I Am a Japanese Writer

LA PETITE MORT

I CONCENTRATE ON what I am doing without paying attention to anything else. But from time to time, another human presence decides to manifest itself. And here is one now, compact, before me, demanding my presence in this space and time we share. And I’ve got the phone cord wrapped around my arm. When I talk, I have this obsession with playing with the cord. I don’t know how I’ve managed to tie so many knots in it. I must be pretty nervous. My sole objective, right now, is to keep from getting water on my precious book. I lifted my left hand from the bath to answer the phone while, with my right, I kept the book away from the drops of water. Two towels helped me perform this delicate operation. One is on the floor; the other, on the basin. Sometimes, but not always, I can talk to someone on the phone without interrupting my reading. It gives a kind of depth of field to the conversation. It’s not that I recommend doing two things at once in order to go faster; in these sped-up times of ours, I’d rather slow down. But I did it once, by accident, really, and I discovered that each activity gave depth to the other. My phone conversation with my contemporary renewed my vision of an author who lived long ago. I always prefer dead writers — they stay younger longer. Death preserves us. So here, on the one hand, is Basho (1644–1694), and on the other, this girl, about whom I know virtually nothing, neither her date of birth nor that of her death. We are all but ignorant when it comes to people we see every day, whereas we know too much about the dead. But why would a girl I saw in the subway, and with whom I hardly exchanged a single look, go to such lengths to find my phone number and, once she’d found it, call me? I guess there are days like that.

Basho wanted to put forward the idea that life is a journey without end. His first trip was to visit his mother’s grave with his friend Shiri. Later, he undertook a second journey, to contemplate the full moon at the Kashima Shrine. And now, here was his last. He would travel again but never undertake anything like this. This kind of trip can be made once in a lifetime. A traveler spends his time saying his farewells. Borges believed that men invented the word “goodbye” because they knew they were “mere ephemeral details.” That is the traveler’s lot.

I finished Basho’s travels to the north of Japan only to discover that the sly monk was still traveling within me. The inventory of my inner landscape provided by a vagabond poet. My veins were the pathways he traveled, alone (“Wayfarer” will be my name; first winter showers). The girl appeared. I hadn’t moved from the bath. She sat down behind my head like a psychoanalyst.

“Do you read all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Even when there’s a woman in the room?”

“Sometimes…… If I feel comfortable, then I read.”

“And you feel comfortable now?”

“Yes.”

“How is that?”

“I feel you’re familiar.”

“And you’ve never seen me. . No, no, don’t turn around. You can look at me afterwards.”

“After what?”

“Close your eyes.”

I did. I heard the rustling of fabric. She was undressing. I pictured myself in the subway again. The Chinese girl across from me. And Basho in my head. The people around us were like shadows. I heard her step into the water.

“You can open your eyes, but only when I tell you to.”

“Is this a game?”

“No. I don’t play games.”

She caressed me, but without gentleness. An angry caress.

“It’s the first time I’ve touched a man.”

“We like it gentle too.”

She laughed, embarrassed.

“Sorry… I thought your world was violent.”

“We’re in the realm of generalizations. You’re making love to a man for the first time, and I’m making love to an Asian woman for the first time.”

“Be quiet now.”

She made love to me. I just happened to be there. A body available and responsive. In water.

“Can I open my eyes now?”

“Not yet. Let me get dressed.”

She stepped out of the bathtub and slowly got dressed: a striptease in reverse. My ears took in everything. The voyeur must keep his eyes closed. I expected no less from an Asian girl. Then I opened my eyes. Noriko stood before me.

“Noriko!”

“I’ve been following you for three days. I’m exhausted…”

“Why? Why me?”

She sat down heavily.

“I’m. . I’m horribly jealous. All Midori talks about is you since you left. What did you do to her? She’s completely changed. She’s talking about leaving too.”

“Maybe she wants to focus herself again.”

“That’s not it….. You’re a devil. I’m sure you did something to her. She’s broken in two. If she doesn’t find herself soon, she’s going to leave.”

“A little traveling never hurt anyone.”

“You fool! What she calls traveling is really. . She’s in a dangerous place.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. And you think she’s in love with me?”

“Not at all. But you’ve ground her into dust and scattered her ashes through the city. For three days I’ve followed you. You wander like a demon. There’s no logic to it. You stop for no good reason. You talk to people you don’t know. You turn left when you should turn right. You are the demon that has struck down Midori. I used to belong to Midori. She owned my heart, my soul and my spirit. You have turned all that to ash. Without her I’m nothing. I hate you…… What happened to Bjork will never happen to Midori.”

She stopped, completely out of breath.

“I’m exhausted now.”

She fell from her chair without a sound. I got out of the water, picked her up and carried her to the bed. She weighed nothing at all. I watched her a moment as she slept, like a child, her tiny fists clenched.