His Answer



  His Answer

  Meghann McVey

  Copyright 2012

  www.firesidestories.webs.com

  His Answer

  _______________________

  The day I met him, I knew Tanaka, Aki was different. He was easily the youngest professor in the Japanese Literature Department and, without a doubt, the most handsome. His dark hair just brushed his shirt collar, and his tennis player’s physique prompted the comment “Kakkui” from several other girls taking Heian Literature.

  Despite Tanaka’s abundant kakkui qualities, his eyes enticed me the most. Usually the famed absent-mindedness characterized the older faculty. Intrigued, I wondered where Tanaka’s mind had led his half-veiled, unseeing eyes.

  Once Tanaka had explained the course expectations, he opened his battered copy of The Tale of Genji and said, “I have several passages to share with you today.” My classmates glanced at one another and some rolled their eyes. Yet, the moment Tanaka began his narration, their doubt faded, as did the mist in his eyes. In his voice, the characters, their passions, cares, and woes lived again. Genji himself could not have been more tender wooing the latest courtesan to bewitch his heart.

  Tanaka’s enthusiasm peaked during our subsequent discussion. It was as though he were hosting a party, intent on acknowledging every guest with personal kindness. His animation was contagious; not one person frowned in boredom. The remainder of class passed quickly.

  At the class’s end, I went to his desk. Our eyes met, and I spoke with uncommon ease. “You read Murasaki’s work well.” As my cheeks went pink, I let my gaze fall to the tabletop. Tanaka wore a band on his ring finger, but compared to his watch, the gold was rather dull.

  “No, no,” he insisted. “Many read it better.”

  “It seems to me that you share a special understanding with Genji.”

  Tanaka’s smile bloomed slowly, a reluctant flower. “Yes, you could say that. Forgive me, what was your name?”

  “Shinhada, Yoriko.” Midway through my bow, I noticed his outstretched hand. As I shook it, his warmth flowed through me, even as the ring stung me with its grave-cold fire.

  “Do you have a class this next hour?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Perhaps you will join me for a cup of tea? We can continue our discussion of Heian literature.”

  I agreed. We drifted in silence down an avenue lined with cherry trees to the nearby coffee shop. When I glanced at Tanaka, the beauty of falling flowers had seduced him. Even at the coffee shop, Tanaka only emerged from his dream when the hostess welcomed us with a proclamation of “Irashaimase!”

  Over steaming cups of green tea, we talked in detail of Heian literature. Our conversation was so lively and comfortable that I almost forgot that he was a teacher, and I a mere student. The remnants of Tanaka’s cigarettes soon eclipsed the glass bottom of the ash tray between us. Smoke rose like wisps of the past summoned by our words.

  “If only modern society placed as much importance on love and romance as Genji’s society did. Today, everything is so crass and hurried.” I can only describe Tanaka’s reaction as that of a man who had recovered something dear to him, which he had lost for many years.

  “How often I have thought the same thing,” he said. “Though Genji’s society lacked technology, I do not believe ‘conveniences’ have made life easier. Certainly they have not made it more beautiful. We have no time for ceremony or romance anymore.”

  Had Tanaka known me all my life, he could not have articulated my feelings more clearly. My heart beat faster, but before I could voice my agreement, the cuckoo bird announced the hour.

  Tanaka double-checked his watch. “I must return to my office.” He sighed; I wondered if it were in reluctance.

  “Thank you for the discussion,” I said.

  Tanaka nodded, a benign emperor conferring a favor. “I enjoyed it,” he said. “We should endeavor to meet again.”

  Blushing, I nodded my agreement, thankful for the dimness of the coffee shop. Outside, we walked together, still talking until we absolutely had to part ways. Even at my dorm room, Tanaka’s presence pressed around me like a strong embrace. His words lingered in my mind until I could have recited all he said from memory. When I closed my eyes, I found his face trapped beneath my eyelids.

  The next day, I could not stop thinking of Tanaka. It hardly helped that all of my classes were intimately connected with my major, which had never excited me, even before I chose it. Nonetheless, my parents believed my mind was too good to waste on literature. They deemed a major in medical science much more suitable. Heian literature was just an elective, but works from that period were my secret passion. That I had found someone who shared that enthusiasm made my present classes all the more odious. I could not wait for my escape that evening. It would bring me that much closer to tomorrow when I would hear of the Heian period again and see Tanaka.

  I arrived fifteen minutes early for Heian literature on Wednesday, so I took out The Tale of Genji and started to read. No matter how I tried, I could never choose a favorite passage. All of them were so romantic, yet without losing their dark undercurrent of tragedy. I began to imagine a modern era in which Heian-style courtship was still practiced. However, a glimpse of Tanaka, ten minutes early, distracted me from my dream.

  He had stopped at the corner of the hallway to talk with a woman dressed in a white blouse, navy blazer, and matching skirt. Although her voice remained too low for me to hear, her scowl broadcasted her fury as clearly as any shout.

  Tanaka raised his hands as though he pleaded with her. Then both of them noticed me.

  The woman drew in a sharp breath. She made a final remark to Tanaka, then swept past me. Her high heels drummed on the tile.

  Tanaka laughed uneasily when he saw me. “Hello. You’re early.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I did not mean to overhear.”

  “It does not matter.” Shadow tinged Tanaka’s eyes, and I wondered if he heard the words he uttered. “You had no way of knowing we would pass this way.”

  I wondered at once what was on his mind. Was that woman his wife? However, I did not dare to speak of it, lest I embarrass him further.

  In class, Tanaka’s lecture focused on the samurai in The Tale of Heike and how they likened the cherry blossoms to their short, but brilliant lives. Then he announced that a hanami would be held next week outside the coffee shop. In place of class, we would conduct a reading and discussion of our favorite excerpt from The Tale of Genji or The Tale of Heike.

  Once the others departed, Tanaka said, “Tonight is a full moon. Perhaps you will join me for a walk around Sanshiro Pond?”

  My face went hot. It was almost like an invitation in a Heian romance. All I needed was a poetic note from Tanaka written in calligraphy. “Perhaps,” I said.

  That night, moonlight poured like a waterfall from the sky. I found Tanaka sitting by the pond. Together, we ventured into the night. Cherry blossom petals floated like tiny boats on the water. “How like the Japanese people they are,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Our country is a great tree. But ‘the nail that sticks up gets hammered down’. Even if that nail would not have been out of place only a few generations ago, the present has no sympathy for those who prefer the past. The nail that breaks free entirely has no one; the others find it comical at best and pitiable otherwise. Blossoms that break free die alone.” He fell silent.

  “Sometimes, there is a miracle and one blossom finds another, a kindred spirit, and they drift on the wind together before death claims them,” I said.

  Tanaka shook his head. “I have never seen such a th
ing.”

  His somber mood made my laugh hollow and fragile. “You must look, Sensei.” So I said. But my thoughts were in quite another direction. Sensei is alone…as alone as I am.

  {****}

  The next week at the hanami, my classmates drank and joked together over a profusion of bento boxes, which they passed around in lively trade. I wondered what it would be like to have friends and the time to make memories with them. Days without lab research and hours of studying were inconceivable to me. How different would I be if something as simple as saké and karaoke were satisfying?

  When everyone had eaten their fill and sat back watching the cherry blossoms or talking amongst themselves, Tanaka started the readings. I had been practicing my own reading the entire week. Tanaka had so inspired me with his readings that, though I knew I could never speak with his skill, perhaps I could equal his passion.

  Several people read before they passed the