Before Victor arrives,
we are bored. Three years have passed since the Great Hanshin Earthquake;
a year and a half since royalty’s last visit. And there hasn’t been
a political scandal of eyebrow-raising proportion in quite a while.
The last town councilman to get into trouble was a sixty-five-year-old
bookseller — a man with a blue-haired wife, children educated in Tokyo,
and five grandchildren. This man had been having an affair with a seventeen-year-old
girl. The girl, whose name was never disclosed because of her age, had
another lover at the same time — a company president in the neighboring
city. When our local councilman found out about the other guy, he went
crazy. He threatened to kill his rival. He stalked him for weeks and
made menacing phone calls. And that’s what he was arrested for — the
threats. I thought at the time that he’d never recover his status in
the community. Our town is small; there is nowhere to hide. The man’s
bookstore was shut down. He resigned from public office. And though
he was seen walking his feather-tailed dog, he lay low for a year. His
constituents forgave him (he’d helped them repair their roofs after
the last big typhoon) and the incident with the girl was forgotten.
The man was later re-elected. Nothing much has happened recently.
Five years ago, I was the big event in this island town at the edge
of the Inland Sea. When I stepped off the ferry with my new husband,
Toshiki, tongue-wagging reached an all-time high. Most of the children
had never seen a flesh-and-blood foreigner before, though they were
familiar with Mariah Carey and Michael Jordan. And the adults, well,
some of them had encountered soldiers during the war, but I was the
first American to move into the neighborhood with long-term plans.
In those days, little old ladies took an anthropological interest in
the contents of my grocery basket. "Sakana," they’d mumble, peering
at the slabs of pink tuna under plastic wrap. "Are you going to eat
that raw?" Or, "Steak," they’d say, spotting a hunk of beef. "Yappari.
Just as I’d expected." I caught children swiping T-shirts from my clothesline
and picking through my trash. People spoke to me in baby words though
I’d spent six years studying Japanese and worked as a translator.
I did my best to blend in. When the neighbors gathered to pull weeds
and pick up garbage at six o’clock on the first Saturday morning of
the month, I was there with them. I enrolled in ikebana classes
and tai chi. Gradually, the townspeople got used to me. They
no longer check to see what brand of toilet paper I buy.
In early June, as I am leaving the ikebana class at the town hall, I’m
halted by a bright sign on the bulletin board. "Hula Lessons!" it says
in fat red letters inked on yellow construction paper. "Authentic Hawaiian
Teacher!" Beneath, in proper black calligraphy, more detailed information
appears in Japanese. Hula—this is something new. Of course I sign up.
The first
class is on a Tuesday night in one of the tatami rooms at the
town hall. The other twelve ladies—mostly housewives in their fifties
and one younger woman named Akiko—and I leave our shoes at the door
and slide our stockinged feet onto the sweet-smelling reed mats. There
is no one else here, no teacher, no note, no indication that anything
will happen at all.
We are sitting there moaning about the endless rain and the coming heat
of summer. We are talking about the weather and wondering what we will
cook for supper. And then a figure appears in the doorway—a young Polynesian
with black hair rippling over his shoulders. He is wearing a shirt printed
with huge, red flowers. Our Hawaiian has arrived.
"Good evening lovely ladies." He steps onto
the tatami. He is wearing sandals.
The ladies are too polite to correct him, but I can’t help myself. "Uh,
excuse me," I say.
His eyes hone in on me. He smiles, and his teeth are dazzling against
tanned skin. "A fellow American," he says. "Fabulous."
The ladies start clucking. I can hear them trying to translate our brief
exchange. "They already know each other?" one woman asks another. "They
were friends in the U.S.A.?"
I will explain to the ladies later. Now, I address the young man. "You
can’t wear shoes on the mats," I say. "You’d better take them off and
leave them at the door."
He kicks off his sandals and struts to the center of the room. "I am
Victor," he says, pointing to his chest. Then he bends at the waist,
and we bow, too.
"I thought all Hawaiian men were big," one
woman tells me at the end of that first class. "Big like Akebono." In
Japan, everyone knows about the refrigerator-sized sumo wrestlers bred
in the islands. Compared to them, Victor is delicate. Petite. His shoulders
are no wider than mine. His jeans would cut off my circulation.
Victor is too small for me. I never dated men who weighed less than
I did. I married a man who could carry me over the threshold, who could
haul sandbags in a storm. But I agree with the others that Victor is
beautiful.
The next time
I see him, he is frozen in front of the vegetables at the local supermarket.
He stands there, hands on hips, head cocked, as if awed by all those
green leaves.
"Victor," I say.
He turns at the sound of my voice. "Beth! Oh, thank the Buddha!" he
says, thumping his heart. "You can save me!"
"From what?" I ask uneasily. The carrots, the freshly spritzed spinach,
the shrink-wrapped shiitake — it all looks so harmless.
"It’s Jiro’s — my lover’s — birthday, and I promised to him make dinner,"
Victor says, "but I have no idea what to do with these things." He picks
up a package of bamboo shoots, then puts it back. He dangles a long,
slender root.
Victor is gay? I freeze my facial muscles so as not to show my surprise.
"That’s burdock," I say. "You can stir fry it or shred it for a salad."
He seems just as perplexed as before. I get the idea that he doesn’t
know how to cook.
"Why don’t you take him out to dinner?" I say. Then I name a couple
of good restaurants.
"That’s just it." Victor frowns. "He isn’t ready to be seen in public
with me. He’s worried about what people will think."
I’m worried too, though I don’t say as much. Around here, while men
in make-up and "new-half" transsexuals are often seen on TV, they don’t
exist in real life. Maybe Victor should keep his relationship a secret.
I sense that Victor is lonely and about to tell me his life story. Although
no one can understand us, it seems a bit risky to discuss his lover
in the midst of shopping housewives. We should be having this conversation
in the corner booth of a coffee shop. I’m about to suggest that we go
someplace private when one of the ladies from the hula class comes from
around the corner. "Biku-tah!" she shrieks. Victor nods in
return.
The woman assesses the situation — a single man without a woman to take
care of him — and leads him to the prepared food. There, he loads his
basket with pumpkin salad, grilled fish, and pickled seaweed. Then,
she ushers him into line at the cashier.
I realize that he will not be able to disentangle himself, so I slip
away. "See you on Tuesday," I call out. Both Victor and the woman wave.
When we arrive at
seven-thirty, ten minutes before our teacher, the older women urge Akiko
toward the front.
"He doesn’t want to look at us old ladies,"
the older women say. "Let him enjoy you, like a flower."
Akiko blushes. She demurs. She heads for the back.
"No, no, no," the ladies say. They push her
the other way.
At twenty-five, Akiko is the youngest woman in our hula class. Her face
is scrubbed clean, and her hair sprouts from her head in wiry pigtails,
like Pippi Longstocking. She wears dresses that crawl up her neck and
cover her knees. I’m willing to bet money that she is a virgin. The
rest of us are long-married, and the only romance we’re bound to find
is on TV or in novels. If we’re lucky, we might get a vicarious thrill
via Akiko.
Victor is always late. We practice while we are waiting. Each of us,
in our own bubble, dreams of ukelele music, palm trees in the wind.
We make fog with our arms. We plant flowers with our hands. We move
our hips from side to side and toss nets into the sea.
"Good evening, lovely ladies." Victor comes
into the room. He doesn’t speak Japanese, but this doesn’t seem to matter.
This is dance, after all. Words are not so important. In a bind, Victor
will ask me to translate. When he does, I see the ladies’ eyes darken.
They do not want to listen to me. They’d rather look at Victor—Victor’s
burnished skin and Kona-coffee eyes.
"Sorry I’m late," he says. He has brought a
tape player and his ukelele. He has taken off his shoes and rolled up
his white trousers. We can see the tip of a tattoo on his calf. We wonder
what it is.
First, Victor tells us to warm up. He puts on a tape — a slow song,
something that I used to make out to in college. He rolls his head around
in a circle, slowly, and we watch the ripple of his hair.
It’s summer. The room is hot. Victor untucks his shirt. Unbuttons it.
Ties it around his waist. We can see his washboard stomach. He wears
a shark’s tooth necklace under his shirt.
"Let’s do Koke’e," Victor says. This
is the song we’ve been dancing to for three weeks now. It’s a song about
a beautiful place. As we dance, we try to imagine volcanoes, hibiscus,
the cerulean sea.
Victor dances with us, then tells us to dance by ourselves. He plays
the ukelele. He watches us.
"Akiko, you move your hips very well," he says.
He looks straight at her. Her gaze falls to the floor.
I know that she is smiling. She is hoping, maybe. The other women smile,
too. Their little ploy is working, they think. They do not know that
Victor is gay. They are probably starting to believe that he will
stay in this town and teach us hula forever.
At the end of the class, Victor approaches me. "Wanna go for a beer?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Akiko’s head droop. The ladies
exchange glances with each other. They frown behind my back.
"Umm, okay," I say. "I’ll meet you out front."
Everyone knows that I am married. My husband is Japanese. He is a good
man, people say. He is very handsome. There is no reason for the wife
of such a man to be dissatisfied. People worry, though, that one day
I will tire of international marriage, that I will leave my husband
for one of my own kind. It’s not good for me to be seen with Victor,
but he is the only other American in this town.
I think that Victor needs me more than I need him. I can speak Japanese.
He only knows a few words. I have a husband, a job, and a house. No
one knows, exactly, what Victor does. Or what he has. I think he is
being kept.
I wait for him outside. The other women brush
past me. They don’t say "good-night." When I see Akiko, I suddenly feel
guilty.
"He just wants to speak English for a little
while," I say. "He isn’t interested in me."
I have said too much, I know. Akiko blushes. It’s dark, but I know that
she is blushing.
When Victor appears at last, his shirt buttoned against mosquitoes,
he drapes a hand over my shoulders. I check to make sure no one is looking.
There is a kid squatting in the telephone booth on the corner. He’s
got the receiver to his ear. There is a man walking his dog.
"Come on, let’s go," I say. I start walking
fast. I feel as if I’m about to do something illegal.
We duck into a little mom-and-pop bar across the street. We order beer.
The proprietor brings us one big bottle and two small glasses. I pour
for Victor, then he fills my glass.
"Is something wrong?" I ask.
"My lover," he sighs. "He says it’s time to
get married."
I consider this. Gulp down three swallows of beer. "In Japan? Are same-sex
marriages legal here?"
Victor shakes his head. "No, I mean to a woman. Jiro’s parents are pressuring
him. They’ve already got a girl lined up. They want him to carry on
the family line, and he thinks it’s the right thing to do."
"Is he the oldest son?" I ask.
"The only son."
"Ah." I’m wondering if Victor knows about Jiro’s
role in the family. He is probably expected to settle in this town,
in his parents’ hard-won house, and to tend their graves when they are
gone. He is the heir, after all. There are young people around here
who have sacrificed true loves and grand dreams to satisfy their parents.
My own husband Toshiki had a crack at a career in professional baseball,
but he gave it up to take over his father’s business.
I don’t know too much about Victor’s lover. What I do know is this:
He is Japanese. They met in Hawaii. Victor has followed him back to
Japan, to this little island town surrounded by onion fields.
"Then what would happen to you?" I ask. I don’t
know if this is the proper question. I’m not good at counseling.
"I’d be like his concubine. I’d be uncle to
his children." Victor’s voice is saturated with sarcasm. He drains his
glass, and refills it himself.
I glance at the proprietor. I don’t want him to think that I have bad
manners, that I am not keeping Victor’s glass filled. Self service —
this is the way we do it in America, I’d like to say, but no one is
really paying attention.
I think of Akiko. "What if you got married, too?"
Victor looks at me as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. "Hello?"
he says. "I’m gay."
I shrug. "That’s what they do here. It worked for Yukio Mishima."
For a couple years, Victor tells me, he lived in San Francisco. He liked
to watch the fog lift from the bay each morning, liked the roller coaster
streets and the gorgeous, available men, but he started missing the
islands, and so he went back to Maui. His parents were happy to see
him. Later, they invited him to bring his new lover home for dinner.
"I’m not ashamed of my identity," Victor tells
me. "I know what I’m about. But Jiro is still in the closet. He’s afraid
he’d be stoned to death or something."
I can tell by the way he drinks, by the furrows on his forehead, that
Victor is in pain. The agony of love is hard to conceal. I listen to
his story and pour him another drink because I want to help him, but
I am secretly thrilled. This is better than a soap opera.
On the following Tuesday, when I enter the classroom, the women turn
their backs to me. I greet them loudly, but they merely grunt in return.
Akiko has not yet arrived. I wonder if she is crying at home, mooning
over Victor. Sticking pins into a voodoo doll of me.
It doesn’t help when Victor arrives, aloha shirt billowing around his
torso. Everyone sees him wink at me. Then he nods to the ladies and
smiles, showing his perfect teeth
I cower at the back of the room. The ladies communicate with eyes and
eyebrows. They bump into me and don’t apologize.
And then the door slides open, and Akiko steps out of her shoes. We
can see her legs for the first time, and they are not half bad. She
is wearing a skirt that pulls tight across her buttocks. I’m afraid
that it will rip if she bends over. On top, she is wearing a knit shirt,
and I see that she has breasts. The neckline scoops and reveals a chest
shiny with perspiration. I can smell her perfume from the back of the
room. She cuts her eyes at me and takes her place front and center.
Victor teaches us how to make fish with our hands. With fingers pressed
together, we layer right hand on left. Then we make our hands undulate
with the waves. Victor plays his ukelele and sings about beautiful places.
We make the rain fall with our fingers. We move our hips in half-circles.
At the end of the class, when the ladies are gathering up their purses
and the song sheets, the cassette players they use to trap Victor’s
voice, he takes a few steps toward me.
Tonight, I think, I should turn him down. I live in this town, after
all. I cannot afford the rumors. This cold war is freezing my heart.
I decide to say "no," but before Victor can make his way to me, Akiko
steps in his path.
"Sensei," she says, using that honorific
word for teacher. "Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me? I
treat you."
She says this loud enough for everyone to hear, though I am the only
one besides Victor likely to understand. Suddenly, I think I know why
she was late. Not only was she busy putting on make-up and pasting tight
clothing to her curves, but also she was memorizing this phrase. Didn’t
I tell her that English was the key?
I expect Victor to turn her down gently with talk of a headache or fatigue.
Instead, to my great surprise, I see Victor nod. He follows Akiko out
the door without saying good-bye to me.
I want to run after them. "Oh, foolish girl," I will say, "he is toying
with you. This Victor is going to break your heart."
I want to rescue her, but I know how it would all look to the other
ladies. They would think I was trying to guard him for myself, so I
sigh and gather my things as well. On the way out, I say "sayonara."
The ladies answer back, a little warmer than before.
The next week, I wait outside for Victor. I stand there ten minutes
in the sticky evening air. First I hear his whistle, then I see him
coming down the sidewalk, hair flowing in the breeze, arms laden with
supplies. I jump out in front of him.
"I wanna talk to you," I say.
"Beth." His step is springy. His smile is wide.
"I’ve got great news."
"It’s about Akiko," I say, not willing to be
interrupted.
"Oh, Akiko. She’s a great kid. I’m teaching
her English."
"Are you sure?" I ask. "Does she know that?"
Victor ignores me. He is walking so fast that I can barely keep up.
"I have to tell you something," he says. "Jiro and I are going to buy
a houseboat together and live in Amsterdam. He’s decided that he truly
loves me."
I have never met him, but I believe that Jiro has simply been dreaming
out loud. I fear for Victor’s heart. I don’t say this out loud.
And then we are at the door of the classroom and the women are watching,
so the conversation ends, and I ease myself away.
On this night, Akiko is wearing a red leather mini-skirt and a see-through
blouse. A black bra is visible underneath. There is a desperation in
her dress.
Akiko has taken the hula to new heights, I think, watching her from
the back row. Or maybe new lows. She is gyrating with eyes closed. If
she were wearing a grass skirt, it would be wilting from the heat. It
would be crackling, no doubt, blazing around her hips.
At the end of the class, Akiko and Victor leave together. They leave
as if they’d made arrangements in advance. This goes on for weeks, and
my curiosity grows like a tumor.
One evening, I can’t stand it anymore. I dawdle in the classroom, practicing
the kaholo (side to side step with hip movement). I wait until
all the ladies have gone home by scooters and bicycles and husbands’
cars. When the coast is clear, I creep outside, cross the street, and
sneak into the mom-and-pop bar.
The proprietor nods and directs me to the back. He’s seen me with Victor,
the other American, and figures we are a set.
I approach slowly, and, at first, I can’t tell which one is Victor.
Akiko, I know well enough. I have stared at her recently-bared legs
and wiggly bottom from the back row for many weeks now. I’d know that
black bra anywhere. But the other two, on either side of her, look like
twins from behind. Their hair is the same shoulder-sweeping length,
the same light-swallowing black. They both wear aloha shirts — ginger
blossoms backed by pink. And then one turns, and notices me, and I see
that he is Japanese. Jiro, I think. Who else could it be?
I doubt Akiko would welcome me, and Victor would know that I am spying.
I backtrack without being spotted by the others and burst into the night.
Six weeks later, I’m sitting on the sofa next to Toshiki. We're watching
TV and drinking beer when the doorbell rings.
I rush to the door and fling it open. Lo and behold, it’s Victor. We
haven’t spoken in over a month.
"If you’re selling macadamia nuts, we don’t
want any."
Victor pushes past me and into the house. He forgets to take off his
shoes. He is a whirling dervish, a muttering madman. I grab his shoulder
and shove him into a chair.
"Okay," I say. "Tell me what’s wrong."
"It’s Jiro," he says. "He’s changed his mind
about the houseboat."
Victor talks for hours, and I just nod and hum. It’s obvious that Jiro
cannot make up his mind. Gay or straight, Japan or Hawaii, sushi or
spaghetti, the news or the prison drama on Channel 3 — Jiro can never
choose.
"Maybe you should give him an ultimatum," I
say. "Make him decide one way or the other so you can get on with your
life."
My advice is so simple, but Victor nods through his tears. "That’s it,
Beth. You’re absolutely right."
A few days later, we are once again gathered for hula. I’m at the back,
as always, and Akiko is at the front. We have more or less mastered
the kaholo, the ka’o, the hela and the ami. We
know all the moves to Koke’e.
"Fabulous," Victor says, when we become still.
"You ladies are ready for a luau." Although Victor has been in
Japan for three months now, he continues to address us solely in English.
This class seems like any other. We sway to Victor’s ukelele and the
screech of cicadas, then stretch and gather our things. Victor leaves
ahead of the rest of us, Akiko trailing behind. I wait until the room
has emptied and turn off the lights. I push through the door and into
the hot breath of the evening.
The women are still there, gathered on the sidewalk. Akiko stands away
from the rest. They are staring at the phone booth. I look too. At first
all I can see is black hair and flowers — the hibiscuses on Victor’s
shirt — smooshed against the glass. He’s making a phone call, I think.
So what? But then I notice fingertips poking through the hair, and Victor
tries to shake them free. But wait. It’s not Victor. The head turns,
and I catch a glimpse of Jiro’s face, and it’s smeared with tears. Then
I see that there are two heads of black hair, two pairs of legs jostling
for space. There are four hands — the two in Jiro’s hair and the two
batting at Victor. Jiro squirms, but Victor is stronger. He’s in control
here. He pulls his fingers out of Jiro’s hair and with one wipes a tear
from Jiro’s face. Licks it. And then his mouth is moving forward, forward,
crashing into Jiro’s mouth. And they are kissing. Or rather Victor is
kissing. Jiro is trying to get away.
It occurs to me that this is Victor’s last ditch effort, and I feel
a little sick to my stomach. This is worse than his hand on my shoulder
or his shoes in my house. Victor has gone too far this time.
I can hear Akiko crying softly and the hiss of women’s whispers. I hear
a siren in the distance and imagine that someone is coming to arrest
Victor. Arrest him for revealing Jiro’s secret. This is not a thing
for watching, but I know that Victor wants us to see. Although I want
to turn away, my attention is pulled taut, and my shoes are stuck to
the sidewalk.
Then there is a shifting of bodies in that glass box — an upper-cut
punch, I think — and a squeak of the door. Victor’s lover escapes. He
dashes away from Victor’s mouth and fingertips and disappears around
a corner. I worry that he is headed for a bridge or a tall building.
Or the sea. But in the morning, the news is not grim. The sun rises,
as ever before.
Without being told, I know that Victor is gone.
Of course,
there are no more hula lessons. We are no longer a group. We float apart
and go back to our separate lives, sometimes sharing moments in the
vegetable section of the grocery store, or at the post office waiting
to buy stamps. I learn that Akiko is pregnant. She has married someone
named Jiro. And a bigger ferry terminal will be built next spring.
At first I think that Victor has vanished without a trace and that everything
is once again as before. But then one day I find a post card in my mailbox
— no message, just a photo of Hanauma Bay. And then I go for a ride
on my bicycle, and I hear the twang of ukelele strings coming from a
field. I look across the onion plants and see a small cassette player
and a woman in a bonnet, swaying her hips, and carving mountains in
the air.
