Antonio

One morning, just before my lesson at the Nihongo Gendai Gakko, I went to my favorite restaurant in Shibuya to have breakfast.  This was a cozy little canteen not far from my Japanese school, off a busy road, a place that was popular with both workers and university students. They did a breakfast special that was cheap and tasty, and I had grown addicted to it: miso shiru, bean paste soup, with nameko, a kind of small, rather slimy mushroom which sounds awful but tastes delicious, broiled fish, rice, shredded cabbage, and fish croquettes. I would wash all this down with a cup of hot green tea and feel well fortified for a morning of serious study.  On this particular morning, I was reading my Japanese course book when I heard the man sitting next to me say something to me in English. I looked up in surprise: I hadn’t realized it, but he too was a foreigner.  He was smiling, looking at me expectantly.

I put down my tea cup.  ‘Pardon?’

‘I have asked you something a little foolish: Are you studying Japanese?  When of course you are – what else could you be doing with a Japanese book open in front of you?’

The foreigner was a dark, handsome man who looked to be in his early thirties. He had a charming accent. French? Spanish?

I took a sip of tea.  ‘Well, yes – I am studying Japanese.’ Boy, did I feel stupid. But I am neither Mae West nor Dorothy Parker. What else could I say?

The man stared at me for a moment or two, then smiled. ‘But I have met you before!’

All I could do was stare back. I could have sworn that I’d never seen this man in my life. ‘Met me before?  When?’

‘In Yokohama. Some months back, perhaps last year. You were hurrying along and I said to you, Excuse me, miss, but your skirt is not fastened.   Do you really not remember?’

‘No, I don’t remember at all,’ I said, blushing.

‘But it was you – I am sure of it.’ He made a brief gesture from my head to my waist.  ‘I remember your hair!’

My hair was distinctive:  even braided, as it usually was, it reached past my waist.  But I had no recollection of this man whatsoever.  ‘Where in Yokohama was I?’

‘We were just in front of the Join Us building.  You seemed to be in a big hurry; you had a backpack.’ He gestured at the backpack in the chair next to me.

And all of a sudden I remembered. ‘Hang on – it was raining, wasn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘You had an umbrella.’

Oh God.  I did remember:  it was one of those events that didn’t particularly strike me as memorable at the time. I’d been wearing a skirt and yes, the zipper was halfway undone. Either I’d been in too much of a rush that morning or I’d been the victim of a chikan – a pervert, essentially – on the train. The secretaries at Sony had warned me about chikan:  they copped feels from unsuspecting women on the trains or accosted them as they walked along lonely country roads. The term chikan can refer to many things: a masher, a child molester, a peeping tom – even a rapist – and you can only be sure of the severity of the offense from the context.

On the day in question, as I recalled, a man had called out to me that my skirt was unzipped. The zipper was merely halfway unfastened, it wasn’t gaping open, and no one could have seen anything much I had reasoned with myself at the time, so I was more annoyed than embarrassed.  Still, I hadn’t exactly thanked the man for pointing this out to me. In fact, I’d given him a rather dirty look if I remembered correctly.

‘I seem to remember that I wasn’t very nice to you at the time. A little dismissive. Rude, even.’

He waved his hand as if to say No problem.  ‘I believe you must have been quite naturally embarrassed. And you did not know my intentions, after all.’

No, that was true, I didn’t. I was interested to know what his intentions were now, though. ‘I’m intrigued by your accent – where are you from? Latin America, by any chance?’

‘You are close!  I am from Spain.’

‘Oh, Spanish!’ 

‘Actually, no.  I am from Spain, but I am Catalan, I do not consider myself Spanish. I can imagine that you do not know what a Catalan is.’

I didn’t, but I was damned if I was going to admit it:  I hate appearing ignorant even when I am. In fact especially when I am. ‘Not like the Basques, is it?’

‘Well, perhaps there are similarities, but no, not really.  You have heard of Barcelona?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Well, that is the largest city in Catalonia.’

‘But I thought Barcelona was in Spain!’

‘Geographically, yes. But culturally, Barcelona is in Catalonia. And Catalonia is a country within several countries – spread across Spain, France, even Italy. You have heard of Andorra?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, the official language of Andorra is Catalan. They speak French there too, and Spanish. But Catalan – that is official. On the books.  And speaking of books, there is a famous one by a British writer, George Orwell. Homage to Catalonia. You know this one?’

This was back when I still thought that I knew just about everything –  even when half of my life seemed to be spent discovering fresh evidence of my ignorance. 

I had only the vaguest recollection of George Orwell’s account in Spain. I told the Catalan that I’d read 1984, but wasn’t familiar with Homage to Catalonia.  ‘And I’ve never heard of Catalan. Or Catalonia.’  It was embarrassing, but I knew that I really had no choice but to come clean.

He shrugged. ‘I have found that there are many educated people who are ignorant of Catalonia and our culture. And yet there are six and a half million speakers of Catalan in Spain alone -- and more native speakers of Catalan than there are of Swedish! But I am certain that you have heard of Sweden…’

This stung. But I had to admit he was right. How odd not to have heard of Catalan when there were so many people who spoke it.

‘There are Catalans in France,’ he went on, ‘and Catalans in Italy. Sardinia? That used to be all Catalan. And there are Catalans in the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Cuba –’

At last a country I had ties with!  ‘My sister’s fiancé is Cuban!’ I told him eagerly.

He gave me an indulgent smile and I felt my face go red. ‘You have heard of Pablo Casals, the famous cello player? Died only six years ago?’

‘Yes.’

‘Catalan. Salvador Dali? Antonio Gaudi?’

I gave him a sullen look and he laughed and clapped his hands together. ‘So now you know! Catalans all. But you have not told me what nationality you are. British? American?’

‘The latter.’

‘Ah.’

I ignored this; I knew very well how unpopular American foreign policy and the American government was, but I had grown weary of voicing my own beliefs in an attempt to show that I did not necessarily support American politics or foreign policy.

‘And let me see. . . you are here in Japan teaching English, I am guessing.’

‘Umm, yes. I’m teaching English.’  I hated the fact that he’d figured that out. Teaching English was such a boring, common thing to be doing. I wished that I were doing something more interesting like teaching tap dancing, say, or learning how to play the samisen.

‘And of course you are studying Japanese.’

‘Yes. And studying Japanese.’

‘May I ask why?’

I shrugged. Not this again!  ‘I’ve always wanted to learn an Asian language.’

The man laughed. He had a wonderful laugh, and beautiful teeth. I couldn’t help but notice. ‘Well, good luck to you. How long have you been studying it?’

‘Two years, off and on.’

‘And can you communicate yet?’

‘Well – yes, I think so.’

‘And read and write?’ He looked sceptical.

‘After a fashion.’

He shook his head. ‘I speak five languages:  Spanish, Catalan, French, English and Portuguese.  But I find that I cannot get on with Japanese at all!’

‘Well, you need to study it –’

‘And so I have.  The Japanese government were good enough to educate me for two years at their expense, for I came to this country on a Ministry of Education scholarship. But’ – he shrugged elaborately – ‘I find that Japanese is too complicated, too much mystery and – and – and decoration. Not enough substance.’

Fresh from feeling ignorant about Catalonia, I could not help myself. ‘And it’s too difficult, eh?  All of those characters.’

The minute I said it, I expected him to freeze me dead, but he let out a shout of laughter. ‘Yes, that too!  Too difficult with all of those characters!’ He looked at me appreciatively, as though I’d said something profoundly clever. ‘I have learned all of the other languages when I was still young, you see, during the critical period when my brain was still pliable. I am perhaps too old now. But you – you are still young enough, I think? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘That old!’

I preened. ‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty-two.’ 

‘And what are you doing here?’

‘Well, I was a student here for two years at Yokohama University – what a waste of my time! – and my specialty is architecture.  But now I am helping to design some buildings here, not studying at all. So I will be here for the rest of this year, then I will go back to Barcelona.’

I was mightily impressed.

The Catalan glanced at his watch first; I had been meaning to look at mine – I knew that I was going to be late for my Japanese class – but I had been enjoying our conversation so much that I hated to break it off.

‘It is unfortunate, but I must go. But before I do, I will give you one of my cards so that perhaps you will give me a call – I hope that you will give me a call!’

‘Ah –’

‘You are living in an apartment, I take it?’

I nodded.

‘Small?’

‘Oh, yes.’

He laughed. ‘So they all are in this country!  My apartment in Yokohama was like a cell!  But I am lucky now – I have a house. So – have you a telephone?’

‘Well, yes, I do – ’

‘You live here in Tokyo?’

‘No, I live in Yokohama. The school I go to is just around the corner – ’

‘Yokohama. That is a shame. I was there at first, you see, but I now live in Tokyo. Very well’— he looked at his watch again – ‘I must go, I am late. But I do hope that we will meet again – what is your name?’  That incredible smile again.

‘Oh!  Mary. I’m Mary.’

‘Mary. Maria.  I am Antonio. And I do hope that you will phone me.’ 

I sat there for a few moments after he left, staring at his card. Wow:  Maria.  I’d just met a guy who called me Maria.  Damned right I was going to phone him.