I Am a Japanese Writer

ARE YOU A WRITER?

I ORDERED SOUP. Another silence settled in. I don’t have the nerves of steel this kind of game demands. I decided to get right to the point — which is, apparently, contrary to the rules of proper Japanese behavior.

“I had no idea the Japanese consulate was aware of my humble existence,” I said, in vague imitation of their obsequious tone.

I heard a peal of authentic laughter, but I couldn’t tell if it was coming from Mr. Mishima or Mr. Tanizaki. Was one of them a ventriloquist?

“My assistant heard about you.”

“Really?”

“Are you a writer?”

“Not right now.”

They laughed.

“Are you writing a book?”

“Yes and no.”

“We are very interested in your book.”

“And that’s why you decided to investigate me?”

Synchronized laughter.

“No, we are not investigating you, sir. Nor can we do such a thing. It is all we can do just to read the newspapers. There are only three of us in the cultural sector. Tokyo is interested in economic aspects: there are seventeen agents in that area. We are not a priority, you understand.”

It wasn’t news to me that literature doesn’t count for much in the new world order. Third-world dictators are the only ones who take writers seriously enough to imprison them on a regular basis, or even shoot them. The waiter arrived with our order. How was I going to get out of this wasps’ nest? Four or five Japanese businessmen swooped past and conversed with Mr. Mishima on a subject that demanded smiles and cascades of laughter. I didn’t catch a thing because they spoke threequarters of the time in Japanese, and the rest in English — their Japanese wearing a strong English accent and their English equally weighed down with Japanese. They pretended not to notice I was there. Maybe they just didn’t see me. Some people speak only one language, and others have radar that picks up only one kind of person: people of their own religion, class and race. That behavior is found in all societies. Finally they scattered, one at a time, with lighter-than-air steps and brittle laughter — as if they were performing a musical comedy.

“And the poets?”

A moment of surprise. I always ask after the poets.

“Do you write poetry?”

“No.”

“Do you like poetry?”

“Why do you ask?”

“We know you are fond of our great poet Basho.”

“How do you know that?”

“You read him wherever you go.”

“You’ve been following me!”

“Please do not be alarmed, sir.”

“Listen, I have other things to do.”

“My assistant Mr. Tanizaki is an eminent translator.”

“You want to translate my book?”

“We would love to,” said Mr. Tanizaki. “Though I am no more than a humble teacher.”

“It’s easy. You contact my publisher…”

“We are speaking of your latest book, of course.”

“What latest book?”

“The one you are writing, about Japan.”

“I never write about anything but myself.”

Mr. Mishima and Mr. Tanizaki exchanged quick glances.

A moment of panic in Mr. Tanizaki’s eyes. Now I could see the difference between them. Mr. Tanizaki is the one who’s always afraid. The reason lies in the hierarchy.

“Isn’t there some sort of relationship with Japan in your new book?” Mr. Tanizaki ventured, timidly.

“Besides the title, of course,” Mr. Mishima put in.

“My Japan is invented and concerns only me.”

Mr. Tanizaki sighed in relief.

“We would like to help,” said Mr. Mishima calmly.

“Even if I haven’t even written the book.”

They grew lively all of a sudden, and their masks began slipping out of control.

“We know you have not yet transcribed it onto paper, but it is in your head,” said Mr. Mishima knowingly.

“For once Tokyo is interested in one of our projects,” Mr. Tanizaki added quickly. “If you wanted to visit Japan. . We have an excellent guide to help you follow in Basho’s footsteps. We can organize a tour that will take you on the road our poet took 250 years ago.”

“But I don’t want to visit Japan… What kind of idea is that?”

“This is the perfect season for a trip,” Mr. Mishima said smoothly.

“You are a true artist,” Mr. Tanizaki summed up. “Your clear and open-minded answers have proved that. Of course we would not want to disturb you too much…”

“Allow me to say, all the same, that the consulate of Japan and its personnel would be only too happy to serve you in any way in order to ensure the success of your literary project,” declared Mr. Mishima, vice-consul of the Land of the Rising Sun. He was a second away from calling it my “literary mission.” This was getting out of hand. If I surrendered the slightest authority over my work to them, even just a single comma, they would write the book for me. Behind their obsequious manners was an iron will. Whatever the reason, they wanted to control this book.

“We understand that artists hate it when governments want to involve themselves in their work,” Mr. Tanizaki added quickly, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “Naturally, you are completely free to say whatever you wish about Japan. I have been reading your books. I went right to the bookstore after I heard your declaration.”

“What declaration?”

“I was truly touched when I heard you come out and say, in the middle of that North American shopping center, that you were a Japanese writer.”

“I am not a Japanese writer. I’m writing a book called ‘I Am a Japanese Writer.’ That doesn’t make me a Japanese writer.”

“Excuse me, I’m a bit lost. Mr. Tanizaki, who is a specialist in literature, will surely understand what you mean.”

“Absolutely! That’s when it becomes interesting. It opens every possible perspective…”

“Unfortunately, I have to go — I have another appointment,” I said, getting to my feet.

The two of them stood up so abruptly they almost knocked over the table. There were endless expressions of regret. I left with my soup untouched. I watched them for a moment from the street. They were talking so adamantly I thought they would come to blows.