I Am a Japanese Writer

A POCKET GUIDE TO ASIA

I DON’T KNOW anyone from Asia. I would fall for any girl named Asia — the name makes me think of silk. “Asia” makes me think of a blade, too. One thrust and the throat is slit. A necklace of blood. A quick death is almost reassuring. I think of that continent the way a nineteenth-century explorer would. My ideas are born in my room. I did know a guy who used to hang out in Carré Saint-Louis. I never really knew where he was from. Asia is so big. Does he even know where he’s from now? When someone doesn’t go back home for so long, origins lose their relevance. What good is coming from a place if you don’t even speak the language?

“You wouldn’t be Japanese, by any chance?”

“Korea. I’m Korean.”

“Japan, Korea, isn’t it the same thing?”

He gave me a furious look.

“Still,” I told him, “I get the feeling you have something in common.”

“What?”

“Asia.”

Obviously I’m in love with the word. It’s the continent closest to America. One is too old; the other, too new. Both start with the letter A. In the presence of this flesh-and-blood human being, I confine myself to semiology. That must be my European side.

“What do you want, anyway?”

“I’d like to have a Japanese experience.”

The Korean wasn’t sure if I was serious or not. I put on my most serious face. For me, it’s easy: everything is serious, yet nothing is. That’s how I move through life. I can’t even separate what’s true from what’s false in myself. I don’t distinguish between the two. To tell the truth, all this business about authenticity bores me to death. I’m talking about the concrete fact of dying. When people start conjuring up their origins, I literally find it hard to breathe. We’re born in one spot, and afterwards we choose our place of origin.

Suddenly the guy figured he knew what I was looking for.

“Kama Sutra,” he said.

“That’s India.”

“Sure, but everybody thinks it’s Japanese.”

“I’m not everybody.”

“So what do you want?”

“Just to be in the surroundings. . The smells, the colors, the brush of fabric…”

“I know this transvestite…”

“It’s better if it’s a girl.”

“What about Chinese twin sisters?”

“I didn’t say China.”

“But all of it’s Asia, you said so yourself.”

“I’m not just talking about geography. . For me, Japan is masculine, and China is feminine. I can screw China, but Japan will end up screwing me.”

“You think you can screw China! Why not Korea?”

“Japan is more modern.”

“Workers with movie cameras.”

“So you really don’t know anyone from Tokyo?”

“If I find something, I’ll let you know.”

“Can I ask you a question? When was the last time you were back in Korea?” The question combined space and time.

“I don’t remember… I lost my passport.”

“Where do you keep your country?”

“Here, in my pocket.”

His eyes took on a strange glow. I headed for the Librairie du Square where I’d ordered a book (Basho’s The Narrow Road to the Interior). I heard someone running after me. I turned around. The Korean was standing there.

“Hey, I’m thirsty. You made me talk too much.”

“What about it?”

“Just enough for a beer.”

“You didn’t do anything for me.”

“Because you didn’t know what you wanted.”

“I want Asia. Japan, to be exact.”

I watched him dance back and forth. Some people think with their whole bodies. The possibility of a beer was doing its work.

“Okay… she’s a singer.”

“That’s exactly what I need.”

“I’m not guaranteeing anything. I can just tell you where she hangs out…. But it’ll cost you twenty dollars.”

I handed over the money, no questions asked.

“Café Sarajevo.”

“What’s her name?”

“Midori.”

A place and a name. You don’t need anything else to start a novel.