Mayumi and the Sea of Happiness

Europa Editions
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New York NY 10001
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www.europaeditions.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Tseng
First publication 2015 by Europa Editions
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco
www.mekkanografici.com
Cover photo © Paula Daniëlse/Getty Images
ISBN 9781609452780

I
t began at the library. While the young man waited quietly to be helped, I stood neatly in thrall to the world outside the window.
Momijigari
was ending; leaves were falling in drifts like snow. Blackcaps were eating the trees, striking the bark with their beaks then rapidly chewing it, in that annual burlesque of sheer appetite I’ve always found vulgar. When I turned, he cleared his throat and asked for a library card. He explained with darting, downcast eyes that although he’d been coming to the library with his mother since he was a child, he’d never had his own card. There was something in his manner—softness, reverence, a hesitation in the face—that is peculiar to a son close to his mother. Doesn’t intimacy foster reverence more completely than anything that can be taught? As I handed him the form and then watched as he filled it in—his fingers fumbling a bit with the tiny pencil—I didn’t think of having him yet, I simply gaped at his beauty. I had the thought:
he is out of reach
, a thought that, had I been younger, might have spurred me on, but in middle age, warned me to retreat.

He pocketed the card and walked lightly out the door. I typed his information into Athena, that cunning, square-faced virgin into whom every librarian daily enters strangers’ private information. He’d written an up-island address in a neighboring town, on a road with an old-time name I had never heard of. We live on a voluminous island. There are worlds within the woods I will never discover. I have lived here long enough to know that obdurate truth.

He was not calligraphically precocious. No, there was nothing particularly pleasing about those small, awkward letters, but they were perfectly legible. And why did I, even then, feel a twinge of pride at that? His name was followed by two surnames joined together by a hyphen. The way he had spoken of his mother seemed to negate the presence of a father, as if the world through which they moved belonged only to them. He told me her name. Divorced, I thought. A divorced mother whose child bears her name is exceptional. His information agreed with that on her record (hardly considering why, I immediately cross-referenced their accounts), except for his hyphenated surname, of which she possessed only half.

Our first transaction became emblematic. I had so little and yet it seemed to me so much. Disturbing really how little it took to excite me. We were, both of us, adolescent in this respect. I was like a young boy who cannot stifle his own pleasure, even when he makes a strenuous effort. Surely there are worse lots in life. But (even now) I race ahead. For though I confess I pored over the penciled facts of his existence, it was with some measure of ease and detachment. For on that day I still believed I had no chance. By “no chance” I don’t mean of having him—my mind never worked that way—but merely: no chance of attracting his attention. I read over the young man’s form with the curiosity of one who loves books, information, a good story. I was a librarian after all, nearsighted, spectacled, sitting at a desk, legs crossed, mind adrift, a woman who, at any given moment, would have rather been reading.

I read every small chance I got, in the basement stacks while sipping my milk-sodden tea or at one of the picnic tables while crunching perhaps too noisily on sesame seaweed or tamari-baked nuts. Snow or shine, I carried an open book on the ten-minute walk from the library to the apartment. If I was awake when at last my young daughter Maria fell asleep, I read, and if, by some mixture of good fortune and great effort, I woke before her and could leave our bed undetected, I crept directly to my books. I read on the porch of the nursery where she spent her weekday mornings, four of which I spent working at the library, a precious one of which (Fridays) I spent on the floor, in various fetal positions, reading.

That first day I must have forgotten him (How difficult it is now to fathom!), walked my usual route through the museum garden, then on to the state road with a book in my hand. At the slight break in the trees that was our road, chances are my steps became heavier. Upon arriving at the apartment—a lean, towering shack reminiscent of the Once-ler’s, built with nothing but Var’s ingenuity and scraps from wrecked houses on a patch of land left to us by his grandmother Chica—likely I went upstairs to read, if not silently to myself, then aloud to Maria with whom I shared, among so many things, a love of books. (Var also loved books but disliked both being read to and reading aloud.)

For Maria, simply reading the book was never enough; she wanted to act the story out with me afterwards. She played the starring roles and I, mildly content to be the root to her flower, supported them. I didn’t mind. It was a kind of reading, I told myself, a way of becoming closer to the text and to Maria. She was never a child who could be lured to sleep by the sound of a book being read, such sounds brought her to life. Though exhausting (it was usually I who drifted off, even as I read), I found it to be a beautiful tendency, a sign of good health that one’s eyes should open rather than shut at the sound of a human voice telling a story.

We read in the bedroom for there was no front room. At the top of the dark, narrow staircase, instead of a parlor or a sitting room, one was met by our version of an unclean butler: the foul gape of the dim, squalid bathroom that, after hours of scrubbing, never looked clean. I had no choice but to perform, with a kind of futility, my ablutions within it. Every night it greeted me, a stained towel draped over each of its rusting arms, and filled me with a dirty sense of despair. (In these moments I tried to be grateful for the running water. One feels ashamed to grumble when one’s husband builds the house with his own hands, but Var was not a carpenter but a wood carver, simply a man determined to put a roof over our heads. I have a weakness for determination and a love for the makers of this world.)

Neither my mother nor my father would have tolerated such an affront to civility and cleanliness. The “washroom” was much too close to the entrance of the apartment and ruined beyond rehabilitation. They would have removed it and started afresh or—and this would have been my father’s preference—they would have moved. It would have been intolerable for him to live without a reading room and he loved to discover new places and things. He was not bothered in the least by leaving a familiar place for he loved so much to arrive at a new one. I shared my father’s aversion to filth and his love of books, but I lacked his adventurous spirit. He had been correct when he complained I always took the path of least resistance.

Several days later, the young man returned to use his new card. Strangely (for in most instances I held fast as a steel trap to the scant details I had), I don’t remember what he checked out, only that it was not a book but a film, more than one, all comedies, which was to become his habit. He asked, with a serious face, to borrow one of the computers. Conscious of his beauty (dark eyes lit with cunning, eyebrows threatening to merge, hair chaotic and elegant as storm waves), yet betraying nothing, I said of course, happy to be giving him something and with so little effort. There were several public computers scattered throughout the library. He chose the one closest to me, in full view of the front desk. I’m convinced he chose the shortest distance between himself and the machine without giving our closeness a second thought. I too was not disturbed by his choice or his proximity. They reinforced my claim to obsolescence.

I resumed working, greeted other patrons, then left to fill and tidy the nearby shelves. On my way back to the desk, I observed him working intently, wearing a pair of headphones he must have brought from home and put on when my back was turned. (The library headphones were silver and small, his were large and made of black leather.) He appeared to be writing. As I strode past him I felt a pang of curiosity, the first of many. What could a young man of his age be writing? (In the beginning I didn’t allow myself to consider him as being any age below eighteen. I chose eighteen less because of his physical appearance than for that number’s magically permissive quality—the one so sure and solid next to infinity turned on its head. Yes he was at least eighteen I told myself, probably somewhere in his twenties.) Perhaps he was composing an essay for a college application. Or perhaps he was already in college and had a term paper to finish. Or, and even as my mind formed the sentence I knew it was absurd, perhaps he was a writer working on a book. I knew even then he was no writer. The next day he borrowed the same computer again and continued writing. I too worked without feeling any sense of interruption.

* * *

I have lived on a series of islands and I began as an island: I, an obscure piece of earth, floating choiceless within my mother’s sea. The first island I encountered outside of England was Alcatraz, home to the notorious prison off the coast of San Francisco. I was eight. My parents and I had journeyed to America under the auspices of visiting a distant cousin of my mother’s. (Deeply anti-American, they would have been quick to deny any interest in sightseeing.) Of the fog for which San Francisco is well known, I remember nothing; to my pale, unaccustomed eyes, most days were blindingly sunny.

One mercifully gray day, we rode with the cousin on a ferry across the bay. The boat paused at a safe distance so that we might behold the grim monstrosity while the guide recited a history complete with highlights of various prisoners’ failed attempts to escape. I liked the idea of being placed in the sea as punishment and into a building so fortified. Were not the island’s inhabitants as protected from the world as the world was from them? How quiet the grounds must have been, how gray and solitary. As a child, I envied the men their setting. I did not pause to imagine the cells stuffed with rapists and murderers. Only years later did I imagine such terrible things. Only after I met the young man did I wonder if the prisoners could hear the blue crashing of waves from their cells, the way I could hear the yellow school bus from my bedroom.

There were other boats—sailboats, speedboats, freight boats—out on the water with us. Then I imagined we were all moving toward Alcatraz, my child’s mind believing there were no journeys other than our own. We spent so little time at the cousin’s house and I remembered so little else from the trip that for years afterward when I pictured her, I pictured her on Alcatraz Island. I believed all Californians lived there on the water, at once surrounded by beauty and trapped in a prison.

The island on which we have settled has much in common with the English countryside: sheep grazing upon greenery, stone walls, gray skies, the mysterious expanse of the sea. Though here one is more apt to notice the hush of fall than the hush of winter, for it arrives on the thundering heels of so many departing guests, those patrons of paradise, their traveling housekeepers and gardeners, young nannies and builders, fit instructors of sailing and swimming.

One morning in September we wake to find them gone, the town as it was. Stillness, trees, a few neighbors. The wind howls as if wounded by all the departures. Leaves fall to the ground and then, like the visitors, they too float back across the water or up to the sky. The days grow darker. The bravest swimmers have their last swims. Our eyes soften, our lids become heavy. School begins and the streets empty further. By November, no foot traffic is visible through the glass. Gardening and construction vehicles, fuel trucks and delivery vans begin making their way up-island to invisible seaside compounds and modernist castles in the woods. Periodically one hears buses on the state road, a few cars, the doomy clap of a hunter’s shot at dawn, the cinematic clip of a horse’s whinny. The waves of the sea are near but not audible (unless there’s a storm, in a storm one feels as if the entire island is a ship and we are all of us together at sea on some perilous but temporary journey).

The air is cold enough to turn an orange but such trees don’t grow here. Little fruit grows here. The soil is difficult. We have apples of various sorts (though not nearly enough to feed our inhabitants, every apple in the store is imported from the mainland). Diminutive peaches. Child-size pears. Autumn olives. Beach plums. A minute crop of blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, melons. There must be a place more extreme than this, a part of the world that is completely fruitless, a place where there is nothing to pick. Of tree fruit, nothing. Of melons, none. Of berries, not even one.