Facing the Bridge

by Yoko Tawada

  “Hey, you there! Stop! Wait a minute!” the owner of the general store yelled as I passed by. I didn’t have time to chat but the smell of goat’s milk wafting from the shop made me so hungry I was sure I’d never make it to the post office if I didn’t eat something so I relented and walked inside and immediately grabbed a piece of goat cheese and shoved it into my mouth. Then I realized my wallet was back at the house. I wanted to cry. Without my wallet I wouldn’t be able to buy stamps at the post office. And if I went back to get it the post office would close. I really did burst into tears. When I finally looked up the woman was watching me with great interest. As she was trapped in the shop every day of the year incidents like this must be her only source of amusement. Plus there’s something undeniably fascinating about watching someone cry so it’s nothing to get upset about I thought as I stood there teary-eyed until I eventually realized that although I was crying I didn’t feel the least bit sad. I proceeded to explain everything to the woman from beginning to end and when I finished she went to the back of the shop fetched an imported tea can and placed a handful of bills from the can into my hand.

  “Here. I’ll lend you this.” The bills were disconcertingly slick and so light that I thought I was holding children’s play money. But it was better than nothing. And she was definitely trying to help. It didn’t matter why. Perhaps she didn’t have a reason. Maybe she was bored. Clutching the bills and wondering why I felt absolutely no sense of gratitude I left the shop.

  As I ran along the road by the banana grove I remembered the man in the straw hat leaning against the wall who had asked me in a sarcastic tone, “Think you’ll make it in time?” He obviously couldn’t have understood what he was saying despite having a knack for perceiving the crux of the matter. Yet now if I could only keep this pace up without falling I was sure to make it in time. I ran. On the way I passed the deserted beach. I was astonished to see a boy of about seven using an evil-looking metal toy sword to hit what looked like a stone beside the changing stalls. Holding the envelope tightly to my chest I walked over to him. I simply couldn’t let him continue. For as I walked closer I saw that as I had suspected he was striking not a stone but a living thing—a turtle with its head and legs drawn in. I took hold of the boy’s hand from behind and gently squeezed. I wanted to speak to him but didn’t know what to say. His hand was hot and sticky. He looked up at me and pinched my cheek wrenching the flesh upward.

  “OUCH!” I screamed without thinking. He actually didn’t mean to hurt me. I didn’t know this at the time but harming me was the farthest thing from his mind.

  “Your cheek had some dirty skin on it,” he said in perfect innocence. He was only trying to clean me up. He had seen a smudge on my cheek and wanted to rip it off. Not comprehending that skin doesn’t come off so easily he was only acting out of kindness. He then turned his attention to the envelope I was holding to my chest and stared at it as if he were appraising its value. Sensing danger I intentionally lowered my voice and said, “Let’s go peek in the stalls. There’s bound to be lots of pretty ladies changing inside.” It was a foolish thing to say and I felt utterly disgusted with myself. Showing absolutely zero interest the boy continued to eye my envelope. I gave his back a shove and pushed him over to one of the stall doors.

  “Come on. Lets look inside. It’ll be fun. You can see everything, you know.” I pushed him so hard into the empty stall that he fell face down on the floor and after slamming the door shut behind him I piled some heavy stones against it. I was positive he couldn’t escape. Small as he was he already had the air of Saint George about him. Which was why he wanted to steal my envelope. He could bang on the door as much as he liked but he was in there for good. Maybe his nose was bleeding. Now I can go to the post office I thought with a sigh of relief.

  As I cut across the beach I saw the ice cream vendor coming toward me in the distance. By the time I wondered why he was selling ice cream this early in the morning it was already too late. He was in front of me and with a confident smile lifted a bronze sword from the ice cream cart. He looked so much like the little boy I asked myself how the boy could have grown so fast. I couldn’t physically overpower him this time. My first instinct was to look down demurely. The young man placed his left hand on my shoulder. His right hand still held the sword.

  “I don’t see how I can do it alone,” I said praying he wouldn’t notice the envelope I was holding behind my back.

  “Sure you can,” he replied while clumsily but tenderly stroking my hair. I could tell it wasn’t my hair but my skin he wanted to touch. One of his fingers tried to slide into my ear but it was too fat and slipped along my shoulder onto my bare upper arm down to my elbow. “Your skin’s gotten so rusty,” he said looking quite happy. I wasn’t sure what he was trying to imply though it couldn’t have been anything good.

  “Because I’m getting old. You’re lucky you’re still young,” I answered carefully. If he read my mind everything would end I thought not knowing what I meant by this.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You’ve matured, that’s all. Your skin might start peeling off you know,” he said lightly touching my arm with the blade of his sword. Though I can’t say I felt any pain a narrow strip of skin peeled off and hung from the tip of the blade. Red spots appeared on my naked flesh where blood welled to the surface. I felt ashamed of the spots.

  “I really admire you. You have what it takes to get things done on time. I don’t even start until the last possible moment. But once you start you always stay focused, don’t you? I can’t. My mind wanders, so …” Doubts lurked in the back of my mind as to why I had suddenly launched into this self-accusing monologue. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism.

  “I have so little ambition that no matter how hard I work I end up going around in circles. You stand out in a crowd so nobody has any trouble remembering your name. People forget mine as soon as they hear it. The work I do really isn’t difficult for anyone with decent language skills but the talented ones don’t want to waste their time with dumb jobs like mine. I envy you. I bet you decided what you wanted to be when you were still a kid. And once you made up your mind, you never wavered.”

  “Forget it. It’s too late for flattery,” the youth said unswayed. Every time he touched me with the blade my reddish-brown skin turned purple. He seemed determined to flay my whole body that it was something he felt he absolutely had to do for my sake.

  “There’s nothing to worry about anymore,” he whispered twice. Though he did look a little embarrassed he was obviously proud of his handiwork. I couldn’t move and my mind became completely empty. This was only natural as I was trapped in the embrace of the Saint George I hated so much. I was suffocating and I knew I had to run away quick with my envelope.

  “You’re going to be all right,” said the youth gently.

  When I replied with the first thing I could think of he gasped and pushed me away. “What about your horse? Look! Over there! It’s getting away. You must’ve forgotten to tie it up.” I saw the shadow of a horse galloping along the sea wall. The young man swung around and raced off in that direction. He was so spry and quick he could only have been Saint George even if he had lost his horse. I ran up the hill toward the post office.

  I was almost there when I saw another Saint George blocking my way. He was smiling with his arms stretched out across the entire width of the road. Unlike the youth he was a little pudgy.

  “Give me the envelope now. I know you have it.” I sank down into the street. My knees felt so weak I couldn’t muster the strength to stand up again. The man rolled his eyes and said, “Aw, come on. I didn’t mean it that way. I was only joking. You shouldn’t take everything I say so seriously. I was just a little upset with you. You did lie to me about your travel plans, didn’t you? That made me mad. But it’s nothing to worry about. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  What he said was true. I had lied to everyone about my schedule even saying that I would be flying to a completely different
island. I knew I was in trouble when I bumped into George’s best friend at the airport.

  “Get up now. It’s okay. Let’s be friends and go have a cup of espresso together.”

  Taking my arm the man pulled me up into his fleshy chest and we started to walk. Suddenly enveloped by the fragrance of eucalyptus I looked up and was startled to see a single tree standing by the side of the road looking down on us. Perhaps everything was fine. I began to feel it might be. I could forget about my envelope and let nature take its course.

  We went into the café behind the post office. The moment we opened the door the men sitting at the bar turned around to look at us. The scent of papaya liqueur floated in the air.

  “Must’ve been so hard for you,” said the man as he put a hand on my shoulder and began sucking on my earlobe. The men at the bar turned away.

  “Oh, I don’t know about so hard …”

  “But you must have been lonely.”

  “I had the islanders to talk to. And besides I had my work.”

  “You have an easy life.”

  “Work is work.”

  “You don’t need to worry anymore.”

  “I wanted to translate something to the very end.”

  “You have an easy life.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You’ll never do it. But why don’t you forget all about it now?”

  “My shoulders got stiff.”

  “People whose shoulders aren’t stiff are nicer.”

  “Because I didn’t have enough time.”

  “But it’s over now so there’s nothing else you can do.”

  “This morning I was so busy I didn’t even have time to go to the bathroom. I really don’t have time.”

  “Isn’t our espresso ready yet?”

  “Excuse me.” A strange passion gripped me in the chest and I stood up. I had to act now. Perhaps there was still time. But if I let this chance slip by there would never be another.

  The bathroom was behind the counter. As soon as I entered the flies flocked to the moisture on the back of my neck. They greedily sucked up my sweat and every time I shooed them away they would rise into an arc and fly right back again. As I expected there was a window with frosted glass at the back. I pushed the window open and climbed out falling headfirst to the other side. I landed in a sort of garbage dump where the chill of rotten fruit peelings clinging to my neck drove the flies away at once. In a panic I struggled to get up but moved too quickly so that I tipped sideways causing my head to squish into something soft like tar—a black and sticky substance impossible to get out of my hair or off my fingers no matter how much I pulled. As I couldn’t find a firm foothold whenever I tried to stand I sank into a swamp-like morass. Among soggy pieces of cardboard at the cusp of complete disintegration rolls of brown wrapping paper were still dry and crisp enough to crackle furiously. Finally I steadied myself on a wooden crate and was able to stand up.

  The garbage dump led into the post office’s back garden which I crossed to find a bicycle rack with a single bike beneath a lone palm tree and a door almost hidden by the tree. The door wasn’t locked.

  The floor of the post office was soaked. Dirty scraps of paper floated in the scattered puddles of muddy water. Near the front entrance was another Saint George in tall rubber boots stabbing something over and over again with what looked like a fencing rapier. The “something” was reddish-brown as small as a cat and as amorphous as a piece of doormat. Brown water splashed around as it either resisted or tried to escape or perhaps wasn’t alive after all. Saint George seemed almost bored the way he half-heartedly sawed back and forth with his sword but then he would suddenly bare his teeth and thrust with a vengeance. Whenever he let out an occasional groan or cheer the “something” was silent. Nothing happened. And it looked like nothing ever would. Nevertheless Saint George diligently continued to move his sword back and forth.

  “Where’s the man who works here?” I asked. Without stopping to look at me Saint George answered politely, “He’s gone home.” I reached behind the counter and opened a box full of official airmail and express mail seals which I rummaged through for a while before remembering I was actually looking for stamps. I couldn’t find any in the box. I had to send this envelope immediately and there were no stamps! I looked more closely at the “something” that was thrashing around in the dirty water.

  “That is not my skin is it?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” answered Saint George elegantly with a merry laugh.

  Then I realized something truly horrifying. The envelope was gone. What I was holding in my hand was not the envelope but a piece of wet carpet. I must have dropped the envelope in the trash heap and picked up this useless rag instead. Throwing the soggy carpet to the floor I rushed into the garden. As I ran for the dump I saw someone standing ahead of me blocking my line of vision. It was the previous Saint George with a demitasse of espresso in each hand. Steam rose from the cups.

  “Where were you?” The gentle voice from before was replaced with a frightening growl deep within his throat. “Why did you climb out the window?” I whipped around in the direction of the post office. This was no situation I could bluff my way out of. I was off on a good running start when my ankle cracked and I nearly collapsed.

  “Fall!” commanded a deep voice from behind. But I didn’t fall. I ran into the post office. The Saint George of a moment before was gone. In his place was a puddle of deep red water. Splashing through the puddle to the front door I burst into the street. My shoes were wet and about to fall off as the laces were loose but I couldn’t stop. As I ran toward the beach my shoelaces trailed behind me.

  I chose that direction because it was a downward slope. I didn’t have the energy to climb up so I ran down letting my legs move mechanically right foot forward first then the left foot. In time I would reach an expanse of sand. If I didn’t stop I’d reach the sea which would be another dead end. Hemmed in on each side by seawall and lodging houses I’d be unable to flee in any direction except forward straight into the sea. I probably wouldn’t choose this though seeing how I could only swim a distance of twenty-five meters. If not into the water then where else could I escape? I wouldn’t know until the ocean loomed before my eyes. How much further was it? Far away or really quite near? With these and many other questions on my mind I ran on down the slope.

  Translator’s Afterword

  Facing the Bridge is Yoko Tawada’s third collection of stories published in the United States. Tawada, who writes in both German and Japanese, is not nearly as interested in crossing borders as she is in the borders themselves—the spaces in between that are hidden by conventional bridges, including official channels of communication (she has a profound mistrust of words like “information” and “communication”). So in the title of this volume she chooses to face the bridge, to stare it down, perhaps, refusing to cross. Through her writing she seeks to create a new kind of bridge—not as a structure built of stone or concrete, but as a physical process, a continuing dance.

  In Tawada’s play Till, a group of Japanese tourists on a guided tour through the Niedersaxon region of Germany encounter the medieval trickster Till Eulenspiegel. The play was performed in Germany and Japan (I saw it in Tokyo), with the actors speaking either German or Japanese according to their roles, which meant that the majority of the audience in each country could understand only half the dialogue. The Japanese guide—the only character proficient in both languages—initially acts as her tour group’s “bridge” to the foreign culture, dispensing information about wine, hotels, and German society in general. Until Till appears, that is, bringing in his wake a number of stock characters from medieval Germany—a blacksmith, a butcher, and a landowner—plus an assortment of more bizarre types, including a woman with a third eye in her forehead, a motley group with mushrooms growing out of their heads, and mysterious dog-headed figures. The guide continues to expound on the position of the craftsman in medieval society, but as her informat
ion is now useless (who needs a lecture when there’s a medieval blacksmith standing in front of you?) she is duly ignored. As the guided tour disintegrates, the actors run, leap, and glide across the stage until it seems they are indeed dancing their way to a new sort of bridge.

  Travel as a state of being in between places is a major motif in Tawada’s work; like the tour group in Till, the characters in the three stories collected here are all travelers. The stories were originally published in three different books, but I thought it would be interesting to place the narrator of “Saint George and the Translator,” who rejects the idea of tourism altogether (“I only came here to translate!” she says) side by side with Kazuko of “In Front of Trang Tien Bridge,” who is so dedicated to tourism that she identifies herself as “a member of the tourist race.” The question of race, in its more conventional sense, figures most prominently in the first story, “The Shadow Man.”

  Both Amo and Tamao of “The Shadow Man” are reluctant travelers. As is well known in Germany but perhaps less so in the United States, Amo was a real person, known as Anton Wilhelm Amo, or simply Amo of Ghana. Brought to Europe by Dutch slave traders early in the eighteenth century, he spent much of his childhood in the palace of Anton Ulrich, the Duke of Braunschweig-Wolfenbüttel, to whom he was given as a present. The Duke and his son Wilhelm sponsored Amo’s studies first at the University of Halle and later at the University of Wittenburg, where he was awarded a doctorate in philosophy for a dissertation entitled On the Absence of Sensation in the Human Mind and its Presence in our Organic and Living Body. He taught philosophy both at Halle and Jena, but after the deaths of his patrons he became increasingly vulnerable to vicious racist attacks and eventually returned to his homeland, where he is thought to have died in a Dutch fort—imprisoned, some say, to prevent him from inciting protest among his people—sometime around 1759.