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  “The honmae?” I repeat.

  “The true face. For tonight, I am not Miyoshi-sensei. I am just Hiro.”

  “Hiro,” I say. “My superhero.” We both laugh.

  “When you drink,” he says, “you become red face.”

  “You should talk,” I say.

  “I should talk about what?”

  “Nothing.” I laugh again. “‘You should talk’ is just an expression. It means that whatever you say about me is also true of you.”

  “Yes,” he says. “We are alike in many ways.”

  “Really?” I say. “You think so? Like what?”

  “We both want to fit,” he says, “but we also want to be yuniku. Unique. We want to be liked. We want things to be smooth. But we don’t like to follow rules.”

  “You don’t like to follow rules?” I can’t help teasing him.

  “I know,” he says, “to you I probably seem like typical Japanese. But to most people here I seem…oppositional. I don’t like to do a thing only because everyone else does this thing. I don’t enjoy hostess bar or package tour of Hawaii. I don’t give fifty dollar melon present, or buy designer label goods. I can take a compliment and I can speak directly. Well, sometimes.” I’m about to tell him that he’s right when he grabs my wrist, right before I refill my glass with beer. “You should not pour your own drink,” he says, and then he grins. “Maybe I am not a typical Japanese, but I am still Japanese, ne?”

  He winks as he fills my glass. I’ve never noticed his dimples before. They’re not pinpricks but slits, vertical lines that could hold dimes. There’s something different about him tonight. He looks so much more relaxed. At ease. It’s the yukata, I think. The men’s robe is identical to the one I’m wearing only patterned with blue fireworks. It suits him, accentuates the width of his shoulders, shows off his narrow hips. The triangle of golden, hairless skin at his chest is faintly shining with sweat. Instead of being styled back in its usual pompadour, his hair is damp and falling in his eyes, making him look younger, roughed up around the edges. He taps a cigarette out of his pack and lights it with his Zippo.

  “Imagine,” I say, pointing at the word engraved on the silver.

  “It was university graduation gift from my father.”

  “Is he a Beatles fan?”

  “No. He only listens to Japanese music. Enka, you know? It’s like country. He used to sing it. He would perform at festivals all over Japan. He had a wonderful voice.”

  “Is he doing any better?” I ask.

  “Not really. He is receiving radiation treatment, but odds of recovery are not good.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “That must be really hard for you.”

  “Thank you.” He pauses, then says, “When did your father die?”

  “A little over a year ago.” I hold my breath, again waiting for him to ask how.

  “You must still feel a great lack,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Sometimes I still forget.” I stop myself from finishing the sentence. Forget that he’s dead? Forget to miss him?

  “I understand,” he says. “Sometimes I forget that my father lost his voice. I ask him a question and then I remember. He does not like mechanical voice box. He feels shame to sound like a robot. He prefers to write on a notepad. Sometimes I write back to him instead of speaking. It feels more natural. Maybe this is why I write letters to you.”

  “That makes sense,” I say, eyeing his cigarette.

  “Probably you wonder why I smoke when my father has cancer.”

  “No,” I say. “I was wondering if you had an extra.”

  “Sorry, but this was my last one.” He crumples up his pack. “I smoke too much. I want to quit, but it’s hard to give up bad manners.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say.

  “Well,” he begins, “I began smoking when I was eighteen—”

  “It’s another expression,” I say, laughing. “It means I know exactly how you feel.”

  “Ah.” He takes a drag, and then holds his half-smoked cigarette out to me. The filter is damp, moist from his lips. Other teachers watch as I inhale, then pass it back to him. He takes another drag and passes it back to me. A waitress moves from tray to tray, pouring shots of whiskey, and I accept this too. I am saying yes to everything tonight. Another waitress wheels in a karaoke machine and dims the lights.

  “Hiro!” someone calls, and before long everyone is chanting his name.

  “Mari-chan,” he says, grinning at me, “Shall we duet?”

  I get up and follow him to the stage, struggling to walk in a straight line. He types in the number for an Elvis song. The video shows a line of Samoan men in grass skirts dancing a hula. “How inappropriate,” he says, and we both laugh. I barely know this song, but Hiro leads with his velvety tenor and is easy to follow. In the first verse we stand stiffly, side by side, shoulders touching, peering at the screen. But as we launch into the chorus we loosen up. The teachers are whistling, fingers in their mouths. On the second verse we pivot and gaze into each other’s eyes.

  Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?

  He improvises a harmony, I manage to hold the tune, and the teachers cheer wildly. We are good and we know it. We are Ike and Tina, Sonny and Cher. We own the room. At the end of the song we turn back to back, shoulders pressed together. As the backs of our heads touch, I realize that we are exactly the same height. Only when the music cuts off, when I suddenly feel a little silly gripping my microphone with dramatically pale knuckles, do I realize that the entire faculty is not just smiling at us but smiling knowingly. On-screen, a rollerblading couple spins around and around, then collapses into each other’s arms.

  “Sekushii!” Noriko calls out, wolf-whistling.

  “I need some air,” I say.

  “You are not so strong for beer,” he says. “I had better drive you home.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “I can walk.”

  “You are my job,” he says.

  “I am not your job,” I say.

  “No,” he says. “You are my friend.”

  I’m still wearing the Royal Hotel yukata as I follow him across the parking lot. Cold air fills the cotton and the sleeves billow like sails. When he starts his car, the same Elvis Presley song pumps at top volume from the speakers. Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight? He must have been practicing, getting ready for tonight. For how long? He cracks the windows and the icy wind whistles through the car. He drives fast, like the boys I used to date, as if driving were a competitive sport, a race to be won. He speeds past the conveyor belt sushi restaurant, the 7–Eleven, the Mister Donuts, turns onto the road leading up to our house, and drives past it, braking in front of the stairs that lead up to the riverbank.

  “Now I see for myself,” he says.

  And there it is, the refrigerator, illuminated by his headlights, standing like the lone surviving relic of the house that once contained it. I get ready to launch into another round of apologies, but before I can start he says, “Mari-chan, do you think we can see this refrigerator from the moon?” He laughs, and I laugh too. “From the moon,” he says. “From the moon!” For some reason, these words get funnier with each repetition. Soon I am begging him to stop so I can catch my breath. At last he does, and in the silence I hear geese bark at each other from either side of the river. I shift in my seat, uncross my legs and feel the night air fill me up. I turn to study his profile: one dimple, half a smile.

  On impulse, I reach out and touch his cheek. My hand follows the curve of his jaw, slides beneath his yukata and settles on his chest. I had forgotten how hard a man’s chest is, how unyielding. I feel his heart down there, barred by his ribs, sprinting forward, matching mine stride for stride. I rub his skin, caress his nipple with my thumb. He turns to face me and I kiss him. His lips are cool. He keeps his tongue to himself and his eyes open. We both do, looking at each other like tourists from different countries, both visiting the same place for the first time. When we blink, our las
hes brush. When we breathe, we breathe into each other. We hold that kiss—pure pressure and breath—for a full minute, maybe more. Then he pulls back, presses a fist to his lips, returns his hands to the steering wheel. “I guess I should go,” I say, and he nods. I fumble for the latch, turning around to look at him once more. He stays there, parked in front of our house with his engine running, long after I’ve climbed upstairs and under the covers, waiting for his headlights to sweep past.

  The next morning, I mistake the knocking at the door for the knocking in my skull. On the alarm clock, the red numerals swim into focus. 6:15. I groan and clutch my head, failing to muffle the rhythmic pounding. “Will you get that?” Carolyn asks, burrowing deeper under the covers. When I stand up, I realize that I am still wearing the Royal Hotel yukata. I tighten the sash and pull a sweater over my head. With every step down the stairs, scenes from the night before flash in my mind. The bath. The karaoke duet. The kiss. I open the door to find Mrs. Ogawa standing next to Haruki. The boy is wearing his blue gym suit and his head is bowed forward at an almost ninety-degree angle. I can see the buzzed hairs at the back of his head, which are already turning gray.

  “Irashite kudasai,” she says. Come with me. Her voice is as shaky as I feel.

  “I’m. Sorry. About. The. Refrigerator.” I speak slowly, emphatically.

  “Shitsureishimashita,” Haruki whispers. “I am…I feel…I have…I can’t…”

  Carolyn appears by my side, looking groggy. Mrs. Ogawa takes her hand and pulls her out of the house. I follow them up the stairs and onto the riverbank, the frosty grass crunching under my feet. The senior citizens are standing in a semicircle around the fridge. “They probably need us to move it so they can do their calisthenics,” Carolyn says. Mrs. Ogawa marches up to the fridge and then calls Haruki’s name. He walks forward, head still hanging as he opens the door. There is a collective gasp from the senior citizens. I stand on tiptoe to look over their heads.

  Carolyn sees, before I do, the cold curl of the cat on the bottom shelf. She runs to the refrigerator, sinks onto her knees on the grass, reaches into the fridge, and then jerks her hand back. Mrs. Ogawa and Haruki also get down on their knees. Mrs. Ogawa says something in Japanese and the two of them lean forward until their foreheads touch the earth. They right themselves and bow again, apologizing in a chant.

  “Shitsureishimashita.”

  “Stop it!” Carolyn sobs. “Why did you do this?”

  “Haruki wa mondaji,” Mrs. Ogawa says. Haruki is a problem child.

  I take off my sweater and make a little woolly bed for Amana, who is stiff and doesn’t change position when I take her out of the fridge. Her chin is tucked between her front paws. Her fur feels silky and cold. She is cold and stiff but she still looks like herself. The boy is still apologizing. But I know that she was already sick. She must have been easy to catch, so easy to trap. Carolyn can’t stop sobbing. She holds the cat’s paws in one hand and strokes them with her other hand and I wrap an arm around her shoulders, holding her close, not caring what the neighbors see or think. We stay like that for a long time, a little tableau of grief. When I finally look up, the river is cobalt blue and everyone—Mrs. Ogawa, Haruki, the other senior citizens—has left us alone for once.

  “Amana died in the Amana,” Carolyn says.

  It’s not funny. Of course it’s not funny. But still we both start laughing. Tears drip from Carolyn’s chin onto the cat’s fur, splotching it.

  “What are we going to do?” she asks me.

  “We have to bury her,” I say.

  Mrs. Ogawa is outside as usual, pruning her bonsai trees. I point to her trowel, ask if I can borrow it, and when Haruki emerges from the house she thrusts the trowel in his hands and he follows me to the riverbank, where he crouches down and begins digging.

  “What the fuck is he doing here?” Carolyn says.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “He followed me.”

  “Leave!” she yells at him. “Go away!” But he ignores her and just keeps digging. The earth is half-frozen. It glitters with ice crystals as he excavates a grave for the cat.

  When the hole is deep enough he finally backs off. Carolyn lowers the cat’s body down into it, and then she hands me the trowel, but I can’t do it either. I can’t drop dirt on Amana’s face. She may be cold and dead but she still looks like herself. She still has her face. So I take off my sweater and place it on top of her and then Carolyn and I take turns filling in the hole, covering her with earth until she’s gone.

  We are still squatting by the little grave when the students file by on the path, a long line of girls wearing their pink gym uniforms trailed by a clump of boys in blue. It’s Long Walking Day. I completely forgot. I’m supposed to be there. I’m not supposed to be here. We duck lower in the reeds, but the students aren’t looking in our direction. They are marching two at a time, their footfalls evenly matched. Leading the procession of future secretaries is Miyoshi-sensei, who walks backward, calling “ganbatte!” or “do your best for me,” tipping a large Evian bottle into the girls’ cupped hands, encouraging the frail, the tired, and the cute.

  PART II

  Mo Ichi Do

  WINTER

  Don’t imitate me;

  it’s as boring

  as the two halves of a melon.

  —BASHO

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  jikoshoukai: (N.) self-introduction

  * * *

  1. My name is:

  a) Miss Marina b) Alice in Shikaland c) Leonardo DiCaprio

  2. I am:

  a) 12 years old b) 52 years old c) 22 years old

  3. I’m from:

  a) London, England b) New York, USA c) Seoul, Korea

  4. I speak:

  a) Korean b) English c) Japanese

  5. I can eat:

  a) pickled plums b) fermented soybeans c) jellyfish

  6. My favorite character is:

  a) Flat Panda b) Afro-ken c) Kitty-chan

  * * *

  At Shika’s elementary school, the children wear miniature versions of the same uniforms worn by the high school students. The boys wear tiny blue jackets, with stiff mandarin collars and big brass buttons, and shorts year-round. The girls wear double-breasted blazers over blue pleated skirts held up by suspenders. They are not allowed to wear tights or leggings, so their knees are as flushed as their cheeks when they enter the classroom on mornings frigid as this one. Nor are they allowed to wear scarves or knitted hats. Both boys and girls must wear a bright yellow cap with a long bill, to stand out against traffic. These hats are allowed to come off only once they pass through their homeroom doors, at which point they become their homeroom teacher’s responsibility.

  “Hurry up,” says Kobayashi-sensei as his second-grade students hang their caps from pegs on the wall. “Today we have a visitor from abroad.” The word he uses, mukou, translates to “overseas,” or “the other side.” Kobayashi-sensei doesn’t seem to know where I’m from. He may not know my name, although I’ve been coming to this elementary school for the past six weeks now. The second grade teacher is a former sumo wrestler, an athlete turned soft, built like an overstuff ed sofa. He wears aloha shirts under a brown leather jacket so tight that it creaks when he moves.

  He waves his arms, conducting the kids in a song to welcome me. It’s “Silent Night” in Japanese. Their voices are high and sweetly off-key. All is calm, all is bright, I translate the lyrics in my head. But all is not calm, not with me. I’ve had a toothache for the past month, a pain that travels from tooth to tooth, coming in and out like a radio station with bad reception. This morning I’m getting a loud and clear signal. When the kids finish singing, I smile and clap and Kobayashi-sensei invites me to sing a song in return. I don’t feel like soloing. Instead I boom out, “Hello!”

  “Hello,” the group echoes faintly.

  “Mo ichi do,” Kobayashi-sensei prompts them. “One more time.”

  “Hello!” they repeat with increased confidence. />
  “How’s it going?” I ask them.

  “Howsitgoing?” they ask me right back.

  I draw a smiley face on the board and point to it as I say, “I’m great!” Then I draw a sad face and say, “I’m not so hot.” I no longer teach students to say, “How are you?” “I’m fine” is the only answer anyone ever gives, and I don’t like questions with only one answer.

  “Hot?” Kobayashi-sensei repeats dubiously. “Samui desu ne?” It’s cold, isn’t it? This is a standard winter greeting here, another question with only one possible answer. “It is cold,” I agree. In Japanese, I explain that “hot” means atsui, a hot temperature, while “not so hot” means not fine. “How’s it going?” I ask the class once more. A little boy raises his hand. He’s wearing a giant, padded ski glove held in place by an elastic band looped around his wrist. It looks like an oven mitt at the end of his scrawny arm. This boy is smaller than the rest of the kids, so pale that I can see the veins marbling the skin at his temples, with wide-set eyes that are gray rather than black and hypnotizing, utterly focused on me.

  “Byouki,” he says.

  “You’re sick,” I translate.

  “You’re sick,” Kobayashi-sensei says. “Mo ichi do.”

  “Youresick,” the child mumbles.

  “Actually,” I turn to the second-grade teacher, “he should say ‘I’m sick.’” Pronouns often get dropped in Japanese. Watashi means “I,” but only foreigners place themselves in front of everything they say. Anata, or “you,” is used so infrequently that it also means darling, beloved, always spoken by a woman to a man.

  “I’m sick!” Kobayashi-sensei prompts the child. “Mo ichi do.”

  But instead of repeating, the boy just closes his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose in a parody of adult weariness. The teacher ruffles his hair, which is so fine that it immediately falls back into place, parting around his ears. “Byouki jya nai,” he chides the boy. You’re not really sick. “Koji lying,” he tells me. “Koji not sick. Koji want to leave class to see his mama.” This is the second time I’ve heard this man speak English. The first time was when he said, “big size,” while looking at my feet. True, my heels stick out a good inch beyond the elementary school slippers—everything here is miniature—but he should talk.