When the officials in charge of our joint business venture introduce us
to the men and women of Tokyo-Pacific Investment, I will not stare at
the women of Osaka, of the city and the countryside. I will not lust after
each black-haired goddess, one by one, until I see the one I am meant
to fall in the deepest love with. I will not have to do any of this, because
when I see her, I will know. From then on, it will only become a question
of how to win her heart. I will not fear this complexity. I will chew
shin-zi bubblegum, and tuck the wrapping in my back suit pocket. The other
men under my command will begin to talk amongst themselves, trying to
learn to seduce in Japanese. The women of Tokyo-Pacific Investment will
hear my men, and they will laugh.
I will not meet her and become tongue-tied. My eyes will not trace the
outline of her body in the sunset like so many men who have done so before.
When she smiles at me, I will smile in return – but only barely.
Not like a fool so hopelessly in love. Not like the ten year-old boys
in Okimino who rush to sell her newspapers when the lights turn red. No.
She will not know of my affection. No thoughts shall pass of my devotion.
She will smile and I will smile, and that will be enough.
When we leave the hotel in search of dinner, I will not take her to kaiten-zushi
and have us grab at sushi on conveyer belts like greedy Americans. I will
not take her to kare-ya when we travel through the underground, for she
might be allergic to curry rice. We will dine at Izakaya. We will share
a large meal of the finest meats and salads. But she will not be impressed.
She will not be impressed because she will know that I am trying to impress
her – so I shall cease trying to impress her, and apologize profoundly.
“
Let me turn over one last leaf,” I will tell her. She will smile.
When the men and women of our mutual groups engage in conversation, I
will not be thwarted by the barriers of our language. My Japanese shall
be fluid, effortless – but I shall not need to use it, because her
English shall be like that of a native daughter. The love and life of
late afternoon shall surround us when we step outside to avoid the cigar
smoke inside the Izakaya. We will sit on a soft bench made of Brazilian
Koa, and pretend not to notice when tourists take pictures of us together.
We shall not talk of the Nissei, of capital and investment, for such things
will bore her at dinner. No. In between bites, we will talk of what it
is like to see the sun rise from the top of the Tokyo-Pacific Investment
tower, and to know that no one will see the new day before your eyes have
had the pleasure. She will make a casual remark about seeing it with me
someday. I will not make that into more than it is.
“
You are different from them,” she will say, twirling ten thousand
yen chopsticks between her fingers. “Why?”
I will promise to tell her someday. We will tell each other dirty jokes,
and blush.
When it is dark, and the sun has set, the other members of our entourage will
retire for the evening, yawning like tigers and unfastening their belts. They
will take small and speedy taxis back to the Hyatt. But I shall not go with them,
and neither will she. I will not ask her to stay, for she will not stand a needy
man. I will not demand her company, for she is as independent as the great mountain
that towers over the city. But there will be no need for cunning, for force or
vexation. I will merely stand as still as a samurai statue in the twilight, and
hold out my hand to her in the setting sun. The noise and traffic of Tokyo will
drown out the voices of our companions as they belch and pass offensive fumes,
waiting for their taxis to arrive. I will stand on the sidewalk and face her
with the honor and dignity of an elder; of a man with far more years than mine.
And she will wait.
“
Do you have plans?” she will ask me with an eyebrow raised, with the smallest
of smiles.
I will whisper something into the air, something only she will hear, before it
is lost among the blood and bone and heart of evening Tokyo. But she will hear
it, and it will be enough.
When we walk down the streets, I will not try to hold her hand, and she will
not try to hold mine. We will not have to try. People will rush past us, in both
ways, in direction upon direction. The lights will flicker, on and off and red
and white and neon green and blue. But I will not shake, and she will not shudder,
for we will both have overcome the terrors of our childhood. We will enter skyscrapers,
ride their elevators to the highest floors and look out over the city from impossible
heights. If she shivers, I will wrap my business jacket around her bare shoulders
until we ride down, a hundred floors to the street. If she is pleased, we might
walk among the masses, past ancient theatres and late night showings of the most
fashionable films the East has to offer. She might stop me, and whisper sweetness
in my ear.
“
Show me everything and nothing, all at once.”
Her lips will brush past mine as she steps away. My heart will not explode.
I will not have to lead her down endless streets of smell and sound and sweat
and heat in the cool and noisy night. But if she is in the mood to sing (and
how could she not), she will find a bar; one with karaoke. We will go in together,
and everything will cease for an infinite moment as every man and woman inside
realizes that he or she has not seen a more beautiful woman than the one before
their eyes. The person with the microphone, a young man with a fondness for Sam
Cooke melodies, will stop and stare, lips halted in mid-note. One look from her
eyes will convince him to continue. And everyone will go back to his or her business,
to his or her lover, to his or her convictions and agitations of life. I will
order us drinks from the bar. She will turn to me inquisitively, and wonder how
I know her favorite beverage is a blend of saki and pineapple. I will tell her
something other than the truth. I will tell her something daring, upon which
the entire evening will hinge. I will draw the color rose into her face. I will
make her blush.
“
It is how I imagine your lips must taste.”
The entire city will pause, waiting for her answer. Gamblers might place bets
through underground connections concerning her response. The earth may tremble,
but no one will be afraid. Lusting men will crowd around the two of us, trying
to devour her with their eyes, with their hearts and hands if she lets them.
Photographers will wait for the world to crumble between us, reporters at the
ready for tomorrow’s headline. I will not make a move.
We will kiss.
She will take my hand, and lead me out of the karaoke bar. I will not refuse
to follow. She will find a helicopter waiting for us, one parked in the middle
of the street. The downdraft from the rotors will make children crouch low and
policemen cling to their hats. Traffic will be backed up for miles out of the
city, but no one will frown, or shout in anger. The people will be sitting on
the roofs of cars, on the sills of windows and on the tiles of restaurants and
apartment dwellings. She will gasp, but she will not be surprised. By now, she
will have learned to expect the impossible. We will climb into the helicopter,
together, and we shall fly away.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Obilade is a fan of the guitar, the banjo, and the short story. His work has most recently appeared in Cafe Irreal and Joyous Publishing. He attends MIT, but lives for summer in Kentucky.
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