Authors: Dan Rhodes
Sylvie told them her own name, and wished them an enjoyable stay. ‘And how about you?’ she asked the interpreter. ‘Who are you?’
‘Lucien,’ he said.
‘And how come you’re so good at speaking Japanese?’
‘Would you like an honest answer, or would you rather I hid the truth from you?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Hide the truth.’
‘OK. It’s because I find it a fascinating language.’
They drove on in silence for a while, until Sylvie could bear it no longer. ‘I’m starting to wonder whether an honest answer might have been a bit more interesting.’
‘Well, it is a fascinating language. But if you must know, the main reason is because I just really like Japan ese girls. I always have done, and I realised early in life that if I was
ever to meet one there would be a language barrier, so I started teaching myself at thirteen, that was twelve years ago, and now I’ve pretty much got it nailed, the conversational side at
least. I’ve been taking on gigs like this to keep me on my toes.’ He gestured towards the holidaymakers in the back seat. ‘I’ve got these two for the whole week.’
Sylvie was delighted to find out that Lucien was obsessed with Japanese girls, and that he wouldn’t be falling in love with her. It was always such a relief when she knew she was in the
clear and could talk to a boy without the possibility of his impending misery hanging over her. She sympathised with his situation, too. She supposed that if she had been a man there would have
been a strong possibility that she would be preoccupied with Japanese women. Why wouldn’t she be? What was not to like about jet-black hair, porcelain skin, slim bodies and delicate features?
‘Any luck yet?’ she asked.
He pulled a face. ‘I’m going to move there next year. I’ve got a job lined up at a university, as a French language and literature teaching assistant.’ He sounded
melancholy.
‘What’s the problem? I think you’ll do fine. You’ll be ploughing through them.’
Lucien went quiet.
‘What? I thought that’s what you wanted.’
‘Well, no. I don’t want to plough through them. That’s the thing. There’s something very wrong with me, you see. I tend not to talk about it, but since I already seem to
have decided to use you as confessor I might as well tell you. My problem is that I only want to meet one girl, the right one for me. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.’
‘Hey, I’m a bit like that, only not for Japanese girls – I’ve got no interest at all in being with someone I can’t see myself marrying. I’ve had a bunch of
boyfriends, but the moment I realise I’m not going to marry them I drop them like a hot brick. It’s got me into all sorts of trouble, some really deep shit, as a matter of fact –
we’re talking guns and knives, even ropes – but at least I’m honest with them. I’m getting pretty good at telling now. It used to take me ages, but these days I can usually
see straight away if a man’s not going to be the one. Take you, for example – the moment I saw you I knew we wouldn’t be getting married. But enough about me . . .’ She was
distracted, and noticed a red light just in time. She slammed on the brakes, and stopped millimetres from the car in front. She heard gasps coming from the back seat. She could see in her rear-view
mirror that Monsieur and Madame Akiyama were looking alarmed. She turned to Lucien. ‘Tell them it’s the French way of driving.’
He did this, and Monsieur Akiyama spoke sternly for a while, after which Madame Akiyama spoke softly.
Lucien translated. ‘Monsieur Akiyama wishes you to know that he worked for a large corporation for many years, rising through the ranks to a senior position. He says that if any of his
company’s chauffeurs had ever driven in the French way while transporting one of their employers, they would have been subject to the most stringent disciplinary procedures.’
‘Oh, OK. It’s always interesting to learn about different cultures. That’s partly why I do this job.’
‘And Madame Akiyama wishes you to know that her husband needs to relax and remember he’s on holiday.’
Sylvie laughed. She was becoming a big fan of Madame Akiyama. The light turned green, and she drove on. She and Lucien continued their conversation.
‘My theory is that most people only want one person,’ she said, ‘but people of our generation aren’t prepared to admit it because they don’t want everyone to think
they’re desperate. I’m not desperate, though. There’s no way I would marry anyone unless I knew he was absolutely right for me. I would rather die than get stuck with the wrong
man.’
‘So you would rather die than marry me?’
‘Yes.’
He shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’
‘But what’s your problem anyway? Why are you so miserable? I can’t see why you’re all . . .’ She let out a long moan, and mimicked his voice. ‘
Boo hoo,
poor me, I’m going to Japan to be surrounded by Japanese student girls who will all have big crushes on me
.’
‘I’ve hit a difficulty with my plan.’
‘What’s that?’
He lowered his voice, and looked sheepish. ‘I think I’ve just fallen in love – even though I’m clearly not husband material.’
Sylvie was exasperated. She had really thought she was in the clear with this one, and she had certainly let him know where she stood. Her hair wasn’t black, but it was dark brown and very
straight. Her eyes were dark brown too, she was slim, and her complexion was clear. She had never thought of herself as looking Japanese, but maybe she looked just Japanese enough for Lucien.
‘Listen, I’ve already told you – I’m not going to marry you, OK? How many more times will I have to tell you before it sinks in? Don’t take offence, but I just know
you’re not the one. Stick with your Japanese girls. You’ll be fine.’
‘No, no. I’m not in love with
you
.’
Sylvie was relieved, but also a little put out. ‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘Good. I’m glad.’
‘I’m glad you’re glad. It would never have worked out with you, even if you had liked me. I’ve tried being with girls who aren’t Japanese – I suppose I was
hoping it would somehow
cure me of my affliction
– and I even really liked some of them, but it’s never ended well. It’s not right for me, and it’s not fair on them.
I’ve embraced the way I am, and there’s no turning back. There were times when I saw it as a curse, but not any more – now I see it as a blessing.’
‘That’s good. So who is she then? Who is this
Mademoiselle Wonderful
who you just can’t live without?’
‘I think I’m in love with the Akiyamas’ daughter.’
Sylvie was quiet for a while, as she pondered Lucien’s predicament. ‘You only
think
you’re in love with her?’
‘No, it’s no use. I can’t fight it – I
am
in love with her.’
‘That’s better. So where is she now?’
‘In Japan. They showed me a picture of her yesterday. I could hardly sleep last night, and when I finally did I dreamt only of her.’
‘I see.’ Sylvie didn’t subscribe to fashionable notions that in order to love somebody you need to know them. Love, she knew for sure, was stranger than that. One summer, when
she was ten years old, she had been sent to stay with a distant aunt, who had shut her in her room for the entire school holidays with nothing but a copy of
Les Misérables
for
company. She had read it over and over again, empathising with Cosette as she huddled under the Thénardiers’ table, and glorying in her story as her happiness unfolded. When Marius had
first set eyes on her he had felt no pressing need to take her out for coffee to find out her likes and dislikes, or to live with her on a trial basis just to be sure they were right for one
another. And had Cosette reserved judgement until she had worked out whether or not Marius was going to fit in well with her existing social circle? Had she held back until she’d had a chance
to interrogate him at extreme length about whether or not he still harboured residual feelings for any girls he had known before? No, they just saw each other and fell in love, and everything else
melted away.
Sylvie saw no reason why Lucien’s feelings shouldn’t be as deep and poetic as theirs. She was by no means a starry-eyed romantic, though; while she believed absolutely in true love,
she knew how hard it was to find, and how easy it was for tender-hearted boys to be fooled by their feelings. She had even allowed herself to be fooled enough times, but she had always been OK;
only disappointed, not devastated. She could see that Lucien had a tender heart, and she didn’t want to see him make a terrible mistake. He reminded her of several of her exes, and she
didn’t want to see him ending up like them. ‘Just one picture?’ she asked.
‘Yes, just one.’
‘You should probably see a few more, just to be double sure that it’s true love and not just a crush.’ After all, Marius and Cosette would at least have had the opportunity to
observe one another from a number of angles at their first encounter. She was worried that this might have been the Akiyama girl’s best photo by a long way, the only one her mother ever
showed to people.
‘One was enough. I can’t get her out of my mind. Her name is Akiko.’ He smiled. ‘Akiko! Do you know what that means?’
‘Er, no.’
‘It means
sparkling child
. Sparkling child! And does Akiko sparkle? Yes, she sparkles. Akiko Akiyama sparkles, and so much more.’ He sighed.
‘It’s a really nice name.’ Sylvie put
Akiko
on her list of possibilities for her first daughter. She wanted three or four children, a mixture of girls and boys.
‘The problem is, she lives three hundred miles away from where I’m going to be working. The course of true love isn’t going to be easy for us. Oh, Akiko. Akiko! Akiko
Akiyama!’ He sighed again, and a stern voice came from the back seat. Lucien looked embarrassed, craned his neck around and a brief conversation ensued.
‘What was that about?’ asked Sylvie when at last they were quiet again.
‘They wanted to know why I kept calling out their daughter’s name, and smiling and sighing.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘I couldn’t stop myself. I revealed my feelings. I told them very sincerely that I was in love with her, and that my intentions towards her were entirely honourable. I don’t
think they’re too happy about it, at least not Monsieur Akiyama. He says she has just graduated with honours from a prestigious university and has started in a junior position at a large
corporation, and he expects her to find a husband from among the workforce.’
‘Have you been able to work out if there’s already a particular member of the workforce who has captured her heart?’
He sighed again. ‘Not yet. They’ve not mentioned anybody.’
‘Maybe they think it’s none of your business. Or maybe they don’t know. There’s no reason why she should tell her parents who she’s dating.’
‘Thank you for that upbeat contribution to my love story.’
‘Sorry.’
They drove on. Sylvie was having a good afternoon. She really liked Lucien, and was going to see what she could do to win the Akiyamas over to his cause. He and Akiko belonged together, she just
knew it, and she was going to make it her business to see that the obstacles that lay between them were overcome. But first she had to get back to the job in hand.
‘Ask them if they’d like to go through the tunnel where Lady Di died.’
They did, of course.
Three and a half hours later, the 2CV was back in Mont-martre and making its way up the steep and narrow west end of rue Norvins. Sylvie had had a great afternoon racing
through the streets, pointing out her favourite places, and stopping here and there so they could all stroll around. At no point had it seemed like work. The Akiyamas had enjoyed themselves, and
she and Lucien had been making one another laugh as they compared notes on their romantic lives and recounted some of the many pitfalls they had faced. They were both delighted to have met someone
who didn’t think that there was something wrong with them for wanting what they wanted.
At one point a passer-by had approached them and asked if she could take their photo. ‘You are the happiest couple I have ever seen,’ she had said. ‘You look so right
together.’ Not wishing to disillusion her, they had posed with their arms around each other, and made up a story about how they had met while skiing three years earlier and been inseparable
ever since. The wedding, booked for the coming spring, was to be a low-key event on a mutual friend’s llama farm in Avignon.
They were both keen to keep in touch, and had exchanged numbers on the Île Saint-Louis while the Akiyamas were buying ice cream, and when she took her phone out of her bag she picked up a
text from her friend Aurélie, asking her if she wanted to go shopping. She didn’t want to go shopping, but she knew she wouldn’t have to. This was just a euphemism. She knew that
what Aurélie really wanted was to sit in a bar and have a drink and a talk, and that suited Sylvie just fine.
She had arranged to meet her after work, which was going to be any minute now. They were nearly back where they had started.
Without warning, the car slowed to a halt. Sylvie put her foot on the gas pedal and pumped the clutch, but there was no response. The engine was going, but the car wasn’t. It just sat
there, blocking the road. She worked the clutch again, but there was still no bite. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Everybody out.’
Lucien and the Akiyamas got out and went around to the back of the car. Monsieur Akiyama didn’t seem particularly pleased by this, and delivered a brief monologue to Lucien, which was
relayed to Sylvie through the open driver’s window: ‘Monsieur Akiyama wishes you to know that he worked for many years at a senior position in a large corporation, and has gone to great
lengths to ensure that his wife, Madame Akiyama, has always had an adequate lifestyle, one free from the necessity of physical exertion. He requests, therefore, that in the interests of preserving
his honour, she be exempt from this task.’
‘No,’ said Sylvie. ‘She’s in France now. We need her muscle.’
Madame Akiyama smiled when she heard this, and answered by putting both hands on the car and bracing herself. Monsieur Akiyama looked furious, but he too put his weight to the car.