Minae Mizumura - A True Novel

Her father, a long-term business associate of Mr. Goldberg’s, had died about a year earlier—before he ever got around to taking up the Goldbergs on their repeated invitations to have his daughter come to the States for a visit. The offers had been made in return for the lavish entertainment her father treated them to every time Goldberg and his wife traveled to Japan on business, inviting them to dine in places like the Mikado in Tokyo, where there were chorus girls, and the Ichiriki in Kyoto, where there were geishas. After her father’s death, Goldberg had moved on to business relationships with other Japanese, but the daughter assumed she would still be welcome if she visited them, and so she’d left for America.

Mrs. Goldberg was kind enough to pick her up at Kennedy Airport, but, from the moment they arrived at the house, nothing went as expected. They treated her simply as another maid, asking her to clean the house, do the laundry, and iron their clothes. They even made her use the back door and eat in the kitchen with the other household help. Soon the astonished young lady decided to make an escape, but she had no idea where she was. She had no car. She hardly spoke English. She finally thought of calling us, having brought our telephone number with her just in case she needed to speak to another Japanese. The events of those days at the Goldbergs’ had shaken Miss Sone to the core, especially since she was from a well-to-do family where jewelers and kimono merchants routinely made house calls. In the car on the way to our place that day and during the meal that followed, she held forth so rapidly and breathlessly about how shocked and indignant she was that we could barely find a pause in which to express our sympathy. My mother told her that there was no need for her to stay in a hotel; since Nanae was away at school, she was welcome to her elder daughter’s room for the remainder of her time in the States. She stayed with us for ten days before returning to Japan. The entire time, she never ceased going over the details of the affair. Then, just before she left, she gave us as “a token of appreciation” a formal furisode kimono, the kind with the long-hanging sleeves for unmarried girls—one so expensive my mother would never have dreamed of buying it for her daughters. Miss Sone also left us a gorgeous brocade obi to wear with it.

Mr. Goldberg, an East European Jew who had arrived in New York in a boat full of immigrants, was the very antithesis of Mr. Atwood. He started out so poor he even slept in subway stations, but over time he managed to make a large fortune for himself. He did a good deal of business with Japan, and his residence, nicknamed the “Goldberg Palace” among the Japanese who knew him, was the trophy house of a nouveau riche, in stark contrast to the Atwoods’ place. The front doors opened onto a hall with a ceiling so high and a carpet of such a deep scarlet that visitors were dazzled, and rising from the hall was an imposing curved staircase, looking for all the world as if a femme fatale from some old Hollywood movie would make her appearance down it.

To top it all were the gold faucets. Mrs. Goldberg, a Latin American Jew, heavily made up, with blazing red hair teased high, was rumored to be of modest origins as well. She received her Japanese guests by first proposing in her heavy Spanish accent “ Let me geev you a tour of the house ,” and then guiding them through numerous rooms, ending with the master bedroom, where above the king-size bed hung a large oil painting depicting her in the nude. Before her guests had time to recover, she prodded them toward the connecting bathroom where—with a flourish—she pointed at the golden faucets on the sinks, shower, and bathtub. “ They’re based on our name, real eighteen-carat gold .” These words, delivered from glistening, brightly colored lips, were the final touch. The Japanese were flabbergasted by the tackiness of it all. During the long years I lived in the States, attending high school, college, and graduate school there, most of the handful of people I got to know well were Jewish, but the Goldbergs were the only ones whose lifestyle imitated the sort of caricature they attracted.

“This is called Okinawan bingata ,” my mother explained, folding the bright-patterned kimono. Her eyes sparkled as they always did when she came across something sumptuous and beautiful. As Miss Sone was rather plump, her kimono wrapped in ludicrous abundance around my then-slim waist when I tried it on. Later, I couldn’t see it without thinking about the young lady who made such a sudden appearance in our home. Though she only planned to stay three weeks in the States, she brought with her two large suitcases, containing not only the magnificent set of kimono and obi she left us with, but the entire assortment of precious and cumbersome items required to get dressed in a furisode : a braided cord to tighten and support the obi and a scarflike piece of material to adorn it; a double-layered under-kimono; two rolls of under-obi and several strings to hold the kimono and the under-kimono in place; a pair of white tabi socks; and matching gold purse and sandals—all in silk except the fine cotton tabi . She must have anticipated appearing in full attire at parties that would be held in her host’s grand mansion. I felt sorry for her. It was a stark reminder of the way so many Americans regarded the Japanese—a way that people living in Japan would never have imagined. Back in an earlier time, the few Japanese who traveled abroad were of noble birth, or sons of oligarchs, and how they may have been treated I cannot say, but many Americans at that time did not consider Japanese people as members of the same category of human being as themselves. From their point of view, there was no difference between Taro Azuma and Miss Sone. They were just Japanese. No, not even that. They were just some Asians.

Nonetheless, the fact was that back in Japan, Miss Sone was a young lady of good family.

When the two of us were alone, she soon steered the conversation to the subject that apparently interested her most: whom she might marry, marriage being an event she felt should take place fairly soon. “I suppose I’ll have to settle for an arranged marriage,” she said. “I do want to marry for love, but I think it would only work with someone from a family where the men have been going to university for the last hundred years.” To my ears, the comment came as a shock, accustomed as I was since early childhood to the postwar notion of equality—propagated under the American Occupation—and brought up by parents whose marriage was unconventional to say the least and who saw themselves as free spirits. Reading too many novels and spending years in the States must also have reinforced my historically naive view that one married only for love. Her comment, for some reason, left a long-lasting impression on me.

“SHE’S RIGHT TO be outraged at being treated like a maid just because she’s Japanese. Even so, I’ve never seen anyone so angry,” my mother said as she was placing bowls of steaming ramen in front of us—mine a small portion, as I’d requested.

“Compared to the Goldbergs, I guess the Atwoods aren’t all that bad,” my father said.

“They aren’t parvenus,” she conceded.

“No. Atwood was born rich.”

Still, according to him, Atwood was wary about his driver getting too close to someone like my father, in case it gave him a clearer picture of his position and made him demand higher pay and better working conditions.

“I’m sure Azuma wants to get out of there sooner or later, but he’s got the visa to worry about.”

“Yes.”

“He can’t just walk out of the place.”

“Obviously not.”