Hotel Honolulu

31 Christmas Cards

Hideo Takahashi — he was a Waikiki hotel owner I knew somewhat — had so much to do, was feeling so weak and inattentive, felt so assailed by distractions, was so haggard, that he made a list, because Christmas mattered. There was so little time for all the parties, the golf games, the Happy Meals to be bought in bulk from McDonald's and distributed to the employees' children, the gift-wrapped bottles of whiskey, the Christmas cards that had to be signed personally, in two scripts, Japanese and English. And you could make such terrible mistakes — one year, the decorations had included a small smiling Santa Claus nailed to a cross and a Jesus doll in a plastic saucer surrounded by the Seven Dwarfs.

Takahashi had a sense of a door closing, not an ordinary hotel door, but the sort of heavy ceremonial one you might find in a traditional Japanese house, securing the treasure room, ironbound, carved with a chrysanthemum, a complex lock near the base — the sort of dense door that did not swing but rather slid on a track — and he was trying to squeeze through it before it shut with a bang. The door in Hideo Takahashi's mind was traveling in a silent slot, sideways into a narrowing gap.

He had read MARY CHRISTMAS on the label of the whiskey bottle, and while each word looked right on its own, joined together they looked wrong.

Calling the sales and marketing director, Takahashi said, "Come here." When the man arrived in his office, he began at once to complain that he was not happy.

"I've done the best I can with them locals."

Takahashi had no idea what the man was talking about.

"Them singers and that."

"It is Christmas," Takahashi said. Every inexplicable excess, every unreasonable demand, every ridiculous price, every unexpected shortage, he put down to Christmas, which was the high point of the business year. He had agreed to attend all the parties and to assume all the responsibilities.

"Is this correct?" Takahashi held the label in his small, clean palm.

"No. Should be 'merry."

"Please." Takahashi handed it over to the man. "It must be reprinted."

"I'll see to it."

A hundred and twenty labels, bearing the company logo and a scroll- enclosed window for a personal signature, had been misspelled.

"Some dumb secretary okayed this."

"Do it quickly."

Takahashi was far too busy to recriminate, and anyway, it was this director's responsibility. He should be fired — he should have been fired over the crucified Santa that had been written about last year in the newspaper — but the height of the season was not the time to fire someone. After this, when business slackened, the man would be given his notice. For now, the place was decorated, the tree had been put up in the lobby, the blow-molded plastic images of angels, Santa Claus, little furry bear cubs, Mickey Mouse, ducks in sailor suits, reindeer, rabbits, the Christmas menagerie, all had been hung.

It had been the director's own idea for Takahashi to sign each label and paste it to a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label and put it into a slender box, gift-wrap it, and make a present of it — one hundred and twenty of them.

There were many more Christmas cards, a thousand at least, to be signed, so many that Takahashi set himself the task of doing a certain amount a day. Fifty was the number, not just the signature in Japanese and English script but a personal message — the same message: "Holiday Greetings from Us All at Furabo Properties."

No sooner had the director left and Takahashi resumed his signing the Christmas cards — he had done about half of the day's allotment — than the phone rang: a golf game he had forgotten, the tee time had just passed.

"You are all right?" his friend Yumi asked.

"Fine, fine, fine, fine," Takahashi said, sounding disturbed, agreeing to eighteen holes. Before he set off, he signed ten more cards.

At their palest, the indoor Japanese are chalky, whiter than any haole, and Takahashi looked dusty and translucent — sleepless, skinny, fading to gray. It was almost Christmas. There was too much to do. The whole point, as Takahashi saw it, was to distinguish yourself with the gift by giving it a personal touch. Sign the labels, sign the cards, wrap the bottle's box with elegance, a silk ribbon, Takahashi's monogram, the company's logo — didn't anyone ever listen?

At best Takahashi was an amateurish golfer with an absurd handicap. Today his play would have been embarrassing had he been well enough to notice. He lost seven balls and just went through the motions of putting — once almost toppling forward. He hated climbing off the golf cart and having to hit a ball. He did a crazy thing: he picked up a ball and made as if to take a bite of it. Fortunately Yumi did not see him. Realizing that he almost put the golf ball in his mouth, he threw it away. This Yumi did see.

"There was a bite in it," Takahashi explained.

Yumi stared and mouthed, A bite?

Takahashi had agreed to play so as not to arouse anyone's suspicions. But the golf had given him away. He was behind in all the tasks

he had set himself. Back at his room, he saw that there were three messages waiting for him from Chizuko, his kumu — his sweetheart. He called her.

"Don't call me," he said, very angry.

Chizuko said that she was worried about him, not having heard from him for a week. He accused her of being selfish. It was Christmas in Honolulu. What she was really suggesting was that she wanted to be taken to the parties and out to eat. She wanted to see the Christmas lights in Waikiki. And presents — she wanted presents. She collected Mickey Mouse dolls and Mickey Mouse accessories; anything with Mickey on it she wanted. And she wanted to marry Takahashi.

The thought of Chizuko's expectations filled him with rage. He shouted at hei "There is no time!" He would not let her speak, nor even allow her to squeal her apologies. She was so abject that beneath his shouting he heard her saying "Sorry" in English, to give it emphasis, and she repeated it, "Sorry," saying it softly and submissively like a scolded child.

Takahashi banged the phone down. He was still so angry that be didn't even tell Chizuko he was going to the governor's residence, Washington Place, for the annual Christmas party. The instruction on the invitation was "Please bring an unwrapped toy for a keiki."

Takahashi's deputy general manager put a large red fire truck, a wooden pull toy, into Takahashi's hand and said, "I could always drop it off, if that would be easier for you."

"This is the governor's Christmas party!" Takahashi said, his voice breaking.

The deputy G.M. nodded, trying not to look too deeply into his boss's sunken eyes, the slack dusty skin, the hollow cheeks and bony jaw. What made this collapsed and scrawny body especially horrible was the crisp Zegna suit that Takahashi wore, his neatly combed hair parted on his bony skull, the bumpy finger joints, the fever-bright eyes behind the stylish glasses.

Still in that shrill faltering voice, Takahashi said, "And the stamps for the envelopes are not Christmas stamps."

"The post office ran out."

"Get some."

What a pity he would have to wait before he could fire this man.

After Christmas and all these sacrifices, he would get rid of them all. He had already begun to rehearse the expression: We will not need you anymore. But he was so far behind on the cards, he had stayed up most nights laboriously inscribing his signature and personal greeting, wishing health and prosperity to the recipient.

One of those nights Chizuko called him, she had tears in her voice, and he felt a pang of sorrow for her. When she hung up, he left a message

with the Christmas Hot Line at the Disney store, ordering a charm for her charm bracelet, a tiny Christmas Mickey Mouse in gold, wearing a ski hat and red gloves.

The gift to his mistress brought his wife to mind, so he stopped to write a short letter of regret to her, asking forgiveness. And still he sat signing the cards, only dimly aware of the commotion outside when he lifted the window to clear the room of his cigarette smoke — chaotic Christmas noise, which sometimes resolved itself into a sort of syncopation, as when simple unmelodious people sang.

The day the cards were entirely inscribed, he put them on the bed in twenty piles. The forgiveness note to his wife, in a different envelope, he placed on a side table, with his watch, his fountain pen, and his ring. He kicked off his slippers.

His next moves, also sacrificial, he had pondered for a month, as he had gone through the motions of administering the Kodama, dying all that time. There was hardly any life left in him, just the insignificant scrap that fluttered like a rag within him as he hurled himself off the balcony.