I Am a Japanese Writer

A PING — PONG GAME

WHAT DO YOU know, it’s blinking. Two messages from the Japanese consulate. Already — those Japanese are fast! I called back immediately. A certain Mr. Tanizaki would like to speak with me. However, this Mr. Tanizaki has gone out to lunch with his superior, Mr. Mishima (they don’t mess with the hierarchy here). Actually, all I got was a machine that gently reminded me that the staff was not in during lunch hour, and would not be returning before two o’clock in the afternoon. I was to call back later, after mealtime. I did call back. They asked me to wait a minute. I heard my name spoken. It was the first time I’d been able to pick out my name in a Japanese conversation; it was like a salad to which someone had added a new ingredient. The next thing I knew, a rather nasal voice was speaking to me.

“Are you the writer?”

“Sometimes.”

“I am Mr. Mishima, but I’m not the writer. I am the viceconsul of Japan, and I would like to meet you.”

“For any particular reason?”

“I cannot discuss it on the telephone.”

“Next Wednesday, at the café Les Gâteries, at noon. . Is that all right with you?”

“Of course. But why there?”

“Why not?”

Silence answered me.

“Fine. . At the café Les Gâteries, Wednesday at noon. I’ll be there.”

I don’t know why, but I figured it was important to insist on that café. I set the time and the place for the meeting. You have to take the initiative in cases like this. I’d seen how it worked in The Godfather, the Coppola film. You set the place, you get there well ahead of time, you hide the gun in the bathroom, behind the toilet. But why the silence? It’s true, there are always periods of silence during this kind of telephone conversation. Sudden stops sometimes destabilize me. Absence of noise is not necessarily silence. And what is silence for the Japanese? Emptiness in a conversation does not have the same meaning in all cultures. Of course it’s not emptiness at all, but a subterranean conversation (we speak to ourselves as we talk to the other person). We hear the silence when both conversations stop at the same time. It’s like a Ping-Pong game: you have to wait until your adversary returns the ball. And if he doesn’t do it with a smooth rhythm, brief spaces where nothing is spoken occur. Sometimes it isn’t an accident. These days, you still meet professionals who can play silences on three levels: the short, the long, and the embarrassing silence. Since I couldn’t analyze his, I suddenly fell silent. Perhaps he wasn’t expecting me to stop so suddenly. In any case, he seemed to freeze (which happens when the body falls silent at the same time as the mind), and then I heard him murmur, “I will come with my assistant, Mr. Tanizaki. I hope you will not mind.”

I had made immoderate use of silence. That weapon can blow up in your face. “Not at all.”

“If anything concerns you in any way, for one reason or another, you will please tell me, sir.”

I had forgotten that style of politeness. One fact is always hidden behind another. Behind silence is politeness. Behind politeness — often cruelty.

“There’s no problem.”

Another lengthy silence (it was his turn now), though the onus was on him to thank me and hang up. Didn’t he know it was up to the person who called to put an end to the conversation? Was he, a diplomat, somehow unaware of this code? I decided to end things myself.

“Thank you for your call. I look forward to meeting you.”

Dead air, as if he were busy signing documents.

“Yes, I will see you soon.”

I heard a brief click, the kind that might betray that someone else was listening in on the conversation. Not being in the same room as Mr. Mishima, he couldn’t execute a fully synchronized sign-off. A tenth of a second too soon. It could have been his assistant, Mr. Tanizaki.