We’d talked about this before after she’d first spoken to the people at Morita Pro Music, but she always made sure to bring it up, as if these facts would cause me to change my mind.
“You’d be a company worker like your father—an employee of Morita Pro Music. It’s a job, you know. And you wouldn’t have time to see Chisato and Naoko. You’d be very busy, working all the time.”
I nodded.
“And your mom would miss you, you know?”
She always made sure to say this, too. Yes, I knew she would miss me. The lump in my throat grew bigger by the minute. My eyes fixated on the runny ice cream in front of me, turning to soup in the glass boat.
My mother stared at my face. “Are you absolutely sure you’d want to do this?”
Yes! I’ve never been so sure about anything in my whole life! I wanted to scream, but instead I only nodded. I was too exhausted to utter a word, and what did it matter? I’d said it to her many times before.
She knew the answer.
On the train ride home my mother read her home décor magazine and I sent messages to Chisato and Naoko on my cell phone, telling them about the audition and that I really wasn’t sure if I had a chance. Immediately they wrote back, saying they knew I would pass, but I wasn’t so confident.
With another thirty minutes to go before we’d arrive home, I fiddled with my phone. What was the name of my mother’s idol again, I wondered. Akiko Takeda? What did she look like? I typed her name and found her picture immediately. Of course she looked hopelessly out of date. Dressed in a sailor suit, she had short, feathered hair, and her teeth looked a little too big for her mouth. But she was cute and sparkly with bright brown eyes, a dimple on her left cheek, and a sweet smile. Underneath her picture it said:
Akiko Takeda, nicknamed “Akko” and winner of the prestigious “Newcomer of the Year” award, was one of the biggest idols in the 1980s, with hits that included “Spring Song,” “Heart Kimagure” and “Kuchibiru Wonderful.” But her life was tragically cut short at the age of seventeen when she leapt to her death from the seventh floor of the Morita Pro Music building in Shinjuku. She left no note, but it was widely believed that she was despondent over her career, although at the time of her death “Kuchibiru Wonderful” was number one on the charts. Thousands of fans kept vigil for days at her death site and the subsequent copycat suicides that swept the nation over the ensuing weeks and months were dubbed “Akko Syndrome.”
I gazed at my mother’s face, then took her hand and patted it. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll be okay.”
During the following weeks, each day when I arrived home from school, I hoped to hear the good news that I’d passed the audition. But no phone call came. What a relief, though, to find that a letter hadn’t arrived either, saying how awful I’d been and how Fujita-san must have been having a poor judgment day when he tracked me down in Harajuku.
Only Chisato and Naoko knew about my audition.
“What are you going to do if you don’t pass, Yu-chan?” Naoko asked. “I mean, I’m sure you will, but . . .”
I didn’t know how to answer her question.
It was a Friday afternoon when I came home to see my mother sitting at the kitchen table. She wasn’t chopping carrots or beating eggs or drinking coffee. She wasn’t watching Longing to Hug on television. She wasn’t even wearing her favorite apron—the one with the fat penguin that said Let’s Housewife! She wasn’t doing anything. It was quiet. I could only hear the ticking of the orange wall clock, the one in the shape of a watering can, and the humming of the refrigerator.
My mother’s face looked drained of color. It must be something bad, I thought. Someone must have died.
I sat down across from her. “What happened?”
She didn’t answer.
“Mom?”
She looked me in the eye. “Yu-chan, are you absolutely sure you want to do this?”
It took me a moment to understand her question. “Did they call?”
She nodded, but she wasn’t smiling.
“So can I? Can I?” I’d never felt more desperate in my entire life.
She clasped her hands, and I could hear the cracking of her knuckles. “I talked to your father,” she said with a small, resigned sigh. “He said it’s okay.”
The rush ricocheting through my body lifted me up from my chair. I threw my arms around her shoulders and pressed my cheek to her neck, holding on as tightly as I could. I was determined to make sure that she would never regret letting me go.
The Dragon and the Poet
by Kenji Miyazawa
translated by Misa Dikengil Lindberg
At high tide Chanata the dragon lifted himself up out of the water flowing into his cave. The morning sun glittered as it streamed through the cave’s sliver of an opening, illuminating the contours of the rough sea floor and the red and white sea creatures suctioned to the rocks.
Chanata gazed for a moment, mesmerized, at the misty blue water. Then he raised his eyes to the narrow mouth of his cave. He looked out over the ocean, which danced and sparkled in the sunlight, to the pale, blue-green line of the horizon.
“Oh, if I were free,” Chanata sighed, “I would swim out into the endless ocean. With a gust of smoky, black breath, I would soar up into the clear sky. But, alas, I am imprisoned here. The mouth of this cave is barely large enough to afford a glimpse of the outside world. Oh, Dragon King, Your Highness. Forgive me for my crime and release me from this curse!”
Chanata turned and looked sadly back into his cave. Thick beams of sunlight streamed in, reflecting off the shimmering blue and white scales of his tail. Suddenly Chanata heard a young voice calling from outside. He turned to see who it could be.
“Most honorable Chanata. Emboldened by this morning’s sun, I have come to ask for your forgiveness.” A wealthy-looking young man, decorated with golden charms and bearing a long golden sword, sat on the flat, moss-covered stones outside the cave.
“What have I to forgive you for?” Chanata asked.
“Oh, dear dragon. Yesterday I took part in a poetry recital competition. The people there could not stop praising me and my poem. Even Alta, the most esteemed poet in the land, rose to offer me his seat of honor. He crowned me with a wreath made of vines and sang a sweet hymn in my honor. Then he left. With no place for him here any longer as a poet, he took off for the distant, snowy mountains of the east. The other people at the competition soon set me on a rickshaw, and I—oh, I became intoxicated by the beauty of the poem I had just sung. My heart fluttered with excitement, and I felt as if I would drown in the shower of praise and flowers thrown upon me.
“But later that night, after I left the house of Rudas, the wealthy host of the celebration, something very strange happened. I was returning to my poor mother’s house, walking through glistening, dewy grass, when suddenly the moon disappeared behind a milky, reddish cloud, and the sky grew dark. As I looked up to see what had happened, I heard a voice whisper from the Miruda Forest:
“‘Young Surudatta. You stole your poem from Chanata, the old dragon trapped in the cave. You used the poem to win today’s competition and drive the old poet Alta to the east.’
“Suddenly my legs began to shake uncontrollably and I could not walk any farther. I spent the rest of last night there on the grass, anguished and confused. Slowly, I began to remember that I went to the cliff above your cave every day, never knowing you were there, of course. Exhausted from composing and reciting poems, I would sit and doze off. It was on one dark, windy day that I thought I heard a poem in a dream. But Chanata, now I realize that it was you who composed that beautiful poem! You are the one who should be honored by everyone, not me. Oh, dear dragon, our true poet, tomorrow I will throw ashes on my head in repentance. In the town square, I will apologize to you and everyone else. Can you ever forgive me?”
But Chanata only asked, “What was the poet Alta’s hymn like, the one he sang in your honor?”
“Well, my head is
a little muddled from everything that has happened, so I don’t know if I can remember his glorious words and melody exactly. But I think it went something like this:
No sooner do winds sing,
Clouds billow,
And waves resound,
Than you sing their song, Surudatta.
The stars follow your words,
The land forms to your vision.
You create the model of beauty and truth
For the future.
In time you will become this world’s prophet,
For you are an architect, Surudatta.
“May the great poet Alta find happiness,” Chanata said.
“Surudatta, the poem you recited last night is every bit as much yours as it is mine. Do you really believe I recited that poem in my cave? Or was I just thinking it? Did you, up on the cliff, actually hear that poem? Or did you compose it?
“You see, Surudatta, when you heard the poem, I was the clouds and the winds, but so were you. Had Alta been meditating at that same time, he probably would have sung the same poem too.
“But Surudatta, Alta’s words and your words would not have been the same. Nor would mine and yours have been the same. The rhythm would probably also have been different. So you see, that poem belongs to you, just as it also belongs to the spirits of the clouds and the wind.”
“Dear dragon, does that mean you have forgiven me?” Surudatta asked.
“Who is forgiving whom? We are all the winds, the clouds, and the water—each and every one of us equally so. Oh, Surudatta, if I were free and you were not afraid of me, I would comfort you in my arms right now. But since that is impossible, I would like to give you a small gift. Hold out your hands.” Chanata produced a tiny red pearl and offered it to the young man. The pearl was bright, flaming red as if a million fires burned within it.
“Take this pearl as an offering when you go to the ocean in search of the sunken sutras,” Chanata instructed.
Surudatta fell to his knees before the dragon. “Oh, Chanata. You have no idea how long I have yearned for this moment—to meet one with your wisdom and receive the gift that will help me on my journey toward truth. How can I ever begin to thank you? I have one question, though, if you will permit. How is it that a mighty dragon like you is trapped here in this cave?”
“A thousand years ago I reigned over all the winds and clouds,” Chanata began. “One day I wanted to test my strength, and in doing so I caused terrible misfortune to humankind. The Dragon King banished me to this cave for a hundred thousand years and ordered me to watch over the border between land and sea. I spend every day here regretting my crime and offering apologies to the king.”
“Oh, Chanata. I still have my mother to look after. But when she is happily reborn in heaven, I will immediately go to the ocean and begin searching for those great lost sutras. Will you wait for me here until that day comes?” Surudatta asked.
“A thousand human years is not even ten days to a dragon,” Chanata answered.
“One more thing,” said Surudatta. “Will you hold onto this pearl until then? In the meantime, every day possible I will return here to observe the sky and water and gaze up at the clouds. And together, you and I will discuss plans to create a new world.”
“You do not know how happy that would make this old dragon.”
“Farewell, Chanata.”
“Farewell.”
With a glad heart, Surudatta walked off along the rocks, while Chanata the dragon eased himself into the deep water near the back of the cave and quietly began repeating his prayers of repentance.
Just Wan-derful
By Louise George Kittaka
The good news: Eighth grader Takeshi “Tak” Matsumoto had just landed a leading role in a series on national Japanese TV. The bad news: His co-stars were a guy who modeled for romance novel covers in his spare time, a woman who sounded like Minnie Mouse on helium, and a purple dog.
Note to self: Find out if that contract Mum signed with the TV studio is binding.
It was originally his mother’s idea to sign up Tak and his younger sister, Keina, with a talent agency. Keina got some modeling jobs right away, but Tak was already bigger than the standard sample sizes for kids’ clothing, so he got nothing. Occasionally the agency called about auditions for this or that, but Tak usually wasn’t Japanese-looking enough when they wanted a Japanese kid, and he wasn’t gaijin-looking enough when they wanted a gaijin kid. His mother was from New Zealand and his father was Japanese. Being labeled “half” didn’t bother him, but it bothered his mother. She spent a lot of time explaining to Japanese people that “bicultural” was a better description for kids like Tak and Keina.
When someone from the agency called in February about the audition, Tak hadn’t been too excited. They told his mother it was a voice-over job for a new kids’ TV show. But he was trying to save money to get a DJ set, so he agreed to give it a go.
The auditions were being done in boy-girl pairs. Tak got called with a half girl who said she was in the eighth grade at an international school. He was just wearing a T-shirt and baggy shorts, but she was dressed up like something from one of those lame teen fashion magazines that Keina liked to drool over. He immediately sized her up as a “chanto shita girl”—his name for those really annoying girls who try to act so perfect. She had a toothy grin on her face the whole time, which she probably thought made her look cute. It actually made her look constipated, thought Tak.
The man and woman leading the audition asked them to sing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” then read a dialogue in English. Naturally, Chanto Shita Girl did all this perfectly. Tak decided just to have fun with it. The music for the song was way too high, so he did it in a falsetto voice. And while he could speak English like an eighth grader, Tak went to regular Japanese school, so he certainly couldn’t read it that well. He put on a fake accent to help cover up the words he couldn’t pronounce. By this time, the two interviewers were in fits of laughter, but Chanto Shita Girl’s smile was strained—she definitely didn’t approve of his antics. Not that Tak cared.
Note to self: Never, ever date a chanto shita girl.
Tak figured that he had well and truly screwed up the audition, so the first surprise was when the agency called three days later to say he had got the job. The second was that he wasn’t doing a voice role—he was being offered one of the leads in a regular English educational show. His mother immediately got very excited and started talking about “my son, the star!” while his father gave his usual speech about how it couldn’t interfere with school. Keina was just plain jealous.
One of the talent agency’s staff accompanied Tak and his mother to a meeting at the TV studio. The show was being filmed at the AJE-TV (All Japan Education Television) headquarters in downtown Shibuya. The producer told them the show was called Wan-derful English and would be aimed at Japanese elementary school kids. Then he explained the “concept”: An American family moves to Tokyo and adopts a robot dog, then they have to “teach” it English.
Note to self: Wan-derful English? Someone got paid to come up with that title?
Tak was asked about his schedule and he told them Sundays weren’t good, since that was when his American football team practiced. He was fine with missing school, though. Then his mother had to jump in and ask how filming the show would affect summer vacation, since the family always visited Tak and Keina’s grandparents in New Zealand. The producer said filming for the entire series would wrap up by mid-July, and they understood that summer vacation was important to “gaijin families.” Tak’s mother didn’t look too pleased, and started to explain that the correct term was “bicultural Japanese–New Zealand family,” but thankfully, the producer had another meeting to attend and so Tak managed to escape with minimal embarrassment.
Note to self: Don’t bring Mum to the studio again.
The following week, his mother had to meet at the talent agent’s office to sign Tak’s contract for the show, and Tak got called bac
k to the studio yet again to meet the other actors. He had given his mother strict instructions just to drop him off and then wait until he phoned her at the end.
Tak’s TV “Dad” was Trent from LA, who taught hot yoga when he wasn’t modeling or acting. He gave Tak his card, saying he was a finalist in an online contest to choose a cover model for some romance novel. “Mom” was Narelle from Sydney, and she spoke in the very high voice used by women who teach English to little kids. At first Tak wondered if she was being smart by staying in character, but he soon realized this was her normal voice. It was making his ears bleed. Neither “Dad” nor “Mom” looked a day over thirty. The other regular cast member was a young woman called Shana, another “half” like Tak. He had seen her on TV before. She seemed nice enough, if only he could get his head round the fact that she was doing the voice for a robot dog.
Tak’s character was “Jimmy Johnson.” Someone sure spent a lot of time thinking up that name, Tak thought. As for the robot dog, he was Wan-chan, or “Doggy” in Japanese. At least now Tak understood the play on words for “Wan-derful English”—it made sense, kind of. Wan-chan had been designed by a famous robotics expert from Tokyo University, Professor Handa. The dog itself was still a secret to the cast and most of the crew and would be “revealed” on the first day of rehearsal.
“I wrote the website for that cover model contest on the card I gave you!” Trent called as Tak left the studio. “Be sure to go online and vote for me!”
Note to self: Be sure to lose his card on the way home.
The agency faxed the rehearsal and filming schedule for the first month.The basic pattern would be rehearsal on Thursday evenings from 5:00 to 9:00 p.m., and then filming on Saturdays from 10:00 a.m. for “as long as needed.” Tak was pleased that he had Sundays free for football, and his father was pleased that Tak wouldn’t be missing any school.
In mid-February the scripts for the first two episodes arrived, since they would be filming two at a time, starting that weekend. The first episode centered on a friend presenting the Johnson family with the robot dog as a “welcome to Japan” gift. There was also some extra dialogue at the end for the show’s interactive website.
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