Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

“I hate this thing,” I said, blaming my incompetence on Nanae’s huge old car. The driver’s seat was actually too far back for me, and my foot barely reached the brake pedal and accelerator. And I’d been thrown into the chaos of Brooklyn streets. Nanae had lived in a loft in SoHo, but, finding it more and more difficult to make ends meet, she sublet it to a young couple who worked on Wall Street and moved herself, her two cats, the Steinway, and her sculptural equipment to Brooklyn. There the streets were even more ravaged than in Manhattan, with potholes everywhere, and trucks came bearing down on us from every direction.

“I really hate it,” I repeated.

“Well, what am I supposed to do about it? I’d rather have a decent car too, you know, if I could afford it.”

I had assumed that this car would break down while I was away, but she had nursed it along. As for myself, I was planning to take out a loan and buy a new Civic, since I would finally be getting a steady income.

“I’ll let you have my Civic at a good price when I leave the States.”

“Depends on how cheap.”

“Ten percent off the Blue Book price.”

“ No way! I don’t have that kind of money, and, besides, I prefer a bigger car, like an Accord. They’re safer on the highway. I have to think about my babies . They depend on me, so I have to be careful.”

“An Accord?”

Accords cost at least three thousand dollars more than Civics.

“You should be relieved that I didn’t say a Mercedes.”

“Are Mercedes that safe?”

“ Well, that’s what people say . But actually they’ve got a negative image here in the States too. Nouveau riche. So even if I could afford one, I guess I wouldn’t buy one. I’d take a Volvo or a Saab instead.”

“If I were rich, I’d definitely get a Jaguar,” I said, proud of my recently acquired ability to tell a Jaguar from other cars.

Nanae ignored the remark and said, as if just remembering, “Oh, yes, that man, Mr. Azuma. People used to say he ‘rode around in a big Mercedes.’ Remember? ”

“Yeah, I remember.”

The image of him in his dark suit when I last saw him at the sushi place came back; I hadn’t thought of him the whole time I was in Japan.

“Have you seen him since then?”

“ Nope . Not once. Why would I?” As we were approaching a traffic light, she added, “Let’s take a right again.”

“But we’ve been going round and round in circles!”

“Sorry, these are the only streets I know.”

Taking driving lessons from Nanae meant just going in circles: I realized for the first time that though she drove more smoothly and skillfully than most men, she had as little sense of direction as I did. I took the right turn, and she started talking about Azuma again.

“Apparently he’s far richer now than he was when he was riding around in his Mercedes. Filthy rich, they say .”

“Really?”

The bleak townscape shimmered under the intense sun of late summer. “Where do you hear these stories about him?”

“Every Japanese person I know talks about him.”

“Oh, I do wish I was rich.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Indeed, who doesn’t? Yet what I actually had in mind were specific and modest wishes. I thought about my father in the nursing home, living with seven other men in the same room. I also thought about Nanae, living alone in this foreign land. No one expected her to make money as a sculptor, but these days she wasn’t even getting much work constructing architectural models, which was how she earned her living. She told me, laughing, that with so much free time, she played the piano for hours every day. “I don’t think I’ve ever practiced so much and so hard in my life. It’s amazing how you improve when there’re no guys around.”

I didn’t join in her laughter. “How’d he get so rich?” I asked.

“I wish I knew.”

Nanae said something about a venture-capital business , but it was still an unfamiliar term to us, and she didn’t know any details.

“So he can buy a Jaguar or whatever he wants, with cash,” I said.

“Absolutely. He could even buy a Ferrari if he wanted. But it looks as if he’s not so much into conspicuous consumption.”

“So he is tight with money after all,” I said, wondering to myself about that unforgettable array of sashimi.

“I wouldn’t know,” Nanae answered after reflection. Then, after another pause, she said, “In any case, he must have saved a lot of money. He still lives in that same penthouse … But you know what else I heard?”

We stopped at a red light, and she lit yet another cigarette. “He goes back to Japan a lot.”

“Really?”

“Yes. First class, of course. People run into him at the airport and so the news spreads.”

For a while, neither of us spoke. We were stuck behind a car trying to turn left and sat through another red light. Drivers behind us were honking their horns. When the light finally turned green and traffic started moving again, I glanced over at her.

“I wonder if he still looks so happy and dumb.”

“I have no idea. But I did hear that he’s still single. I’d say it’s almost criminal. So rich and handsome and forever available … ”

“So he is gay after all?”

“I’ve never heard anyone even suggest it.”

I sighed. “Must be nice to have that kind of money.”

“Yeah, really. I wish I were so rich that people gossiped about me. They could call me filthy rich or fucking rich all day long.”

IN SEPTEMBER, WHEN school was starting, I heard some more about Taro Azuma from our old friend Mrs. Cohen. She had driven all the way out to Princeton just to bring me some boxes of household goods she thought might be useful, which otherwise would have languished in her attic and basement. We hadn’t been in touch for some years. It was an unexpected favor, but she did it with the generosity of those capable people who simply get things done. She looked in mild amazement at the less-than-luxurious concrete building the prestigious university provided as housing, but quickly got the cartons inside. A cup of green tea in one hand, she started chatting. America had already ushered in the era that saw smoking as a moral failing; she must have quit for, though her nails were painted the same bright red, no smoke rose between them. Sitting across from her, I couldn’t help comparing her with Nanae and thinking how sensible and mature she was.

From my apartment window, we could see woods lit by the late-afternoon sun and, through the foliage where summer’s green still lingered, the gleam of a large artificial lake. In the early 1900s an oil baron had donated money to create the lake so that students could practice rowing in the tradition of the old British universities. In contrast to my apartment building’s dreariness, the surroundings were rather beautiful, especially if one could forget that the lake was man-made.

“This reminds me of when I used to pack my car and take my boys to college every September,” Mrs. Cohen said. “Time passes so quickly.” The conversation soon shifted from her two sons, who had long since graduated, to my parents’ current situation, then to news of those who used to work at the office, and finally to Japan’s roaring economy, which had caught the world’s attention. Stock prices kept shooting up; real estate changed hands at increasingly exorbitant prices—to the point where some idiots in Japan boasted that, by selling Japan, they could buy America not only once but twice over; to which the Americans replied, with understandably wry smiles, “ But who wants to exchange America for Japan? ” Not a day went by that American newspapers didn’t have an article admiring or censuring our extravagance.