Translator (9 page)

“And I know my daughter.”

Hanne grabbed her coat and purse and marched out, vowing to find another school. What did this woman know about her Brigitte? Brigitte, who, as a baby, clamped her hands to her ears and cried whenever she heard a loud sound—a siren, the vacuum cleaner, the stove alarm, a person with a booming voice. The pediatrician had recommended that Brigitte's keen hearing be normalized—what was his word?—desensitized—or she'd have trouble negotiating the world. Every outing would be an ordeal for Hanne. Expose her to new sounds gradually, slowly raising the volume, and soon she would be fine. But that acute ability meant her daughter could hear and almost instantly speak different languages. Hanne would not crush her daughter to fit some terrible average, some awful norm.

Now still on the phone with Tomas, Hanne pulls out the robin's-egg-blue dress. Is it too early for a dress intended for spring?

“Come stay with us,” says Tomas. “You won't be in the way.”

Of course she'll be in the way. Anne and her granddaughters don't speak Japanese. She will be reduced to a ghostly presence, a museum relic, glued in a chair.

He sighs. “What did your doctor say?”

She chooses a cream-colored dress and puts it, along with the blue one, in her suitcase. “He gave the okay.”

“What did he say, exactly?”

“It could be a wonderful time. He said to enjoy life. He's never been to Japan and wishes he could go.” She gives him the name of the hotel and the phone number. “It's a marvelous hotel,” she says. She hears him tell someone to wait. “I understand all the risks.” She opens her top drawer and counts out pairs of socks, underwear, pantyhose. “It's a paid engagement to speak.”

He groans. “You're so stubborn. So damn stubborn.”

If he thinks he's reprimanding her, he's wrong. Stubbornness is one of her greatest strengths, she thinks. She can always be counted on, no matter how difficult the task, no matter the number of naysayers.

For the first time in a long while, she feels giddy. She showers, puts on makeup, and dresses in a white silk blouse with ivory buttons and a black skirt. A string of pearls. She's never let herself go. Not during pregnancy, not after Hiro's death. She always kept her figure; she still wears a size eight.

She takes a taxi to Japantown and heads to her favorite restaurant, Mifune. The place is crowded with Japanese, slurping noodles. She's seated in the corner. A young Japanese couple sits beside her, and she quickly learns that they don't suspect she speaks their language. She has watery eyes, they decide, a sharp nose that makes her look like a hawk. “At least she's not fat like most Americans,” says the young man with a greasy sheen to his hair. And she doesn't have many wrinkles. It's hard to guess her age. Hanne listens with a mixture of horror and voyeuristic thrill, peering into her own life as if she, too, were viewing it, assessing it, finding it, on the whole, lacking.

“She sits alone,” says the girl with a shine to her forehead. “No husband. No friends. It's so sad.”

“That's how most Americans look to me. Lonely and sad.”

“But this woman seems like she sits alone—lonely, sad, and also angry. Maybe she sits there, angry with her life.”

She can't be quiet any longer. “Sits?” says Hanne, turning to them. “A present participle would be a better choice. ‘She is sitting alone.'”

The woman covers her mouth with her hand. A few seconds pass, and Hanne hears a mumbled “
Sumimasen
,” sorry.

She knows she should have let it go. The waiter brings Hanne her bowl of wakame. While she eats, the couple sits stiffly, not saying a word. When the waiter walks by them again, the young man shoves the bill and money at him, and they quickly leave.

“
Hajimemashite. Dozo yoroshiku
,”
says the
young Japanese woman who greets Hanne at the gate. How do you do? I'm very glad to meet you. A limo will take Hanne from Narita Airport to Tokyo. Stocked in the limo refrigerator are Hanne's favorites—inari, salted sea bream, and cold sake. Along with pears, mandarin oranges, mamakari fish, and sweet liquor. The young woman has a high, soft voice, made softer by a slight lisp and the dip of her head at the end of her sentences, as if apologizing for what she just said. Hanne will have the limo to herself. She must be very tired from the long plane ride, says the woman, whose name is Amaya. Amaya will follow in her own car and check Hanne into the hotel. The young woman bows low, lower than Hanne's bow. “We are honored to have you here.”

“I'm very honored to be here,” says Hanne.

d

As the limo speeds along the freeway, Hanne gazes out the window at the bleach-white sky, the billboards for every possible consumer product, the blur of cement tenement buildings. It's late winter, but soon the windows will be open, laundry on the line, fluttering like birds. She has mostly fond memories of living here as a teenager. After five years living with her Oma, who, by the end, wouldn't leave the house, who refused to let Hanne out, except for school and errands and while she cleaned, Hanne had finally been fetched by her mother. Her mother had secured a lucrative translation position with the German government, which was trying to make inroads into the Japanese car industry. They were moving to Japan.

Coming here felt like stepping out of prison. Now Hanne is filled with memories of feeling alive, vibrant, in the mix of things. In her mind, Japan is associated with the hot thicket of her teenage years when she discovered sex, and, more significantly, her power to allure by the simplest of gestures, a wetting of her lips, a tilt of her head. With her round eyes and brown hair, she was a desirable anomaly, sought after, at first tentatively and then more aggressively, by the Japanese boys. They thought she was American, but when they discovered she was from Europe, she became even more exotic, a real catch, but she was the one doing the catching. Hanne's mother saw only a bookish, studious girl, so she let Hanne at the tender ripe and ripening age of fifteen do what she wanted, go wherever she wished. It was a very safe country, her mother told Hanne. Her mother was so busy working, she had no time to watch over Hanne or realize what Hanne was doing. Hanne welcomed the neglect. She roamed and explored and the world was alive and vigorous and so was she. Her mother never suspected Hanne's afternoons were spent with Japanese boys from her school, one in particular, his shiny-shampooed hair falling into his dark eyes, like a veil. She sees them wrapped around each other on the corduroy couch in the cramped living room, like lush vines, as she plunges her hand into the deep territory of his trousers, touching his rubbery penis, coaxing it into a hard shape. Not just once. His hand fumbling under her blouse, lifting her bra, stroking, fondling. When he pinched her nipple, she told him to cut it out.

She cracks open the limo window—cold air, mingled with car exhaust, the stink of rotten eggs, and tar, fills the car. Not much has changed since she was last here—more buildings, more cars, the same polluted air. She closes the window again and kicks off her shoes, stretching out her legs, soaking them in the cool blue light from the darkly tinted windows.

That Japanese boy wanted to keep going, but she had no desire to lose her virginity to fumbling hands and an awkward, boyish body. She wanted her first time to be better, more extraordinary; she had someone else in mind. He worked behind the counter of the café where she stopped after school and drank black coffee and smoked Sakura cigarettes. Five years her senior, he was tall for a Japanese man, smooth-skinned. He rarely smiled, so when he did, it felt genuine.

She began wearing short skirts to show off her long legs, and scarlet lipstick, and her hair curled so it outlined her ear, like a picture frame. Smiling at him a little too long, as if seeing deep into the dark core of him. After a month or so, she knew his shift ended at 3:30, and that he slouched outside on the porch to smoke and scribble in a small blank notebook. He liked D. H. Lawrence; a tattered copy of
Lady Chatterley's Lover
was always on the counter beside him. During a lull, he'd pick it up and head out back. She began joining him on the back porch to smoke, talking about Lawrence, his boldness, his sex scenes. One day she invited him to her apartment. Not in love, Hanne was curious about sex and mildly smitten with his cool exterior. When they entered the apartment, he wrapped his hand around her wrist and took her, as if he'd been there before, straight to her bedroom. He knew how to make love; it was why she'd picked him.

But then he started showing up at her apartment door, saying he had to see her, he missed her. She was irritated that he'd arrive, uninvited. What if he showed up when her mother was there? She told him she'd see him at the coffee shop. The third time he showed up uninvited, she lied and said she had another boyfriend, then closed the door. But at the end of the week when she stopped by the coffee shop and he barely looked at her, she softened. She went outside on the back porch with him, took his hand in hers. In her bedroom, she made love to him one more time. It was good, as good as the other time, but then the swelling, the nausea; not a good pick in the end, for he was no help. She took care of it immediately; took such good care, her mother never knew.

After that, her interest in boys waned. It rattled her, the possibility of her life derailing just because of a boy, because of what could happen from sex. What took its place was mastering the Japanese language.

The limo delivers her directly to the front steps of the imposing Imperial Hotel. A quick dash from the car to the high-ceilinged lobby, she escapes the crush of humanity that is Tokyo, though she can hear it all around her, a mesh of cars, taxis, buses, scooters, the metro. The density of this city is the main reason why she so rarely visits. Hiro, too, preferred more space, more breathing room. Because of that, he had no interest in living in Japan, especially Tokyo. Before she enters the fray, she needs to rest.

Amaya is already at the front desk and the bellhop carries her bags to her room. The other speakers are also staying in the hotel, Amaya says, handing Hanne a glossy conference program, opened to the page that shows Hanne will lecture tomorrow, the first day of the conference. “Please ring if you need anything,” she says.

In her room, she opens the curtains and drags a bulky chair over by the window to sit in a patch of winter sun. Across the street is Hibiya Park. A cherry tree sapling looks like it was recently planted, a skirt of fresh dirt surrounding its small trunk. She watches it sway with the breeze. How peaceful. Already San Francisco is quickly becoming remote, receding into the past. Unable to speak to anyone, she was slowly disappearing in San Francisco. Here she feels she's someone again. Not just anyone, someone held in high regard. They are honored she's here.

A Japanese man in a dark gray suit stops and stands right beside the cherry tree. He lights a cigarette. Hanne is watching the smoke spiral and dissipate when the man's arms curve in front of him and he begins to waltz, the familiar 1-2-3 pattern, around the tree, as if dancing with an invisible partner. Hanne stands to get a better view. She can't see his expression; only now and then does he suck on his cigarette, exhaling a plume of gray smoke, as if his body is overheating and letting off steam. She watches, entranced by the public display of a private world.

After she found Brigitte dancing with that first boy, Hanne stood in her doorjamb, hands on her hips, and Brigitte cried that he was the only one who truly loved her, who truly understood her, now that Dad was gone. Brigitte's face was wet with tears. “He loves me,” said Brigitte, “and I love him.” Hanne's mind spun a hundred retorts: fleeting first love, it held you in its grubby grip, fumbling, a moment of pleasure that quickly vanished when someone new and shinier came along and that was the end of that. And just as that comeback faded, along rushed in—how could everything I've done for you—out of love!—be so casually and carelessly tossed out? Am I nothing to you? And are you having sex? You're still a child, for God's sake, so you'd better not, but the way Brigitte was looking at her with teary eyes, as if Hanne had just ripped out her heart, she knew Brigitte had and she would again. “I hope you're using protection,” said Hanne icily. “Being a mother is hard work.”

She was aware that she was being hypocritical. She, too, had been sexually active around Brigitte's age, but the word “love” wasn't part of it. Hanne was never in love with these boys. Love and girls were a dangerous mix. Love entered and a girl thought, why not a baby? It became even more dangerous when a girl believed it was true love and he was the only one in the entire world who loved her. He, who said he loved her, who would leave when it wasn't so fun anymore, when there was a crying baby at 3:00
a.m.
and again at 4:00.

Now she regrets that. Her quick, angry retort. She could have explained herself better, could have told Brigitte her fears. The man waltzing outside abruptly stops. Looks up at the hotel windows, as if suddenly aware that someone might be watching. Does he see her? Is that why he departs in short rapid steps?

She's back in the doorjamb. Brigitte answered back just as sharply: “You just make mothering hard. It doesn't have to be that way.”

Hanne looks down and sees she's crumpling the conference program, the cover of which is scattered with words in all different languages. Flipping through it, she reads the names of her fellow conferees, most of whom she does not know. She hesitates before turning to her listing: a professor at Colbert University, a long-time translator, whose work has received “rave reviews” from critics, who call her translations “music to the ear, you forget the original was written in Japanese.”

Something settles inside. She made the right decision to come here, she thinks. She finds Yukio Kobayashi's name. “An acclaimed Japanese novelist who is about to make his debut in America with the English version of
Trojan Horse Trips,
which in Japan sold over 1 million copies. Called a tour de force by
The Japan Times
, a stunning debut by
Asahi Shimbun
.” “Kobayashi peers into the soul of Japan. His language is charged and playful and poetic.” He is scheduled to speak tomorrow.

She calls Tomas and tells him she's arrived safely. Everything's fine. It's lovely.

He pauses. “I wish you hadn't gone. Anything might happen.”

“Such as?”

“What if you fall again?” She's startled to hear his voice, now astonishingly bare, stripped of its authority, the voice of a small boy who used to play for hours with his Matchbox cars, lining them in neat little rows. “Your languages aren't all back. Something isn't right.”

“Please, Tomas, I'm sure you have many other things to worry about.”

“I just don't think you should have gone.” The overlay of irritation has returned to his voice. She imagines him rubbing his eyelids, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I'm fine. By the way, I'll get to meet Kobayashi.”

“I hope it goes well.”

“Of course it will.”

“Well, he certainly has taken his time getting back to you.”

She sighs. When did he become such a worrier?

Tomas says he'll be traveling for the next week or so. An unexpected trip. They leave it that she will call if she needs him. Jet-lagged, she falls into a deep sleep. A man's face appears, but the face is missing eyes, mouth, and nose. She hunts everywhere for his features, in the tall grasses, cupboards, a swimming pool, hunting in a methodical way, not frantic or even particularly fearful. She hears herself calling for the man. The man waits calmly, pushing back his cuticles. Toward early morning, she settles into what feels like another long dream. She's leaning over to blow out hundreds of candles on a cake, a birthday cake, hers—how did she get to be so old?—leaning so close that she feels the heat of the flames on her face, smells the burning wax, hissing as it melts, and she's planning to blow the candles out in one big whoosh—“Make a Wish!” when her hair catches on fire. Crackling and sizzling, and she's shouting for help, running madly, trying to find water—water!—faster and faster, the stench of burning hair thick in the air, her ears filled with the whir of the flames and wind.

She wakes to the air conditioner running full blast and morning's white light. It must have turned on automatically. It's cold in the room. What could the dream have meant? She looks around, locating herself in time and place. The dream was in Japanese. It has been years since she's dreamed in Japanese. But she has no time to ponder this. It's morning, and if she's going to take a walk before her presentation, she needs to leave now.

Weaving her way through throngs of people, mostly businessman in gray suits and heavy coats, she catches snippets of conversation, “—tomatoes . . . ripe—”; “—trip to—” “—work on Saturday—” and as she strides at a brisk pace to stay warm, she feels part of the great big beat again, part of progress up Uchisaiwaicho Street, past the shops with jade bracelets and skimpy skirts. As she reads more signs, she becomes aware of a change in her brain. Prior to the fall down the marble stairs, a second or two had lapsed between reading a Japanese word and recalling its meaning. It felt like following a bridge that attached the word to its meaning. The more obscure the word, the longer the bridge. Now there is no searching, no bridge. She knows the Japanese word and simultaneously knows the meaning. No need to search for meaning in English. For the first time, she's living inside this language. As if this were her native tongue, as if she had been born and raised here.