I'M NOT BORGES AND MR. TANIZAKI ISN'T MR. TANIZAKI EITHER
I SLOWLY OPENED my eyes, only to discover Mr. Tanizaki’s laughing round face.
“It’s like a revolution over there. Your book is becoming a social phenomenon.”
“What book? I didn’t write any book.”
“I mean the book you’re writing.”
Mr. Tanizaki was completely wound up. He waved a slender volume in front of my face. I looked at it but couldn’t make out a single word: it was all in Japanese. He pulled it away.
“The title is ‘I Am a Malagasy Writer’ and it’s written by a Japanese guy.”
“So what?”
“That’s how young writers are displaying their contempt for literary nationalism. For them a Japanese writer doesn’t necessarily write a Japanese book. In fact, a Japanese writer doesn’t even exist any more.”
“Too bad, because that’s what I am.”
“Over there, their new slogan is, ‘A writer is a writer. A Japanese is a Japanese.’ For them, these are parallel lines. They paraded around the Tokyo Book Fair chanting that slogan. There was something about it on the news, in between a story about agriculture and the latest banking scandal. Such a thing would have been unthinkable just a month ago: literature on the news. And in Japan.”
He was as red as a squash player at the end of a game.
“And then there’s the tv host who wrote some shitty book.”
He seemed to have recovered the energy of his student protest days.
“It’s called ‘I Am a Japanese tv Host.’ But everyone let him know that he was completely not getting it. He was trying to proclaim his Japanese pride. Baudrillard — you know, the French philosopher — wrote a long article about how it sounds less Japanese when a Japanese says he’s Japanese.”
Mr. Tanizaki was turning circles around my park bench. I listened to him half-heartedly, though I felt his passion for the issue. If I understood correctly, the whole thing started with a cultural program I was featured on, then the tv got involved, and pretty soon it hit the streets. Even the army got into the act: on the nightly news, in front of his whole family, an officer declared, “I am a Korean soldier.” A Japanese officer said that! Of course he was thrown into the brig, but then the student press went wild. In the end he was sent to the north, a kind of internal exile. But the high point of the whole business was this truck driver, rippling with muscles and covered in tattoos, who did a transvestite number late at night in a little club on the outskirts of town. Everyone rushed to see him. His hit song played on every radio station: “I Am a Japanese Geisha.” Everyone was singing it in the subway, even kids.
Mr. Tanizaki was out of breath by the time he finished his story.
“How’s it going for you?” I asked him.
“Couldn’t be better! They’ve been taking me seriously at the consulate since all this began. They even talked about me on tv. My father wrote to me, the first time in his life that he’s opened his heart to someone. He certainly never did that with my mother. He said he regretted never having told her he loved her. He told me about the war. He was a career soldier. The Army was his whole life. In the end, he sent me his love. And, most amazing of all, he didn’t say a single word about the homeland or the Emperor. I cried when I read his letter. A dozen sentences written down in pencil. . I’m going back to Japan. I’ll be able to go back to my old job at the college, teaching poetry.”
“That’s good news.”
“Remember back in the restaurant, you asked me right out, ‘And the poets?’ I didn’t answer. That’s what rekindled my desire to take up teaching again. Never forget poetry. . Oh, and a major publisher asked me to write the preface to your book. I’m going to take a few days, then get down to it. I wanted to tell you what an honor it was to spend time with you. Your book changed my life.”
“But I haven’t written a book.”
“You did better than that,” he said, his voice low and full of emotion.
It’s good to write a book, but sometimes it’s better not to write it. I was famous in Japan for a book I didn’t write. I was starting to get hungry. I decided to walk downtown and buy myself a hamburger with fries and a Coke, the only American contribution to world gastronomy. And if the fries were soggy and cold, the way I figured they’d be, I would console myself by thinking about how famous I was in Japan.
“Let me wish you good luck, Mr. Tanizaki.”
“You know me as Mr. Tanizaki, but that’s not my real name. Tanizaki is my favorite novelist. You can’t imagine how much enjoyment you have given me… And now, what are you going to do?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“You’re not going to spend the rest of your life sitting on this park bench?”
“Not a bad idea.”
Once he’d left, I sent a telegram to my publisher: “I am no longer a writer.” That’s not the title of a novel. Mind you, it wouldn’t be a bad one — in perfect harmony with my progress towards minimalism. Absolute zero, though, would be: “I am no longer.” I’ll keep those two titles for later on, when my belly is scraping my backbone. I won’t be able to use “I am no longer” until I’m at least ninety years old.
I went down St-Denis and turned right on Ste-Catherine, disappearing into the downtown crowds. It was one of those sunny autumn Montreal days. The air smelled good. The girls were still wearing their summer skirts. Right then, no one knew where I was. Or who I was either. But I was still famous in Japan.