The Japanese Lover

by Isabel Allende

  “There’s a widespread belief no one dares mention in public that we old people are redundant, we take up space and use resources that productive people need,” she used to say.

  She did not recognize many of the people in the photographs, fleeting faces from the past who could be done without. In others, the ones Irina stuck in the albums, she could appreciate the stages of her life, the passing years with their birthdays, parties, holidays, graduations, and weddings. These were happy moments, as nobody took pictures of the unhappy ones. She herself hardly featured in them, but by early autumn Irina was better able to appreciate the woman Alma had once been. Nathaniel’s photographic portraits of her, part of the Belasco Foundation’s legacy, were discovered by San Francisco’s small artistic world, and a newspaper dubbed Alma the best-photographed woman in the city.

  At Christmas the previous year, an Italian publisher had brought out a selection of Nathaniel’s photographs in a luxury edition. A few months later an astute American agent organized one exhibition in New York and another in the most prestigious gallery on San Francisco’s Geary Street. Alma refused to take part in these projects or to speak to the press. She said she preferred to be seen as the model of those years and not as the old lady of today, but confessed to Irina that this was out of not vanity but caution. She didn’t have the strength to reexamine that period in her past; she was afraid of what the camera might reveal that was invisible to the naked eye. Yet Seth’s insistence finally overcame her resistance. Her grandson had visited the gallery several times and been impressed. There was no way he was going to let Alma miss the exhibition: to him it seemed like an insult to Nathaniel’s memory.

  “Do it for Grandfather, who’ll be turning in his grave if you don’t go. I’ll come to fetch you tomorrow. Tell Irina to come with us. The pair of you will be surprised.”

  He was right. Irina had leafed through the Italian edition, but nothing prepared her for the impact of those enormous portraits. Seth drove the three of them there in the family’s heavy Mercedes-Benz, since it was impossible for them to fit either in Alma’s car or on his motorbike. They went at a dead hour of the afternoon, when they thought they would find the gallery empty. The only people they saw were a hobo stretched out on the sidewalk by the entrance, and a couple of Australian tourists to whom the Chinese porcelain doll of a gallery assistant was trying to sell something. She barely glanced at the new arrivals.

  Nathaniel Belasco had photographed his wife between 1977 and 1983, using one of the first twenty-by-twenty-four Polaroids capable of capturing the tiniest details with the utmost precision. Nathaniel was not among the famous professional photographers of his generation, and he himself claimed to be only an amateur, but he was one of the few who could afford such a good camera. Besides, he had an exceptional model. Irina was touched by the trust Alma obviously had in her husband; she felt almost ashamed when she saw the portraits, as if she were profaning a starkly intimate ritual. There was no distance between artist and model; they were joined in a tight bond, and out of this symbiosis were born photographs that were sensual without having any sexual overtones. Alma was naked in several poses, and appeared lost in herself, unaware she was being observed. Some of the images had an ethereal, translucent quality, where the female figure disappeared into the dream of the man behind the camera; others were more realistic, and Alma faced Nathaniel with the calm curiosity of a woman alone in front of a mirror, at ease with herself, not holding back in any way, with veins visible in her legs, her Caesarean scar, and a face showing all her fifty years. Irina would not have been able to express the disquiet they aroused in her, but she understood Alma’s reticence at being seen in public under her husband’s clinical gaze. The two of them appeared united by a feeling that was much more complex and perverse than married love. On the gallery’s white walls, Alma was displayed as a submissive giant. That woman frightened Irina; she was a stranger to her. She felt a choking sensation, and Seth, who possibly shared her emotion, took her hand. For once she did not pull away.

  The tourists left without buying anything, and the Chinese doll turned eagerly toward them. She introduced herself as Meili, and immediately overwhelmed them with a prepared spiel about the Polaroid camera, Nathaniel’s technique and intention, light and shadow, the influence of Flemish painting. Alma listened to all this with great amusement, nodding her silent agreement. Meili did not make the connection between this white-haired old woman and the model on the walls.

  * * *

  The following Monday at the end of her Lark House shift, Irina went to find Alma to take her to the movies to see Lincoln a second time. Lenny had gone to spend a few days in Santa Barbara, and so Irina had briefly recovered her position as cultural attaché, as Alma had always called her before Larry arrived and usurped her position. A few days earlier they had seen only half of the film because Alma had felt such a stabbing pain in her chest that she had cried out and they had been forced to leave the theater. She had rejected the manager’s offer of help, as the prospect of an ambulance followed by a hospital seemed worse than dropping dead on the spot. Irina drove her back to Lark House. For some time now, Alma had lent Irina the key to her ridiculous car so that she could drive, since Irina flatly refused to risk her life as a passenger. Alma’s recklessness when driving in heavy traffic had grown in proportion to her failing sight and trembling hands. The chest pains eased along the way, but she arrived back exhausted, gray faced, and with blue-tinged fingernails. Irina helped her lie down and, without asking permission, called Catherine Hope, whom she trusted more than the official Lark House doctor. Cathy rushed to Alma’s apartment in her wheelchair, examined Alma with the care and attention that she bestowed on everything, and declared that she should see a cardiologist as soon as possible. That night Irina stayed in the apartment on a bed she made up on the sofa, which turned out to be more comfortable than the mattress on the floor she had in Berkeley. Alma slept peacefully with Neko stretched out at her feet but woke up listless and, for the first time since Irina had known her, decided to spend the day in bed.

  “But tomorrow you’re going to force me to get up, do you hear, Irina? Don’t leave me lying here with a cup of tea and a good book. I don’t want to end up living in pajamas and slippers. Old people who take to their beds never get up again.”

  True to her word, the next day she made an effort to start the day as she always did. After that, Alma never referred to her weak state over those twenty-four hours, and soon Irina, who had other things on her mind, forgot about it too. Catherine Hope however was determined not to leave her in peace until she saw a specialist, but Alma somehow managed to keep postponing it.

  This time they were able to see the whole film, and left the cinema highly taken with both Lincoln and the actor playing his part. Alma was weary and preferred to return to her apartment rather than go on to a restaurant as planned. When they arrived, Alma said with a sigh that she felt cold and went to bed, while Irina made her oatmeal with milk by way of supper. Leaning back against her pillows, with a granny shawl around her shoulders, Alma looked ten pounds lighter and ten years older than a few hours earlier. Irina had considered her indestructible, which was why it took her until that night to realize how much she had aged in recent months. Alma had lost weight, and the violet-ringed eyes in her haggard face made her look like a raccoon. She no longer walked upright or strode along but hesitated as she got up from her chair; out on the street she clung to Lenny’s arm; and at times she woke up with an irrational fear of feeling lost, as if she were awakening in a strange country. She went to her studio less and less, then decided to lay off her assistants, and bought comics and sweets for Kirsten to comfort her in her absence. Kirsten’s mental stability depended on her routines and affections; as long as nothing changed, she was happy. She lived in a room above her brother and sister-in-law’s garage, fussed over by three nephews and nieces whom she had helped raise. On workdays she always took the same midday bus, which dropped her two blocks from the w
orkshop. She would unlock the door, air out the room, tidy up, sit in the director’s chair that her nephews had given her for her fortieth birthday, and eat the chicken or tuna sandwich she carried in her backpack. After that she prepared the canvases, brushes, and paints; put water on to boil for tea; and waited, her eyes fixed on the studio door. If Alma wasn’t thinking of going, she would call her on her cell phone, they would chat for a while, and she would give her some task or other to keep her busy until five, when Kirsten bravely closed the workshop and walked to the stop to take her bus home.

  A year earlier, Alma had calculated she was going to live in much the same way until she was ninety, but now she was no longer so sure: she suspected that death was drawing closer. Previously she could sense it in the neighborhood, then hear it whispering in the dark corners of Lark House, but now it was lurking around her apartment. At sixty she had thought of death in abstract terms as something that did not concern her; at seventy it was a distant relative who was easy to forget because it never arose in conversation, but would inevitably come to visit one day. After she turned eighty, however, she began to become acquainted with it, and to talk about it with Irina. She saw death here and there, in a fallen tree in the park, a person bald from cancer, her mother and father crossing the street: she recognized them because they looked just like they did in the Danzig photograph. Sometimes it was her brother, Samuel, who had died a second time, peacefully in his bed. Her uncle Isaac seemed full of life when he appeared to her, as he had been before his heart failure, but when Aunt Lillian came to greet her occasionally in the dreamy moments of dawn she was as she had been in her last days, an old woman dressed all in lilac, blind and deaf, but happy, because she believed her husband was holding her hand.

  One day Alma said, “Look at that shadow on the wall, doesn’t it look like a man’s silhouette? It must be Nathaniel. Don’t worry, Irina, I’m not crazy, I know I’m only imagining it.”

  She went on speaking about Nathaniel, of how good he was, of his ability to solve problems and confront difficulties, of how he had been and still was her guardian angel.

  “It’s only a figure of speech, Irina, personal angels do not exist!”

  “Of course they do! If I didn’t have a pair of guardian angels I’d be dead by now, or in jail.”

  “What strange ideas you have, Irina! In the Jewish tradition angels are God’s messengers, not bodyguards for humans, but I do have one: Nathaniel. He always looked after me, first like a big brother, then as the ideal husband. I could never repay him for all he did for me.”

  “You were married for thirty years, Alma, and had a son and grandchildren. You worked together at the Belasco Foundation, and you nursed him through his final illness. I’m sure he felt just the same way, that he could never pay you back for all you did for him.”

  “Nathaniel deserved far more love than I gave him, Irina.”

  “Do you mean you loved him more as a brother than as a husband?”

  “Friend, cousin, brother, husband . . . I don’t know the difference. When we got married there was gossip because we were cousins, and it was considered incest; I think it still is. I suppose our love always was incestuous.”

  AGENT WILKINS

  On the second Friday in October, Ron Wilkins appeared at Lark House, looking for Irina Bazili. He was an African-­American FBI agent, aged sixty-five, with a big belly, gray hair, and expressive hands. When Irina asked with surprise how he had found her, Wilkins reminded her that being well informed was an essential part of his job. They had not seen each other for three years but were in the habit of talking on the phone. Wilkins would call from time to time to hear how she was. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. The past is behind me, I don’t even remember all that stuff,” was her invariable reply, although they both knew this wasn’t true. When Irina first met him, Wilkins appeared to be about to burst out of his suit from his ripped muscles; eleven years later, those muscles had turned to flab, but he still gave the same impression of solidity and energy as in his earlier days. He told her he was a grandfather and showed her a photo of his grandson, a two-year-old with much lighter skin than his grandfather. “His father is Dutch,” Wilkins explained, although Irina had not asked. He added that he had reached the age of retirement, which was almost compulsory in the Agency, but that he was still tied to his desk. He couldn’t bring himself to hand in his badge; he wanted to pursue the particular crime to which he had dedicated most of his professional life.

  Wilkins arrived at Lark House midmorning. The pair of them sat on a wooden bench in the garden to have a cup of the watery coffee that was always available in the library though nobody wanted it. Wisps of mist were rising from the ground, still damp from the night’s dew, and the pale autumn sun was just beginning to warm the air. They were alone and could talk in peace. A few residents were already attending their morning classes, but most of them got up late. Only Victor Vikashev, the head gardener, a Russian with the looks of a Tartar warrior who had worked at Lark House for almost nineteen years, was singing softly to himself in the vegetable garden, and Cathy sped past in her electric wheelchair on her way to the pain clinic.

  “I’ve got good news for you, Elisabeta,” Wilkins told Irina.

  “No one has called me Elisabeta for years.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  “Remember that I am Irina Bazili now. In fact, you helped me choose that name.”

  “Tell me, Irina, how are things going? Are you in therapy?”

  “Let’s be realistic, Agent Wilkins. Do you know how much I earn? Not enough to pay for a psychologist. The county only pays for three sessions, and I’ve had those, but as you can see, I ­haven’t committed suicide. I lead a normal life; I work and am thinking of taking classes on the Internet. I want to study therapeutic massage; it’s a good profession for anyone with strong hands like mine.”

  “Are you under medical supervision?”

  “Yes, I’m taking an antidepressant.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “In Berkeley, in a good-sized room that’s cheap.”

  “This job here suits you, Irina. It’s peaceful, no one bothers you, you’re safe. I’ve heard very good things about you. I talked to the director and he said you’re his best employee. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “I did have, but he died.”

  “What? My God, that’s all you needed, I’m so sorry. What did he die of?”

  “Old age, I think; he was over ninety. But there are other old men here who’d be happy to become my boyfriends.”

  Wilkins was not amused. They sat awhile in silence, blowing on and then sipping their coffees from paper cups. Irina suddenly felt overwhelmed by sadness and solitude, as if this good man’s thoughts had penetrated her mind and mingled with her own, and a lump rose in her throat. As if responding to a telepathic signal from her, Wilkins put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her toward his broad chest. He smelled of a rather cloying cologne that seemed out of place on such a big man. She could feel the warmth coming from Wilkins like a stove, the rough texture of his jacket on her cheek, the comforting weight of his arm, and rested for a couple of minutes feeling protected, breathing in his cheap cologne, while he patted her back, as if he were comforting his grandson.

  “What’s the news you’ve brought?” asked Irina, once she had recovered a little.

  “Compensation, Irina. There’s an old law that’s still in existence, though nobody remembers it, that gives victims like you the right to compensation. With that money you could pay for your therapy, which you really do need, and for your studies, and with a bit of luck, you could even put down a deposit on a small apartment.”

  “All that is in theory, Mr. Wilkins.”

  “Some people have already received compensation.”

  He explained that although her case was not a recent one, a good lawyer would be able to prove she had undergone serious damage as a result of what had happened, that she suffered from post-traumatic stress sy
ndrome, and needed psychological help and medication. Irina reminded him that the person responsible had no possessions that could be confiscated to compensate her with.

  “Other people in the ring have been arrested, Irina. Powerful people who have money.”

  “Those men didn’t do anything to me. There’s only one guilty man, Mr. Wilkins.”

  “Listen to me, Irina. You’ve had to change your identity and where you live. You lost your mother, your schoolmates, and all the other people you knew. You live practically hidden in another state. What happened is not something in the past; it could be said it’s still going on, and that there are lots of guilty men.”

  “That’s what I used to think, Mr. Wilkins, but I decided I am not going to be a victim forever. I’ve turned the page. Nowadays I am Irina Bazili and I have another life.”

  “I’m sorry to have to remind you, but you’re still a victim. Some of the accused would be more than happy to pay you compensation if it meant they could avoid a scandal. Will you authorize me to give your name to a lawyer who specializes in this kind of thing?”

  “No. Why stir all that up again?”

  “Think it over, Irina. Think it over carefully and call me on this number,” said the agent, handing her his card.

  Irina accompanied Wilkins to the gate, and put his card away with no intention of using it. She had sorted things out herself, she didn’t need that money—as far as she was concerned it was tainted and meant she would again have to face the same questions and sign statements that revealed the most disgusting details. She had no wish to fan the ashes of the past in the courts; she was an adult now and no judge would exempt her from having to face the accused. Not to mention the press. She was horrified at the thought that the people she cared about would then hear about it: her few friends, the old ladies at Lark House, Alma, and above all, Seth.