Dany Laferriere - I Am a Japanese Writer

He was gripping the knife tightly in his fist. The veins in his neck were rising and falling.

“I’m doing it for my column. There are people interested in this story. They would like to know how you can become a Japanese writer if you know nothing about Japan.”

“And that’s why you’re trying to feed me a little Japanese culture.”

“I’m only trying to direct your curiosity to something besides the clichés about Japan. You’re enthusiastic about this ancient Japan they keep beating us over the head with. As if we had nothing else to offer. . We would like Western artists to get interested in today’s Japan, not just in geishas and cherry trees. Young Japanese aren’t interested in Basho, you know.”

“They’re interested in America, and I’m not interested in them.”

“What would interest you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I would like to be able to help you.”

“Anything but that… On the other hand, yes, there is one thing. I’d like to know where the phone calls are coming from. I like the atmosphere. I’d like to drop in there some evening.”

Mr. Tanizaki looked chagrined.

“I’m afraid you can’t. It’s a game my readers thought of. They’re calling you from a discotheque in Tokyo.”

“What’s the game?”

“Whoever can keep you on the line longest wins. Now, I am sorry, I came here to buy wine, there is a small reception at the consulate this evening. If you could come, it would give us great pleasure. It would, in fact, be a honor for us.”

For a moment he hovered in a position that was halfway between sitting and standing. Too much in a hurry to wait until I got up, but too polite to get up before me. In the end I stood, which allowed him to go on his way.

THEIR WARRIORS WORE colorful costumes and applied violent makeup. After the Americans defeated them, they became Americans. One way of absorbing those damned Yankees. A double culture: their own and that of the conqueror. Which explains the monstrous success of the double hamburger. The Japanese produce the best one-hundred-andten-pound Elvis doubles. In certain small villages, you can meet highly educated jazz fans. Or John Lee Hooker without the wounds of racism. Bob Dylan without the silliness of the 1960s. Marilyn Monroe without the antidepressants. They do for stars what Las Vegas does for the world’s monuments. Copies made while you wait. The young Japanese girl’s insatiable appetite for American gadgets. She talks fast, breaks off words so quickly she cuts them in half. Since time refuses to lengthen, she shatters language into an incomprehensible mishmash. She devours the world, speaks it, breaks it, transforms it, hoping to turn the defeat into victory. She wants to secretly penetrate the heart of American desire to change it into desire for Japan. Americans will never become Americans again because they don’t realize they’re already Japanese. And here I dreamed of becoming a Japanese writer — I wonder what’s hiding behind that label. And most of all, where such an obsession could have come from.

OVER THE PHONE, his voice was suave, his language impeccable, with a slight accent I couldn’t quite place.

“We’ll need a day, no more.”

“A day out of my life! I don’t have that kind of time to give to someone I don’t know.”

“Excellent! Bravo! Thank you very much! Ah, if only you knew…”

“What did I say that was so special?”

“We’ve been searching for a title for our profile all week, and right away, the first thing you say… A day out of my life— a perfect title! We’ll put the rest in the subtitle: I don’t have that kind of time… Whatever.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We are at your disposal: a day out of your life, no more. We’re based in New York. What do you say we arrive Wednesday and spend Thursday together?”

“What will we do?”

“What else — a documentary about you.”

“What for?”

“What do you mean? Didn’t Mr. Tanizaki say anything to you?”

One of those silences.

“Okay… do I get to choose?”

“Of course.”

“Friday.”

“Fine. But we have to set up the day before. Don’t worry about anything.”

“Now you’ve got me worried.”

“We’re a very small crew. No more than three. And we won’t break anything in your house.”

“You won’t shoot in my house.”

A lengthy silence.

“In that case we’ll film on the street. Someone will call you for the details. Thanks again for the title.”

“What’s your name?”

“Dazaï.”

“Like the writer?”

“Like the writer. My mother knew him. See you soon.”

It’s not often that someone is in more of a hurry than I am to get off the phone. This young man, for that reason alone, struck me as remarkable. And then there was his impeccable way of speaking. (I love this old fart way of assessing everyone, giving out points.)

Two days later. A small voice woke me up. A feeling like a mouse had crept into my dreams. I often dream of animals that speak to me.

“My name is Kero. We are doing a ‘Zoom’ on you next Friday.”

“Who are you?”

“Dazaï didn’t call you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Japanese television…”

“Oh, yes.”

“You scared me. . We are coming Thursday. Everything must be ready beforehand.”

“Where are you calling me from?”

“Tokyo. That is where we are based. We do portraits in New York, Berlin, Amsterdam, Milan, but more and more we are going to faraway places like Dakar and Montreal. You see, we are everywhere. We do a lot of fashion programming, that’s why we are doing Paris.”

I’ve always been fascinated by the way people have of calling you from anywhere in the world and babbling like a brook. I talk only to Diderot and my landlord. Which makes me wonder why he hasn’t been by yet to demand the rent money. As I daydream, Miss Kero keeps on talking.

“Are you still there?”

Amazing she could feel my absence. How do they know when your mind has been wandering? Is there something, a sound, that signals that you’re elsewhere? Even talkative types know when you’re daydreaming. I’d better stop asking and answering questions in my head. That’s the curse of the solitary man.

“Yes, go ahead.”

“Thank you very much. . I was saying that we only do ‘Zooms’ on major designers and top chefs in the nouvelle cuisine movement. You know, in Japan, we adore everything new. We love creativity, and we are always on the lookout for the latest trend. Why? We hate being caught in a situation of ignorance. We want to be up to date…. But if I am talking too much, you will tell me.”

“You talk like a Parisian.”

“That’s because of Sagan. I wrote my doctoral thesis on Sagan. I lived in Paris for three years. And I still listen to tv5 to keep up. So, I was saying that since last year, we’ve begun to work on writers, painters and musicians. Our public is very hip, they are well informed and they don’t buy just anything. On the other hand they want more than just a big name — they want a mixture. They don’t like hearing about someone somewhere else first. And they’re ready to pay for the best product. That’s why we’re careful with what we propose. . Are you still there? Sir? Sir? Are you still there?”

“I think maybe you’re part of my dreams. . Your voice is like a lullaby.”

She laughed.“If you’re always like this, everything will be fine.”

“Why did you choose me?”

“You’re so well known here. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Yes. But I don’t live in Tokyo.”