by Isis, Justin
—Anyone who isn’t color-blind, you mean.
I looked down and resumed trimming a dough ball. For some reason I didn’t feel up to a visit from my friend today.
—How’s business? Yoshimori asked.
—Business is business.
—No more of those unfortunate machine-gun robberies?
—Not for a few weeks.
Yoshimori’s restaurant is called Driftwood. I never understood why he chose to call it that, since there was no nautical theme, but it seemed inadvisable to ask and display my ignorance. I knew that if I did, Yoshimori would immediately deadpan a response.
—It seemed more modest than The Premiere Gourmet Experience, he’d say, or:
—It was designated that by the Gastronomic Illuminati.
Or: simply an incredulous silence that something so obvious could have escaped me.
For his part, he’d assumed I’d called my restaurant ‘Kenji’s Pizza’ out of some kind of irony.
—That’s really funny, Furusawa, he always said in a leaden tone when we walked past it.
In fact, I was always on guard around Yoshimori. Since our student days we’d cultivated a deep, private vein of humor that consisted of just such statements, delivered as expressionlessly as possible. Any kind of open laughter was an admission of defeat. The upshot of this was that when we talked, it was frequently impossible for either of us to be certain that what the other said wasn’t sarcasm, an exaggeration, or an outright lie. This made most of our conversations more competition than communication, particularly when we were around a third party, where we felt compelled to utter, in as straightforward and innocuous a manner as we could contrive, all sorts of outrageous boasts and implausible stories. Admittedly, Yoshimori was better at it than I was. I could remember all too many times when, out with a girl or a new acquaintance, I would suddenly burst into laughter as he blandly related one of our imagined exploits.
—Have dinner at Driftwood tomorrow, will you? he said. I’ve got some new entrees I need to debut. Bring Mieko along too.
—You mean you have to get rid of your leftovers somehow.
—You’ve seen right through me, Furusawa. That’s why I need you to bring your wife along.
—Last time you had us over she loved the roast duck... as far as the taste went, I mean. But the presentation was just average. If I’m getting Mieko involved in this, you have to remember her sensibilities.
—Naturally. Keisuke forgot to put out napkins, is all. He’s been dealt with.
Around this point I realized I was sweating. I was close to the ovens, but I hadn’t noticed the heat before. The room seemed to recede before me as I watched.
—You’ll have to excuse me, I said, wiping my brow. I can’t really talk now. Business to attend to...
—I’m sure. Remember: tomorrow night at seven.
Yoshimori turned to leave.
—Wait, I said as he passed out of the kitchen. I don’t know if, uh...
He stopped.
—... I don’t know if Mieko can make it, to be honest. She’s got a meeting with some parents tomorrow night. It might not take that long, but I’m not sure.
—You might as well not even come then, said Yoshimori, hesitating only for a moment. I only really wanted to see her, you see...
—But I might bring some other people.
—You will?
—Yeah. Just one or two people I know.
—So it’s a surprise.
—Something like that.
Yoshimori finally left. I wiped my sleeve across my brow, took a deep breath and checked my watch. The hours remaining before I could leave weighed over me.
When I spoke to Yoshimori of bringing others, I barely knew what I meant myself. A possibility that I could only dimly perceive had presented itself, and I reached for it without thinking. It was only later, as I closed up the restaurant and said goodbye to the staff, that I realized how to proceed.
—Have a good weekend, Mr. Furusawa, Yukino said as she stepped out into the street.
—Just a moment...
—Yeah?
—Hey, I know you said you had plans for this weekend, but Mr. Yoshimori is having something on at his restaurant tomorrow, and he told me to invite some of my staff.
This was the crux. Best not to over-emphasize it.
—Something about a new menu, I added. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. Anyway, I talked to the others earlier and they can’t make it. Would you be up for it?
—What time? Yukino asked.
—Seven.
—A.M. or P.M.?
—P.M., I said, looking at her. It’s dinner.
—Oh, said Yukino, blinking. I think I should be free then.
—That’s fine. Why don’t we meet back here at a quarter to seven, then?
—Okay.
As we moved to part again, I stopped her.
—I just thought of something, I said, the feigned edge of spontaneity slipping into place from years of practice with Yoshimori. Didn’t you say something about a Chinese exchange student?
—Hee Ying?
—That’s right, Hee Ying. Why don’t you invite her too? It’d be good to show her around a bit.
—Sure, I’ll see if she wants to come.
Throughout this exchange I was so preoccupied with the thing lodged in my thoughts that I didn’t notice that my shirt was drenched in sweat. As I turned away from Yukino and headed off into the night, my fists clenched of their own accord. Everyone I passed was a stranger — there was no one to distract me now.
First I considered the number... no, that’s not right — the number considered me, reckoned me against its billion. A meaningless number, and thus impossible to fix — infinite lightness, infinite weight. In considering subject and object in this fashion, a chasm appeared between me and the number and was soon bridged by a realization: I was not doing anything about this large number of Chinese.
As I looked up at a neon sign in the distance and someone brushed past me (a woman’s hand, lightly crossing my arm?), an apparition took hold of my mind. A globe hung in space, in perfect darkness, until, from its center, there radiated a bright band of light, a luminous equator circumscribing its width. Within this golden circle, I understood, was everything Chinese. Before, tiny lights such as myself had flitted across the black globe in even distribution, but now we were pushed back and dispersed. The Chinese circle was the center, and everyone else, myself included, was crowded to the margins of existence.
Once this impression took hold it didn’t leave. Color bled back to my vision, but the circle remained burnt in, superimposed, as if I had looked at the sun. A door had opened in the sky, and through the opening the circle looked down at me. From street to sky we regarded each other. Now I was greeted with the absurd sight of myself disporting under the light of the circle. All of my actions assumed a comical cast; it seemed to me that there was nothing in my life to merit Chinese scrutiny. Even worse was the spectre of my ignorance... how could I call myself a human being when the commonality of most of humanity remained alien to me? As I passed through the streets of Tokyo to return to my wife I realized with terrible certainty my exclusion from a vast Chinese confraternity extending over the mainland, Taiwan, America, Hong Kong, Malaysia, Singapore, the entire surface of the Earth.
•
When I returned home, Mieko was getting ready for bed.
—Busy today? she asked.
—Yeah, typical Friday.
I watched as she cleaned her teeth.
—Actually... there’s going to be this inventory report going on tomorrow, seven at night... I’ll probably be getting back pretty late.
Mieko spat into the sink.
—That’s fine, she said. Will you be all right for dinner?
—What do you mean?
—I’m assuming you’re going to eat there. Or do you want me to leave something out for you?
—No, I’ll probably get something on the way.
—Hey, I said, after a time.
—Mm?
—Have you ever thought about Chinese people?
—Sure.
—I mean really thought about them.
Mieko gave me a little glance out of the corner of her eye.
—I don’t know.
The reading light stayed on. I closed my eyes, but I didn’t feel tired. I adjusted my pillow and turned over, but my thoughts cycled around and around. Finally I sat up and turned to Mieko.
—Just think, millions of Chinese husbands and wives are also in bed right now. I wonder what they say to each other?
—Probably the same kind of things we say to each other.
—Yes, but in Mandarin, Cantonese, Hokkien, or one of the other Chinese dialects. We can’t understand any of them, no one ever bothered to teach us Chinese. Even if they’re saying the same things, there’s still that distinction. They have the ability to converse in Chinese and we don’t.
—Well, I guess we can appreciate it more, then. They probably just take it for granted.
Here Mieko’s cleverness failed her. Taking the Chinese dialects for granted was the point. To think nothing of them — that would be immersion, freedom.
—I really don’t know. Most people are Chinese, and we’re not. Most people are Chinese... and we’re not.
Mieko put her book down and looked at me.
—Kenji... what are you talking about?
—Chinese people.
—Look, it’s not that most people are Chinese. It’s just the largest ethnic group. There’s a big difference. You can’t say most people are Chinese. That doesn’t make sense.
It was apparent that Mieko had failed to grasp the point. Already the workings of her mind were visible behind her eyes, churning through shopping lists, work data, the book she was reading — the “Chinese epiphany” had been missed entirely. I didn’t see any point in trying to expound further on what I was beginning to suspect was something outside of language itself. I turned over and closed my eyes. Eventually the light went out.
But I still couldn't sleep. Sunken in night, there was nothing for me to focus on except my own inaction. Gradually a subtle tremor passed through my senses, barely perceptible, and I saw a strange light ahead of me. I drew a breath and opened up. Endless fires burned in the darkness, their flames fanned away from the light and smoothed into the sweat on my skin. Something was expected of me, something I couldn’t understand, and the more desperate I became to respond, the more the possibility of an appropriate response receded. It was this intensity of estrangement that lit the darkness behind my eyes.
I got out of bed and walked around the room. For a while I looked out the window at the lights below, then I traced a wide circle around the bed, my hands deep in my pockets. Evidently Mieko heard me, as she sat up and turned on the light.
—Kenji, she said. Her eyes were bleary and half-closed.
—Yes?
—Come to bed.
—I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about Chinese people.
Mieko moaned and let her head fall back against her pillow.
—That again?
—Whenever I think about Chinese people I get so excited I can’t concentrate on anything.
—They’re no different from us. They’re just people who happen to live in China.
I faced the window and considered this.
—I guess I just can’t stand not being included.
—What are you talking about?
—I know it sounds crazy but I feel like I’m not allowed to join some kind of club.
Mieko shifted her position in bed, moving to the side nearest the window.
—You belong to the Japanese club. And the Furusawa club.
—I never asked to join them, though. I didn’t have a choice.
—Yeah. But I’m a member too.
She tugged on my nightshirt.
—Come to bed.
—Who had to create that distinction, that some people get to be Chinese and others don’t?
—No one, said Mieko. That’s not even real. You can be half or a quarter or an eighth Chinese. It’s not black and white like that.
—What if they did an experiment where they took a Chinese baby and raised her without telling her she was Chinese? Would she still be Chinese?
—I don’t know. If I say yes, will you come to bed?
I turned away from the window and sat down beside her.
—The more I think about it, I can’t see any limit. It’s like a vertical strip, going up into infinity.
Without warning, Mieko sneezed.
•
I hardly need mention that I didn’t get any sleep that night. Lying beside Mieko in the dark, I tried to narrow my thoughts by remembering the recipes for dishes I hadn’t prepared in years. But I struggled to remember anything, and I soon decided this kind of sustained concentration was beyond me. There was nothing to do but lie and wait for the hours to pass.
In the morning I repeated the daily rituals with Mieko, reading the paper as I sat at the table, and again she left before me. This was what I had intended. My restaurant was closed, but I told Mieko I would be in and out during the day, taking stock, before the ‘inventory check’ in the evening. In truth I had nothing to do, but I imagined that I would indeed make the trip, if only to allow myself time to think. But I soon found myself unable to leave. All I could do was stare down at the paper and let my cup of coffee cool in front of me.
Soon enough I remembered my situation. Fearing a reprise of the previous night, I rebelled. I denied China — there was no such country, there were no such people. My disbelief advanced and retreated, parrying and thrusting, a brittle thing flickering at the rim of my thoughts. Of course, I couldn’t maintain the pretense, and before long China was reborn in the depths of my mind. In this frenzied state there was nothing for me to do but smile. Sitting by myself I faced the wall and grinned.
There was a way out: I decided that if enough Chinese acknowledged my existence in some fashion, it would become something other than the vague writing in sand it now seemed. My only recourse was to befriend as many Chinese people as possible. But I had no idea how to go about this.
In this state of desperation it was natural that I should want to share my thoughts with someone. Mieko had proved unhelpful, and I knew Yoshimori would never believe anything I said. The only person I could think of was my brother, Toshio. It was several hours until his lunch break.
I spent most of the waiting time watching television. I turned the volume up to the max setting.
When I finally called, Toshio answered immediately.
—It’s me.
—Kenji, hi...
Toshio and I had never openly fought, but it wouldn’t be accurate to say we were on good terms. We were close growing up, but drifted apart over the years. He thought my restaurant was pretentious, and I wasn’t interested in his salaryman concerns. Under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t have confided in him.
—Toshio, I need to talk to you in person.
—Why?
—I can’t explain right now.
—Okay. I think I might be free tomorrow night, but it’ll be late.
—No, see... I need to talk to you right now.
—Lunch break’s almost over, Kenji. I’ve got an appointment at one-thirty.
Toshio sounded bored.
—Just... look. I need to talk to you, right now.
—What, is it a matter of life and death?
—It’s more important than that.
There was a pause.
—Yeah...?
Though he didn’t say as much, Toshio now assumed I was talking about money.
—Yeah. Come over here now.
I tried to sound grave, but more than anything I felt tired. There was sti
ll no way I could sleep, but all energy seemed to be slowly draining from me.
Toshio arrived within twenty minutes. It was fast, given the commute.
—Nice to know someone has a day off, he said.
I looked down and realized I was still wearing my nightclothes. Why hadn’t Mieko said anything?
—Toshio.
—Yeah? Well, what is it? What’s this more important than life and death thing?
I sighed and drained my coffee mug. I’d been drinking it steadily since the early morning, but it wasn’t kicking in. My muscles seemed to slacken. Through the open window I could hear a car horn below. I blinked. Then, as my brother stood before me, glancing at his watch, I began to speak.
—There are roughly six billion people in the world, I said. Of these, one-point-three billion are Chinese.
—Yeah? So?
—Of this one-point-three billion, sixty million are overseas Chinese.
Toshio stared at me, waiting for me to continue. I said nothing.
—Yeah, and?
—Chinese New Year takes place in February, I intoned, as if reciting a spell. During the festivities, individuals receive ‘red packets’ filled with money.
I stopped again. A look of incomprehension appeared on my brother’s face. He looked around the room, then back at me.
Toshio was trying to figure out why I’d called him over, why I was wasting his time. All of his analytical energies were engaged as he furiously cycled through the possibilities: some kind of joke; Mieko had left me and I’d cracked up; a malicious attempt to distract him from his clients and sabotage his career. I knew enough about how he thought to realize that, as he stood before me shaking his head, he was certain of the truth of one or all of them.
—Did you call me here just to give me this information?
I looked at him.
—Some Chinese people speak Mandarin. Others speak Cantonese, I said at last.
—Yeah, that’s great. That’s really great. You know, I’m going to be lucky to even make it back by one forty-five now. I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, calling me up like this.
I stared at him. After a moment, he left. I heard his footsteps outside — steady and even, but hurried.
