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K. Bourdaghs home
©2003 Michael K.
Bourdaghs
Published in Colere, Vol. 2 (2002).
David Perry offered up a silent prayer of thanks to the small white card
in his hand. The talisman had served him well, its black lines and tiny squares
guiding him safely through a web of tangled alleys and crazy-quilt
streetcorners. Tokyo neighborhoods did
not always yield themselves up so readily.
But the thumbnail map printed on the back of a business card had
competently ushered him from Nishi-Ogikubo station to this office building, a
half-mile south. He had even arrived
fifteen minutes early. A minor victory,
yes, but perhaps it omened well, and he was ready to grasp at even the tiniest
advantage.
The
white office building shone like a mirror in the midmorning sun. It housed the offices of David's landlord, a
corporation that bought up small condominiums – ironically called manshon in Japanese, “mansions” – and
leased them out to foreigners at a hefty mark-up. David was visiting this day because one week earlier, he had
received a registered letter from a Mr. Terada, the business card enclosed,
summoning him to the landlord's corporate offices at ten o'clock on the morning
of Tuesday, May 17, 1988. The English
job title listed for Terada was "Assistant Chief, Lease Violations
Section."
David knew why he was being
summoned, too. Some things he knew – he
was a recent college graduate, after all, a Japan Studies major. Other things he would learn this very day,
some of them rather unsettling. And
still other things he would never fathom.
He would never know, for example, that just now he was standing on the
precise spot where, some fortythree years earlier, an American incendiary bomb
had slammed harmlessly into the ground, a dud.
How could he know that?
*
David plucked
out his earphones and coiled them around the slender black body of his
Walkman. At that moment, a middle-aged
Japanese man coming along the sidewalk from the opposite direction started up
the stairs that led to the building's glass doors. The man, a perfect stranger, eyed David momentarily, as if he
might say something.
The man belonged to a type David had
come to loath: eyeglasses with
half-black, half-clear plastic frames; hair the color of cigarette ash and
cemented into place with tonic; navy-blue suit with a company pin in the
lapel. The type that looked like a
1960s segregationist Southern politician.
The type that accepted coffee from office ladies without acknowledging
their existence. The type that David
had seen late at night in hostess bars, drunk, caterwauling sentimental enka
songs into the karaoke mike, then insisting that a Filipina or Thai hostess
dance with him so that his hands could slither down her back to cop a
feel. In his letters home, David had
coined a nickname for the type: they
were all "Lesters," after Lester Maddox, the racist ex-governor of
Georgia.
David entered the office building a
step behind the Lester and spotted a bank of kelly-green pay phones at one end
of the lobby. He began walking toward
them and then realized that the Lester was headed in the same direction. Two of the three phones were already in
use. In his five months in Tokyo, David
had learned what he took to be the fundamental law of public etiquette: every man for himself. If a seat opened up on a crowded train, you
didn't politely look around to see if anyone else wanted it. You lunged at it in hopes of beating out
your competitors. This had something to
do, he was sure, with the Japanese in-group/out-group mentality he had studied
in college. And so David speeded up his
pace, and when he detected a similar quickening in the Lester's footfalls, David
sped up even more. When he came within
range, David shot his hand forward and seized possession of the last
telephone.
He glanced back. The Lester wouldn't look directly at David,
he knew, because it was another part of the law that you never acknowledged the
existence of your competitors.
The Lester, of
course, was Mr. Terada – that’s the sort of day this would be for David. Terada turned away and walked toward the
elevators at the center of the lobby.
He would have to make his call later.
He didn’t want to use the telephone on his desk upstairs, because his
colleagues might overhear and learn one of his secrets: that every Thursday night he oiled his hair
up into a shiny black pompadour and played upright bass for the Western
Carnival Boys, a rockabilly trio, at a popular live house in Koenji. Around the office, Terada was known as a
quiet loner. That suited him fine. No one had noticed yet that every Friday
morning he arrived with a hoarse voice and eyelids puffed heavy from lack of
sleep.
*
David punched in Chiyoko’s telephone
number. It was almost ten o'clock. She would be awake by now, he calculated,
even if she had slept in. Waiting for
her to answer, he pictured Chiyoko in the knee-length Humphrey Bogart t-shirt
she used for pajamas.
Chiyoko was David's girlfriend, his
second since coming to Japan. They
first met a month earlier at the coffee
shop where she worked. She waited on
him and asked if she could practice her English conversation. They began watching videos together, always
at her cramped apartment – David didn't own a VCR yet. Mostly, they rented old Hollywood
films. Chiyoko introduced him to Howard
Hawks and John Ford. They began sleeping
together the third night they rented videos, the night they watched The Quiet Man. Chiyoko was ten years older than he. She worried that her daughter, a second grader who lived with her
ex-husband’s family, would find out she was seeing an American.
Chiyoko answered the phone after
five rings, her speech thick with the fog of interrupted sleep. "Moshi moshi."
"Moshi moshi. Boku da."
"David. I'm sorry, I was sleep. Oh, 'asleep' – I'm sorry."
Chiyoko's English, murmured in a
smoky Lauren Bacall voice, charmed David.
He could simply enjoy her idiosyncratic renderings, too – he was not
obliged to correct them, as he was four days a week at the Prestige Language
Academy in Shinjuku.
"I'm at their building,"
he said. "I took your advice and
wore my suit."
"Gambatte."
They decided to meet for lunch. Chiyoko said there was something she wanted to tell him.
The words should have triggered flashing red lights in David's mind, but
he had too many other things to think about this morning. They agreed that when David finished his meeting,
he would ride the train to her apartment, and she would order out for soba
noodles.
After hanging up, Chiyoko sat there
with her hand on the cradled telephone receiver. She waited for tears to well up at the corner of her eyes, but
they wouldn’t come. He was such a sweet
boy. She would miss the sex. And the English conversation.
*
David glanced at his watch. He wanted a cigarette, but there was no
time. He rode the elevator to the sixth
floor, where he found a bathroom at one end of the hall. He straightened his tie in the mirror. His suit, a charcoal pinstripe purchased for
his brother's wedding a year earlier, was clearly going to be too heavy for the
Tokyo summer. Already he was
sweating. He ran cold water over his
wrists and used the handkerchief from his back pocket to dry them. Why did Japanese public toilets never supply
paper towels?
Ten o'clock. No more putting it off. He walked out of the bathroom and down the
hallway to the frosted glass door on which was printed, in both English and
Japanese, the name of the corporation that acted as David's landlord. He pulled the door open.
A gorgeous young receptionist took
his name. She spoke perfect
English. David admired her black dress
and her bubblegum-pink lipstick; Chiyoko suddenly seemed frumpish by comparison. The receptionist asked David to sit down on
one of the soft leather chairs in the lobby, and she telephoned back to the
office behind the partition that served as a backdrop to her desk.
"Mr. Terada will be out in a
minute to see you," she said after hanging up, and she threw David a
friendly smile. Obviously, she didn't
know the reason for his visit.
David sat forward on the chair. It was time for final preparations, mental
and physical. He needed to channel his
anxiety. If he could frame it properly,
his nervousness might even appear as contrition. He silently rehearsed the spiel he had been composing ever since
he received the registered letter: that
he was sorry he had failed to understand the customs of Japanese apartment
dwelling, that he was sure there would be no more trouble. And could they please, please give him one
more chance?
Mr. Terada appeared in the
doorway. A sickening bolt of
recognition slammed into David – hair tonic, yellowed teeth, company pin: Terada was the Lester from downstairs. David's fragile equilibrium erupted into
wild agitation, like the needle of a bathroom scale when you step off. Should he apologize for the telephone gaffe,
or was it best to say nothing? What did
the Japanese do in a case like this?
"Hajimemashite," Terada said
to David, holding out his hand. His
face betrayed no emotion behind its formal smile. "I'm Kazuhiko Terada.
Nice to meet you, sir."
*
In
a small conference room, David sat in the chair Terada indicated. Terada sat down opposite him. He seemed to be studying David's face.
"The summer's heat is just
starting."
David stammered something in
reply. But should he mention the
telephone downstairs, apologize?
Already, David feared, he had fumbled every advantage right into
Terada's hands. He remembered an
article he'd read on Japanese negotiating tactics, the steely ruthlessness that
hid behind the mask of courtesy. A drop
of sweat skidded down the hollow of his back.
Could Terada spot his anxiety?
There was a light knock at the
door. The pretty receptionist entered
the room carrying a tray with two cups of coffee on it. She set one on the table in front of David,
and the other in front of Terada. As
she left the room, she bowed slightly.
"Gokurôsan," Terada
thanked her. He gestured to the
coffee: "Please." Then, "Do you mind if I smoke?"
"Go right ahead. May I join you?" David was happy to take the position of
granting favors.
The two men withdrew cigarette packs
from their coat pockets. Terada was
smoking Marlboros, while David smoked Seven Stars, a local brand. Terada smiled and pointed out the
irony. He spun out a few more
pleasantries – where in America was David from? What part of Minnesota?
Did he know the song about the Minnesota egg-seller? Could he eat Japanese food? David found himself unable to gauge the
man. Was Terada just stalling before he
slapped an eviction notice onto the table?
Terada crushed out his cigarette
butt in an ashtray. He picked up a pale
blue folder, opened it, and glanced at David over the rim of his
eyeglasses.
"Satè," he said. The time for business had arrived.
*
From the folder, Terada pulled out a
copy of the lease David had signed five months earlier. He set it on the table between them. Then he pulled out a small bundle of
handwritten forms, which David guessed were reports of incidents. Terada flipped through the papers, pausing
over each one a few seconds, apparently reciting in his mind the details of the
case. When he finished – the room had
been silent for over a minute – he glanced up at David with a grim smile,
exposing his uneven front teeth.
"Mr. Perry, I am afraid your
neighbors have not enjoyed your lifestyle in their building."
David hung his head low, trying to
project HUMILITY with every organ of his body.
"I know," he said, "and I apologize for having been a bad
neighbor and for causing problems."
Though his own eyes were glued to
the tabletop, David felt the cool force of Terada's gaze taking his measure,
and so he redoubled his efforts to project the image of PENITENCE. He had read that in Japanese courtrooms a
convict who shows remorse often gets off with little or no punishment.
"I am sorry for my selfish
behavior, and I am working hard to learn how to be a good neighbor in
Japan. I did not understand the culture
when I first came here, but I am trying to learn it now."
Was he laying it on too thick? Did he dare risk a glance at Terada's
face? Terada spoke, giving David a
natural opportunity to look up. But he
could read nothing in the man’s eyes.
Terada explained the gist of each of the reports he held in his
hand. David had guessed correctly –
they recorded incidents: the time the
police had come to break up his birthday party at midnight, the time he had
come home drunk on the last train and cranked up the amp for his Les Paul, the
time his cigarette butts had fallen onto the balcony of his downstairs’
neighbor….
"Mr. Perry. It makes it really difficult for us when one
of our clients causes trouble in his building.
We really feel responsible for the conduct of our renters."
"I'm so sorry," David
interjected, uneasy about the direction the conversation was taking.
There was a pause. Terada was again studying David's face. After a few seconds, he spoke.
"Could you please wait here for
a minute?"
Terada walked out of the room,
closing the door behind him. What did
this mean? Was he going for
reinforcements? When Terada returned,
he carried with him a sheet of paper.
He asked David to read it. The
"Pledge of Proper Conduct" was written in both English and
Japanese: the undersigned acknowledged
that any future disruptive behavior would result in immediate eviction. As he read through it, David understood that
they were giving him a second chance.
Terada asked him to sign and date the form. David did so happily – at the same time wondering what, if any,
legal force the document actually carried.
Terada then initialed the form below David's signature and withdrew from
his coat pocket a small black seal, which he affixed next to his initials.
*
The “Pledge” form was Terada’s
baby. He had been waiting weeks to find
a suitable candidate for the first trial run.
Since becoming Assistant Chief of Lease Violations, he had ousted dozens
of foreigners from their apartments. After each eviction he suffered the torments of the damned. Terada was a lonely man, unmarried and
unloved, and he had chosen to work for this company because he liked being with
foreigners. But now they saw him as an
ogre. The “Pledge” had to work. If it didn’t,
Terada would almost certainly quit, and there was no guarantee his next
employer would be so easily duped about his outside music career. But the “Pledge” would work. The Americans were a forthright people. They spoke their minds and you could trust
them. Just look at their President
Reagan. Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!
"I think that we understand
each other now, right?" Terada asked David in a voice that he meant to
sound both stern and friendly.
"Yes. I'm sure we do."
Terada picked up his pack of
Marlboros and tapped one out.
"Would you like to try one
cigarette from your home country, for old time's sake?" he said, holding
the pack out to the boy and smiling.
David accepted. Terada offered him a light and then held the
flame up to his own cigarette. David
complimented Terada on his English. On
impulse, Terada decided to tell him the story.
You could trust this one – and it might open doors between them. They had things in common. According to the reports, the boy played
guitar.
"I have to tell you, Mr. Perry,
you remind me very much of my first English teacher. Well, he wasn't really a teacher, but he was the first American I
ever knew. May I ask how old you
are?"
David was twenty-three.
"That’s almost the same age as
he was," Terada mused. "Your
hairstyle is different. He had a crewcut – he called it a 'flattop.' But other than that, you could be his little
brother. The resemblance is really
striking."
"Who was he?"
"When I was a boy – this must
have been around 1951, during the Occupation.
There were many American soldiers in Japan. I was ten years old. My
older sister was dating an American GI.
Oh, that was a terrible scandal back then. My parents hated it and tried to stop her, but she didn't
listen. I really liked him. He brought me Wrigley's chewing gum. Sometimes, he let me come with when they
went to see American movies. He smoked
Marlboros."
Terada pointed to the red and white
box on the table.
"He showed me pictures of his
family. They lived on a ranch in
Wyoming. He promised that I could spend
a summer with them after he got out of the Army. He said I could ride horses when I came."
"Did you ever visit him
there?"
"No, no. After I knew him for five or six months,
Lester – that was his name, Lester Colson – he was shipped out to Korea. A month later, one of Lester's friends came
to our house and told my sister that he was killed in action. Imagine that. Twenty years old, and he was dead. Mottainai. I never visited
his family, you see."
Terada took a deep drag off his
cigarette. He relished this moment, the
rare pleasure of ladling out avuncular wisdom to an American. As always, Terada left out the last part of
the story, the thing he had kept secret even from his sister: that six months later, he had spotted Lester
through the window of a crowded subway train.
But who knows, really? Perhaps
his childish eyes had deceived him.
"The resemblance is really
striking," Terada resumed.
"You could be his brother."
The American boy was groping for a
suitable response. He finally settled
for a nod and a throaty "hmm," and Terada thought he could hear
reverberations of inarticulate sympathy behind it. We Japanese always have a set expression to trot out, he thought,
whatever the occasion, whatever our true feelings. But Americans really show their feelings, even when they can’t
find the words for them.
"Well," Terada said. "Thank you for taking the trouble to
come in today." He gestured down at the pledge David had signed. "I am sure we understand each other
now. Under company policy, I could have
evicted you, but I made an exception in your case. Please don't disappoint me, Mr. Perry."
*
David is riding a pumpkin-orange
Chûô Line train now. The car is
unusually crowded for late morning. All
of the seats are taken and a dozen people are standing. David stands near a doorway. He has his earphones back on as he
half-listens to the Replacements. His
shirt collar is open and his necktie is stashed away in his coat pocket, coiled
up like a miniature firehose. The
pretty receptionist flashes up in his memory.
She smiled at him again when he left, as if maybe she wanted to talk
some more.
Then David mentally replays his
encounter with Terada. He isn't sure
exactly how it happened, but somehow he has come out on top. At least, he hasn't lost – he still has his
apartment. Perhaps he should change his
ways, try to mend relations with the neighbors. Sort his garbage more carefully between burnable and nonburnable
trash, that sort of thing.
A few stops into his journey, as the
train pulls into Mitaka station, a middle-aged woman sitting near him starts
gathering together the handles of her shopping bags. David poises himself to occupy her seat the moment she vacates
it, but then, when she actually stands up, he reconsiders. He will remain standing. Others can sit. A middle-aged salaryman walks over to the seat, glances at David,
nods faintly and sits down.
David feels good about himself for not
sitting. He doesn't even feel much
resentment for the man who took the seat.
The salaryman opens his briefcase, pulls out a magazine and starts
reading. David glances down. The man is reading a pornographic
magazine. David can see the
photographs. His eyes rest there a
second and then dart away. It always
amazes him when he sees someone reading a magazine like that in public. It’s one of the more repulsive aspects of
Japanese train behavior. But even as he
mentally registers his disgust, David's eyes drift downward to the naked
women. He senses that the man is about
to glance up, and so he yanks his gaze away from the magazine and looks up at
the advertisement placards overhead.
For the rest of the train ride,
David struggles against himself. He
does not want to glance down at the magazine, yet he finds his eyes inexorably
drawn to it. He considers moving to
another part of the car, but remains fixed to the spot. When the doors slide open at Tachikawa,
Chiyoko's stop, he exits the train with a sense of relief.
David descends the stairs to street
level and feeds his ticket into the automatic gate. Outside the station, he heads for Chiyoko's apartment, turning
down a narrow street that runs parallel to the train tracks. He wonders how he will describe his morning
to her. Of course, he will omit the
parts about the pretty receptionist and the magazine on the train. And of course he will tell her that he still
has his apartment – that he has carried the day. But what should he tell her about Terada, about Lester, about how
it has all transpired? He will arrive
at Chiyoko's apartment in less than a minute – he is already climbing the
stairs to the third floor. What do you
suppose he will tell her when he gets there?
And how will he react when Chiyoko informs him that she wants to break
things off this very day, that she has decided he is, after all, too young and
that she wants someone more intellectual?
Poor David – it isn’t even lunchtime yet.
As you sip your
coffee and ponder all the conceivable outcomes to this day, kindly remember to
give him the benefit of your doubt.
Because the possibility remains that David might learn something
today. There – he’s reached the doorway
to Chiyoko’s apartment. He presses the
button. Ding dong. The sound of footsteps behind the door.
-- END --