Snow in Iizuka

   Miserable little Iizuka never looked so good.

Snow!

Kindling

   You never know where the idea for a novel will come from. Sometimes, it comes in a brilliant flash of inspiration; more often than not from long, deliberate meditation. Occasionally, however, a story will be borne out of personal experience. Writing a novel based on things that really happened can be tricky in that life doesn’t always provide a convenient denouement drawing all the strands of a plot together. Relationships usually fade without drama, without leaving that niggling feeling of What if? Real people seldom die, are killed, or commit suicide in a timely manner, plot devices that are overused in novels. And sadly, there are few happily-ever-afters in real life.

   That said, something happened a few weeks ago that had me remembering a past life of sorts, a time when I was thirty and dating a number of women. One of them would become my first wife, another would become the quintessential woman scorned, and a third would become the wretched casualty of my capricious heart. Fifteen years later that poor woman would write to tell me that she would never ever forgive me. As I read that letter, I felt a fresh pang of guilt and murmured quietly: “Darling, I haven’t forgiven myself, either.”

   And so a third novel based in Japan about relationships is begat. It will be my Act of Contrition.

Let it snow

Hasui Kawase's "Zôjôji no Yuki" (1922)   It’s been snowing off and on for the past three days here in Fukuoka and the peaks of the mountains to the south and west of the city are now white. It’s tempting to go hiking up one of them. But, then again, who am I kidding?

   On my way to work the other day, I stopped at what the Japanese call a “scramble intersection” (スクランブル交差点, sukuranburu kôsaten), an intersection where pedestrians are allowed to cross every which way they want when the “WALK” sign comes on.

   Across the street from me was a salaryman in his late fifties, staring blankly ahead. As we waited for the light to change, fluffy white snowflakes started to fall lazily from the sky.[1] The salaryman’s eyes lifted then followed one of the flakes as it slowly descended, down, down, down, down, and landed softly on the asphalt where it stuck. A gentle smile spread across his face, eyes brightened, and, if I am not mistaken, the salaryman’s day had just been made.

---

[1] These big snowflakes are called botan yuki (牡丹雪, lit. “peony snow”) in Japanese, which is certainly more poetic and evocative than what we call them in English: “humongous snowflakes”.

These Charming Men

   Teaching English in Japan I come across Anglophones from all over the globe who are engaged in the same trade of linguistic orthodontics as me. I also come across a large number of Japanese students who have very fixed, yet often mistaken, notions of national character. 

   One of the first questions I am often asked by prospective students, particularly those with an intermediate or above level ability in English, is: "Where are you from?"

   When I tell them that I am American, most are happy. Some, however, hoping for an Englishman can't quite hide the disappointment in their voices. They ask a number of other questions, but for the most part they have made up their minds and are already looking at the phone number they will dial next. 

   To these women--it's always women, especially women of good upbrining--your average American may be friendly, but he just doesn't have the cachet of the English. Besides, they don't want to speak American English. Heavens no. They want to speak the Queen's English.

   These women will fawn over any man who resembles ever so remotely Hugh Grant. They'll insist on watching only British or European films, too. Four Weddings and a Funeral is one of the perennial favorites. They'll have a fondness for Baroque music and furniture and prefer English tea in European porcelain to a cuppa joe. And on and on. 

   Funny thing is, I have yet to meet this prototypical Englishman. Most tend to be as rough around the edges as yanks, or, heaven forbid, the Australians, and quite a few have mouths that would embarrass a sailor. 

   Several years ago, I was listening to a English reporter of African descent talk about his experience covering the United States. One of the things that stayed with me is that in America the British accent adds ten or so points to a person's perceived IQ. I think the same can be said here in Japan. Have a English accent and the Japanese will perceive you as more intelligent and cultivated, a more gentle gentleman.

   So, it amuses me whenever I come across an Englishman who does or says something that is, for lack of better words, just plain dumb. 

   Take Nigel (not his real name). Nigel and I play soccer together on a pretty strong team composed entirely of university professors. (I am the second-weakest link on that team, by the way.) Nigel and I often take the train into town together after practice and talk about life.

   One of Nigel's reaccuring topics is how little sex he and his wife have been having. "I suppose I shouldn't really complain: compared to the average Japanese couple," he said in that languid cadence of his, "we do make love more often, but still . . . "

   "Oh, with me it's the opposite," I replied, half-jokingly. "My wife is insatiable. You know, sometimes I just want to be . . . held."

    "Sometimes, a young girl will come into my classroom, and she'll be so beautiful that . . . " he said with a shy. "Here I am forty-one years old and a girl of eighteen makes my heart go pitter-patter."

   "It can't be helped," I said. "We're biologically wired to feel that way. Personally, I'm surrounded by young beautiful women because of my work, but I'm so busy and tired all of the time I have no interest in making a move. Of course, if one of them ever deigned to make a move on me, well, I would have no choice but to acquiesce. It is, after all, what Jesus would do."

   Changing the subject, Nigel told me he was reading an excellent book and, fishing it out of his duffle bag, showed it to me. 

   "Ah," I said, taking his copy of Confessions of a Yakuza (浅草博徒一代 Asakusa Bakuto Ichidai) and checking to see how far he'd gotten. "I've read this four times already."

   I asked Nigel if he had read any of Junichi Saga's (佐賀純一) other works. He hadn't, so I recommended Saga's first work, Memories of Silk and Straw (田舎の肖像, Inaka no Shôzô) which has a chapter on the gangster whose life story would be retold in Asakusa Bakuto Ichidai and later masterfully translated by John Bester. "Anything by Bester," I told Nigel, "is a sure bet."

   Talking about the yakuza and novels, Nigel asked me if I had read anything by Mifune.

   "Mifune?"

   "Yes, Mifune," he replied. "He was a right-wing radical, committed seppuku in the seventies . . . "

   "I don't think that's Mifune, you're thinking about . . . "

   "No, it's Mifune. I'm certain about that," he said. "Mifune, Mifune, Mifune. What's his first name again. Mifune."

   "You know, I don't believe it's Mifune. It's, it's, it's . . . Mi-something. Oh, this is frustrating."

   "Yoshio Mifune!" Nigels said triumphantly.

   No sooner had we parted ways than the name of the author came to me: Yukio Mishima. 

   A few days later I was at a friend's Irish bar, The Craic and Porter, when another Englishman came in with a friend and sat down at the table next to mine. Let's call him Graham. 

   Graham has been in town for nearly as long, if not longer than, as I have. We have seen each other easily a thousand times (nodded to each other several hundred) over the past two decades, but never spoke until that night. 

   "You play tennis often," I asked. I had seen him playing at the same courts in the ruins of Fukuoka Castle that I played in now and then.

   "I try to get a game in now and then," he answered.

   "Me, too. Me, too."

   I've been playing tennis for about five years now and am only modestly better than when I started. When I mentioned this Graham contradicted me: "I've watched you play. You're not half bad."

   "You're either too kind or have had too much to drink."

   Anyways, Graham and his friend chatted about this and that, their conversation eventually making its way to music. 

   "Do you know that Bob Marley song "No Woman, No Cry", he asked his friend.

   "Yeah."

   "You know what that means?"

   You gotta be feckin' kidding me, I thought to myself.

   His friend supposed that it had to do with not having a woman in your life and . . . 

   "No," Graham said, "that's what I used to think, but I was at Allen's place, Xaymaca, the other day and he told me that it meant . . . "

   "No, woman, don't cry," I interrupted.

   "Yes! That's right!" Graham said, turning to me. "How did you know?"

   Good grief. "Well, if you listen to the lyrics . . . "

   "Yes!"