I Am a Japanese Writer by Dany Laferrière Read Free Book Online Page B

Korean restaurant—that’s practically subversive. There are so many sushi bars these days, they must sprout up overnight. How would I recognize two Japanese businessmen in a room full of Japanese businessmen? Two moon-shaped faces were shooting wide smiles in my direction from the back of the room. The same black suits, the same haircuts, the same smiles. Which was Mr. Mishima? Where was Mr. Tanizaki? I decided not to try telling them apart.
    They both rose at the same time.
    “I am Mr. Mishima, Japanese vice-consul. Officially, I am the cultural attaché, but I have no well-defined responsibilities. At the consulate, everyone does what he can. I am embarrassed to receive you so modestly.”
    Nervous laughter.
    “And I am his assistant, Mr. Tanizaki.”
    “Please sit down,” Mr. Mishima told me.
    Maybe it was Mr. Tanizaki who actually said that; I wasn’t paying attention to individual identity. I sat down. I wasn’t going to wait for their permission. Though actually, Mr. Tanizaki (or Mr. Mishima) monitored my seating arrangements with obsessive concern; he seemed on guard for the slightest detail that might compromise my comfort. He was like an entomologist slipping a black insect into a handsome lacquered case. Black was the establishment’s prime color. The tables, chairs, plates and tablecloths were black, while the knives and forks were red. Quite suddenly, Mr. Mishima demanded we be moved to another table. Since all the tables were taken, he wanted to change places with me. I had to assure him I was just fine where I was. But he wasn’t satisfied. He turned to Mr. Tanizaki, who immediately jumped to his feet to give me his seat, which offered a view of the street. Okay, okay. The charades continued until Mr. Mishima was completely convinced that everything had been done to ensure maximum comfort for me. I knew this was his courteous, Asian way of making me feel welcome, but it really wasn’t my style. Maybe they were expecting me to make a similar effort; I had no idea. No—they’re the thousand-year-old refined culture, whereas I represent savage young America. I sucked in my stomach, jammed my knees together and hunched my shoulders in order to enjoy the small space allotted to me. A compact kind of happiness. I looked around the place and saw it was designed for a certain size of person, as if they wanted to discourage larger formats—black American basketball players, for example.
    “Do you like the restaurant?” Mr. Tanizaki asked me.
    “It’s fine,” I said, in a neutral tone.
    “I am happy it pleases you,” Mr. Mishima said, smiling. “Other places of this kind have no resemblance to a real restaurant in Tokyo.”
    That’s another thing I detest: authenticity. A real restaurant. Real people. Real things. Real life. Nothing more fake than that. Life itself is a construct.
    “Do you like sushi?”
    “No.”
    I decided to keep my bad mood a while longer. They looked totally lost. It’s true, if the guest doesn’t like sushi, his tastes can cause problems in a Japanese restaurant.
    “I don’t like fish.”
    Which is completely untrue.
    “Oh, I see,” said Mr. Mishima, astonished that anyone could dare not to like fish. But he did his best to hide his disappointment.
    “I’m not allergic to fish, and I’m not a vegetarian. I just can’t agree with the idea of eating fish. In my opinion, it’s just not a good practise.”
    “Fortunately, Japanese cuisine offers more than fish,” Mr. Mishima said in a quiet voice.
    “In any case, we would have found something else to eat,” Mr. Tanizaki chimed in quickly.

ARE YOU A WRITER?
    I ORDERED SOUP . Another silence settled in. I don’t have the nerves of steel this kind of game demands. I decided to get right to the point—which is, apparently, contrary to the rules of proper Japanese behavior.
    “I had no idea the Japanese consulate was aware of my humble existence,” I said, in vague imitation of their obsequious tone.
    I heard a