“Please sit down,” Mr. Mishima told me.
Maybe it was Mr. Tanizaki who actually said that; I wasn’t paying attention to individual identity. I sat down. I wasn’t going to wait for their permission. Though actually, Mr. Tanizaki (or Mr. Mishima) monitored my seating arrangements with obsessive concern; he seemed on guard for the slightest detail that might compromise my comfort. He was like an entomologist slipping a black insect into a handsome lacquered case. Black was the establishment’s prime color. The tables, chairs, plates and tablecloths were black, while the knives and forks were red. Quite suddenly, Mr. Mishima demanded we be moved to another table. Since all the tables were taken, he wanted to change places with me. I had to assure him I was just fine where I was. But he wasn’t satisfied. He turned to Mr. Tanizaki, who immediately jumped to his feet to give me his seat, which offered a view of the street. Okay, okay. The charades continued until Mr. Mishima was completely convinced that everything had been done to ensure maximum comfort for me. I knew this was his courteous, Asian way of making me feel welcome, but it really wasn’t my style. Maybe they were expecting me to make a similar effort; I had no idea. No — they’re the thousand-year-old refined culture, whereas I represent savage young America. I sucked in my stomach, jammed my knees together and hunched my shoulders in order to enjoy the small space allotted to me. A compact kind of happiness. I looked around the place and saw it was designed for a certain size of person, as if they wanted to discourage larger formats — black American basketball players, for example.
“Do you like the restaurant?” Mr. Tanizaki asked me.
“It’s fine,” I said, in a neutral tone.
“I am happy it pleases you,” Mr. Mishima said, smiling. “Other places of this kind have no resemblance to a real restaurant in Tokyo.”
That’s another thing I detest: authenticity. A real restaurant. Real people. Real things. Real life. Nothing more fake than that. Life itself is a construct.
“Do you like sushi?”
“No.”
I decided to keep my bad mood a while longer. They looked totally lost. It’s true, if the guest doesn’t like sushi, his tastes can cause problems in a Japanese restaurant.
“I don’t like fish.”
Which is completely untrue.
“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Mishima, astonished that anyone could dare not to like fish. But he did his best to hide his disappointment.
“I’m not allergic to fish, and I’m not a vegetarian. I just can’t agree with the idea of eating fish. In my opinion, it’s just not a good practise.”
“Fortunately, Japanese cuisine offers more than fish,” Mr. Mishima said in a quiet voice.
“In any case, we would have found something else to eat,” Mr. Tanizaki chimed in quickly.
ARE YOU A WRITER?
I ORDERED SOUP. Another silence settled in. I don’t have the nerves of steel this kind of game demands. I decided to get right to the point — which is, apparently, contrary to the rules of proper Japanese behavior.
“I had no idea the Japanese consulate was aware of my humble existence,” I said, in vague imitation of their obsequious tone.
I heard a peal of authentic laughter, but I couldn’t tell if it was coming from Mr. Mishima or Mr. Tanizaki. Was one of them a ventriloquist?
“My assistant heard about you.”
“Really?”
“Are you a writer?”
“Not right now.”
They laughed.
“Are you writing a book?”
“Yes and no.”
“We are very interested in your book.”
“And that’s why you decided to investigate me?”
Synchronized laughter.
“No, we are not investigating you, sir. Nor can we do such a thing. It is all we can do just to read the newspapers. There are only three of us in the cultural sector. Tokyo is interested in economic aspects: there are seventeen agents in that area. We are not a priority, you understand.”
It wasn’t news to me that literature doesn’t count for much in the new world order. Third-world dictators are the only ones who take writers seriously enough to imprison them on a regular basis, or even shoot them. The waiter arrived with our order. How was I going to get out of this wasps’ nest? Four or five Japanese businessmen swooped past and conversed with Mr. Mishima on a subject that demanded smiles and cascades of laughter. I didn’t catch a thing because they spoke threequarters of the time in Japanese, and the rest in English — their Japanese wearing a strong English accent and their English equally weighed down with Japanese. They pretended not to notice I was there. Maybe they just didn’t see me. Some people speak only one language, and others have radar that picks up only one kind of person: people of their own religion, class and race. That behavior is found in all societies. Finally they scattered, one at a time, with lighter-than-air steps and brittle laughter — as if they were performing a musical comedy.
“And the poets?”
A moment of surprise. I always ask after the poets.
“Do you write poetry?”
“No.”
“Do you like poetry?”
“Why do you ask?”
“We know you are fond of our great poet Basho.”
“How do you know that?”
“You read him wherever you go.”
“You’ve been following me!”
“Please do not be alarmed, sir.”
“Listen, I have other things to do.”
“My assistant Mr. Tanizaki is an eminent translator.”
“You want to translate my book?”
“We would love to,” said Mr. Tanizaki. “Though I am no more than a humble teacher.”
“It’s easy. You contact my publisher…”
“We are speaking of your latest book, of course.”
“What latest book?”
“The one you are writing, about Japan.”
“I never write about anything but myself.”
Mr. Mishima and Mr. Tanizaki exchanged quick glances.
A moment of panic in Mr. Tanizaki’s eyes. Now I could see the difference between them. Mr. Tanizaki is the one who’s always afraid. The reason lies in the hierarchy.
“Isn’t there some sort of relationship with Japan in your new book?” Mr. Tanizaki ventured, timidly.
“Besides the title, of course,” Mr. Mishima put in.
“My Japan is invented and concerns only me.”
Mr. Tanizaki sighed in relief.
“We would like to help,” said Mr. Mishima calmly.
“Even if I haven’t even written the book.”
They grew lively all of a sudden, and their masks began slipping out of control.
“We know you have not yet transcribed it onto paper, but it is in your head,” said Mr. Mishima knowingly.
“For once Tokyo is interested in one of our projects,” Mr. Tanizaki added quickly. “If you wanted to visit Japan. . We have an excellent guide to help you follow in Basho’s footsteps. We can organize a tour that will take you on the road our poet took 250 years ago.”
“But I don’t want to visit Japan… What kind of idea is that?”
“This is the perfect season for a trip,” Mr. Mishima said smoothly.
“You are a true artist,” Mr. Tanizaki summed up. “Your clear and open-minded answers have proved that. Of course we would not want to disturb you too much…”
“Allow me to say, all the same, that the consulate of Japan and its personnel would be only too happy to serve you in any way in order to ensure the success of your literary project,” declared Mr. Mishima, vice-consul of the Land of the Rising Sun. He was a second away from calling it my “literary mission.” This was getting out of hand. If I surrendered the slightest authority over my work to them, even just a single comma, they would write the book for me. Behind their obsequious manners was an iron will. Whatever the reason, they wanted to control this book.