The Toyotomi Blades

4

How can you return to a place you’ve never been? That’s something I puzzled over as I pressed my face against the hazy Plexiglas of the plane window. Through my cheek I could feel the cold of forty-eight thousand feet.

I was flying in the upper cabin of a 747 and loving it. I’ve flown on Boeing 747s before, but I didn’t realize that some of them have an upper deck with about twenty business class seats. On domestic flights, I’ve always flown in what airlines call economy class, but which I call steerage. On a 747, steerage means a lot of people jammed into a confined space. In the upper deck the seats were only two abreast and there were two flight attendants to take care of our needs. When I boarded the plane and climbed the spiral staircase that went to the upper deck, I noticed the plush leather-covered seats for first class in the front of the plane, but I wasn’t envious. On my only other international flight, I was jammed in a MATS plane with more than one hundred other teenagers going to war in Vietnam, all of us trying not to show how scared we were. Business class to Japan was my best flying experience. If that makes me a bumpkin, then I plead guilty.

Below, on the horizon, came the coast of Japan. All I could see was a thin, gray line that might or might not turn into something more interesting as the plane rushed forward. I was disappointed that the coastline didn’t provide a more spectacular view. Although I’ve never been to Japan, I felt that in some way this was a homecoming. I’ve always considered Hawaii home, even though I’ve now lived in Los Angeles for most of my life. My family’s been in Hawaii since 1896, but my grandfather and grandmother came from Japan. So, although Hawaii is home, Japan is the homeland.

I’m a Sansei, or third generation Japanese-American. Like most third generation Americans, I’ve forgotten a lot of my roots, but I’m still aware of all sorts of influences on my outlook and actions that are caused by the fact that my grandparents were Japanese. Certainly the way I fit into American society has been affected because of that heritage.

The airplane’s public address system came to life and something was said in Japanese. I was flying All Nippon Airlines, ANA, and it made me vaguely uncomfortable that all announcements were first made in Japanese and then English. In case of an emergency, I didn’t want every Japanese-speaking passenger up and rushing for an exit while I was still waiting for a translation.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice on the PA finally began in English, “we will be landing at Narita in approximately fifty minutes, so if you have not already done so, please fill out your disembarkation pass for submission to Japanese customs.”

I checked the small white card that all visitors have to fill out and put it back in my pocket. I took a few deep breaths. At Los Angeles International Airport, I had been surprisingly nervous, and sensing my mood, Mariko had given me an especially loving send-off. I don’t know what I was nervous about, but I think it was a combination of going to Japan for the first time and the prospect of being on television. Like any Angeleno, I’m pretty blase about the entertainment business because there’s so much of it in the city. But this would be my first time on television, and to complicate things, it would be a live show and in Japanese.

To pass the time, I took a copy of Things Very, Very Japanese by Bob Thomas from my travel bag. I sought the card I had stuck in as a bookmark and started reading a piece on tsuba, Japanese decorative sword guards. I bought three guidebooks for my trip to Japan. Books on Japan are like books about sex or music-they explain things in academic terms, but they can’t convey the feelings or emotions involved in the actual experience.

I know a lot of individual Japanese words and phrases, and in college I studied Japanese history. Despite that, I never visited the object of my interest. In Yasunari Kawabata’s novel Snow Country there’s a character who’s an expert on Western ballet. In spite of having an encyclopedic knowledge on the subject, he has never actually seen a ballet. In some ways, I emulate this character.

A few minutes later, I looked out the window again and the gray line on the horizon had turned into a rocky coastline. The plane was too high to make out details, but I could see how rugged and mountainous the land was. As the plane came lower in its approach to Tokyo International Airport at Narita, I saw fall colors breaking through the haze. Red, yellow, and a pale orange splashed the trees that were clustered on the mountainsides. Spoiling the beauty, I also saw that great gouges had been taken out of some of the hills, exposing raw, red earth. The mountains were also crisscrossed with ugly electrical lines and high-tension towers. The woods, towers, and gouges formed a crazy quilt that didn’t match my notions of how ordered Japan would be.

Once I arrived at the airport, my idea of Japanese efficiency was reaffirmed. The airport was crowded, but clean and well run to the point of coldness. At the immigration desk, the clerk looked at my American passport and silently looked up to confirm that the owner matched the picture.

I took one of the metal carts provided and gathered up my luggage as it appeared on the endless belt. I then joined the mass of Japanese and tourists lining up for customs inspection. I moved the cart to one of the customs stations with the green nonresident sign. When it was my turn to have my baggage inspected, the Japanese customs agent in the gray-blue uniform glared at me. In L.A. gang terms, he gave me a hard look. In Hawaii, we’d call it the stink eye. Whatever you call it, it was plain he wasn’t happy. He said something in Japanese. I gave the agent a puzzled look. The agent repeated himself, this time much more harshly.

“Excuse me, but do you speak English? I’m afraid I don’t speak Japanese,” I said.

The agent looked at me in surprise. “Are you an American?” he asked in very good English.

It never occurred to me that I would be taken for a Japanese national, although obviously, with two Japanese-American parents, I look Japanese. “Yes, I am,” I said.

His whole demeanor changed. A smile spread across his face and he pulled my bags through the customs table without checking a single one. “Welcome to Japan,” the agent said cheerily.

I walked out of the baggage area into a milling mass of people. Most appeared to be families looking for loved ones, but a great number were limousine drivers or businessmen holding signs with names in English or Japanese. When I’d called Sugimoto to set up the trip, he’d said he’d meet me at the airport, so I scanned the businessmen to see if I could spot one holding a sign with my name on it. As I was searching for Sugimoto, a man came up to me. He was dressed in a plain white T-shirt, Levi’s jeans, black motorcycle boots, and a black leather belt with a large, silver Harley-Davidson belt buckle. His hair looked permed into curls and he wore it with an authentic 1950s jelly-roll lock of hair cascading down his forehead.

In the Thomas book about Japan I had read about the youngsters who gather at Yoyogi Park every Sunday all decked out in 1950s American regalia, complete with black leather jackets and poodle skirts. The young people go there to dance, play music, and meet other kids. Those kids were teenagers, but this man was at least in his midthirties, and he seemed long-of-tooth for dressing up like James Dean. To my surprise, he stuck out his hand and said, “Mr. Tanaka, I’m Buzz Sugimoto.”

He must have been used to people doing double takes, because he showed no reaction when I did mine. This kind of appearance could be expected in Los Angeles, but here in Tokyo it was totally incongruous to me. I had enough wit to shake his hand.

“I recognize you from the picture,” Sugimoto added in slightly accented English, “or else I’d be holding up one of the little cardboard signs with your name on it. Is that all your luggage? I have a car waiting outside.”

Sugimoto took over my luggage cart and wheeled it out of the terminal with me in tow. Outside, there was a black limousine waiting at the curb. The driver was in a blue uniform, wearing white cotton gloves. He had a feather duster in his hand and he seemed busy dusting off the car. The car was a Nissan President, a model they don’t sell in the States. Sugimoto spoke to the driver in Japanese and opened the door of the limo for me. “The driver will take care of your luggage,” Sugimoto said as I climbed into the car. The seats of the car had white lace doilies pinned to the headrests. It looked very Victorian.

“How long will it take us to get to the hotel?” I asked Sugimoto.

“It’s rush hour now. It will take us at least two hours, maybe longer. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stop at the studio before we check you into the hotel. We’d like to film a short promotional spot with you for next week’s show.”

The news that it might take over two hours to get to Tokyo made me wish that I’d used a bathroom before leaving the terminal, but the driver was already in the car and pulling away from the curb before I could say anything.

It was late afternoon Japan time, which made it very late at night in Los Angeles, and my body was still on Los Angeles time. The thought of stopping at a studio to film some promo was not as inviting as the thought of checking into the hotel and sleeping. Still, I figured it would be churlish not to let News Pop make its promotional piece. After all, they had flown me to Japan to be on the show, not for my sparkling personality. I told Sugimoto that stopping at the studio would be fine.

“Did you bring the sword?” Sugimoto asked.

“Yes. It’s in that large gym bag.”

“And that’s the sword used in the murder you solved?”

“No,” I said, surprised. “The murder sword is a piece of evidence, so it’s being held by the Los Angeles Police Department. This sword is one that I bought for a hundred dollars at a garage sale.”

“It’s not the murder sword? When we saw the photograph we naturally assumed that the sword you were holding was the one used in the murder.”

“I’m afraid not. It’s just a prop that the Asahi Sbimbun photographer thought would add interest to the picture.”

“Damn!” Sugimoto thought a few seconds, and said more to himself than to me, “Never mind. If we made a mistake thinking it was the murder sword, others might make the same mistake. We’ll still use it as a prop in the promotional piece. Have you ever been on television before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, don’t worry. Our show has live interviews, but we do interviews with people who aren’t professionals all the time. During the interview we’ll run a simultaneous translation from Japanese to English through an earpiece, so you’ll understand the questions that our hosts ask you. You’ll respond in English, naturally, and we’ll do a simultaneous translation for our audience. Prior to the live interview we’ll discuss the types of questions we’ll ask you, so although your responses will be spontaneous, there will be no surprises. The lead-in piece, which sets up the interview, will be on tape. We’ll need your help in putting together that piece, so we’d like you to check in at the studio for about an hour every day. The late afternoon is best, which will also give you most of the day for sightseeing. Do you have any questions?”

“No. You must give that little speech a great many times,” I said.

Sugimoto laughed. “I’m sorry if I sound a little like a recording. I do give that speech a lot.”

“Do you meet many people at the airport?”

“Quite a few. It’s part of my job when I’m in town. Half the time, I’m traveling to the U.S. or Europe to track down stories. In fact, I just got back from Europe a few days ago. I’m not always here to meet our guests, but it’s actually something I enjoy because I get to know a great many people.”

“How long have you been doing this kind of work?”

“About seven years. I’ve been doing it for News Pop for three years. Before that I worked with other shows, including NHK News.”

We made small talk as we drove along, but my attention soon turned to the view out the car window during the long drive from Narita to Tokyo. I saw a lot of roofs made with blue tile or tin sheets, and the houses were very small and narrow even when they were built near Narita, where there seemed to be more open space. Small houses crowded together is hardly an original observation about Japan, but when you see it for yourself you realize that many facets of the Japanese standard of living simply haven’t kept up with their vaunted technical and business prowess.

Traffic increased as we approached Tokyo. Sugimoto pointed out Tokyo Disneyland off the freeway and said we had at least another hour to go, but frankly, by that time, my thoughts were more focused on my bladder than the Japanese version of a Southern California tourist attraction. I really should have gone to the bathroom before we left the airport.