About This Life: Journeys on the Threshold of Memory by Barry Lopez Read Free Book Online Page A

adventurous appetite, and even compliments me on my use of the chopsticks. Speaking through Naoki and shaking his head in disappointment, Mr. Nishibe adds that the youth of Japan are sadly deficient in these skills. Too many forks, he says.
    Mr. Taketazu, sitting directly across from me, full of gesture, loquacious and affable, seems oddly familiar. It’s something in the drift of our conversation, which is turning on the habits of wild animals. He speaks very little English but, again with Naoki’s help, we manage to exchange a startling amount of information. He is about the same age as Mr. Nishibe, and the two of them exchange the beaming looks of proud parents when, at several points during dinner, using my dictionary, I try to state my affection for the landscape of Hokkaido.
    I knew before I came, I tell them, that it is possible to witness the elaborate courtship displays of the Japanese crane here andto see other large birds unknown to most North Americans—Blakiston’s fish owl and Steller’s sea eagle. The Kurile seals, I continue, the brown bears, red foxes racing over the frozen sea—such animals, encountered in the undisturbed wilds of Shiretoko and Akan National Parks, could pull a disaffected visitor up out of himself very quickly. Was it really true that few foreigners ever came? The three men looked at one another. Mr. Nishibe made a summary comment to Naoki.
    “No Holiday Inn,” said Naoki.
    After supper Mr. Taketazu asks me to sign a book of mine, a translation, and offers me a book of his in English,
Fox Family: Four Seasons of Animal Life
. I try to compose words appropriate to the moment, words that in the future may recall the memory of the meal, our enthusiastic conversation, and the generosity of our host.
    Something hangs unresolved in my mind about this modest Mr. Taketazu. When he hands me the fox book, I decide his name must be familiar from a scientific paper I might have once read in translation.
    We return to our separate rooms, change into light cotton kimonos, the summer
yukata
, and meet again outside the men’s
ofuro
(communal hot tub). Naoki explains the etiquette—a small towel held over the genitals, a thorough scrubbing and shampoo at one of the washing stations along the wall before entering a large tiled tub sunk in the floor. The chasteness, cleanliness, and orderliness of this ritual (my clothing rests folded in its own small wicker basket, perfectly aligned with dozens of other identical baskets on a white shelf in an adjoining room) are in keeping with principles of behavior long observed throughout Japan.
    The steaming, sulphurous water is intensely calming. It encourages gentle and desultory conversation, not serious talk. Nevertheless, Naoki successfully communicates something quite abstract, that, traditionally, these circumstances did away with the façades from behind which people might be inclined to speak falsely. No one, he says, tells lies here.
    A wall at the end of the room separates our
ofuro
from the women’s, but it does not reach the vaulted ceiling of the building. From behind it come bursts of evocative, high-pitched laughter.
    We retire an hour later. Before stretching out on my sleeping mat, or futon, an inviting envelope of ironed white sheets and cotton quilts, I glance through Mr. Taketazu’s book. Staring at the many stunning photographs of foxes, I finally recall the connection. Several years before this Mr. Taketazu had made a film about the red fox, or Ezo fox, of Hokkaido. It virtually changed the attitudes of Japanese people toward this animal. I’d seen an edited version of the film in the States and been very impressed by the compassionate way Mr. Taketazu had suggested making provisions for wild animals within a settled but still rural land.
    Tomorrow, I thought, I will have to pay my respects to Mr. Taketazu. I quickly make some notes about the day’s events and get into bed. I am exhausted by the effort to understand and to be