Into the Country of Standing Men (Chapter 1)
Into the Country of Standing Men by Rey Ventura
Chapter 1: The House of Mr. Mori
When I first arrived in Japan, the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. “What a blessed land,” I said to myself. “What a beautiful countryside.” It was my first hanami—cherry blossomviewing day. Brown skin lost under the cherry blossoms, I wrote in my journal.
It was 1987, a full year after the fall of the Ilocano strongman Ferdinand Marcos. It was my first trip abroad, my first time to be away from home. I came to participate in a training course at a rural institute in Tochigi Prefecture.
At the time, Japan, utterly, was a new world, a novel experience. After a nine-month training stint on “Third World Leadership,” I returned home. But I flew back to Manila with a heavy heart—I had fallen in love with Japan!
In 2001, fourteen years later, when I had yet to become a Third World leader, I was again in Japan. This time, it was neither to study nor to visit. Though I had made a few trips since that first time, now I had come to live in Japan. Mayumi and our little daughter Libnos had gone there ahead, and were now waiting for my arrival.
I arrived with a Samsonite—a hand-me-down suitcase from my elder brother. In it, I had packed my hand-me-down shirts, pants, a Filipino Barbie, children’s books, dictionaries, manuscripts, photographs, bootleg DVDs and CDs, and packs of dried mangoes.
At the bus terminal in Yokohama, Mayumi, Libnos, and Mr. Mori, Mayumi’s father, came for the welcome. Mr. Mori drove us to his house, an hour-and-a half drive in his Honda.
Mrs. Mori had ordered some sushi and rice rolled in dried seaweed. We had supper and some beer. Mr. Mori had shõchû (rice spirits). While we were drinking, Mr. Mori asked Mayumi, “What’s Rey going to do now?”
I have been doing journalism work for a number of years. Mayumi continues to work at a trading company in Tokyo. She is a sarariman (salaryman, an office employee).
“I think the same,” Mayumi said. “Journalism.”
“Is that so,” Mr. Mori said matter-of-factly and continued to watch the baseball game on television while downing his third glass of rice spirits diluted with grapefruit juice. We went on quietly with our food and drinks. After the meal, as a gesture of gratitude for my hosts’ hospitality, I volunteered to wash the dishes.
I woke up shouting; I had a nightmare. Mayumi had to shake me awake. She asked what the matter was. I did not tell her. I did not tell her that in my dream I saw my ex-girlfriend walking down the aisle. She was getting married to a banker. Rose petals and sampaguita rained and drifted in the wind like departing cherry blossoms.
“Congratulations.” In my dream I shook my collegegirlfriend’s hands tightly.
Teary-eyed, I rose from the borrowed futon. I started to empty the security tag-peppered Samsonite of its contents. That done, I left it neatly by the door outside our temporary room.
Minutes later, there was a knock on the door.
It was Mrs. Mori. I greeted her politely. Pointing at the empty suitcase, politely, she said. “Kore o sutete mo ii desu ka? (Can I throw this in the garbage now?)”
I could not reply at once; I groped for words. I stammered. She left without waiting to hear my response.
At the time, I could not completely comprehend the essence of her words. Was she being kind by helping me get rid of my “garbage”? Was she trying to set the rules on the first day of our transience? Was I just too ignorant of her household’s sense of order, propriety, and beauty? Was my Samsonite simply too dirty and too old by her standards?
Before our marriage, I gave Mayumi an engagement ring. It was a simple gold ring of a few karats. With the little money I had earned as a day laborer in Kotobuki, I bought this humble piece of metal as a memory, as symbol of our engagement. It did not cost much because it was simply what a young country boy could afford at the time. I gave it to Mayumi when she came to visit Manila. She said thank you, and I was happy that she appreciated the small gesture. It was the first ring I had ever given in my entire life.
When Mayumi showed the ring to Mrs. Mori, her mother remarked:“Amari yokunai desu (It is not so good).”
Mrs. Mori may have been commenting on several aspects of the jewelry: First, she could have been appraising its technical merit. The ring had no decorative or fine lines or anything that would evoke elegance or anything especially precious.
Obviously, it was not a work of art. Second, in Mrs. Mori’s eyes, the ring may not have been gold enough; it did not have enough karats in it. Worse, it could have been a fake! It could have been a piece of bronze! The Chinese jeweler who sold it may have tricked the innocent young man in love into buying this run-of-the-mill forgery! Third, the gift did not look expensive enough. It cost only about 20,000 yen—a mere two-lapad worth of engagement ring! A pittance by Yokohama standards, but to a former tachinbõ (a day laborer), this amount could be the equivalent of a month’s wage in Manila.
When Mayumi’s younger sister was engaged several years after our marriage, her Japanese fiancé had given her a diamond ring. It was a tiny sparkling stone worth only 300,000 yen. Mrs. Mori was astronomically pleased. She lavished her daughter’s groom-to-be with praises of his generosity. Her younger daughter was worthy of a diamond! And 300,000 yen could be the monthly salary of a Tokyo sarariman.
I wanted to view the situation more comfortably. I wanted to say, jokingly, “It’s the thought that counts.” This is something I often say when making an excuse for not giving enough presents on Christmas and New Year’s Day to members of the family and godchildren.
Two distinct objects: a ring and a Samsonite. The first is symbolic; the second is utilitarian. In the eyes of Mrs. Mori, however, the value of these objects lies in their appearance and perceived price tags.
That day I went to our office in Tokyo to edit my video report. I deliberately stayed late. It was already past midnight when I got back to Mr. Mori’s house. I sneaked in like a thief into his newly renovated house; I did not make the slightest sound. I had requested Mayumi to keep the door unlocked. It’s good, I thought, in Japan they do not keep guard dogs as we do in Manila.
Our room was upstairs. Hungry and exhausted, I requested Mayumi to get some food downstairs. We had been sharing in the household expenses; I believed I had the right to partake of a meal. I ate in the room to avoid waking Mrs. Mori whose room was near the kitchen. Mr. Mori’s nightly shot of shõchû always kept him in deep sleep upstairs, from across our room.
Early in the morning, before my hosts would rise, Mayumi would take the dirty dishes downstairs and wash them immediately. She did not want her parents, especially her father, to find out that I had been eating in the room—real bad manners.
During weekends, I could not avoid having meals with my hosts. One Sunday, while we were having supper, Mr. Mori asked Mayumi again: “How old is Rey?”
“Thirty-eight,” she said.
“At his age,” he said, emboldened by the spirit of his crystalclear shõchû, “he should be earning about five million yen a year.”
One evening, while he was in his usual state of inebriation, he asked me directly, in a tone that sounded as if I had committed an offense in his presence: “Shigoto wa nani (What’s your job?)”
He had a copy of the English- and Japanese-language editions of my first book; he had seen my documentary on NHK; he had been shown some of my published stories. Now, he was asking about my job! I wanted to say, I was once a farm worker, a day laborer and a gardener. But I didn’t want to prolong the conversation. I pretended I wanted to pee. When I returned, he was already dozing in his seat.
Mr. Mori had been a sarariman all his life; he had been a kaishain (company employee) selling cars for over thirty years. He would leave home early, at half past five in the morning, and would return past eight in the evening. He spent very little time with his family. He left home before his two daughters were awake and returned when they were about to go to bed.
He had recently retired. But one year into living as a retiree—at home most of the time and tending to his little garden—he became bored and depressed. He decided to find another kaisha (firm) and luckily found one. Despite the low position and unfavorable circumstances of the new job, he decided to be a sarariman all over again. Life without a kaisha, it seemed, was unbearable. In my case, I had no kaisha but we maintained a small office. I was not qualified to join a company. I could never be a sarariman.
For about three months, I had to exist under his and Mrs. Mori’s generosity. Then the time came when I got some money from a video report I’d made. I spoke to Mayumi that night.
“Let’s find an apartment,” I said.
“You find a job first,” she replied.
We had a big row, a terrible row with a magnitude never before recorded on the Richter scale of our decade-long marriage. After our marriage in 1992, Mayumi and I lived with my family for two years in Manila. Living together as one big family is a Filipino tradition. Sharing the food, resources, work, and responsibilities; sharing the burdens and rewards, joys and tears—sharing everything that comes along—Mayumi and I experienced life with a huge family. We could have chosen to live apart from them immediately after our wedding but we preferred to live with my parents, grandmother, brothers and sisters, and some relatives. It was convenient, both economically and emotionally. But the most important consideration for me was that I did not want Mayumi to be lonely. I did not want her to pine for home. I wanted her to be happy. I wanted to show my gratitude to her by making her feel that she did not make the wrong decision by coming to live with me in the Philippines.
In the eight years that we lived in Manila, I never recalled a time when my parents said anything against Mayumi; they never uttered a single phrase that could cause despair to their first daughter-in-law.
But to some people, an unscheduled arrival is unsettling, an unscheduled cohabitation disorienting. I thought that for Mr. Mori and Mrs. Mori, our sudden presence could create endless ripples in their placid and orderly existence. The sudden entry of three persons (one returning) into their dwelling would be an intrusion into their already established life of quietness and mutual solitude.
During the first hour we sat together for a meal at the Moris’ table, the hosts spoke eloquently with their gestures. I knew that when the time came, they would not need to show me the door. I knew where it was.
I had been looking forward to a day of hanami with my family and the Moris. Under the cherry blossoms, I wanted to have a picnic as I first did with my co-participants and teachers at the rural institute in 1987. I wanted to drink sake or shõchû with them. I wanted to have a conversation with them. I wanted to appreciate the eternal sakura (cherry blossoms); I wanted to enjoy its temporal beauty. I wanted to be part of this Japanese tradition.
But three months after borrowing a space at the Moris, Mayumi and I finally decided to move out. We moved out from the house Mayumi had lived in until she finished college.
The dream hanami never became a reality. Since 2001 I have been going on hanami with my Canon FE; sometimes with Libnos.
.
Chapter 1: The House of Mr. Mori
When I first arrived in Japan, the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. “What a blessed land,” I said to myself. “What a beautiful countryside.” It was my first hanami—cherry blossomviewing day. Brown skin lost under the cherry blossoms, I wrote in my journal.
It was 1987, a full year after the fall of the Ilocano strongman Ferdinand Marcos. It was my first trip abroad, my first time to be away from home. I came to participate in a training course at a rural institute in Tochigi Prefecture.
At the time, Japan, utterly, was a new world, a novel experience. After a nine-month training stint on “Third World Leadership,” I returned home. But I flew back to Manila with a heavy heart—I had fallen in love with Japan!
In 2001, fourteen years later, when I had yet to become a Third World leader, I was again in Japan. This time, it was neither to study nor to visit. Though I had made a few trips since that first time, now I had come to live in Japan. Mayumi and our little daughter Libnos had gone there ahead, and were now waiting for my arrival.
I arrived with a Samsonite—a hand-me-down suitcase from my elder brother. In it, I had packed my hand-me-down shirts, pants, a Filipino Barbie, children’s books, dictionaries, manuscripts, photographs, bootleg DVDs and CDs, and packs of dried mangoes.
At the bus terminal in Yokohama, Mayumi, Libnos, and Mr. Mori, Mayumi’s father, came for the welcome. Mr. Mori drove us to his house, an hour-and-a half drive in his Honda.
Mrs. Mori had ordered some sushi and rice rolled in dried seaweed. We had supper and some beer. Mr. Mori had shõchû (rice spirits). While we were drinking, Mr. Mori asked Mayumi, “What’s Rey going to do now?”
I have been doing journalism work for a number of years. Mayumi continues to work at a trading company in Tokyo. She is a sarariman (salaryman, an office employee).
“I think the same,” Mayumi said. “Journalism.”
“Is that so,” Mr. Mori said matter-of-factly and continued to watch the baseball game on television while downing his third glass of rice spirits diluted with grapefruit juice. We went on quietly with our food and drinks. After the meal, as a gesture of gratitude for my hosts’ hospitality, I volunteered to wash the dishes.
I woke up shouting; I had a nightmare. Mayumi had to shake me awake. She asked what the matter was. I did not tell her. I did not tell her that in my dream I saw my ex-girlfriend walking down the aisle. She was getting married to a banker. Rose petals and sampaguita rained and drifted in the wind like departing cherry blossoms.
“Congratulations.” In my dream I shook my collegegirlfriend’s hands tightly.
Teary-eyed, I rose from the borrowed futon. I started to empty the security tag-peppered Samsonite of its contents. That done, I left it neatly by the door outside our temporary room.
Minutes later, there was a knock on the door.
It was Mrs. Mori. I greeted her politely. Pointing at the empty suitcase, politely, she said. “Kore o sutete mo ii desu ka? (Can I throw this in the garbage now?)”
I could not reply at once; I groped for words. I stammered. She left without waiting to hear my response.
At the time, I could not completely comprehend the essence of her words. Was she being kind by helping me get rid of my “garbage”? Was she trying to set the rules on the first day of our transience? Was I just too ignorant of her household’s sense of order, propriety, and beauty? Was my Samsonite simply too dirty and too old by her standards?
Before our marriage, I gave Mayumi an engagement ring. It was a simple gold ring of a few karats. With the little money I had earned as a day laborer in Kotobuki, I bought this humble piece of metal as a memory, as symbol of our engagement. It did not cost much because it was simply what a young country boy could afford at the time. I gave it to Mayumi when she came to visit Manila. She said thank you, and I was happy that she appreciated the small gesture. It was the first ring I had ever given in my entire life.
When Mayumi showed the ring to Mrs. Mori, her mother remarked:“Amari yokunai desu (It is not so good).”
Mrs. Mori may have been commenting on several aspects of the jewelry: First, she could have been appraising its technical merit. The ring had no decorative or fine lines or anything that would evoke elegance or anything especially precious.
Obviously, it was not a work of art. Second, in Mrs. Mori’s eyes, the ring may not have been gold enough; it did not have enough karats in it. Worse, it could have been a fake! It could have been a piece of bronze! The Chinese jeweler who sold it may have tricked the innocent young man in love into buying this run-of-the-mill forgery! Third, the gift did not look expensive enough. It cost only about 20,000 yen—a mere two-lapad worth of engagement ring! A pittance by Yokohama standards, but to a former tachinbõ (a day laborer), this amount could be the equivalent of a month’s wage in Manila.
When Mayumi’s younger sister was engaged several years after our marriage, her Japanese fiancé had given her a diamond ring. It was a tiny sparkling stone worth only 300,000 yen. Mrs. Mori was astronomically pleased. She lavished her daughter’s groom-to-be with praises of his generosity. Her younger daughter was worthy of a diamond! And 300,000 yen could be the monthly salary of a Tokyo sarariman.
I wanted to view the situation more comfortably. I wanted to say, jokingly, “It’s the thought that counts.” This is something I often say when making an excuse for not giving enough presents on Christmas and New Year’s Day to members of the family and godchildren.
Two distinct objects: a ring and a Samsonite. The first is symbolic; the second is utilitarian. In the eyes of Mrs. Mori, however, the value of these objects lies in their appearance and perceived price tags.
That day I went to our office in Tokyo to edit my video report. I deliberately stayed late. It was already past midnight when I got back to Mr. Mori’s house. I sneaked in like a thief into his newly renovated house; I did not make the slightest sound. I had requested Mayumi to keep the door unlocked. It’s good, I thought, in Japan they do not keep guard dogs as we do in Manila.
Our room was upstairs. Hungry and exhausted, I requested Mayumi to get some food downstairs. We had been sharing in the household expenses; I believed I had the right to partake of a meal. I ate in the room to avoid waking Mrs. Mori whose room was near the kitchen. Mr. Mori’s nightly shot of shõchû always kept him in deep sleep upstairs, from across our room.
Early in the morning, before my hosts would rise, Mayumi would take the dirty dishes downstairs and wash them immediately. She did not want her parents, especially her father, to find out that I had been eating in the room—real bad manners.
During weekends, I could not avoid having meals with my hosts. One Sunday, while we were having supper, Mr. Mori asked Mayumi again: “How old is Rey?”
“Thirty-eight,” she said.
“At his age,” he said, emboldened by the spirit of his crystalclear shõchû, “he should be earning about five million yen a year.”
One evening, while he was in his usual state of inebriation, he asked me directly, in a tone that sounded as if I had committed an offense in his presence: “Shigoto wa nani (What’s your job?)”
He had a copy of the English- and Japanese-language editions of my first book; he had seen my documentary on NHK; he had been shown some of my published stories. Now, he was asking about my job! I wanted to say, I was once a farm worker, a day laborer and a gardener. But I didn’t want to prolong the conversation. I pretended I wanted to pee. When I returned, he was already dozing in his seat.
Mr. Mori had been a sarariman all his life; he had been a kaishain (company employee) selling cars for over thirty years. He would leave home early, at half past five in the morning, and would return past eight in the evening. He spent very little time with his family. He left home before his two daughters were awake and returned when they were about to go to bed.
He had recently retired. But one year into living as a retiree—at home most of the time and tending to his little garden—he became bored and depressed. He decided to find another kaisha (firm) and luckily found one. Despite the low position and unfavorable circumstances of the new job, he decided to be a sarariman all over again. Life without a kaisha, it seemed, was unbearable. In my case, I had no kaisha but we maintained a small office. I was not qualified to join a company. I could never be a sarariman.
For about three months, I had to exist under his and Mrs. Mori’s generosity. Then the time came when I got some money from a video report I’d made. I spoke to Mayumi that night.
“Let’s find an apartment,” I said.
“You find a job first,” she replied.
We had a big row, a terrible row with a magnitude never before recorded on the Richter scale of our decade-long marriage. After our marriage in 1992, Mayumi and I lived with my family for two years in Manila. Living together as one big family is a Filipino tradition. Sharing the food, resources, work, and responsibilities; sharing the burdens and rewards, joys and tears—sharing everything that comes along—Mayumi and I experienced life with a huge family. We could have chosen to live apart from them immediately after our wedding but we preferred to live with my parents, grandmother, brothers and sisters, and some relatives. It was convenient, both economically and emotionally. But the most important consideration for me was that I did not want Mayumi to be lonely. I did not want her to pine for home. I wanted her to be happy. I wanted to show my gratitude to her by making her feel that she did not make the wrong decision by coming to live with me in the Philippines.
In the eight years that we lived in Manila, I never recalled a time when my parents said anything against Mayumi; they never uttered a single phrase that could cause despair to their first daughter-in-law.
But to some people, an unscheduled arrival is unsettling, an unscheduled cohabitation disorienting. I thought that for Mr. Mori and Mrs. Mori, our sudden presence could create endless ripples in their placid and orderly existence. The sudden entry of three persons (one returning) into their dwelling would be an intrusion into their already established life of quietness and mutual solitude.
During the first hour we sat together for a meal at the Moris’ table, the hosts spoke eloquently with their gestures. I knew that when the time came, they would not need to show me the door. I knew where it was.
I had been looking forward to a day of hanami with my family and the Moris. Under the cherry blossoms, I wanted to have a picnic as I first did with my co-participants and teachers at the rural institute in 1987. I wanted to drink sake or shõchû with them. I wanted to have a conversation with them. I wanted to appreciate the eternal sakura (cherry blossoms); I wanted to enjoy its temporal beauty. I wanted to be part of this Japanese tradition.
But three months after borrowing a space at the Moris, Mayumi and I finally decided to move out. We moved out from the house Mayumi had lived in until she finished college.
The dream hanami never became a reality. Since 2001 I have been going on hanami with my Canon FE; sometimes with Libnos.
.
posted by annie at Sunday, June 17, 2007
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