The moment was broken when I felt a hand touch my chin and gently close my mouth. It took me a second to realize it was Fudo. How embarrassing.
His father’s hair, flecked with gray, grazed the shoulders of his traditional haori jacket. Like a typical rebel artist, he wore the silk jacket over a pair of faded jeans. His brow furrowed in deep concentration as he dabbed a few brushstrokes onto a very large canvas. I was the same way when I painted. A bomb could go off and I would still be focused on the exact brushstroke I needed to capture the texture of hair.
“This is my father, Kawanasan. I’ll have to translate. He dropped out of school very young so he could paint and never learned English.”
I bowed deeply and smiled. “An honor to meet you.”
He bowed deeply back, and it was then I noticed a photograph tacked up in the left-hand corner of the painting he was working on. All my romantic illusions of Fudo’s father traipsing around Europe were shattered when I realized the photo had been torn from a book. His father must live vicariously through the photographs of faraway lands. Still, I had to admit he did a fantastic job of capturing the feeling of the various places. You could really sense the beauty of the landscapes he chose to paint. All around the perimeter of the room, canvases were stacked three deep. Over in the corner stood a lone Japanese painting of the famous Golden Pavilion Temple. He had used a metallic paint to capture its beauty. The glimmer from the gold lit up a portion of the wall.
Kawanasan looked agitated as he spoke with his son. Had I made some major screw up already?
Concerned, I went up to Fudo. “Is everything okay?”
He laughed. “Of course. My father just said he would like to know what you think of his paintings.”
Relieved I hadn’t broken any rules, I still wasn’t thrilled about being put on the spot. “Please tell him I think his paintings are very beautiful and they really make me feel like I’m in Europe.” Thank goodness I actually admired his landscapes. I never seemed to be able to hold back my opinion if I didn’t like someone’s artwork.
His father made a lengthy reply. Fudo took my hand and led me to a series of canvases propped up against one wall. “My father wants you to pick your favorite.”
Why did I leave my drink behind? I took a deep yoga breath and walked around the studio, studying his artwork, and stopped in front of the Golden Pavilion. Fudo’s father smiled as I pointed to the painting.
I smiled back at Kawanasan, thankful he approved of my choice. He motioned for us to join him outside. We followed him along a stone path that led up a steep hill dotted with azalea bushes in shades of pink and red, perfect subjects for his paintings. When we reached the top, Kawanasan pointed proudly at the teahouse.
“My father would like you to see his treasure.”
He slid open the door. The gleaming wood floors and beautiful scrolls lining the walls seemed like a step back into the sixteenth century. The sound of a bamboo fountain tapping back and forth filled the room. Modern Tokyo was but a memory. His father knelt down and beckoned us to join him. We kneeled and listened only to the sound of water running through bamboo.
Fudo broke the mood first. “This is my father’s place. You are honored to be here. He must really like you.”
I stared at Kawanasan sitting with his eyes closed. A look of total bliss covered his face. To have a sanctuary from the world obviously gave him great joy. I could learn a lot more than painting techniques from Kawanasan.
“Tell your father I’m very grateful for his generosity. His treasure is lovely.”
Fudo translated my words. His father broke his silence.
“Doitashimaste.”
Finally, a word I knew from the handbook, “Don’t mention it.” I shifted my pose, which kept my legs from falling asleep.
Fudo smiled at my discomfort. “I think we should get back to the party.”
“Wait.” I walked towards an ink drawing his father had placed in the alcove by the door. My eyes drunk in the simple beauty of the brushstrokes that captured the long elegant body of a crane. “Can you ask your father who did this stunning drawing?”
Fudo smiled with pride. “My father.” He motioned for him to join us by the alcove. Fudo translated what I had said. Kawanasan turned towards me and bowed and then spoke a few words to his son.
Pointing towards the crane Fudo said, “My father would be honored if you would return one day and draw with him.”
What an amazing offer. Could Kawanasan be the famous artist I needed for number four on my to-do list? I bowed deeply. “Arigato.”
Fudo seemed to have had enough of our artist love fest and grabbed my arm and led me back into the living room. The party was in full swing. Some couples danced to a Japanese disco song while others sat deep in conversation. The smell of barbequed meat filled the room and another group hovered by the kitchen in anticipation. I became concerned when I noticed Hiroshi might have been having too much of a good time. He slurred his words while he talked to a cute girl with hair down to her waist and a skirt so short her Hello Kitty underwear showed.
Hiroshi had been downing one shochu after another and seemed to have appointed me the designated driver. He had to be kidding. The thought of driving on the left side of the road without knowing how to get home was a bit more than I could handle.
He threw his fist in the air and yelled, “Elbis king!”
I grabbed Fudo’s arm. “Can you tell Hiroshi to not drink so much? I’d like to get home in one piece.”
Fudo gave me a strange look. “Did Hiroshi forget to tell you? The party is going to last all night. You will be sleeping with me.”
Chapter 4
Missing in Action
September 5, 6:00 AM
“Bakatari!”
Instead of waking up to the noise of my stupid Hello Kitty clock meowing six times, I woke to the staccato sound of Okasan and Hiroshi in the midst of a verbal battle of ever-expanding proportions. The yelling took over the whole house.
Yesterday was just one hungover blur. All I remembered after Fudo announced I’d be sleeping with him was that I marched directly to the bar and downed a shot of 60 proof shochu. By the time Fudo showed up, I lay crossways on his bed barely conscious.
I got up from my bed and used the desk for support. My head pounded like a tiny construction worker was jackhammering my brain. Why had I freaked and downed that shot of shochu? Fudo had a drop dead gorgeous girlfriend. He wasn’t interested in me. The proof became obvious when I realized I still had on my clothes from last night.
How did I get home? Closing my eyes, I remembered a large head of hair with scrawny arms carrying me into the car and setting the beautiful painting of the Golden Phoenix Temple in the backseat. The painting that currently sat propped up against the wall, glinting in the morning sun. Not exactly the place of honor a Kawana original deserved. Although I felt thrilled to have the painting, I needed to be more careful with my compliments or my room was going to fill up fast. I totally forgot the handbook said it was a Japanese tradition to give a guest something they admired.
My head throbbed as I struggled to my desk to grab my bottle of Advil. Was this what a hangover felt like? Never again. I popped two pills and prayed for fast relief. Hiroshi and Okasan sounded like they had revved up the heavy artillery.
“Usoni!” Okasan embellished her word with a loud slam of her fist. “Amerikajin no nai!” Hiroshi yelled as he stomped out of the room.
The fact that I understood the word “American” confirmed I was surely the topic of conversation. A sudden pain in my side let me know I needed to go downstairs. I didn’t want to walk right into the ongoing fight even though my bladder insisted I would have to. I weighed my options. Should I just go downstairs and make a beeline for the bathroom hoping I would go undetected, or pee in my water glass and hide out until the coast was clear? The hiding out part sounded good, but the logistics of peeing into a small glass pretty much made my decision. I opened my door, took a deep breath and sprin
ted for the bathroom.
I made it as far as the bottom of the stairs when Hiroshi said, “Erin, Okasan bery mad y’all no go school.”
My feet felt glued to the floor. “What are you talking about?”
Hiroshi led me to the calendar posted on the kitchen wall. “This today.”
I stared in disbelief. Tuesday? I slept through Monday? Crap, I missed the first day of school. I strained to retrace my time. A dim memory emerged of me throwing up in my wastebasket and then staggering down to the bathroom. Once I made it back to bed, Aki handed me a couple of pills and I was gone.
Hiroshi stared at me, waiting for a response I didn’t bother to give. I wasn’t about to miss another day of school. “I have to get ready. I’ll talk to you later.” I ran past the two of them and sped upstairs to throw on my clothes. Racing back down the stairs I headed straight for the bathroom and ran right into Otosan standing in front of the urinal. I turned my head away and bolted for the toilet. No way. I just saw his penis!
I sat on the toilet and waited until I heard the front door slam. What a way to start my day. My first penis sighting in Japan had to be of a wrinkled old man’s. I blasted through the front door and ran all the way to the train station. I couldn’t risk seeing Otosan again.
I followed the map Aki had drawn for me to the train station. The trek could rival any marathon. Figured my host family would live at the end of the line. Maybe I’d finally lose the five pounds I’d gained from binge eating after I broke the news to Tori about the scholarship. My muffin top was all guilt.
Once at the station, I worked my way through a group of women as they lumbered along carrying large colorful cloth bags full to the brim with morning grocery shopping. Standing in front of the ticket machine, I wished Aki had made the trip with me. All the instructions were written in Japanese except right next to an opening, which read, “Money Here.” Luckily the academy had issued rail passes, but where did I use it? I searched through the endless Japanese characters posted on the route guide. Man, living in the boonies sucked. Luckily, Shinjuku was big enough to have an English translation. I ran my pass through a scanner and crossed my fingers.
“Bing, pop,” went the arm as it sprang forward, letting me onto the platform. People milled about getting ready to start their day. Once again I faced a sea of dark-haired businessmen. I was the only white person in sight. Judging by the intense stares of most of the people standing near me, they had never seen a white person. This must be what being famous felt like. I rubbed my eyes, trying to keep them open. Thanks a lot, Mr. Shinji. You had to give me a host family that lives two hours from campus. Even leaving at 6:30 I could be late for my first class at 8:30.
Ding, ding, ding. A flurry of activity erupted at the sound of the bell. I played follow the leader and stepped up to the line like everyone else. My fellow passengers consisted of a mixed bag of students, housewives and businessmen who, according to the handbook, the locals called “salarymen.” The doors opened and, as if choreographed, we all stepped in at the same time.
I sat in the aisle seat nearest the door in anticipation of making a quick exit when we arrived at Shinjuku Station. A plaid-dress-clad housewife sat next to me with her eyes glazed over and a blank expression on her face. As we pulled out of the station, as if by magic, most of the salarymen in the car fell asleep. The likelihood that I would be able to stay awake quickly vanished. For me, watching people sleep was like watching people yawn, I just couldn’t help but join in. I told myself to look out the window and enjoy the scenery. Unfortunately, a thick haze blanketed the landscape. People watching seemed like a good alternative. Who knew? I might see some amazing Japanese behavior. The only ones doing much of anything, though, were the black and white uniformed students. At least Seda Academy uniforms had a bit more cuteness factor. I smoothed my navy, yellow and white pleated plaid skirt. Some of the Japanese high school students stood talking to their friends while others sat with their fingers flying, texting away. How I longed for my iPhone. My mom should have been jailed for cruel and unusual punishment. Instead, she probably won a shrink award for innovative child therapy.
Bored, I glanced down at the end of the car and a few of the students stared back at me. I decided to give them a smile and see what they would do. A small group of them got up and started coming my way. Well, here came my answer on how to stay awake. As in all groups, a leader came forward. By the look on his face, he seemed to be either very eager to practice his English skills or he had eaten a particularly satisfying breakfast. He was the tallest in the group and actually looked quite handsome if you liked the broad shouldered type with an angular face. He stood in front of me and began his rapid-fire assault of questions.
“Are you American? How long you been in Japan? Do you think I am cute?”
He deserved credit for throwing the last one in as he definitely got my attention. His questions worked wonders, better than a good cup of coffee—maybe even an espresso. I decided not to answer the questions in order. To up the ante, I also planned on answering the questions as rapid-fire as possible. “I have been in Japan for three days. I think you look like you have a skin problem. I’m a famous American artist.” He had this look of such complete puzzlement that his face appeared to turn in on itself. Speaking English on the fly was not nearly as easy as in the classroom.
Thankfully, one of the girls broke the silence. Her sheer white blouse revealed her lace bra and her black pleated skirt was rolled up particularly high. “Where in America you from?”
“Idaho, the land of spuds.” My answer stopped them in their tracks. They must have been expecting someplace far more glamorous like Malibu, California.
One of the girls didn’t seem to understand me. “You not from Disneyland?”
“I am if you love baked potatoes.”
Sensing I was a lost cause, the group turned around and left, looking more than a little defeated. Gazing out the window suddenly seemed like a much better way to pass the time.
Soon the city loomed large and, even through the haze, the gloom of the concrete replaced the bright green of the suburbs. Why were some cities beautiful like San Francisco and others downright ugly like Tokyo? The conductor announced—“Shinjuku station, next stop.” —as we came closer to the station, the neon signs caused the haze to glow all the colors of the rainbow.
Pulling out my map, I headed downstairs to the subway. As I walked around looking for the name of my line, cardboard boxes with elaborate painted images flanked the front and sides of the tunnel. Was this Japanese graffiti? I took a closer look. They appeared to be makeshift houses for homeless people. On one of the boxes, an artist had painted a man lying on the ground sleeping with the moon behind him. The image haunted me.
I gazed down the tunnel at the endless cardboard houses and my heart ached for the people. Yet, I also admired that even in adversity they still held onto hope through their art.
Working my way along the subway tunnel, I somehow managed to find my subway line’s name in the tangle of signs and boarded the train. The conductor squawked out the stops as the train sped down the tracks. I joined the mass of people pushing and shoving their way to get an inch of space on the train. For the first time, the oppressive amount of people living in one place hit me. At least I didn’t have to worry I couldn’t get near a handrail. As the train started, the people around me held me up. A large sign in English for Seda station appeared as we rounded a corner. Once the train stopped, I bounded out as quick as I could, but still the doors almost slammed shut on my foot.
Walking up the stairs, I stopped and gazed around. Seda sure looked different in the daylight. I took out my map and scanned for landmarks. Walking down the street, I didn’t recognize anything until I saw the gates of the academy in the distance. The bell in the tower rang out. Crap, was I late?
I checked my watch; luckily I had five minutes to make it to my first class, Japanese History before WWII. I ran the entire way to my classroom and still managed to show up
five minutes late. The handbook stated tardiness was unacceptable in Japan, so I snuck in the back door and grabbed a seat in the last row. The teacher, dressed in a rumpled black suit and a stained white shirt, was writing his name on the blackboard, Mr. Takano.
He turned, straightened his gray striped tie and said in English, “The student who sat down in the back of the room, can you please give me your name?”
Still breathing heavily from my marathon run, I cleared my throat a bit too loudly.
“Umm…My name is Erin Van Horn. Sorry I’m late. I’m still learning the train system.”
The teacher said, “Let’s hope you learn your history much faster.”
The few snickers at my expense didn’t faze me. As a person who’d perfected the art of being perpetually late, I’d heard every insult you could think of. Even when I allowed plenty of time, I somehow always became distracted at the last minute.
As soon as Mr. Takano began his overview of the course work for the semester, I could barely keep my eyes open. With all our classes being three hours long, I needed to find a technique to stay awake in class. Why wasn’t there a pill that would turn me into a morning person? Maybe I could invent one. I’d call it, “The Morning Delight Pill.” No, that meant something completely different.
I leaned into the textbook, pretending to be interested, and began to daydream about the ultimate New York loft I would own someday. The ceilings would be twenty feet high and the south wall lined with enormous windows—the perfect light to paint by. Daydreaming worked wonders as in no time, the bell rang and Mr. Takano handed out the homework assignment and sent us on our way. The sounds of gurgling sang out from my stomach, reminding me I was supposed to have lunch with Gina and Setsuko.
First Contact Page 5
