When I checked the café window, Pink Pumps was still standing there watching me. I went over. As I entered the café, she moved away from the window to a back booth. I hesitated to walk up on her. She seemed like she was fragile, might break in half or, worse, start screaming for the police. So I went to the cash register instead, ordering coffee I would not drink. When I turned back to take a look, she was speaking to a waitress softly in Japanese. She stood up and both girls began bowing to each other. I couldn’t interpret what was happening. I left the café to check again for Akemi.
“Mayonaka.” The name spoken in that way in the Japanese accent and a soft tone sent a rush and a current through me. I turned to check the voice with the person. It was Pink Pumps. “Follow” is all she said, not looking up at me or even acknowledging my presence. I followed her. She walked down into a side street and ducked into a photo booth and closed the curtain behind her. I stood outside the curtain.
“Akemi-san was taken away this morning,” I heard her voice say in English, but I had to strain to hear and listen.
“Taken away by who?”
“Father.”
“Taken where?”
“Kyoto.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe for school. Maybe for keep away.”
“Keep away?”
“From you. I don’t know.”
“Who are you?” I asked, but she was silent. “Who are you?” I asked again.
“You don’t believe?” she asked me strangely. “Okay, I leave now.”
“Wait,” I said calmly. I stood thinking. “When was she taken?”
“Early morning surprise,” she answered.
“What did Akemi tell you to tell me?”
“Akemi-san is berry sad. She say ‘sorry a thousand times.’ She say her father is too determined.”
“What did her father do to her?” I asked.
“Father give Akemi-san eberything. But now he say no more money, no more trabel, no more credit card, no more bank account. No more freedom.”
“Why?”
“You will never understand. You are foreigner. This is our way. This is Japan,” she said. It was the strongest tone that she used through the whole conversation. Then three Japanese boys gathered and hung back behind me at the photo booth and waited as though I was on line to use it also.
“How come you find out to meet Akemi here at two o’clock?” she asked. I had to repeat her question to myself to dissect it. She was trying to figure out how Akemi and I had communicated and set up a meeting. Now I knew.
“Are you Iwa?” I asked her. But she was silent.
“Can you give me Akemi’s address in Kyoto, a phone number or something?” I asked her.
“I give. You will find on the seat when I leave here. Time’s up, I go,” she said.
“Wait, why did you come to me?” I asked, since she was obviously nervous, uncomfortable, and didn’t even want to face me.
“Akemi-san do bad thing to fall in love with you. Dishonor to her father. Dishonor to my father, our family and friends. But I think she not recover from this love. So I give in to help Akemi-san.” Her little fingers emerged and she ducked from behind the curtain, keeping her face turned away from me as though I had not already seen her clearly. She left and never looked back. I didn’t chase her. The important thing was the address and telephone number. I yanked back the curtain and picked up the paper that she left for me. Everything was written in kanji. No problem. I sped over to Yoyogi to meet Chiasa.
Chapter 7
CHIASA
“This is so much better than pizza, piano, and practices,” Chiasa stated with her excited softness. She sat down on the bench in Yoyogi Park beside me holding my camera like a baby.
Deep in thought, I didn’t speak right away.
“Let’s go to my house. You have to see this,” she said, standing up again. “Besides, I have to keep myself occupied to keep my mind off our fast!”
That’s the opposite of the Muslim mind-set, I thought to myself. We want to keep our mind on the fast, its meaning, its reasons, and on making our prayers. Although I had been steadfast in not taking food and water from sunrise to sunset, I knew I was wrong for not being focused on Ramadan. My mind was jam-packed with winning back my wife.
Chiasa removed her shoes at her front steps. “You can leave your sneakers here,” she said. “No one will steal them and I have some slippers for your feet.” I paused at the bottom of the three cement steps leading to her front door.
“His bicycle is there. Grandfather is home. You can come in,” she said happily. On the inside of the door was a shelf with racks of house slippers wrapped in plastic. Chiasa opened a pair and bent down to place them on my feet.
“Thank you. I got it,” I told her, sliding each foot in one.
“Okay.” She smiled halfway, slid into her slippers, and shouted, “Tadaima!” We both entered her living room.
An ebony grand piano absorbed most of the space in her humble house. It glistened as though it had just been polished moments ago and appeared to be more expensive than everything else they had, combined—furniture, floor mats, and decorations.
“Konichiwa, Ojiichan,” I said, afterward recalling from my study cards that I had just called him “grandfather” as though he were my own and not by his proper name.
He spoke “Konichiwa …”
“Grandfather welcomes you,” Chiasa summed up his words.
“Arigato gozaimashta,” I thanked him.
Chiasa said some words to her grandfather, then turned toward me, saying, “Drop that here,” referring to my luggage. I laid my duffel down and my Jansport. I was both hesitant and anxious. I felt inadequate about entering a home for the first time, empty-handed. I was a newcomer and should present a gift. I felt at the same time anxious to talk with Chiasa and get on my way to Kyoto.
“Chotto Matte,” I said. I bent on one knee to open my bag. I dug in and pulled out one of the gifts that Umma had prepared, “for anyone who is good to my son.” I opened it and pulled out the sterling silver case of Umma’s homemade cigarettes. I approached him, holding the case with both hands on either side, presenting it. I said, “Kori wa present o Ojiichan notamani.” (Grandfather, here is a gift for you.) Both he and Chiasa smiled with great surprise. Chiasa clapped for me. Her grandfather stood up all smiles himself, thanking me. I looked beyond the smiles, feeling that I had done the right thing but wondering if on the inside they thought my beginner’s use of the Japanese language confirmed that all foreigners are fools to be tolerated as tourists only for a short period of time.
I eased up the steps uncomfortable at being invited and allowed to enter a young single female’s bedroom, and also under the watch of her grandfather. His eyes followed me up, but once I reached the top, there was no way for him to survey me any further.
The second floor was sealed off by what appeared to be a paper wall. I looked up and saw that it had thick metal borders, which lined the top, sides, and bottom. Chiasa placed three fingers in a slot and slid the wall all the way from left to right. Her amazing room had been revealed. She entered first, moving past a four-foot-tall textured globe. She used one hand to set it off spinning. “I know the name of every country on every continent and even most of the major islands,” she said.
I didn’t comment. I thought it meant that she had a sharp mind and unusual discipline but must’ve also been lonely to dive into such study.
“I always wanted to know for certain where in the world my father was and exactly how much distance there was between us,” she told me as she set up the television, VCR, and camera.
“You have to see this …” She pressed rewind.
Her bed was a thin and narrow mattress laid in the furthest corner of her room on the floor, topped off by a peculiar pillow. It didn’t seem like she could sleep comfortably.
“So beautiful, who’s this?” Chiasa interrupted my thoughts. Umma’s face was paused on her television screen.
“She looks like a film star,” Chiasa remarked.
“Umi, my mother,” I answered, using the Arabic word for mother rather than Umma, which is my mother’s name.
“Honto! Really,” Chiasa exclaimed and touched the screen with two fingers as though she were touching Umma’s skin. Chiasa seemed to be on pause like the picture. Then she bowed down to my Umma as though she were here in the room with us. As Chiasa stood up, she pressed fast forward.
“Here it is!” She pressed stop, then play. My mind dumped every other thought and focused. The screen was bursting with hundreds of people or perhaps thousands, mostly Japanese, mostly young, but all types streaming in between them. I could see the unimpressive Hachiko statue off in the not-too-far distance. People crowded around it together, yet it seemed as though each of them was there alone, just in the same space. Also standing near the statue were groups of people talking to each other, waiting for each other, or looking for ones missing. Chiasa caught one mother’s panicked expression and mission as she searched for someone, probably her child. I could see that Chiasa trailed her with the lens around the area of the Hachiko. From the film I understood now that Shibuya was an extremely overcrowded space, even more so than Shinjuku station, but what else?
“There he is, now watch him,” she said, a moment later. It was easy to notice him, because she had captured him in the lens and zoomed in. He was a well-dressed Japanese man with a concentrated stare and pronounced jawline. He stood still in the swelling, swarming crowd and looked hard, moving his head and eyes in tiny measures.
“So while I was looking for the hundred-thousand-yen shoe girl, I found him,” Chiasa said.
The man’s shoes were quite expensive and complemented his suit. After about forty-five seconds of shooting him from every angle, the camera followed him a few feet only, where an African man was standing alone. The Japanese man spoke to him, but his words were inaudible in the rowdy crowd. He placed a hand on the African guy’s shoulder. The African guy turned around and talked to him for about three seconds. The Japanese guy returned to his original spot. He searched around again. He moved in the opposite direction, to the other side of Hachiko, and approached another dark-skinned man. The same thing happened. By the fifth try, the young black guy he approached was standing with some friends. He began barking on the Japanese guy and then three more suited men appeared from the crowd to the Japanese guy’s rescue.
“Keep watching, now, check out their headsets.” Chiasa pointed out that all three of the newly arrived Japanese men were wearing them. They were the kind that sit in and around one ear only, instead of being strapped on both sides. She zoomed in on the four of them, and the lens scanned them from head to toe. The argument with the African teens broke up immediately after the three extra well-suited guys appeared. Then there was a break in the images and all I could see was upside-down hordes of people.
“Keep watching,” Chiasa said. The lens picked back up on the original suited guy leaving Hachiko at 3:00 p.m. sharp. Chiasa obviously followed him to the corner through tens and hundreds of people to the curb. A Crown Vic rolled up at 3:06. The three extra guys were inside, one of them driving, two in the back. The original guy leaned in and talked to them and then walked away. The camera followed him.
“There he is!” Chiasa jumped up from her chair and pressed pause. On the screen was the Japanese Bentley, the back right window lowered halfway. “That’s Naoko Nakamura! That’s him,” she said in a muted but excited tone. She pressed play again. On the screen now was the original suited man. He raised his right hand, shielding his image from Chiasa’s lens. Then she dropped the camera to her side, and all I could decipher was Chiasa’s voice saying “sumimasen, sumimasen, sumimasen” before the picture went cold. The camera was off.
We sat quietly. “I can help you,” she said. “You came back alone. So I can see that you do need some help. I’ve been paying attention the whole time. So it’s not Iwa. It’s Akemi. Last night, I was at the wrong house. But that’s only because you didn’t trust me. It’s Naoko Nakamura giving you a difficult time. He sent the note to the Shinjuku hostel. He pretended to be Akemi. His men showed up at Hachiko and intended to snatch you. Or at least throw you in the car or have you picked up by police. If you weren’t so smart, they would have gotten you.”
She thought some more and added, “But probably not the police. Falling in love with a girl is not a crime, even if her father and friends don’t agree.” She paused again. “As long as she loves you too. And why wouldn’t she?” Chiasa’s voice trailed off to a low murmur.
From my front pocket I pulled out my wife’s address and phone number in Kyoto. That’s my next move, I thought to myself.
“Chiasa, I need you to take care of two things for me. First I need you to call Akemi’s house and ask to speak with Akemi. When she gets on, in Japanese tell her that you are a friend of Mayonaka’s. ‘Mayonaka says not to worry. I’ll arrive in Kyoto tonight. Keep your bags packed. Mayonaka will pay for everything you need. I promise I won’t take too long.’ ”
“That’s it?” Chiasa double-checked. “Introduce myself as a friend now, not the translator?”
“That’s it,” I confirmed.
“Alright, let me give myself a name,” she said, straightening herself in the chair as though Akemi or whomever answered the phone could see her and pass judgment. “Okay, I’m Aya. That’s the name I’ll use, and if she’s not home, then what?” Chiasa asked. “Should I leave any kind of message?”
“Just excuse yourself. Don’t leave any information. Say you’ll call back later,” I told her.
“And if she picks up and asks for you?” Chiasa questioned. I liked that she was so precise.
“After you tell her what I said, I’ll get on and confirm,” I instructed her.
“Okay, give me the number,” she said. I slid it across her desk. Chiasa was sitting still holding the phone number in her hand. Quickly I pulled out my study cards and began flipping through them for the Japanese words to express myself over the phone.
Maybe Chiasa wanted to memorize it, I thought. She laid the paper down and said the same thing she said when I first met her a few days ago.
“My aunt Tasha said people who don’t trust people end up trusting the wrong people. Who gave you this information?” she asked me.
“What’s up?” I asked her.
“This is not an address or a phone number. Whoever gave you this message misled you.”
“What does it say?” I pushed.
“It’s not cool,” she said.
“Just tell me,” I told her. Then she began to read it to me.
Sorry I cannot give you Akemi-san’s telephone number and address. She wants you to know it. She will believe that you have it, but I have already done too much. I feel great shame. Go home! It is better that you leave Akemi alone so that she can forget. You don’t even speak Japanese. True, you are very handsome, but this is not enough.
Her simple words were weighted with insult. Without knowing me, she had decided that I was nothing, nothing but a handsome man. She had boiled down my existence to only the mud I was made of, as though I had no purpose, no faith, no heart, no soul, no business, no talent, no culture, and no place in the world, especially not here in Japan. I sat back in my chair, ran my hand over my Caesar. I dropped my head down, then lifted it back up. Inside of myself I shouted, Why is this bullshit going on? But in my posture I remained calm. Chiasa had the decency to look away from my agony. Moments later, I understood that I needed prayer, to quiet my mind. Not just a recitation of words but a consultation with Allah. So I excused myself to the men’s room, washed my face and nose, hands and feet. When I returned, I was left alone in Chiasa’s room. She understood me in this, I thought. In her room facing the west, the direction of the Kaaba, I made my prayer.
Very comforted and soothed after an amount of time unknown to me, I raised my head from the floor. My eyes and ears readjusted as I turned my head left, then right, and got up fro
m my knees. The humble house, which had been silent before, was filled now with beautiful music. The tones were crisp and clear and soft and soothing and sweet and melodious as they were seeping and pouring through her paper wall. It was not music that I was accustomed to hearing or that I played in my earphones. It was live piano playing and it was obvious even to me, who played no instruments, that it was perfect. She did not interrupt my prayer and I would not interrupt her piano. I walked around her room, seeing Chiasa for the first time, it seemed, even though I had met her days ago and been upstairs in her bedroom for almost two hours. And as I saw, her music spoke to me somehow.
On my right was a wall of photos. On the left was a warrior’s wall of wicked swords, not of the bamboo, but of steel. The kind she wanted to use, the sharp and deadly type, raised up above a bookcase filled with books in both languages. As I surveyed them, I thought her choices were unusual. She wasn’t reading Manga. It was mostly biographies and autobiographies.
I moved toward the right side, pulled in by a poster-size photo of Chiasa, probably around age thirteen, in a marigold ballerina tutu wearing gold toe shoes. She appeared long and slim. She was balancing herself on one leg and standing perfectly straight on only the toes of her left foot. Her other leg was raised and bent, her toe shoe pointed to the inside of her right knee. Her arms were lifted and locked into a graceful positon above her head. Her skin was smooth. But more than all that, the pull of the photo was the way she twisted up her lips and screwed up her face at what had to happen less than a second before the photographer snapped the shot. It was as though she wanted the whole world to know that she hated ballet. Her normally powerful, pretty gray eyes were saying, “I don’t want to dance but I’ll do it just to shut you up.” I smiled.