Work Text:
In retrospect, I wonder why I thought summer in Japan would be very different from that of my home country. But in defiance of simple geography, I made Tokyo my retreat during sweltering August for a week. I spent most of my time holed up inside my hotel, savouring the ice-cold air conditioning. When I did venture out, it was only on short excursions; unhappily I had chosen a hotel far away from a train station, and, not enjoying humidity strong enough to drench my clothes, I did not fancy trekking to buy a rail ticket and see other parts of the city. Yet what I saw when I did pluck up the courage to face the weather was so powerful that I much regretted only having a week to spend in Tokyo.
Feeling that my holiday had been something of a waste, I boarded the shuttle bus to the airport with a heavy heart, and resigned myself to constructing the tale I would tell to my family when I got back - they are inquisitive, my mother and father, and view my travels as a single grand adventure of which I am the bold and brave protagonist. To some extent, I can see why they would think that; I enjoy travelling. But it is not to make myself the centrepiece of some story; I travel to gather the raw material with which I create the stories of others. Observation rather than action is my bread and butter. I watch in silence, jot down a few notes, marinate them like chunks of meat in a good teriyaki sauce, then cook them into a story with the powerful flame that is a beaten-up laptop. In my experience, the more notes I have, the better the taste.
So when I think about that bus ride back to the airport, I curse myself for my negligence during the first half. So much I could have seen, so much I must have missed! I was so walled up in my own glum disappointment, staring out of the window at Tokyo’s sprawling mass and dully wondering just how such a huge city had come to be, that it took the screeching of a baby to bring me to my senses.
Well, not a baby - I sell short one of the three central characters of my story. This individual was a girl who looked about two years old, with short black hair and a set of powerful lungs. Placed in an aisle seat near the front of the bus (I was in the middle), she was thrashing about and bawling so impressively that I had to focus on her, and wonder why she was so upset. The presumable mother sat next to her. From my raised angle, I could see her quite well: a lady who looked to be in her mid-thirties, with long hair falling down to her shoulders. And she was having a hard time of it. I could not hear what she was saying, but she plied her child with hugs and kisses, to no avail. The little girl howled and screamed, and I felt tempted to block my ears. Only politeness stopped me.
Luckily I did not have to endure for much longer. Across the aisle suddenly drifted a white paper crane. The bearer emerged into my view: a younger woman, mid-twenties or so, short brown hair, big smile. The crane danced up and down like it might have done in real life. The fascinated girl reached for this with her pudgy hands. The crane exchanged owners; a folded frog followed, wide and sturdy, then a delicate, nimble fox, the forerunners as it seemed of a miniaturised zoo. However, even as I watched in amazement, it turned out that Noah’s Ark was not needed to solve the situation. Having received her three new companions, the little girl miraculously quieted down, and disappeared behind the back of her seat.
At this point my wonder was total. It is so rare to meet those souls who will go out of their way to help children in need; easy enough to donate money over a screen, or to pledge to volunteer at a charity, but on-the-spot action requires a different sort of kindness. Thus I was not further surprised when I heard the two women begin to speak in my own language, instead of Japanese as I had originally thought they would, and I could concentrate on their bizarrely clear conversation.
“Thank you so much,” the older lady was saying. “My daughter is not normally like this…”
The younger lady giggled. “Sometimes things happen like that. Glad I could help.”
“You folded those very well.”
“Oh, I’m an art teacher. Part of the job, you could say.”
“An art teacher? I see, I see… I envy you very much.”
“Don’t say that. Why would you? You have a beautiful little girl.”
“That is true, but there are so many other things I do not have,” the older lady said with a sigh. “I have never been good with my hands.”
“Well, in my view, raising a child is more than enough proof,” said the younger firmly. “I could never.”
“You are not married?”
“Gosh, no! I already deal with children every day at my job - I work at a primary school, you see. I think that’s more than enough for me, at least right now.”
“It’s a shame,” said the older lady pensively, quietly. “A good-looking lady like yourself would surely be wanted by many men.”
“Sorry?”
“Nothing, apologies - I speak to myself sometimes. I was merely thinking that I understand your viewpoint.”
“Thanks for that. It means a lot.”
There was a brief moment of silence.
“Look at that,” said the older lady suddenly. “She has fallen asleep.”
“So she has,” said the younger. “Screaming like that does tire you out. What a cute sleeping face she’s got! I think she takes after you.”
“That is a surprise. More often I hear that she looks like her father.”
“Well, then you’re even luckier! You have a cute daughter and a good-looking husband?”
“I had a husband, yes.”
“Oh. Oh god. I’m-”
“No need to apologise. But yes. It has been two years. He was a handsome man, and a good one.”
“Then… was your daughter born before he passed away?”
“Thankfully, yes. I suppose it was God’s last gift to him.”
“I’m… very sorry. Sorry. I know you said not to apologise.”
Silence descended again.
“You’ve been so honest and kind,” said the younger lady at last, “that I feel I should tell you this, but I’m currently flying off to see my parents.”
“What for?” The older remained calm, with a serenity I thought most admirable.
“They’ve been trying to get me to marry for the past three years, on and off,” said the younger. “I think this time they’ve got a candidate in person.”
“That must be a very great load for you.”
“It really is. I’ve been telling them time and time again that I’m not ready - that I want a career. And also, well… I can’t exactly tell them this, but they want me to marry a man, and I… I just don’t swing that way, if you get what I mean.”
“Oh? I see, I see… I understand your position. Have you told them? I assume not.”
“You’re right, I haven’t. And honestly, I don’t want to, at least not yet. They are conservative folks. They love me, and I love them, but their dream for me is to see me retired, married to some successful guy and raising his children. And I’m like, really? That’s not for me. Still, though, I don’t want to disappoint them. What should I do?”
“If you ask me, it sounds like your parents do that because they are worried for you. The world, even in this modern age, is not a friendly one for women. I suppose that they fear that you won’t be able to protect yourself and get a living by yourself, and marriage for them is the natural solution.”
“If you put it like that, then yeah, makes sense. Wait… so, thinking like that, maybe if I make more money, or have a more stable job or something, I’ll be able to put off marriage?”
“Perhaps? I do not know if my logic holds, but if it were the case, then your method might work.”
“Well, then… damn. Maybe I should get job-hunting after this is all over.”
The rumbling of the bus took over once more.
“I have an offer,” said the older lady suddenly. “You remember how earlier, I said I was not good with my hands.”
“I do. Why?”
“I have always wished to improve my art skills. My late husband - he was a painter, and he taught me a little, but we did not have enough time together. Tell me, do your skills lie in that area?”
“I draw and paint, but ma’am, I don’t-"
“Relax, my dear. It is not anything major. It is just - if you ever require a fallback, then I would be a willing student.”
“Oh my gosh. There’s really no need for that, ma’am.”
“Now there, don’t ma’am me! It makes me feel old. You have been very kind to my daughter to me, and honest to me, so I insist upon this. Here are my contact details.”
“You’re so generous… are you sure?”
“One hundred per cent. There are moments in your life when you are completely certain that what you are doing is the right thing. When I decided to marry my husband, that was one such moment. This is another. Again, I insist.”
“If you put it that way - then here are mine.”
A rapid exchange - an ink-scribbled crane went across the aisle and came back a few moments later further covered in writing, the bearer of good fortune.
“I don’t think I actually caught your name, though?”
“Neither did I yours, curiously.”
“Weird that things turn out like that.”
“Indeed. My name is-"
But I never heard what the older lady said her name was, because at that very moment, the bus came to a juddering halt, and I jerked forward, blinking my eyes open, and realising that we had arrived at the airport. The older lady forward was lifting her daughter, who was beaming like the sun, out of her seat, chatting away vigorously with the driver in Japanese. Of the younger lady, there was no sign. The only trace of her presence was a pristine white paper crane where she had been sitting, quickly swept off onto the floor and trampled by her uncaring neighbour.
Something moved me to pick up its remains as I debarked and tuck it into my pocket. If only it had carried the phone numbers back and forth; if only what I had heard had been real. I wanted to hear more about the dead husband, the well-meaning mother and father, the art classes - two entire lives I had constructed out of nothing but first impressions and cooled sleep.
However - the thought occurred to me suddenly, brightly, like the rising sun - what was to say that the conversation hadn’t taken place? Just without my unneeded listening, in their own tongue, free to proceed without nosy oversight? Happiness, after all, is a personal thing, and does not always have to have its praises sung or written in imitation.
I smiled as I stepped into the bright summer light. I hoped so - it would make a great story.
Perhaps I had something to tell my parents after all.