel walk from him, buttoning up my jean jacket as the evening began to cool, and he opened his eyes with a start, his face soft and puffy.

  The garden was as satisfyingly scenic as a Hollywood backdrop. There was a round pond with a few carp churning at the bottom, drooping pine trees, and a stone lantern lit with a light bulb. Jagged rocks threw dramatic shadows. Customers often asked to have their picture taken here, smiling for the camera as if on a holiday.

  I always enjoyed the garden, which gave me the sensation of being in a foreign place. I liked that feeling, like seeing palm trees out the window when I once visited Florida. It feels off, slightly strange, and even the mundane becomes evocative: the way people cut their hair, the cars they drive, the food they eat.

  I wonder what it’s like for my mother, each morning when she steps outside her door. Instead of a street lined with low, brown wooden homes, with the sting of salt water heavy in the air, she wakes up to robins singing in trees and a garbage truck rumbling down the street. After thirty years of living here, I wonder if that’s what now feels natural and familiar, or if she still feels a jolt from time to time.

  “Is Japan really like this?” Alex asked.

  “Maybe Tokyo’s Disneyland,” I replied.

  We were silent for a few moments. The wind swirled like water around the nearby trees.

  “I think it’s important that you and I are friends,” Alex said at last.

  “Why do we need to be friends?” I asked.

  “Why not?”

  “Look, Alex, I like you fine. But why do we need to be friends? You’re my mother’s contractor. That’s all.”

  Through the window, I could see Hiro peering at us from behind the bar. I pinched the collar of my jacket tighter around my neck.

  Alex slapped the side of his face. “Who was the chef who cooked for me tonight?” he asked, and checked his palm.

  “Hiro.”

  “He’s very talented. All that crazy slicing and dicing.”

  “No Ginsu knife jokes, please,” I said, and Alex laughed. With each gust of wind, the glittering strings bobbed above us, as if floating on waves.

  Alex exhaled loudly, ending with a dry cough into his fist. “So what do you think of your house?” he asked.

  “I think it’s your business, not mine.”

  “I suppose it is. But I just wanted to know how you feel, considering how protective you are of your mother.”

  I laughed unevenly. “I’m not that protective. Sometimes I just have to look out for her.”

  “It seems to me that looking out for her gives you a kind of purpose,” Alex added.

  I said nothing.

  “She’s a strong woman, your mother.” Alex spoke quietly while gazing at his hands, which lay open on his lap like water lilies.

  “I’m not sure she knows what she wants,” I told him. “You seem to be making a lot of the decisions on your own.”

  “Your mother trusts me.”

  “You’re encouraging her delusions,” I said finally. “My mother loves Pavarotti. Maybe worships is a better word. And with my father gone, she’s that much more vulnerable.”

  “She seems pretty grounded to me,” Alex said gruffly. “She says Pavarotti’s coming, and I believe her. There’s no reason not to,” he said, staring at his hands as if daring them to move.

  I sensed the night around us darken and the scent of the pine trees sharpen. The frogs by the pond croaked with an insane fervor. Alex abruptly rose, his back straightening a few moments after his legs, his hand giving my arm an uncertain pat. He walked onto the stone bridge over the circular pond and paused there for a moment, looking at the reflection of the lights in the deep green water. He reached into his pants pocket for a coin, dropped it into the pond, and watched the ripples widen and fade. Then he headed for the parking lot.

  BEN CARED ABOUT everything, extending himself in all directions at once, embracing new ideas and ventures with an almost desperate energy.

  There were others like him: architecture students who consumed vast quantities of coffee and stayed up all night in order to perfect intricate models that would inevitably end up gathering dust in someone’s attic. While they hunched over their books, I thought about all the architects who designed malls and office parks, the anonymous buildings that simply filled space; I thought about the architects who never designed anything because they couldn’t find jobs.

  I had always loved buildings. Unlike paintings or sculpture, architecture embraced. Whether it be a Romanesque church, a modern library, or a colonial home, the balance of line, proportion, and light aligned my senses in a way that made me understand what the buildings meant—the cozy security of a North American saltbox, the spiritual exultation of a Romanesque cathedral’s nave. Even as a child, I had an extremely good sense of proportion—my hopscotch squares were each identical to the next. When I visited my friends, I’d register mentally what was right or wrong with their houses. I never understood why builders put garages in the front, gaping like toothless mouths, or added extensions that followed the original roof line like a tail.

  At first, studying architecture was fulfilling. I spent hours drawing the ornate Corinthian columns of the main library, and obsessively researched different types of houses, from Navajo hogans to mansarded French country homes. I knew the difference between cavetto and beak molding, and was fascinated by the buttresses and vaulting of Gothic architecture. But as the coursework grew heavier, I became overwhelmed. There were too many skills to master, too much information to memorize. Physics and calculus classes sapped me of creative energy. I spent few daylight hours outside the studio. My love of architecture, which had inspired me early on, seemed to have dried up and disappeared. I felt as if I were slowly being folded into my studies, like fragile egg whites into a dense batter. And I watched, with irritation yet also amazement, as my classmates transformed themselves.

  One boy, formerly nondescript, appeared suddenly with an asymmetrical haircut, wearing perfectly round Philip Johnson glasses. Another boy took to wearing blazing white shirts and neat black pants; he carried an expensive leather backpack and drank coffee from a stainless steel thermos imported from Germany. It was as if they were trying out roles that were not yet naturally theirs. I felt ungainly, having failed to forge an identity for myself. And I began to worry about a future designing layouts for parking garages or, worse, a lifetime of drafting as a bottom feeder at an architectural
firm.

  I liked Ben. But what I wanted was insurance, a job that would make money and a lifestyle that would avoid the twisty swerves of aspiration. Yearning only created vulnerability. Figuring out that Ben wasn’t right for me was easy. All I had to do was listen to the deep sadness of my mother’s voice over the phone to know that it was better to be safe.

  THE EATING HALL was nearly empty. Late-afternoon light filtered through the trees outside the tall trefoil windows, throwing a lacy, gently undulating shadow on the floor. Ben slipped a quarter into the jukebox, and Tom Jones’s muscular voice soon filled the room, asking “What’s New, Pussycat?”

  “Such an excellent song,” he said as he dropped his backpack onto the table and sat down across from me. He dragged out a series of books from his backpack, followed by an apple and a blackened banana.

  “I’ve decided to call my major ‘Modern American Society,’” he said. The school had begun an experimental program that allowed selected students to create their own majors. Ben had eagerly applied. “It’ll have a backbone of government and poli-sci courses, and some history, sociology, and English lit thrown in. I’m even going to include some architecture, so maybe we can take a class together.”

  I sipped my cup of lukewarm coffee. “Sounds interesting,” I said.

  Ben paused. “What’s wrong?”

  “To be honest, it seems a little spaced to me.”

  “Taking architecture?”

  I took a deep breath. “‘Modern American Society.’ I mean, what’s the point?”

  Ben blinked at me. “Does it have to have a point?”

  “Well, we’ve got less than two years left of college, you know. I’d think you’d want to pursue something more disciplined,” I said.

  Irritation flickered across Ben’s face. We sat in prickly silence for a few seconds.