Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

THE END OF my stay in California was nearing. It had rained for three days solid, but it was Friday and my seminar started at two o’clock. A little after one, I put on my raincoat and waterproof shoes, took out the huge American umbrella that made me feel like a first grader, and headed for the quad, where I opened the door to the building housing the Asian Languages Department and climbed the stairs to my office. Just as I reached the top, someone addressed me in Japanese.

“Professor Mizumura?”

It was a young man who I assumed was Japanese. A wet black umbrella stood against the wall by my door.

I felt a little disconcerted that he recognized my face, but I reacted more when he mentioned that he used to work for a major literary publisher; the name, for a moment, put me back in Japan. The young man himself didn’t have much of Japan about him, though. One could usually tell, as there’d be an unspoiled air about the new arrival, like a package wrapped in the fresh, crisp paper of Japanese department stores. This man was not like that. He looked tired in spite of his youth, as though life abroad had already started to wear him down. He had on jeans and a light blue button-down shirt—the universal uniform of young people—providing little clue as to when he had left Japan. Those days were gone when you could tell how long a person had been in the States by what he wore.

He looked back at me as I stared at him, confused. Hearing the name of the publishing house, I wondered if we had met before. I had no recollection of him. He struck me as just one of those young men you see everywhere back home nowadays—in the subway, on the street, in restaurants—far better-looking than the older generation, but usually featherbrained.

“Have we met?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” he replied with a bashful smile.

He explained that he had quit his job with the publisher and was living in San Francisco. One day not too long before, while reading online about a lecture series at the Stanford Humanities Center, he had come across my name. I had given a talk about my novels to a small crowd at the Center.

“That talk was a while ago.”

“I know. But that’s how I learned that you were here. Then I looked at the class schedule and saw that you teach on Fridays. Which is why I’m here today.”

“Were you standing here waiting the whole time?”

“No. I was sitting on the floor.”

I laughed. American students often sit on the floor, their legs stretched out in front of them, waiting to see their teachers.

He laughed, seeing me laugh.

“I’d decided that if I didn’t see you, I’d leave a note in your mailbox.”

“I see.”

He didn’t seem to have any urgent business. He must have just decided to drop by, having recognized my name. Living abroad, I too had been feeling a bit lonely, and I decided that just having a conversation with this person, who seemed neither silly nor stupid, shouldn’t be too much of a bother. In fact, everything about him—the way he stood, talked, and looked at me—seemed all right. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time.

“I’m very sorry,” I said, unlocking the door, “but my seminar starts in five minutes.”

I invited him in and asked him to have a seat. The room, lined on all four walls with Japanese and English books, belonged to an American professor of Edo-period literature who was on leave. The young man was about to sit down when he stood upright again and introduced himself as Yusuke Kato, explaining which Chinese characters were used in writing his name. Apparently no longer in the habit, he had no card to hand over.

I glanced at my watch as I sat down.

“Excuse me a second. I have to change my shoes.”

I pulled off my wet walking shoes, placed them on some newspaper to dry, and put on a pair of high-heeled boots. When I sat up again, my eyes met Yusuke’s. They were long, narrow eyes, with single-fold eyelids—a feature generally unappreciated by Japanese people nowadays but which appealed to me, with my fondness for things Japanese. The skin below his eyes looked slightly dark from tiredness.

“Could you give me a little time after your seminar?” he asked.

I felt relieved. I would have been embarrassed to have him sit in on my seminar.

“Of course. But it lasts three hours.”

“That’s fine. I can go to the Hoover library. I sometimes read Japanese magazines in there.” The library had a fine collection of books from East Asia.

“Then I’ll see you in three hours.”

“Thank you.” Yusuke took his umbrella and turned to leave. The back of his neck was refreshingly young.

When he returned later, I was sitting alone in my office drinking a cup of black tea. After class, I always came to the annoying conclusion that someone like me had no business speaking in front of people. Since I could use Japanese in the seminar, my aggravation wasn’t as bad as when I had to mumble in English, but even so I needed a few minutes to soothe my nerves with a cup of steaming-hot tea.

Yusuke said, as soon as he took a seat, “Japan seems so far away.”

His hair, hanging over his pale forehead, was wet from the rain, glossy black “like the wet wings of a raven,” as the Japanese expression has it.

“I find that I’m no longer interested in the news in Japanese magazines.”

He looked at me with those elongated eyes. I asked him when he had come to the States. He said he’d arrived in September of the year before last, that is, a year and a half earlier—which surprised me. I thought he’d been away from Japan for at least three or four years.

“I’ve read your books,” he announced.

“Really?”

“Both of them.”

“Thank you.”

“I thought—I …” He paused, looking for words, then came up with the lamest thing one could possibly say. “I thought they were quite interesting.”

He fell silent again, as if he’d done his duty.

“Thank you,” I said again, not knowing what else to say. I had sensed from the beginning that he hadn’t come to see me because of my writing. But—given that he had taken the trouble of coming to see a writer—it would have been nice if he could have been a little more obliging and eloquent.

He mentioned that he was surprised the library didn’t have the literary periodical published by the firm he’d once worked for.

“Shame on them! I’ll make sure they subscribe to it.”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t really matter,” he said in a tone that confirmed his indifference.

“Why did you quit your job?”

“I didn’t want to, but I ended up having to.”

He didn’t continue. I could tell that it was an effort for him to talk; he seemed to be taciturn by nature. He was studying my face. I felt uncomfortable, though the little he’d said seemed normal enough.

“Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?” I asked, not wanting to be the only one with something to drink.

“No, thank you.”

The conversation had come to a standstill again.

“Are you going to some university here?” I asked.

“Oh, no. I didn’t have a definite plan when I came to the States, so I’m taking some English-language classes. But I also have a job.”

“A job?” I asked, the image of a waiter at some Japanese restaurant in my mind’s eye.

“Yes, at a small software company in San Jose.”

“Software? Really?”

“Yes. An Argentinian I met in the English class gave me an introduction to the company. It’s not full-time, but the pay is good.”

“I see,” I said, nodding, inwardly blushing at the old-fashioned view that had made me imagine him only as a waiter. But how does someone who worked in publishing get to work at a computer-related company? I wondered. My puzzlement must have been evident, for he was quick to explain.