I’ve never been to Japan before. On a crowded street corner, breathing the acid tang of the gray air, I look at the little hand-drawn map and try to figure out where north is. The oval, blank faces flow past as though they ride on swift, efficient engines, though occasionally one glances at me: gaijin, foreigner. I turn and walk through a great wooden temple, silent rows of shaved heads visible through a cloud of incense, and enter a tiny storefront bar. A karaoke machine sprays music across the narrow space; but as I dig for a red thousand-yen note for the waitress, voices come abruptly from the speakers: He’s not doing well; he hasn’t recognized me for two days, and hardly opens his eyes any more. I tune them out; it must be some American soap opera. The chef lines up sushi on a black enameled tray; the maguro is like butter, it’s so perfect. I even eat the octopus, so his feelings won’t be hurt. I leave by a different door and turn left, crossing through a quiet formal garden to the foot of the mountain, and climb to a gold and red shrine. A party of nobles has arrived just before me, and a young samurai, tattooed and carrying a vast sword, condescends to explain that they are going to view the iris fields. Idling outside in the afternoon sun, listening to the monotone chanting, I notice an intricately carved sedan chair draped with pale green silks. A delicate hand pushes the curtain aside slightly; it holds a Sony Walkman, from which come tinny voices: I can tell you, he’s not in any pain; the drugs take care of that. But there’s not much we can do at this stage. Annoyed, I turn and cross behind the shrine, push apart the great wooden doors, and take the long steel escalator down to the subway station. The crowds are dense around the car doors, but the tiny stores are nearly empty; a bookstall looks interesting, and I glance through a collection of haiku, feeling the roaring trains through the floor. A flood of uniformed children rushes past, running to get to school on time; two little girls break away from the group to stop and gaze at me. I’m surprised and can’t remember the proper address for children, but as I stand tongue-tied the smallest dashes up and pushes a tiny, carefully wrapped package into my hand, and they run away, giggling like mad. I slip the package into my pocket, smiling to myself, and turn to ask the bookseller how much for the book, but he is gone. Shrugging, I put the book on the counter and turn to the door behind the stall; as I go through it, I hear voices booming over the public address system: He didn’t want to be revived. I know it’s difficult, but you’re going to have to make a decision. Outside, the road outlines a chessboard of wet, green rice fields on the south, out to the horizon; to the north, there is a small wooden pavilion up the hill, open to the spring air. The path wanders through a patch of tiny white flowers; I pick one, sticking it in my buttonhole as I climb. Three men in the pavilion are talking quietly; they rise and bow at my entrance. We exchange many polite phrases, but finally relax and prepare to write a renga, a chain of poems. The oldest fusses, handing me paper, brush and ink while the others wrinkle their foreheads in concentration over their scrolls. Can you hear me? We’re going to turn off your respirator, forgive us please, try to show if you can understand – I turn and close the door behind me to shut out the noise. Sitting, I arrange things before me, ink on the left, scroll unrolled to the first panel. As the old man begins to snore, open-mouthed, under the enameled bowl of the sky, I chew on the end of my brush. I count syllables in my head, trying to work out the first line: something about, what it’s like, to come to Japan.
[Los Angeles, 5/10-6/1/91]
[Published in His: New Fiction by Gay Writers, edited by Robert Drake and Terry Wolverton. Boston: Faber & Faber, 1995. Translated into German as 'Reise nach Japan' by Erwin Matalla & Jörn Wolters for Aktiv, Hamburg, August 1991, and Haki Journal, Hamburg, September 1991.]
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