Part of the World, by Barry Garelick, Oolong tea

Bob had dreamt of Iwo Jima and the black sands that gave way under each step. It was a dream he had had for years. A Japanese soldier approached with rifle drawn. Bob shot him, and the soldier lay in the sand, his eyes open.

When he awoke, he did not know where he was. Nothing looked familiar. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked out the window; his room was high up. Many people and cars were down below, and signs of restaurants and other businesses were in Japanese. On the desk by the window was a stack of old, yellowed official looking papers with Japanese writing. In the mix was a photo of a young Japanese man holding a little girl. A note next to the telephone written in his scrawling handwriting bore the name “Professor Chishu Hayashi” and a telephone number.

The door to his room opened onto a long hallway. He was in a hotel. A woman with dark hair was walking toward him; he thought it was his wife and was ready to call her name, but as she came closer, he saw she was not. Maybe it was the light, or lack of it. 

“Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, I’m very confused. Could you tell me where we are?” The woman stopped and hesitated before answering.

“Tokyo,” she said. “You’re in Tokyo.”

Yes. Tokyo. He suddenly remembered the airport, his wife and son seeing him off, a phone call that he made in his room. “I’m in Tokyo.”

“Yes, you’re in Tokyo. Are you alright?”

“Yes. No. I’m fine.”

A cleaning woman with a cart full of linen came down the hall. As they both moved over to let her pass, the woman who told him where he was now looked like an art dealer he knew in New York – but the illusion quickly went back to the unfamiliar.

“When I woke up, I didn’t know where I was,” he said. “Nothing was familiar. I don’t even remember falling asleep.”

“Where were you coming from?”

“Detroit, then San Francisco. I got here a few hours ago.”

 “You probably didn’t get much sleep on the plane. Plus, jet lag will do that to you. I had the same thing happen once.”

“I’ve traveled a lot. But I never had this happen.”

“Sounds like you could use a cup of tea,” she said. “I was just going out to a cafe I know not far from here. Care to join me? My name is Christina, by the way.”

“That sounds good; yes. Thank you. I’m Bob.”

 As they waited by the elevators, Bob looked at the signs with arrows indicating room numbers.

“We’re on the twenty-third floor,” he said to himself, though Christina heard him.

“Yes. Twenty-three. This is the tallest hotel in Tokyo. It was just built.”

“My cab driver told me the same thing. Right in Keio Plaza. I’m remembering more and more.”

A few minutes later they were walking down a crowded street closed off to cars and filled with mostly young people, Japanese and other nationalities, wearing the fashions popular in the U.S. and the western world: mini-skirts, blue jeans, turtlenecks, bell bottoms, long hair, beards, beads. A Japanese man who looked to be in his twenties wearing a U.S. army jacket handed out flyers and shouted, “U.S. out of Vietnam!”

“I feel like I never left home,” Bob said.

“This is the newest area of Tokyo. It’s the Shinjuku district; Tokyo’s anti-establishment gathering place.”

“Reminds me of Greenwich Village. How far is this place?”

“We’re almost there. I know, it’s hot out. See the neon sign up there that says Teahouse? That’s it. It isn’t a traditional teahouse. But the tea is very good.”

A Japanese woman greeted them with a bow. The sides of her hair were pulled back, and she wore a bun on the top of her head. She seated them near the back of the small tearoom/cafe. “I have to keep door open because it is so hot, but back here is not so much noise from the street,” she said.

Christina now appeared older than she had in the hotel. A certain tilt of the head showed some tiredness near her eyes. Bob guessed she was in her late forties. She wore drop earrings – overlapping rectangular metal pieces each with small jewels.

They told each other about themselves in the moderately unconstrained way people talk when far from home. She was an attorney for IBM in New York, her husband was a psychiatrist, she had two boys thirteen and seventeen, she said. She came here several times a year; IBM was expanding their operations in Tokyo. “I can’t say more about it.” Bob said he understood.

Bob was here on business, he told her; an art buying trip. He owned an art gallery in Detroit. “I was here three years ago with my wife. I bought a lot of art, and we did some sightseeing. Osaka, Kyoto, Nara and some other places. Japan is making its mark in the art world. Fantastic artists.”

“Now that you mention it, I’ve seen more and more Japanese art in New York.”

“I’m telling you.”

“Detroit isn’t the place I think of as having a lot of art galleries,” she said.

“There are a few; mine was one of the first.” She looked ahead as if he hadn’t spoken. Two people outside were shouting, their voices filling the cafe as they walked by. He looked at her in the bright sun-lit room. She reminded him of women he had met on his business trips to New York. They had a way of sizing people up without looking like they were doing so.

“I grew up in New York,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows slightly. “You’re from New York?”

“I’m from Russia. I came over when I was little.”

“How did you end up in Detroit?”

“Long story. I was a wandering immigrant boy. Until I met my wife.”

He sat back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “This trip could make the gallery a major player. If things are right.”

He had given a much more optimistic version of that to his son, Michael, at the airport in Detroit. “This trip is going to make the gallery a major part of the art world,” he had said. “You should be proud of your old man.” He put his arm around Michael’s shoulder. His wife, Helen, looked irritated; Bob sensed it was about his boastfulness.

“I’m glad you came to see your father off. I’m proud of you.”

What he was proud of he didn’t make clear but thought it would counter his over confidence; not to say that he wasn’t proud of his son. Helen looked slightly less irritated, so maybe that he found the right balance. Michael had come in from Ann Arbor to see him off; he had graduated college in May and now was making plans that were vague in Bob’s view. Michael talked about leaving home, for somewhere, he wasn’t sure – probably San Francisco, he had said.

It was the end of summer, 1971. The war in Vietnam seemed like it would never end and World War Two was a not-so-distant memory for Bob and others of his generation. The airport was crowded with servicemen in uniform. Bob stood with Michael and Helen among the young servicemen, many with impassive faces as they said goodbye to crying parents or girlfriends. Bob could see the fear in the eyes of some, just as he could when he was a soldier. When the time came to board the plane, Michael kissed Bob on the cheek.

On the flight, Bob looked at a typewritten list of people and galleries he planned to see in Japan. In the cab from the airport into San Francisco he once again wrote in the notebook: “I was surprised when Michael kissed me. He rarely shows emotions. His kiss communicated confusion and unhappiness. I felt the kiss all the way to San Francisco.”

He met with an art dealer he had known for many years the next day at a restaurant on the top floor of a hotel. Their conversation was almost always the same. They had both been in the war; both had sons. Neither of their sons were going into the art business, both had vague goals, both seemed confused, and both were draftable.

Conversation turned to business. “So, tell me how I’m an idiot if I don’t buy some of this Japanese art you’re going to come back with,” the dealer said.

 “I’m telling you; Japanese art is an open market right now. It’s taking off. I bought some watercolors by Yoko last time; he has superb technique. I want an exhibition of his works. You might think about that. Lots of artists. Their prices are only going to go higher until neither of us can afford it. Think about it.”

“We’re in a recession, Bob.”

“It won’t last forever.”

The dealer looked dubious.

Christina looked in her purse and took out a pocket mirror; she smoothed a line of make-up under her eyes.

“This will probably be my last trip to Japan,” Bob said.

“Why do you say that?”   

“The prices are probably going to be high. Eventually they’ll price themselves out of the market. The only people who will be able to afford it will be the high-end galleries with their high-end customers.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not a part of that world.”

“Many things in Japan are very expensive; not just art.”

“Japan is becoming very westernized,” Bob said. “People wearing all the latest western style clothes and fashions. American music on the radio. American companies coming in; IBM is expanding into Japan. What’s next?”

“Why should Japan be different than the rest of the world?”

“Everybody wants to be part of the world, I guess. Even Kentucky Fried Chicken is here. My cab driver told me they just opened one in Tokyo.”

“Yes, it’s not far from the hotel, actually.”

“I’ll skip it, thanks.”

She laughed. “Me too. I’ve never cared for it.”

“Neither did my cab driver. He said the food is terrible.”

The hostess arrived at their table with a pot of tea, cups and rice crackers. “Sorry I take so long. Here you go. Oolong tea! Nice even on hot day.” She poured the tea into the cups. “I apologize for interrupting, very rude, I’m sorry, but I heard what you say about Kentucky Fried Chicken. Yes, food there is terrible. I agree with cab driver. Very bad.”

“No need to apologize,” Bob said. “It’s the worst of American food.”

“Yes, awful. Smells awful and the chicken looks like burnt tempura covered in oil. Ugly ugly! Tastes even worse. I let you talk now. Sorry to interrupt.”

“Not a problem. What’s your name?”

“My name is Keiko. Please, enjoy your tea.” She bowed and left.

The late afternoon sunlight was slowly filling more of the cafe. They drank tea and talked some more, now the only ones there. Christina said she liked to travel, though she didn’t like being away from her family. She liked the feeling of being stripped of her everyday self, becoming anonymous, different, from what people expected her to be. “Is your everyday self that bad?” Bob had asked and she said no, but it was nice to forget who she was.

“Like waking up and not knowing where you are?”

“Well, not quite like that, no. Since you mention it, what you went through at the hotel is called paranormal amnesia. I think. It’s a momentary amnesia A confusion that sometimes happens when you wake up. My husband told me about it once. After it happened to me.”

“Good to know.”

Keiko, now looking visibly tired, sat down at one of the tables near them. “We close soon but finish your tea.”

“We’ll leave soon,” Christina said.

“No hurry.”

Bob looked at his watch, not yet set to Tokyo time. “You must have thought I was crazy when you saw me standing in the hall, asking where we were.”

“Either crazy or you were propositioning me.”

“What made you think otherwise?”

“I could see you were distressed.”

He remembered not knowing where he was and looking at the papers written in Japanese on the desk by the window. The images of his dream came back to him. He told her about it. “I’ve had that dream for years.”

“It really happened?”

“Yes. It really happened. I was on Iwo Jima. Just like I dreamed. Your husband ever tell you about dreams that veterans have?”

“He said that some have them. Not what they are.”

“I hadn’t shot anyone at close range. It’s different than when you shoot from far away. I was walking along on patrol; it was just after they took the picture of the raising of the flag. Big PR stunt.  The battle wasn’t over. The soldier came out of nowhere. I saw everything all at once: his rifle, and his face – he must have been in his early twenties. I remember thinking that he was probably a farmer. Before I knew it, I shot him. When he fell, I ran over; I don’t know why but I looked in his flak jacket. I took out a bunch of papers and a photo of his wife and child. I don’t know why.”

“You were probably in shock.”

“Maybe. I have no idea. I don’t remember what I was thinking. I’ve had the papers for years. I brought them with me.”

“Why would you bring them with you?”

“A customer of mine teaches Japanese history at University of Michigan. I told him the story and that I would be in Tokyo. I said I wanted to get the papers back to the family somehow. He put me in contact with a history professor at University of Tokyo. A Professor Hayashi. He wrote back and said he would try. I’m seeing him tomorrow.”

“That’s quite a story.”

“The story about Iwo Jima or meeting with the professor?”

“Both. I think. Have you told anyone about this?”

“Various people over the years.”

He rested his chin in his hand and looked at his empty teacup. “When I was a soldier, I felt like I was part of the world. It was every immigrant boy’s dream to be a part of the world. In the war no one cared what your background was. Or who you were. We were all anonymous, but we were equal. The same rules applied to all of us: if you caught a bullet, you were dead. All that mattered was surviving. And that’s what you did every day.”

He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “The Navy was good to me. When I got out, they gave me two bronze stars and my citizenship papers.”

Keiko who had been listening came over to their table. “Sorry, I interrupt. Very rude, I know, but I heard the story you tell. I’m glad you will see the professor. Maybe he will find the family or relatives. And yes, I think you are right. The boy soldier was maybe farmer. Many soldiers came from the farmlands. It is good that you do this. Professor has probably seen this before. I know you are kind.”

Bob took her hands in his. “You’re very kind, Keiko.”

 

The street was not as crowded and it seemed slightly cooler outside, although it was still hot and humid. He and Christina walked back to the hotel, each lost in private thoughts that sometimes follow a new encounter.

When the hotel was in sight a block or so ahead, Bob sighed and said “Yeah.”

“Yeah what?”

“I was thinking about my son. He just graduated college.”

“What is he going to do?”

“I don’t really know. He talks about moving to San Francisco. I know he has dreams, but he rarely talks about what he’s thinking. He lives in a different world.”

“You know you’ll never be part of that world.”

“I know that.”

“But he’s probably closer to you than you think.”

Two people ran by them, singing a song in Japanese, disappearing in the crowd ahead. “I don’t want him to see war.”

“I worry about the same things.”

“War would destroy him.”

They walked ahead in silence until they reached the hotel. Bob looked at his watch and calculated what the time was in Detroit. “Still too early for me to call home.”

“Yes, it would be early there. You should probably go to sleep.”

“I’ll probably do that. What are you going to do?”

“I’m thinking of taking a dip in the pool.” She turned to go into the hotel. “Care to join me?”

“I think I’d like to just stay out here for a bit.” He thought she looked disappointed, but maybe it was the light.

“I hope it goes well tomorrow. And with your trip. And our sons.”

“Same here,” he said and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for telling me where I am.”

“That’s what I’m here for. I’m fairly good at it,” she said laughing and disappeared into the hotel.

He ignored any subtle meanings, intended or otherwise, in Christina’s last words. Instead, he continued standing outside the hotel, an anonymous foreigner, watching the mostly young people walking on the street. He felt slightly dizzy but not in an unpleasant or disturbing way. A young Japanese man in a leather jacket with the message “Stop Coca Cola” embroidered on the back, ran past him, heading to some urgent and unknown destination. It made him feel good to see so many young people, all part of the same-different brutal and wondrous world, making their way to somewhere. 

About the author

 

Barry Garelick has fiction published in Heimat, Cafe Lit, Opiate, and Fiction on the Web. He lives in Morro Bay, California with his wife. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)