Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

The moment I entered the ballroom, however, I knew I’d made a mistake. The feeling is probably shared by almost all students when they return from gown to town—the normal world. The scene before me, in the bright lighting of the suburban hotel, looked tawdry, as did the Christmas tree with its tinsel garlands. The American secretaries had hung up the usual HAPPY NEW YEAR banner and decorated it with red, blue, and yellow balloons, but, instead of heralding something new, it seemed a sign that nothing new could ever happen. The people swarming in the hall looked gaudy, tacky, and out of fashion—this because they were dressed to the nines. What was meant to create an atmosphere of revelry announced the impossibility of any revelry.

That wasn’t the end of it. Precisely because they were so bent on hosting an authentic American-style party, a certain dreariness, so typical of the Asian communities there at the time, subtly permeated the hall, as if from the sad, faint sound of a Chinese fiddle or the lingering smell of soy sauce. As long as the expatriates behaved in a strictly Japanese way, bowing constantly and exchanging name cards in their somber business suits, they were merely Japanese people in America. The moment they tried to behave like Americans, everything about them—their figures, faces, expressions, gestures, their speech, even their voices, which struggled out of their narrow chests and spindly necks—betrayed all too clearly the fact that they were not “real” Americans and made their efforts seem comic, if not pathetic.

Waves of people holding plates and glasses moved around the room, some speaking English, some Japanese, some just laughing. Before long, the Americans started to dance in high spirits, swinging their oversized bodies about, and the Japanese timidly followed. Even though rock had become mainstream by then, the party featured mainly ballroom music. People who didn’t know any ballroom moves tried to imitate those who did, and so the night wore on.

I was one of those who didn’t know how to dance properly, but I danced all the same. Maybe it was partly a way of trying to get over the dismay I’d felt when I first arrived, and partly to give in to the absurdity of the whole thing, to affirm the impossibility of any real pleasure. Every time a fast dance like a jitterbug or a cha-cha came on, I’d grab a partner—Yaji, Kita, or the handsome new repairman everyone called Elvis, who wore his hair slicked with pomade and was a superb dancer. When I was thirsty, I’d alternate between a Coke and some strong punch, and I kept on dancing, drunk and half-dazed.

I had no idea what time it was.

“This will be the last fast dance, everybody!”

A middle-aged American mistress of ceremonies made the announcement through a microphone in a tone that suggested she was speaking to a group of kindergartners. She was one of the secretaries. I was taking a short break from dancing and was surprised to be told that the party was almost over.

“I think I’ll dance with Taro Azuma,” I said.

Yaji and Kita, who were sitting across from me, exchanged glances. It suddenly occurred to me that Azuma’s presence had been bothering me all evening. I hadn’t thought of him during the past several months while I was at school, but from the moment we met that evening, I felt uneasy and even found myself often searching for his face in the crowd. Azuma seemed more friendless than ever, more sullen too. The fact that he had seated himself at a table away from everybody else only made him that much more conspicuous. The air around him seemed clouded with the dark frustration Nanae had noticed.

“He’s been sitting there all night.” Yaji and Kita followed my gaze, looking toward the figure in the corner.

“He’s actually a pretty good dancer,” Kita said.

My eyes widened in surprise.

“We’ve seen him dance,” Yaji confirmed.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” they both replied.

“Then why isn’t he dancing tonight?”

They just looked at each other and said nothing. I soon learned the reason, but it didn’t register just then.

Once again, the voice on the microphone boomed, “The last fast dance!”

The very last dance, the one after this, would be a slow one. The lights would go down low and couples would dance cheek to cheek, their bodies pressed together. I didn’t have the nerve to ask Azuma to dance that one with me, so this was my only chance.

“I’m going to ask him,” I announced bravely and, turning away from Yaji and Kita, trotted across the room in my high heels. I stood in front of him and announced to his gloomy face: “Let’s dance.”

“I don’t know how.” His face hardened. I wanted to confront him, say something like, It’s not that you can’t, it’s that you don’t want to, but I was too young and I hardly knew him. Clumsily, I repeated my invitation. He looked straight into my eyes. It was a chilling look.

“Come on.” I could feel the blush heating my cheeks. At that moment, loud music started up and I had to raise my voice. “This is the last chance. Let’s go.”

He probably thought I was trading on my father’s authority. I still can’t explain why I was so insistent. Drunken, conflicting emotions swirled in me. There was, for one, the girlish vanity that made me think that every young man would want to dance with me. Yet this conceited thought went hand in hand with a certain girlish sympathy. My heart—no, my soul—went out to this person, who sat there all by himself, nursing what seemed to be a burning resentment, and I wanted to help him connect with the world. Nevertheless, when it became clear that he was not going to give in, I began to feel—how shall I put it? Fury? Yes, fury. He had refused me. And this was quickly transformed into a desire to hurt him, humble him.

Holding my breath, I glared at him, my eyes declaring, We’re both young but there you are, trapped in your little life, with no promise in your future. And look how small and low it’s made you, how dark and hateful. Then look at me, look how high I can fly, how lightly and gracefully. And the distance between us will only grow as time passes …

Taro Azuma instantly understood.

He had been sitting there immobile, but abruptly he stood up and guided me toward the dance floor. Was that swing or jitterbug? All I knew was that my body was in his arms, being whirled around the floor at a frightening speed. His own body was tight with pent-up emotion; it felt almost as if he was punishing me. I could barely catch my breath. A faint, tangy smell came from him, that same scent I’d noticed when he changed the lightbulb in my bedroom. I was wondering if I should apologize for being so insistent, when the music ended. Once he let go of my arm, I sagged, almost flopping down, but somehow managed to stumble to a chair in a corner. I was in no mood to return to my previous companions.

On the opposite side of the room, Azuma loosened his necktie and took a seat. No sooner had he sat down than I saw what looked like a big white rubber ball hurrying in his direction. It was Cindy, the Italian-American secretary. When my father wasn’t around, the Japanese men in the company often gossiped about her, a single girl with a pair of massive breasts—a curiosity in itself. They must also have found her attractive because she was rather short—just about my height—and bleached her hair a dazzling blond. Running up to Azuma in her tight silver dress, she threw herself on him, pressing with her breasts. First she motioned at the dance floor with her chin, and then at me. Azuma just sat there, head down, biting his lower lip.

I hadn’t heard any of the rumors about Azuma and Cindy before, but at this point I didn’t need to. She tugged at his arm with both hands; there was something unmistakably erotic about the way those hands clung to him. I could see why Yaji and Kita had hesitated to say anything. In those days, being involved with local women was taboo in Japanese companies, and though Azuma was a local hire and had a measure of freedom that others didn’t, it was still better not to have his relationship with an American secretary brought out into the open. Yaji and Kita had been trying to protect him from his superiors.