13. Graduation

In March of the following year, the university held its graduation and party. One of the traditions at the function is for the students to have a group photo taken with their seminar professor which is then published in the university’s annual “graduation album”. 

At the appointed time, I was ushered into a room where all my students were waiting for me. All of them, but you.

“Has anyone seen, Sawajiri-kun?” I asked.

There were shrugs, noncommittal turns of the head.

“Can we wait a few minutes,” I said to the photographer, who frowned at his wristwatch.

“One minute?”

The photographer sucked air through his teeth and gave a reluctant nod.

Just then, you rushed into the room like an explosion of light and music: “Sensei! I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting!”

You were wearing a long-sleeved furisodé kimono with a colorful abstract design like something from Marimekko[1]—large splashes of pale red representing camellias—and over this a pale bluish-green hakama. Your hair, dyed a deep auburn and worn down and over your shoulders, had flowers and other ornaments in it above the ear. I had never seen you look more beautiful.

Scooching down next me in the front row, you said, “I hope I’m not too late.”

“We would have waited. Or, at least, I would have waited. The cameraman, on the other hand, . . .”

The photographer, wasting no time, made a few suggestions—chins up, fists on your knees, men, smiles, everyone—then started shooting.

“Sensei?” you said as the photographer snapped away.

“Hmm?”

“Remember what I said last autumn?”

“How could I ever forget?”

“I’ll be looking for you, then.”

“I’ll be looking for you, too.”

And just as the flash of the camera went off, you gave my hand a quick squeeze. As luck would have it, that was the photo which would end up in the yearbook.

[1] Marimekko is a Finnish home furnishing and textile producer, known for brightly colored printed fabrics, many created by designer Maija Isola (1927-2001).

The first chapter of Tears can be found here.

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11. Shut Out

The next morning, you slept in late. There was no freshly made coffee waiting in the kitchen, no friendly conversation like yesterday. When you did wake up, you were . . . well, not exactly cold, but not very warm, either. You kept your distance from me; your smile seemed somewhat forced; there was parsimony in your words. I don’t mean to say that you were behaving like a woman scorned, but the change in your demeanor, though subtle, was palpable. The spell had been broken.

If I could, I would have rewound the clock and returned to the engawa with your head resting on my lap, my hand on your breast, and kissed you. But what was done, was done; or more precisely what had not been done could not now be done. The chance had been missed; the door was now shut.

When I got home later in the afternoon, my wife asked me how the “camp” had gone.

“Alright, I guess,” I said with a shrug. “I probably won’t do it next year, though.”

“Oh? Did something happen?”

“No. I just need a break from it all.”

 

True to my word, I wouldn’t hold the camp the following year. I wouldn’t take students anywhere, either, unless I absolutely had to. There wasn’t much use in it. For me at least, there wasn’t. I knew it just would pale in comparison to what I had experienced with you and your cohort. I knew it would be futile trying to rekindle the fresh enthusiasm you had brought into it. The spark had been snuffed out.

9. At the farmhouse

Once a year, usually in early autumn when the weather tends to be cool and dry, I invite my seminar students to a two-hundred-fifty-year-old farmhouse I own in the countryside just west of Fukuoka city.

Despite the grave reservations of my wife, I went ahead and purchased the house which had been in shambles after years of neglect. I knew it had potential, though.

“It’s a fixer-upper,” I insisted, using a word that could not be translated into Japanese. If the typical house in Japan lost all its value after only fifteen years or so, a house that was over two-hundred years would surely be a money pit. 

Sitting on twenty-five hundred tsubo (坪) or about two acres of land,[1] the farmhouse was built in a traditional style with a hardened earthen floor called doma (土間) at the entrance, an internal veranda, or hiroshiki (広敷), covered with thick planks of hardwood flooring, and a hearth called an irori (囲炉裏) in the center of the room. There were exposed beams of sturdy, good-quality timber throughout; the lumber alone made purchasing the house a no-brainer to me. 

The purpose of those weekend camps was to, one, reinforce what I had been trying to instill in the students—namely, the notion that old didn’t have to mean uncomfortable or inconvenient; two, demonstrate how modern architecture and convenience could be tastefully incorporated into traditional design; and, three, introduce the students to traditional modes of carpentry and home maintenance.

One year, for instance, I invited a craftsman to show the students how to make clay walls. (I had to bring the craftsman back in half a year later to redo the wall the students had made because the quality was so poor, but the kids had fun all the same.) Another year, we helped thatch the roof of a neighboring farmhouse. As far as I know, the roof does not leak. I could be wrong, though.

After several years of renovation projects, the old house had become a source of pride, and had been written up by several magazines and papers. Even my wife came to see the sense in my having bought it and now enjoyed taking the boys out one weekend every month to let them run around and get their “yayas” out.

In the summer months, our boys collect insects and frogs, climb trees in a nearby forest, and help the neighbors plant rice. In the autumn, they return to help harvest the rice, and to pick the fruits and vegetables grown by some farmers to whom I leased the arable land for free in order to keep the farmland in use.

 

My seminar class and I arrived at the farmhouse on a Friday evening. After everyone had settled into their rooms, we came together in the kitchen and prepared dinner: a nabé hot pot made of thin slices of pork, kimchi, hakusai (napa cabbage), and tōfu that was flavored with miso, ground sesame, ginger, kochujang paste, chives, chicken bouillon, and nihonshu or saké.[2]

We drank imo jōchū,[3] nihonshu, and beer as we cooked, drank as we ate, drank as we cleaned up, and continued drinking late into the evening. One by one students retired to their rooms, but you remained, tidying up after the others had had passed out or gone to bed. When you finished putting the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, you came to where I sat cross-legged on the engawa, reading.[4]

“Do you read to your children?” you asked, sitting down next to me.

“I do. Or at least I try to every day. Why?”

“My father never read to me.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“He never had the time.”

“No time? It doesn’t take much . . .”

“He always came home late from work, long after I’d gone to bed. And on the weekends, he slept all day. Come to think of it, the only memories I have of my father are of him sleeping.”

“Surely, you talk to him from time to . . .”

“He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s okay. It’s not as if there was anything to miss.”

There was a blunt frankness to the way you spoke that I always admired—so different from the typical young Japanese woman—but this water ran a little too cold.

“How old were you when he passed away?”

“Ten? Eleven? I don’t remember exactly, but what I do remember was seeing him in the casket, a halo of flowers around his head, and thinking how at peace he looked, like he was in the deepest, most comfortable sleep. He died from overwork, they say. The company paid some compensation to my mother, but it was really only a token amount . . . I don’t really want to talk about it. Read to me. Read to me, Sensei.”

So, I read to you. Do you remember what I read? You probably don’t. I read to you from the English translation of Endō Shūsaku’s Chinmoku (Silence).

And as I read, you fell asleep. I put the book down and looked at you, the way the shadows from a paper lantern played on your features. I wanted to kiss you, but I didn’t dare.

Instead, I picked you up, as I often do with my own children, and carried you inside, laying you down on the sofa and placed a kaké-buton quilt over you, a pillow under your head.[5]

And as I turned the light off, you murmured in your sleep, “O-yasumi, Tōchan.”[6]

[1] One tsubo (坪) is equivalent to 3.306 square meters or 3.954 square yards. One acre equals 1,224.1 tsubo. Before metric was adopted in 1924, the Japanese used a traditional system of measurement called Shakkan-hō (尺貫法) which was Chinese in origin. It was officially adopted in Japan in 701. Today Shakkan-hō is still used in real estate and farming.

              One tsubo is equal to the area covered by two standard tatami mats, laid side by side. The area covered by a single tatami mat is called one jō(畳), and measures 1.653 square meters or 1.979 square yards. Rooms in Japanese homes are measured in jō. A standard six-jō room will have the same area as that of a traditional Japanese-style room covered with six tatami mats.

              Keep in mind that the size of tatami mats can vary from region to region. In Kyōto, where tatami are larger and measure 0.96m by 1.91m, they are referred to as Kyōma (京間) tatami. Tatami in the Nagoya region, which measure 0.91m by 1.82m, are called ainoma (合の間, lit., “in-between”) tatami. It is one of these ai-no-ma tatami that equals one jō (畳), and measures 1.653m2. Two ai-no-ma tatami, side by side, equal onetsubo (坪). And, in the Kantō region, Edoma (江戸間) or Kantōma (関東間) tatami are smaller, measuring 0.88 m by 1.76 m. Got that? There may be a test later.

[2] In Japanese, the word saké (酒) can refer to any alcoholic drink. If you order “saké” in Kagoshima, for example, you will be served imo jōchū(shōchū made from sweet potatoes); in Okinawa you will be served awamori (a clear liquor made by distilling long-grained rice from Thailand). Nihonshu (日本酒, lit. “Japanese liquor”) is the rice wine most Westerners are familiar with.

[3] Imo jōchū (芋焼酎) is a distilled beverage primarily from Kagoshima prefecture (Satsuma) that is made from sweet potatoes (which are known outside of Kagoshima as satsuma imo). There are many different kinds of shōchū produced in Japan, the chief ingredient of which—be that barely (mugi), rice (komé), buckwheat (soba), brown sugar (kokutō) or even chestnuts, sesame seeds, and so on—depends on the region in which it is made.

[4] An engawa (縁側) is the wooden strip of flooring just outside the windows and wooden storm shutters of a traditional Japanese home. It is protected from rain and snow by the overhanging hisashi (庇) or eaves.

[5] A shiki-buton (敷き布団) is the thick cotton mattress that is laid out on the tatami floor and on which you sleep. The duvet-like quilt that covers you is called a kaké-buton (掛け布団). 

[6] “O-yasumi, Tō-chan” (おやすみ、父ちゃん) means “Good night, Daddy”.

The first installment/chapter of Tears can be found here.

This and other works are, or will be, available in e-book form and paperback at Amazon.

8. Caught in the Rain

We made our first trip to Kitsuki, Ōita a week later.

You may not have known it at the time, but my stomach was in knots waiting for you to arrive at the station.

I knew from past experience that half of the students in the seminar were not going to show up. Instead, they—the ones with a conscience, that is—would mail me to say they had a fever or had caught a cold. A cold in May? The more creative students would kill off a distant relative, uncles being the most popular to dispose of when groping for an alibi.

But you came, a few minutes early at that, carrying a furoshiki[1] full of homemade muffins and bread in your hands. You were the first person who had ever gone to the trouble to prepare something to share with the others on the journey.

“Sawajiri-kun, I think you may have just earned yourself an A in my seminar.”

“Oh, these aren’t for you, Sensei.”

“Wh-wh-what?”

“Just kidding!” And with a devilishly playful smile you added: “You can have as many as you like . . . Sensei.”

We waited until we could wait no longer, and with only half of the seminar members assembled made our way toward the platform where our train was preparing to depart. On board, you sat with one of the other co-eds, and I remember wishing you had sat down next to me, but it was just as well because I could see you and every now and again during the long trip, I would look up from my notebook computer and watch you smile or laugh as you talked to your classmates. And every now and again, our eyes would meet. Rather than look away embarrassed, though, you would maintain that eye contact, then smile, and every time I could have just died.

 

Two months later in early July, we returned to Kitsuki to present the results of our study and offer suggestions on how the town might better preserve and promote its heritage. 

Typical for the rainy season, it had been unbearably hot and muggy all day. And as we were walking up a cobbled slope between centuries-old samurai houses, lightning flashed, followed immediately by a deafening peal of thunder. The heavens unloaded its burden, sending all of us scrambling for cover. Soaked to the skin, the two of us huddled under the thatched eaves of a home. There, you pulled a terry cloth hand towel from your bag and offered it to me. I took the towel from your hand and began to gently wipe your brow, your ears, your cheek, your chin, your long neck. You turned your face towards mine, raised your chin, and ever so slightly parted your lips . . .

Just then, an official from the city came scurrying through the torrential rain towards us.

“Sensei! Sensei!” he said, handing us two convenience store umbrellas. “Please, use these!”

“How thoughtful of you,” I replied. But, in my mind, I was cursing the man: Thanks for nothing, you knucklehead!

 

Later, on the train back to Fukuoka, you chose the seat next to mine and, like many of the others in our group, quickly nodded off once the train had departed. Before long, your body was leaning against mine, our arms touching, your head resting against my shoulder. My heart beat like a hummingbird’s keeping me wide awake and aroused all the way back to Hakata.

[1] A furoshiki (風呂敷) is a Japanese wrapping cloth used to transport gifts, bentō boxes, and so on. Furoshiki were first used in the Nara period (710-794) at public bathhouses to wrap one’s clothes to prevent them from being confused with those of other bathers, hence the name furo-shiki (Lit. “bath” (furo 風呂 + “cover or spread” shiki 敷)).

The first installment/chapter of Tears can be found here.

This and other works are, or will be, available in e-book form and paperback at Amazon.

7. Keeping the Embers Hot

I don’t know whether you were doing it consciously or not, for my benefit or for someone else, but over the next few months there were things you did that would keep the spark glowing.

Whenever it seemed as if my interest was waning, you would change something about your appearance. That shoulder-length dark brown hair of yours, for instance. It had grown quite a bit over the months since we first met, and now that it was long enough, you would arrange it in a variety of ways. One day you would wear it in a ponytail; another day you would come in with your hair down, and yet another day you would wear it in braids. You would color your hair from time to time, too, something I said I wished I could do myself, but with that increasingly limited resource on top of my own head, I didn’t dare. You would go from dark brown to light. From light brown to jet-black with a lock of it dyed burgundy.

And one day, you came with your hair done up in an elaborate bun. I never liked women wearing their hair in buns until I saw you wear yours that way. It revealed a neck, so long and slim that when you stood next to me after class, your head tilted slightly with your neck curved towards me, it was all I could do to not sink my teeth into it.

And then there was the way you dressed. I’ve always had a thing for fashionable women—not the types who follow all the silly crazes, mind you, but the ones, like you, who had their own sense of fashion. When we first met, you were wearing those maroon Doc Martens laced up high and tight. You would wear them every now and again with a denim mini skirt and black tights or with tight-fitting jeans rolled up at the ankles, accentuating those long slim legs of yours. Some days you would wear a casual dress, another day, a nice skirt and blouse. So many different styles, from punk rocker to o-jō-sama[1] to studious co-ed complete with glasses. Anticipating what you would be wearing and how you would have done your hair became one of my simple pleasures.

And then one day in early May, we were having one of those perfect spring afternoons. The sun was shining and it was hot but not oppressively so. You came into my office wearing a loose-fitting white cotton blouse with an open neck. You wanted to show me some information you had found about Kitsuki online and as you were leaning over me at my desk, I couldn’t help but look down the opening of your shirt—we men are wired that way—and I was surprised, happily so, to discover that in spite of your otherwise willowy figure, you were endowed with full, milk-white breasts.

“I was thinking . . .,” you began, “and, well, I haven’t been there yet, so I don’t really know what it’s like, but . . .”

And I was looking down your blouse at your breasts and my heart started to beat faster. My breathing became strained.

“. . . that a fun slogan for Kitsuki would be ‘kitto suki’.[2] You know, like, ‘If you visit Kitsuki, you will surely like it.’ Get it? Kitsuki, kitto suki. Don’t you think that’s cute? When I first heard the town’s name, I was reminded of Nestlé Kit Kats[3] . . .”

Mesmerized by your breasts, I mouthed a dry: “I like it . . . I do . . . I do . . .” 

Appetite piqued, that night I gorged myself at home, so to speak.

“You certainly are energetic today,” my wife commented after I rolled off of her.

“Am I?” I panted.

[1] An o-jō-sama (お嬢様) usually refers a young woman from a good, often wealthy family. There is also a fashion look related to the term that is refined yet coquettish.

[2] “Kitto suki”, (きっと好き), which means “surely like”, is indeed Kitsuki’s marketing catchphrase today. I jokingly call it “Kitsui-ki” (きつい気, lit. “tough/hard+heart/spirit”) because the journey to the remote town can be exhausting.

[3] Nestlé Japan markets its Kit Kat candy bars at exam time with the catchphrase “Kitto katsu!” (きっと勝つ! Lit. [You will] surely win!), suggesting that if you eat a Kit Kat while you’re studying for your entrance exam you will pass. God damn, marketers!

6. Agéman

Things couldn’t have been going better for me when the new school year started in April of 2013.[1]

Ever since I got married, that is remarried in 2004, everything from my professional life to my family life had been on the up and up. It was as if I had hit a trajectory sweet spot that had kept me orbiting in the thermosphere.

Listen: when my Eiko and I were dating, she used to assert that she was my agéman, and that if I were to marry her, my luck would only get better and better.

Agéman[2] is show business jargon in the Kansai[3] region and refers to a woman who brings good fortune to the man who sleeps with her. Now, I’m not the superstitious type, but judging by the way things developed after Eiko and I married, it was not difficult to be persuaded that she was indeed my agéman. More importantly, I started to convince myself that my luck would change for the worse if ever I were to sleep with a sagéman, that is, a woman the sex with whom precipitated a reversal of fortune.

And, no, don’t get me wrong here: I am not thinking about you.

 

That spring, you may remember, I was involved in a number of encouraging research projects. I had also recently secured a big increase in funds that was going to allow me to bring more people on board and expand the scope of that research. My class load and committee duties were lighter than usual. But, best of all, the students in my seminar, you included, seemed like a fun bunch. (Let me tell you, Kana, nothing makes a year pass more slowly than when you’ve got a seminar full of wet blankets.)

One of our projects during the year was what I called “Rural Revival”, a word none of the students, except you, were able to pronounce.

“Travel to Europe . . .,” I began my lecture. “Have any of you been? You have? Where?”

“Paris,” one student said.

“And you?” I asked a young man.

“Rondon.” 

“Rondon?”

“Hai, Rondon.”

“Repeat after me: L-L-L-London.”

“R-R-R-Rondon.”

“Never mind. So, you’ve been to London. Anywhere else?”

“Ribapooru.”

Sigh.

“So, have any of you been to the countryside in Europe?”

As expected, none had. It was at this point that I began to show a short video that included clips from one of my favorite travel programs, NHK’s Sekai Fureai Machi Aruki.[4] First, were scenes from Castle Combe, a small village of about three hundred people that has some beautifully maintained stone houses dating back centuries.

“Fifteenth century, everyone. What does that coincide with in Japan’s history? Anyone . . . ? Anyone . . . ? Anyone . . . No one? It coincides with Japan’s Warring States Period.[5] These houses are older than the Nishi and Higashi Honganji temples in downtown Kyōto. Think about that for a moment.”

I paused the video and asked the students to note how well-preserved the buildings and houses were.

“Also, note the lack of billboards, the lack of structures that stand out and spoil the view . . . Were this Japan, there would be signs everywhere. Old shops would be shuttered up, the houses, if not abandoned, would be covered with plastic siding, there would be rusting billboards advertising Oronamin C . . .”[6]

The students laughed.

“Except for the road running through town, there isn’t anything that looks out of place. ‘But it’s so old,’ you might say. Yes! And that’s where the value comes from. You couldn’t build something like this today. Now, if you were to go inside and you’d find that these houses have all the modern conveniences . . . For the most part. They probably don’t have washlets, but, well, you can’t have everything, can you?”

More laughter.

“But, they are comfortable. They are warm in the winter and cool in the summer, all without having ugly air conditioning units outside and tubes running along the side. You don’t see any telephone wires or electric cables, either. Do these people live by whale oil and candlelight? Of course not! Again, the cables and wires are all buried so as to not spoil the view. Keep these things in mind. Today, this small village has tourists by the thousands on weekends. People who want to walk its streets, sleep at its inns, drink tea at its tea houses, beer at its pubs . . .”

In the next clip, I showed Collonges-la-Rouge, a small medieval village, also of about four hundred people, located in south central France, that was chosen as one of the most beautiful villages in France.

“The buildings of this town are built entirely of red sandstone, hence the name which means ‘The Red Commune’. Some of the structures are six hundred years old, yet, when properly renovated, can sell for over fifty million yen.”[7]

One student whistled.

“That’s four or five times more expensive that what you would have to pay for a used home built a mere twenty years ago in, say, Yufuin.[8] And, unlike a house in Yufuin, which is for all intents and purposes worthless,[9] the house in Collonges-la-Rouge will keep its value. Better yet, the value will continue to increase over time.”

Next, I presented some photos from the American city of Santa Fe, New Mexico.

“In nineteen twelve. Think about that: nineteen twelve! Before the Second World War! Before the First World War! The municipal government worried that Santa Fe was doomed to look like ‘Anywhere, USA’—one more generic city among hundreds and thousands of humdrum cities in America. So, they put in place a building code, such that buildings had to be constructed with certain elements: rough, exposed beams called vigas—these here, here, and here—rain spouts called canales; and earth-tone stucco walls, or adobe. The city leaders had amazing vision and foresight one hundred years ago. A hundred years! In nineteen fifty-seven, the city passed another rule, an ordinance, requiring new and rebuilt homes to have the Pueblo or Spanish Territorial style. Even motels and hamburger joints are built in the local style. Thanks to that, the city thrives today as a center for tourism and art. Had the city’s leaders let Santa Fe continue down the same old path of ‘development and modernization’, why, the name Santa Fe wouldn’t inspire us the way it does today.”

Moving on, I showed you all a video I had made from a recent trip to McMinnville, Oregon.

“McMinnville, like many villages here in Japan, was small and sleepy farming town. The population was about ten thousand in nineteen-seventy. There was a central ‘downtown’ area with the usual mom-and-pop shops, diners, and so on. It wasn’t the kind of place that people visited, because there really wasn’t anything to do there. Growing up in Oregon myself, McMinnville was little more than a name on the weather map to me. But then something happened to transform the area.

“In the nineteen seventies, winemakers from the Napa Valley in California started migrating to Oregon, attracted by cheap, abundantly available, and fertile farm land. In nineteen-seventy, there were five commercial wineries. Today, there are over three hundred, and McMinnville is the de facto capital of that industry. At about thirty-three thousand people, the population is still small, but it is growing at a steady clip. The town, as you can see from the video, is vibrant. The shops are not shuttered. Imagine that! New money is coming in and renovating old buildings like this one, The Hotel Oregon, which is now owned a local micro-brewing giant. People travel from all over the state and all over the U.S. to McMinnville just to eat and drink and drink and drink and drink . . .”

The classroom burst out in laughter.

“Now, the reason I am showing you this is to make a simple point: if fat, lazy, and stupid gaijin[10] are able to do this, what’s stopping the Japanese? Why are small towns here so lifeless? Why have so many of them given up? And of those which haven’t, why do they continue to cling to silly notions that if only we were to build some grand monument—what I like to call ‘Monsterments’—people will want to come to our town?”

It was at this point that I explained what I wanted to you all to do.

We would be focusing on three towns in Kyūshū, towns that had potential but were frittering that potential away either through inaction or ineffective policies. It would be the seminar’s assignment to come up with proposals for marketing, industry, town renovation, product design, and so on. The best proposals would be developed later in teams and then presented to the towns pro bono. Whether they took them up or not depended on how much foresight they had. Experience taught me that they often had none.

“The first town on our hit list is Kitsuki, Ōita. Have any of you been there?”

None of you had.

“Have any of you heard of the place?”

A few hands, including yours, were raised unenthusiastically.

“Well, never fear, you will be getting to know the town very, very well over the next few months. I want you to block off Sunday, May twelfth. Tell your boss at your part-time job, your friends and family that you will be busy that day. Kitsuki is two and a half hours away by train. We will be leaving bright and early in the morning—and, don’t worry, I will be providing your tickets—your grade will suffer if you cancel less than twenty-four hours before our departure. Seriously. No groaning. I don’t want to hear any baloney like ‘I’ve got a headache . . .’ I’m on to you guys.”

You laughed and our eyes met and something sparked deep within me.

“Trust me, this is going to be a lot of fun. We will be making the trip three times between now and the end of the summer break. I want all of you to go at least two times. Got that? Two times.”

And then I assigned all of you your homework: find out what you could about the cities of Kitsuki, Ōita prefecture, Yamé, Fukuoka prefecture, and Ureshino, Saga prefecture.



[1] Japan is unique in that its academic year begins in April. Countries in the southern Hemisphere generally start their school years in or around January; in the north, around September. Incidentally, some 70% of the world follows the September to early summer pattern. In Taiwan and China, the school year begins in September; in Korea, from March 2; and in Thailand, in May. The Japanese school year is based upon the fiscal year (April to March), which was adopted from accounting practices in the U.K., Canada, Denmark, India, etc.

[2] Agéman (上げまん) is show business jargon and refers to a woman who will bring good fortune to a man if he has sex with her. Agé means to raise up and man (Pronounce it like a Jamaican, mahn.) is a diminutive of manko which is Japanese slang for the female genitalia. A woman who brings bad luck to the man with whom she has sex is known as a sagéman (下げまん). The male equivalent of agéman is agéchin with chin (sounds like “cheen”) meaning penis.

                A comic satire film titled “Agéman” (English title: Tales of a Golden Geisha) was released in 1990. Directed by the satirist Itami Jūzō, it tells the story of a “geisha” who brings luck to the men with whom she sleeps. For many Japanese, this was their first introduction to the wordagéman.

[3] Kansai (関西) refers to the southern-central region of Japan comprised of Mie, Nara, Wakayama, Kyōto, Ōsaka, Hyōgo, and Shiga prefectures. Kansai, and particularly Ōsaka, is famous for, among other things, its comedians and entertainers.

[4] Sekai Fureai Machi Aruki (世界ふれあい街歩き), also known as “Somewhere Street” on NHK World is an excellent travel program offering a “close-up look at cities worldwide, as seen by a walking tourist. Viewers visit places off the beaten path, meet ordinary people, and enjoy a travel experience that’s only possible on foot.” It’s must-see TV. And that’s coming from someone who hardly ever watches television.

[5] The Warring States Period, or Sengoku Jidai (戦国時代), is a period of Japanese history marked by political intrigue and constant military conflict. It lasted from about 1467 to 1603, or the start of the Edō Period.

[6] Oronamin C Drink (オロナミンCドリンク, Oronamin Shī Dorinku) is a carbonated beverage produced by Otsuka Chemical Holdings. Its main ingredient is vitamin C. In the Japanese countryside, it is not unusual to find dilapidated houses with old billboards advertising the drink nailed to their walls.

[7] Fifty million yen equates to about 444,000 euro or $480,000.

[8] Yufuin, part of Yufu City in Ōita prefecture, is a small town, famous for its natural hot spring spas.

[9] Houses in Japan are said to lose their value fifteen years after construction. This is one reason why homes are torn down and rebuilt rather than renovated. For more on this, read “Obstacles to Affluence: Thoughts on Japanese Housing” by the Nomura Research Institute.

[10] Gaijin (外人, lit. “outside person”) is, some would argue, a derogatory term for non-Japanese residents and visitors in Japan. Some foreigners living in Japan even claim that gaijin is the equivalent of the n-word. I disagree. Gaijin is short for gaikokujin (lit. outside country person), a word which was said to be first used by Fukuzawa Yukichi (1835-1901), an author, educator, and translator, who founded Japan’s oldest institute of higher education, Keio University. As a translator, it was probably Fukuzawa who introduced and popularized the term gaikokujin in early Meiji Period (1868-1912), a word which was directly translated from the English “foreigner”, which originated from Latin via Old French and meant “outside + person”. For more on this, consult the Nihon Kokugo Daijiten (日本国語大辞典) published by Shogakukan. Before that, foreigners, such as the Spanish and Portuguese, were called nanbanjin (南蛮人), or “southern barbarians”, while those from England and Holland were called kōmōjin (紅毛人) or red-haired people.

5. I still wouldn't have the desire

Six months would pass before we were to meet again and to be honest once you were out of my sight, you were out of my mind.

The thing is, Kana, at that point you were just one more young, attractive woman in a city that has no shortage of young, attractive women. Fukuoka, as I’m sure you know, is famous for the Hakata Beauty.[1] But more than that, as a man in the thick of his career, trying to balance work and family life, I honestly didn’t have any room left in that cluttered brain of mine for sexual fantasies.

 

When my wife was pregnant with our third son, she once fretted that I might have an affair. We had been married for six years by then and the thought of sleeping around had never really crossed my mind.

“My dear, Eiko, I don’t have the time, or the money, or the energy to go chasing after other women.”

“What if you did?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if you did have the time and the money and the energy?”

“I still wouldn’t have the desire, Eiko. I still wouldn’t have the desire. You, the boys, this one included,” I said, patting her tummy, “are more than I could have ever hoped for. My cup overflows with love and affection. How could I ever do anything to damage that?”

And the tears, the good kind again, welled up in her eyes, streamed down her cheeks.

 

Now, Kana, I want you to understand that what would happen between us was not something I had conspired to make happen. It was not something I had sought or hoped for.

It just happened.

There are others in my profession—and I really shouldn’t name names, but I think you know some of the men I am referring to—men who use their position, their authority, their proximity to young women to prey upon them. Mind you, these men are in their fifties and sixties and yet are still doing their damnedest to sleep with young women. I never quite know whether to be disgusted or inspired by it all.

What you must keep in mind, most of these men, middle-aged boys really, were terribly awkward when they were young and had no outlet for the sexual energy coursing through their flabby, pasty bodies. Many of them married in their late twenties—marriages that were more often than not arranged by doting mothers—and they managed to produce one to three kids with their plain wives and lead otherwise uneventful lives.

But then something happens inside their brains when they hit forty. They’re like cars that haven’t been driven the way they were supposed to: sooner or later they break down on the side of the road. I’ve seen it time and again. Their actions grow erratic; they make mistakes, stupid mistakes. And, even if they get caught, there really are no consequences for their behavior because they are tenured professors.

I know one professor, the dean of one of the departments, actually, who invites young women to his home to discuss this and that and eventually offers to pay them for their company and other “benefits”. That is his M.O., as they say, and it seems to work for “The Merry Widower”.

Another professor, a man in his late fifties, stalks students. Unlike the dean, who does not seem to be very picky, this professor has rather good, albeit predictable taste in women. The target of his advances tends to be slim, but busty, have long black hair, and hail from the countryside. Why? Who knows?

What I’m trying to say, is there are those who pursue these kinds of relationships, some who work harder at getting laid than they do at their job, period. I was, am, not one of them. No, to be quite honest, I was broadsided by would happen between us.

[1] Hakata (博多) is another name for Fukuoka City. Many of the local products and arts originating from Fukuoka are known as “Hakata this” or “Hakata that”, such as Hakata ningyō (dolls), Hakata-ben (dialect), and Hakata ori (textiles). Hakata Bijin (博多美人), or the Hakata Beauty, refers to the legendary beauty of the women from the region. The Japanese with their predilection for naming “The Three Greats” (三大, Sandai-) claim the Three Great Beauties of Japan are the Akita Bijin (Akita), Kyō Bijin (Tōkyō), and Hakata Bijin (Fukuoka). For more on Hakata, go here.

4. Enter Kana Sawajiri

It was an ordinary autumn day in 2012, but I still remember every detail of it as if it happened yesterday.

Waking before dawn with the feet of my third son and namesake, Peadar,[1] in my face, I pushed myself out of the futon, and groped through the darkness as I made my way into the kitchen. There, I brewed myself a pot of tea, which I then carried to my shosai, that is, my study,[2] and wrote as I often do for the next two and a half hours until I could hear the sound of lights being switched on, followed by the sound of Peadar’s small footsteps coming down the hallway. 

“Daddy, hold me.”

It seems the boy can’t sleep properly if he hasn’t got at least one leg propped up on my head. Peadar climbed up onto my lap; nestled his face in my chest.

“What are you doing?” came the muffled question.

“I’m trying to write.”

“Why?”

“Good question: why.”

“Why, Daddy?”

“I don’t know. OCD?”

“ABC?”

“Yes, ABC.”

Peadar began to sing the “ABC Song”, his face still in my chest, but when he came to the letter P, he paused, looked up at me and said, “Daddy, pee!”

It was too late, though. His already full diaper could hold no more, and warm urine dribbled out and all over my lap.

“I peed, Daddy!”

“You certainly did. C’mon, let’s jump in the shower and wash up.”

“No! Bath!”

“You want to take a bath?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.”

“With bubbles!”

“You want a bubble bath?”

“Yes.”

And so, I carried little Peadar, “P2”, to the bathroom, where I set up large basin, filled it with bubbles and let the boy soak while I took a shower.

A few minutes later, my second son, Eóin,[3] popped his head into the bathroom and announced: “I gotta poo!”

“So, poo for chrissakes!” I said, and the five-year-old scampered off to the W.C.[4]

He returned a few minutes later, butt-naked and stinking to high heaven, and announced that he now wanted me to wash him. Our “washlet”[5] had been on the fritz for some time and all three boys were now in the habit of showering off after doing their Daybreak Number Two.

“Eóin,” I said, “you are amassing a mountain of butt-washing debt which will eventually have to be repaid. With interest!”

“Huh?”

“In twenty years’ time, perhaps less, Eóin, you will be washing Daddy’s bottom.” 

“Eh!?!?!? Today?!”

“No, not today. But someday.”

With muted reluctance, Eóin stepped inside.

Before long, my oldest boy, Micheál,[6] also joined us in the crowded shower. You could run the trains on the boy’s bowel movements. It was then as the three of us fought for a place under the stream of hot water that it occurred to me that the key to happiness was rather simple: having more testicles in your life.

 

After breakfast with my family, I dressed and left for work.

I don’t know many people who enjoy their commute, but I do. That time, like the early morning hours before my sons wake, is all mine. Although it takes much longer than the train, I almost always take a bus. It is less crowded as it swims against the rush-hour current, allowing me forty minutes of quiet time for reading and making notes and cleaning up what I had written earlier in the morning before one of my sons disturbed me to announce a bodily function.

As the bus tootled along that morning, I was thinking about an upcoming trip to Kanazawa City on the Sea of Japan coast. It had been over a year since I had last been to the remote region and was eager to return.

Now, the reason I remember all that so clearly is that when I arrived at work, there was a lovely young woman about twenty years of age with shoulder-length auburn hair standing before my office door: that was you, of course.

Tall for the Japanese, at one-hundred and sixty-eight or nine centimeters, and wearing maroon Doc Martens, the young woman towered over my older colleague, the diminutive Professor Konoha, who was absentmindedly meandering the hall, muttering indistinctly to himself.[7]

She looked at the professor and suppressed a giggle. Noticing me approach, however, her posture straightened. She took a step in my direction, and, after introducing herself in a clear, confident voice, bowed smartly.

“Hajimemashite, Sawajiri Kana des’.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Sawajiri Kana,” I replied in Japanese. “Sawajiri Kana. Kana Sawajiri . . . Kanasawaji . . . Kanazawa-shi . . .”

“Pardon me?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just that I was thinking of Kanazawa City on my way here. Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

“A coincidence?”

“Your name. Kana Sawajiri and the city’s name, Kanazawa-shi. You wouldn’t happen to be from Ishikawa, would you?”

“From Kanazawa? No. No, I’m from here, from Fukuoka. Born and bred.”

“I see. Never mind, then. Spend too much time at this university and you start going batty like Sensei over there.”

And then you laughed and when your face softened you really were quite charming.

“So, how can I help you, Sawajiri-kun?” I said as I unlocked the door to my office.

Stepping into my office, you explained that the professor whose seminar you were intending to take in the coming school year was going to be away on sabbatical and you were now looking for an alternative seminar. We chatted about options, what would be required of you if you did, indeed, take mine, and after a moment’s thought you made your decision. There was no hemming and hawing the way so many Japanese are disposed to do. I immediately liked that about you.

“Well, then, I look forward to seeing you next term,” I said and held out my hand, but you bowed deeply instead and gave the formal greeting:

“Yoroshiku onegaishimasu.”

“By the way,” I said. “I like your shoes.”

“My shoes?” you said, brushing your hair behind your right ear to look.

“Your Martens. We’re wearing the same brand and color.”

“We are, aren’t we, Sensei! I hadn’t notice.”

“You’ve got good taste, Sawajiri-kun.”

 

And that is how we first met. Had professor Yamanaka not been going on sabbatical the following year, we may never have gotten to know each other. And none of this may have ever happened.


[1] Peadar, pronounced “Pah-dr” or “Pah-dish”, is Irish for “Peter”.

[2] Shosai (書斎) is an office or library in one’s home, a study or den.

[3] Eóin, pronounced “Oañ” is Irish for “John”.

[4] In most Japanese homes the room housing the toilet is separate from the one with the bathroom. For clarity, I use the Briticism W.C., or water closet. 

[5] A “washlet” is a hi-tech Japanese toilet with a heated seat, and washing and drying functions. 

[6] Micheál, pronounced “Mee-hawl” is Irish for “Michael”.

[7] 168-69 centimeters is about five-feet, six or seven.