Do you have any plans, I asked.
You?
To fully emerge.
Me too.
112
The other thing I wanted to ask you: What did you, just before you, what did you call out then? You do know. I was coming towards you. And you called out something. The whole time I’ve been convinced it was a message for me. Something I should hear. Something that was intended for me. What was it?
I was confused.
Have you forgotten?
I don’t think it was anything.
No?
What’s the point of repeating it?
Perhaps to…
I am telling you: It was nothing.
Actually, it no longer mattered to me. A cry from the past, it was fading away. Whether it was freedom, life or happiness, it was no longer important. We bade each other farewell with a simple goodbye. We’ll bump into each other again, said Kumamoto. We will, I said, and take care. You too. For my sake. And with that he disappeared behind somebody’s broad back. He would go home. Go home. Suddenly I was aware of a great hunger. A hole in my stomach, I rushed off. Hunger drove me on.
113
Father’s shoes in the entrance. Polished leather, you could almost see yourself in them. My parents were sitting down to dinner. The television was on. Baseball. The Giants were ahead by three runs. I saw in the hall, surprised that I wasn’t surprised, that the picture I shoved in the trash not long ago hung in its place again. Under it a notice fixed with thumbtacks: I have the negative. However often you may remove the picture, I can get another made. Mother. Smiley face. The family is multiplying. There I stood again, Father’s hand on my shoulder, crooked cap, in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, and waited for the grain of sand to run through the hourglass, to shake off the hand, and — waited a little longer, until my bitterness over it had faded. Or as Kumamoto would have said: Because I didn’t want to feel any bitterness, I didn’t. It was a conscious effort. I owed it to myself. It made things easier for me. Without bitterness I picked up the tray from beside the door, the bowl of rice was still steaming, took a carefully considered step, then a second one, opened the door with a hand that wasn’t trembling. Wide eyes regarded me. A mute nod. Father broke the silence first. Well, clear the chair, he said, turning to Mother. On my chair, the chair I had not sat on for two years, lay a pile of old magazines, the Crown Princess waving a hand, a ball of red wool, knitting. Mother hurried to clear it off. As she did, the ball of wool fell in front of her, on the floor, and rolled to my feet. I nudged it on towards Father. A home run. I sat down. Itadakimasu*.
More rice?
Mother filled up the bowl. Here is some more tofu. Otousan*, please pass him the leeks. Within seconds the table was reorganized. Side dishes and sauces rearranged so that they lay within my reach. I ate. The last piece of Gyoza*. Father’s chopsticks clashed with mine. You take it. No, you. He rubbed his belly: I’m full. We looked at each other. We held it. A beer, he said finally: Keiko, fetch us a beer. We clinked glasses. To what? you ask. Well, to the Giants of course. Excited cheering came from the television. The commentator’s voice went crazy. The game continued. Mother brought three glasses and dried squid. Kampai*. We toasted each other. Beer tastes best, laughed Mother, at the end of a long day.
114
How we sat together and with the help of irreality agreed about reality. I realized that Father and Mother had been hikikomoris as well. With me in the house they were captive too, for my life depended on them. Father’s meager holidays had been spent at home. No trips to the seaside. No weekends in O, Mother’s hometown. Now and then to the movie theater, yes. To sit in the dark. To a restaurant, from time to time. With friends they hadn’t seen for ages. A few hours in the car, from time to time. Simply driving off and imagining what it would be like to drive on. To the end of the world. Then stopping and saying to each other: There is someone who needs us. Turn around. And back. Every few days to Fujimoto’s and shopping. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. Mother never missed any mealtimes. Sometimes there was a t-shirt. A pair of socks. A sweater in winter. Lots of letters, which I didn’t read, left that way by the door. I asked myself what they might have contained. Perhaps how it made them happy to see a cola missing from the fridge, or wet tiles in the bathroom. Perhaps also how it made them very sad. Perhaps how they were ashamed of me. Perhaps also how it was difficult for them to understand what brought me to shut myself away from them. After all that, to sit together and with the help of irreality to agree about reality, it was like the first breath after all three of us had been underwater. Breaking the surface. We were still gasping.
And then. I stood up. Good Night.
Father: That was the best game I’ve seen for a long time. He spoke without looking up, his gaze towards the screen. In one hand he grasped his empty glass, with the other he held onto the edge of the table. His white knuckles betrayed him. Revealing immobility. One more word and the glass in his hand would have shattered.
BEGINNING
~ ~ ~
I am grateful to all the people who have supported me while writing. Their incalculable friendship has flowed into the story in a living contribution.
Special thanks to my husband Thomas (I thank you for your encouragement, your patience, your solicitude), Ojiichan and Obaachan (I thank you for many summers filled with happiness), Michio, Niken, Ayana and Ryuta (I thank you for the red thread that bound us to one another across the miles), Satoshi (I thank you for the beautiful memory of you), Tobias (I thank you for your support), Angela (I thank you for your Epile Spitmek), Barbara and Verena (I thank you for your loyalty and glasses of wine), Kathrin (I thank you for our singing and reading together), Lelo (I thank you for cupcakes and stardust).
The greatest thanks goes especially to those I have not mentioned.
Glossary
Butsudan Buddhist altar to honor ancestors and the recently dead.
— chan Diminutive suffix added to names, especially of children.
Giants A Tokyo baseball team.
Gyoza Meat filled pastry squares.
Hajimemashite I am happy to make your acquaintance.
Heart Sutra A popular Buddhist writing, whose central doctrine is “Form is a void, the void is form.”
Hikikomori This is the word used to describe Japanese youths who refuse to leave their parents’ house, shut themselves in their rooms and reduce their contact with the family to the minimum. The period of time varies. Some spend up to 15 years or even longer shut in. How many hikikomoris there are remains uncertain, as many are concealed for fear of the stigma involved. According to estimates, between 100,000 and 320,000 young people fall victim to it. The main cause is believed to be the huge demands to conform and achieve in school and society.
Itadakimasu Said before a meaclass="underline" I accept it with humility.
Kampai A toast: Cheers!
Kanjou Feeling.
Karaage Fried chicken.
Miyajima An area of beautiful countryside in Nihon.
Otousan Father, often used to address the husband.
Period of mourning In Japan this traditionally lasts for 7 weeks, after which the urn containing the remains of the deceased is placed in the grave. Cremation takes place at the funeral soon after death.
— san Suffix attached to a family name to indicate respect.