The Toyotomi Blades (8 page)

“That’s hard to know. Sometimes it seems like Japanese society makes a point of emphasizing I’m Korean. Koreans are often discriminated against, and it’s hard to find a good job because Koreans are often relegated to hard and dirty work. I’m an exception, but I’ve had to work twice as hard as any Japanese to make the same progress. Koreans have the reputation of being connected with Japanese organized crime and caught up in gambling, prostitution, and extortion, and some employers just won’t hire us.”

“Are Koreans involved in crime?”

Junko turned red. “Koreans are involved in greater numbers than our share of the population. Part of that is because many legitimate avenues for advancement are closed to us. But a lot of Japanese are involved in crime and Koreans seem to be treated more harshly when they’re caught.”

“That’s exactly the view of some minorities in the States. Why don’t you try to take political action or something to change things? Shake things up a bit?”

“Because in Japan, harmony is valued above all. We have radical groups on the right and on the left, but generally speaking most people are very conservative and don’t want to shake things up, as you put it. There’s also a practical reason. Japanese politics requires huge amounts of money.”

“It does in the U.S., too. But instead of seeking harmony we’re becoming increasingly factionalized. That doesn’t make it pleasant for Asians or other minority groups who can’t get a block vote together.”

“But in the U.S., your government has still made periodic efforts to correct some inequities. In Japan, the government won’t even acknowledge problems. Japan occupied Korea as a colonial power for about thirty-five years after World War I. That’s why my grandfather was brought here as a virtual slave laborer. In Korea, the Korean language was forbidden and the population was oppressed. Korean women were forced to become comfort women, which is a Japanese euphemism for prostitutes. The Japanese government has just acknowledged that practice, but they’ve never compensated the women. They said a private fund, not the government, should do that. They spent $600 million to promote the fund and collected only about half that much in donations. It was a complete farce. The history I was taught in school just didn’t chronicle the bad things the Japanese did.”

“When I grew up, they didn’t teach about the U.S. camps for Japanese-Americans during World War II, either,” I said. “Now the U.S. government has made some effort to compensate the camp inmates. But Junko, if things are so difficult for you in Japan, why do you stay?”

“Because culturally I’m Japanese. Although I was born a Korean, my native language, schooling, and much of my outlook is Japanese. It’s confusing because I also want to remain Korean. I just feel like I’m not accepted for what I am.”

“I sometimes have the same feelings back in the States.”

8
      

J
unko asked me to return the next afternoon to help her. Before I left, Sugimoto stopped by and asked me if I’d like to have dinner the next day. I told him I would, but that I wanted to go to a typical family restaurant, not one of the fancy tourist traps. He looked a little disappointed, and it occurred to me that maybe he liked the tourist traps because he could eat at the neighborhood joints anytime. Still, on my own I wasn’t likely to find a good neighborhood restaurant, and I suppressed my urge to change my restaurant request.

I left the studio around six and decided to walk back to the hotel. I wanted to absorb more of the atmosphere of the city. I strolled out of the studio and started walking. People were getting out of work and rushing about. I enjoyed the pulse and energy around me.

I had walked about two blocks when an elderly woman came rushing up to me. She was dressed in
kimono,
and I realized she was the first person I had seen in traditional Japanese dress. Her kimono was brown with a dark brown
obi,
or sash. She was carrying a bundle in a purple
furoshiki.
She was chubby, with red cheeks and glossy black hair fixed in a bun. She looked as if she’d normally be quite jolly, but now she looked frazzled and a little lost.

She said something to me in rapid-fire Japanese, bobbing up and down as she apologized for something. I realized the apology was probably for bothering me, but I had no idea what she wanted.

I said, “Watashi wa Nihongo ga wakarimasen.” That’s a stock phrase I memorized from a guidebook, and it means I don’t speak Japanese. For some reason, my words didn’t register with her. She just heard me speaking Japanese and starting talking even more rapidly.

I put my hands up and said, “Do you speak English?”

The woman looked surprised and said something else to me in Japanese.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you. Watashi wa Nihongo ga wakarimasen. I’m an American.”

“American!” the woman exclaimed. Then she started laughing.

The woman thought for a minute, then she made a choo-choo pantomime with her arms, puffing like a little steam engine. I realized she wanted to find the nearest train station and I smiled. I pulled out my tourist map of Tokyo and opened it up. It took a few seconds to orient myself and find the exact street corner we were standing on. I found the nearest train station and asked, “Yurakucho?” Yurakucho was the name of the train that stopped at the nearest station.

“Yurakucho!” she repeated, all excited. I had hit paydirt.

I rapidly turned around to point out the direction she should go to reach the station. As I turned, I noticed two men standing by a shop window watching me. One was short and stocky with muscular shoulders bunched up under a cheap tan suit. His hair was closely cropped. The other man was tall and gaunt, wearing a rumpled gray suit and a knit shirt that seemed yellow with age. What caught my eye was that as soon as I turned, they both started looking into the shop window intently. It was a woman’s dress shop and their show of interest seemed both incongruous and false. I figured they were watching the little show the woman and I were putting on and were embarrassed at being caught. The old woman’s imitation of a train was pretty amusing and I didn’t blame them for their interest. I pointed out the direction and held up three fingers to indicate three blocks. Then I pointed to the map and counted off
“Ichi, ni, san”
or “one, two, three” in Japanese, as I indicated the blocks to the train station.

The woman giggled and nodded her comprehension at my instructions. Then she bowed and thanked me profusely. I caught several
arigatos,
which is thank you in Japanese. She bustled off in the direction I had pointed to and I continued my walk to the hotel.

I strolled along for a couple of more blocks until I saw a
Pachinko
parlor. In Pachinko, little metal balls are shot into the air and come cascading down into various wheels, mechanical flowers, and cups. When a ball goes into one of the cups a bell rings, lights flash, and additional balls pour out of the machine. It’s sort of a cross between pinball and a slot machine. You can use the balls you’ve won to play some more or you can trade them in for gifts of various sorts. I’ve read you can even trade in your winnings for money, although this is supposed to be illegal because this would make Pachinko a gambling game instead of a game of amusement.

On a whim, I ducked into the Pachinko parlor to see this phenomenon close up. Rows of machines were tightly crowded in aisles, with pink plastic stools in front of them. Players were sitting on the stools in front of their machines, intently watching the trajectory of the balls being shot up into the machine. Pachinko used to be manually operated, but these machines were all automated. By turning a big wheel, the force used to shoot the balls to the top of the machine could be varied, and this is where the skill, such as it was, came in. The noise of all the machines was terrific, but the players seemed totally oblivious as they watched the machines in front of them. One guy had an enormous number of metal balls coming out of his machine. I watched him for several minutes because he had the knack for positioning the balls in just the right place so that when they cascaded down the machine, they had the highest likelihood of hitting something that would pay off.

A player behind me started cursing and I turned around in time to see the last of his metal balls disappear into the bottom of the machine without hitting anything that would return more balls. I guess there is some skill to playing this. I looked up from the defeated player and saw the backs of two men at the end of the aisle of machines. I was sure they were the same two men who were studying the dress shop window when I had my encounter with the old lady. My level of concern shot up like the cascade of metal balls in the Pachinko machine.

I turned and made my way down the aisle and out of the shop. I strolled along, keeping to well-populated streets with plenty of people. I turned a corner and took a quick peek down the street I had just turned off from. The two men were coming down the street after me.

Tokyo is known as one of the safest big cities in the world, with very little street crime. Still, little street crime is very different than no street crime and I was being followed by two unsavory-looking characters. Maybe it was coincidence and maybe it wasn’t. I didn’t like the possibilities if it wasn’t.

In Tokyo neighborhoods they have mini-police stations where the officers assigned to a neighborhood stay. Unfortunately, these stations weren’t marked on my map and I had no idea how I’d go about finding one. I thought about going into an open business, but I wasn’t sure I could communicate with the shopkeeper. Besides, the two guys had already followed me into the Pachinko parlor and I wasn’t sure ducking into a shop would shake them. So, I just kept walking, doing my best to not look over my shoulder and tip them off that I had spotted them.

Acting normal in abnormal circumstances is hard. I wanted to break into a run, but I wasn’t sure that was the best tactic. Ahead I saw the train station I had directed the old woman to. It was the tail end of rush hour and there were still large numbers of people streaming into the station. I entered the train station, pausing briefly to buy a ticket from one of the numerous machines lining the walls of the station entrance. Tokyo has a subway system, but the trains are on elevated tracks, like the El in Chicago. I joined the crowd going up the stairs to the platform where you get on the train.

I stood in the crowd waiting for the next train and chanced a quick look around. The two men were standing a few feet to my left. In a minute, a train came by the platform and stopped. A few people got off the train and as soon as they were clear the crowd moved forward as a single mass and squeezed onto the train. Once I got in the door, I stepped to one side, jamming up against a middle-aged businessman who glared at me. The crowd behind me continued to pack the train until I literally was immobile from the crush of bodies around me. They have that old saying about being packed like sardines, but sardines are dead when they’re put in a can. The people in the train car were alive. So far.

A bell rang and the doors closed. The train lurched off. I didn’t need to hang onto a strap or pole to stay upright. The truth is I was wedged in so tight I couldn’t have fallen to the floor if I had wanted to. I had hoped that my two shadows might not get on the train, but I was able to see them near the other door of the car.

We went to the next station and once again a few people got off but even more people got on. I braced myself and resisted all efforts from the boarding crowd to push me away from the door. I guess this is against Tokyo train packing etiquette because I had several people scowl at me as they pushed past me to get into the car. As we took off, I stole a glance at the two men and realized that the rush had moved them further into the car.

At the next station, I waited until the debarking and boarding passengers did their thing. Once again, it was hard to stand my ground and stay near the entrance to the car, but I managed to. From riding the Yamanote line, I knew the sequence when a train departed from the station. First they rang a bell and a voice came across the public address system. Then the doors rapidly closed as the train took off. The bell went off and I pushed my way past a young woman and a teenager who were standing between me and the door. The closing door nipped at my heels as I burst out of the car and onto the platform. A blue-uniformed platform attendant came toward me saying something in Japanese, no doubt scolding me for waiting until the last second to get off the car. I didn’t pay any attention. Instead I was staring through the windows of the departing car, looking at the two men who were stuck in the crowd like flies in amber. They abandoned all pretense of not being interested in me and stared at me with blank expressions. I wondered if I was mistaken about the men following me, but they pivoted their heads to watch me as the car went past. I couldn’t resist waving good-bye to them, a big grin on my face.

I left the platform and immediately bought another ticket for a train going back to the station where I originally got on. This train was as packed as the other, but somehow I could breathe a lot better. When I got off, I flagged down a cab to take me to the hotel. Through a mechanical contraption, the driver was able to open the back door of the cab for me without getting out.
“Teikoku
Hotel,” I said, mixing the Japanese word for Imperial with the English word
hotel.
The driver understood my linguistic amalgam and took off. I sat back into the plastic-covered seat of the cab and reflected that I liked walking in Tokyo, but I didn’t like being stalked.