My husband asks me, Do you love me? So gently, I answer him.
“I love the Creator of life. This is why I can love you.”
Yet everywhere that I see and feel a trace of the Creator, the Light of life,
There is so much love in it for me.
By Joo Eun Lee
The poem, I read it five times over. When I read the last words for the fifth time, I felt a new love born within myself for my wife’s mother, and an even deeper love and understanding of my wife as well.
Joo Eun Lee showed me the parts that make up the soul of Akemi, and the reason that Akemi was capable of such deep love for me. I could see now why and how Akemi was at ease with my faith and so captivated by my beautiful Umma, who has a soul similar to Joo Eun’s resting in her bosom. True, their methods and manners are extremely different, yet their intent and their meaning was beginning to feel the same to me.
Chapter 9
INVISIBLE MAN
Three hours passed in thirty minutes, it seemed. “Next stop Kyoto,” the soft voice announced in Japanese and in English.
When I looked up and through my window, the images that we were now moving past were not what I imagined they would be. As the train slowed to a halt, my first impression was that Kyoto was a place of dull metals and grayness. I was certain, however, that it would get better. It would become comparable to my wife and suitable to her artistic eyes. It had to.
When I stepped off at Kyoto station, it was almost noon. I threw my backpack and belongings into two secure lockers, dropped in the coins, and searched for a phone.
Chiasa answered with her sleepy voice. “Wake up, you’re on the payroll” was my greeting.
“You sound excited,” she said. “You got there safely, I see.”
“What did you expect?” I told her. “You got all the info?”
“About one more hour and I’ll have it all completed,” she said, making her voice sound more alert. “I know you think it’s just about the data, but her diary is really emotional and it pulled me into a secret world that was amazing and unfamiliar. I felt myself …” She paused, then never finished her sentence.
I filled the silence with my new requests. “I got a couple more things for you to look into.”
“Tell me,” she said sweetly, like any request was no problem for her.
“Go to the bookstore and look up an author named Shiori Nakamura and buy all her books,” I said.
“All of them?” she repeated.
“Yeah, and while you’re there, check out one more author. He’s an American.” I flipped the softcover biography around. “His name is Seth Arrington.”
“Got it,” she said. “Stay out of the direct sunlight ’cause it’s hotter down there in the south where you are. Call me later. I’ll have everything ready.”
“Aight.” I hung up.
Walking through and out of Kyoto station was like a stroll through Pastry Lane. There was a glut of bakeries displaying cakes decorated with fresh fruit slices, all assembled in intricate designs. Some of the Japanese fruits I couldn’t recognize. There were also shops with only fresh-baked cookies and some with fresh-baked breads. The smell of maple syrup seeped into the air and led to a couple of waffle stands. Lines were forming and customers were dipping fresh baked small waffle slices into the syrup. I kept it moving.
“Kyoto Women’s College,” I said to the bus attendant in the booth. He gave me the bus number using only his fingers.
The bus was not an “airport limousine” experience. It was smaller and the seats were positioned in an arrangement different than I had ever seen on public transportation. It was clean and organized. The driver was polite without words. I dropped my exact change in and tried not to stand out as the tallest, only black African man or person on board or in sight or even visible walking on the streets. The people didn’t stare. Most of them didn’t even look, glance, or peek. It was almost like I was invisible. The elders sat up front. The middle-aged adults sat and stood in the middle. The teens and college kids sat and stood in a raised section where the seats were up a few steps and raised up high.
The ride was completely silent. The Kyoto kids were more laid-back than the Tokyo cliques. There was no Harajuku crew sporting strange costumes. Nor were there any high-fashion types or naked females or freaks. Some passengers were reading. Others were nodding or sleeping. School kids were studying. The vibe was calm and ordinary.
The names of the upcoming bus stops were displayed on a digital screen in Japanese and then in English. After a minute, the scenery shifted, and rows of beautiful trees and flowers and plants began to emerge. The town seemed old and special. Most of the shops were small and made of wood. I stood looking through the bus windows, especially when the bus would stop and lose some passengers as well as pick others up.
My stop was coming up. As I got off, surprisingly most of the passengers unloaded with me. Now we were all facing what turned out to be a temple. Many of the elderly people entered. I was still at first. I had never seen a real temple in person before. It was wide and mysterious. The architecture was attractive and appeared ancient. I could smell incense burning. Yet the place was designed so that you really had to go inside to discover whatever they had happening. You could not tell from the outside what the experience would be like. I was definitely curious, but I let it go and turned sixty degrees instead. The street sign read “Shichijodori.” It was not the easiest to remember, but I would remember. Now I was facing what seemed like a long museum situated across the street. It extended over and down a few blocks. When I turned directly to my right, I could see the sign for Kyoto’s Women’s College and the arrow pointed uphill. I began walking in that direction. The college was on a street named “Higashiyamaschichijo”—what the fuck?
Oddly, Akemi’s high school was on the same campus with the college. I had learned that from the MOMA pamphlet and checked it on my map of Kyoto. I planned to go to her high school and sit outside until the bell rang and classes were dismissed for the day. Then I would just wait and see if she simply came walking out.
Once I crossed the street, I looked toward the sky. It was so bright, the white so intense, the blues so clear, the sun so orange that none of it could be taken on directly. The power of that sky pushed back and forced all eyes to bend and turn away.
As I began climbing the hills, which were framed by mountains piled up way off in the distance, I had to smile at this scene, a succession of hills being climbed up and down by females of varied ages, dressed mostly in miniskirts and matching school uniforms, only a handful rocking individual style and clothing. Hundreds of female students all on an incline beginning with toddlers in short pants and pressed shirts, all fifty of them with the same short hair, wearing yellow hats, being led on a walk by two female teachers in front and two female teachers in the rear, all carrying raised umbrellas where there was not even a drop of rain.
There were slightly older schoolgirls playing in an enclosed yard.
There were junior high school girls shielded behind a black iron gate, each plank crafted like a spear sharpened on top and pointing toward the sky. You could see in, they could see out, but you could not get in to where they were.
Further up hill there was the Kyoto Girls’ High School with the locked entrance and elaborate intercom system with steel buttons, a steel box, and steel speakers. Immediately across from it was the Kyoto Women’s College, all its entrances flung open, girls seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen pouring in and out, dressed how they wanted to do it, it seemed. I had reached the top.
So far, I had not run into any police. But now I could see the security booths situated in front of the high school but behind their gate and off to the side. The same kind of security booth was at the opened entrance of the college as well. They were little brick stations in the shape of an octagon with uniformed elderly men stationed inside. The only other men I saw moving in the midst of the girls were workmen, driving trucks, making deliveries, doing gardening
and ground maintenance, as well as driving the campus shuttle. Other than that it was girls, girls, girls.
There was a sitting place made of huge black rocks right between the high school and the college. I headed over and leaned there, watching and waiting.
A few young Japanese work guys, in wide-legged pants with draw-string waists, T-shirts on top, and heads wrapped in a white towel or in a bandana, sat at the top of the rocks, some reading Manga, smoking cigarettes one after the other and watching girls go by. Lunch break at one of the twenty-five businesses that ran up on one side of the hills. On the other side was where the girls’ school, buildings, fields, and gates stood. Lucky bastards, I thought to myself. Could I imagine five or ten Brooklyn dudes from my block working in a world of only girls with big feline eyes and hiked-up skirts and bare legs? The old sixty- and seventy-year-old uniformed security guards seemed in good shape, but standing in their brick booths, they would represent no threat at all. Brooklyn would run through snatching up everything.
Nakamura had it all figured out, he thought, raising a talented, intelligent, beautiful, and rich daughter in an almost exclusively female environment. Being a member of the college board, as it said in the MOMA pamphlet. He probably intended for Akemi to graduate from the all-girls Kyoto high school and walk twenty feet away into the all-girls Kyoto Women’s College. Believe me, I understood and I understand. We sent Naja to an all girls’ Islamic school for the past three years and she was only seven now. And I intend and have always intended for her to remain in an all-Islamic school of girls until she either graduated or married.
Nakamura’s mistake, I reflected, was allowing his teenaged daughter to travel alone seven thousand miles to New York City. He must’ve felt confident because he had two or three step brothers living there. And he was even more confident because he had “raised her right.” I plan and we plan and they plan was all I could think to say to myself, but Allah is the best of planners. It seemed that Allah brought Akemi and me together, perhaps for his own reasons, which no human had the means to know.
I had written to Nakamura of my intention, desire, and plan to marry his daughter. I included the documents required, since we were young and parental signatures were necessary. He signed the documents and impressed his seal confirming it. I married Akemi after she handed those documents to me. Those signed documents and the life of Akemi Nakamura went from his hand to mine. Now he wanted to dishonor me with a takeback. But marriage cannot be taken back, and my going into her and releasing my seeds could never be erased.
By three o’clock hundreds of females poured down from the hilltops and flowed in a thick and steady wave passing me by. I must’ve looked like a fool, my eyes searching through and into and beside and beyond what appeared now to be thousands of girls with black hair and Japanese eyes and legs made shapely from walking and climbing all these hills daily. I did not see my wife. I wasn’t 100 percent sure that I had not missed her, though, perhaps looking right when she went left, or straight by the time she was already moving behind me. But if she had been part of this massive crowd, she would’ve seen me, right? I asked myself. Then there was a possibility that she was not one of the walkers. Perhaps she was in one of the private red luxury-line buses. Labeled, “Princess Line.” Herds of females boarded the bright sparkling vehicles lined one after the other, seven strong, moving slowly down the hills and off the campus. My eyes scanned each window as the buses inched by, but my wife was not there either.
I had an hour and a half before I needed to head to a spot oddly named Tamisa, New York Style Yoga. There were two places that Akemi had identified as relaxing places that she went when she was feeling real emotional. Akemi had written that the Japanese don’t like to burden one another with their emotions. To express them is considered selfish as well as a personal weakness. Akemi wrote that she found it difficult to restrain her emotions, so she separated herself when she felt them coming on strong. She would go to a special area of Kyoto named Arashiyama and walk alone there, or to yoga class, to release and soothe her soul. Chiasa had told me this after my morning prayer and during our breakfast before sunrise. In fact Chiasa wanted to give me detailed descriptions of Akemi’s written thoughts and words and feelings. But over breakfast of orange slices, boiled eggs, and soup, I told Chiasa that all I wanted was the list of names and addresses of my wife’s friends and family members. The truth is I didn’t want to invade my wife’s private thoughts, feelings, and writings. If I could use the names, addresses, and telephone numbers that Akemi mentioned in her diary to locate her, she could express all her emotions and thoughts directly to me in her own way.
Moving downhill, when I eased off the campus completely, I found myself facing what looked like an art gallery. As I walked all the way around the building to the entrance, I discovered that it was a three-story hotel. In fact it was a Hyatt Hotel, an American brand. As I looked around, I thought, American-owned, Japanese-style. Before approaching the uniformed women who were stationed outside the main lobby, I put on my sunglasses. The women were petite and dressed similarly to Japanese flight attendants and customs workers. They wore tight blue skirts with matching jackets and pretty silk scarves around their necks. They wore standard business pumps on their feet, not too cheap, not too stylish. They stood welcoming customers and signaling taxis.
“Konichiwa,” I greeted them.
“Checking in?” one of the ladies asked in English.
“Maybe,” I responded.
“All inquiries at the front desk.” She pointed inside.
I walked in to one of the five desk clerks. “Reservation?” the suited Japanese man asked me, getting right to it.
“Not yet. What’s the nightly rate?” I asked.
“You need a reservation.”
“Okay, what’s the rate?” I asked again.
“We are completely booked,” he said, his voice soft unlike a man’s, and his manner polite, but somehow I still felt like he was insulting me.
“No problem,” I told him. I turned and crossed the spacious lobby floor, where people sat silently on plush, fashionable furniture. The ceilings were high and decorated by intricate woodwork instead of paint. Pansy flowers were arranged in clay vases throughout the lobby. A dining room area was open and framed by a wall of windows from floor to ceiling. Diners could see the display of nature, a rock garden and flowing fountain, while enjoying a meal. I could tell that it was too expensive to stay here, not like the short list of Kyoto hostels I held in my pocket. As I approached the concierge station, I organized my inquiry so I wouldn’t seem suspicious. I needed to find a way of asking, “Where is the rich area of Kyoto located?” I didn’t have an address for Akemi’s home, but I was sure she lived in the wealthiest neighborhood. I reminded myself that even though the Hyatt had an all-Japanese staff, it was an American hotel and everyone would be required to speak English comfortably.
“Konichiwa,” I said, laying my American passport on the concierge’s counter.
“Konichiwa, may I help you?” she asked softly with an eager smile.
“Yes.” I removed my sunglasses to place her at ease. “I would like to visit the best neighborhoods in Kyoto. Can you help me with that?” I asked her.
“Yes, of course,” she agreed rapidly. “What are you most interested in—temples, nature, architecture, museums, foods, fabrics, or would you like to visit the traditional area of the geisha and maiko?”
“Architecture,” I said smoothly. “I’d like to tour the best-built homes and neighborhoods.”
She walked from behind her counter to a pamphlet stand. I followed. She reached in and pulled out a map. She handed one to me and returned to her station. With a red pen she checked the most interesting traditional and upscale neighborhoods—and even offered the exact public bus information after I declined joining the private group tours that they had leaving from the hotel the following morning. Then she added, “I think, however, that the most wonderful homes are hidden in the mountains. The nat
ure that surrounds those places makes them the most beautiful.”
“Are those areas open to the public?” I questioned.
“Of course you can travel up the mountain. We have tons of tours of selected mountain areas. But you cannot tour the private homes in the same way that you would tour the sacred temples. We have a cable car that will also carry you over the mountains, and the view is most lovely.”
“What about these mountains that sit directly behind the college?” I pointed.
“Which ones?” she asked. “Each of them is different.” Voluntarily she came from around her counter and led me on a walk outside the hotel lobby. “Those are called the Hieizan Mountains. You can tour them. The other one next to it is privately owned.”
“Privately owned?” I repeated incredulously. “Someone can own a mountain in Japan?” I asked, genuinely shocked at the idea.
“Yes.” She laughed a bit. “Not often, but it does happen. In this case it is a very famous Japanese actor who owns that one. He is retired now and having een-say-e.”
“What is that?” I followed up.
She smiled. “Well, in Japanese it means ‘secret life.’ It happens when a powerful person retires early because of great success in his business but continues controlling and even managing events quietly and from afar, unknown to most.” She placed a finger over her lips. I thought to myself, Japanese people seemed to love the words hide, hidden, secret, invisible …, and apparently they also loved secret lifestyles.
“Well, you can’t visit his mountain or the one beside it. That one there”—she pointed—“is owned by Naoko Nakamura. He …” Then her words trailed off and I could no longer hear them.
* * *
At 4:45 p.m., I sat in a small smoky café in the corner by the window, where I could lean up and watch or lean back and be shielded by the wall. It was next door to the Tamisa, New York Style Yoga dojo. I waited for my wife to appear, believing that if she found peace and ease and comfort here, surely she would show up.