THE TELEPHONE RINGS.
“Hello? Hello?”
No answer. I put down the receiver next to the towel, keeping the book open with my left hand. I carry out the operation carefully, so I don’t get the book wet. Without leaving my city, without even leaving my neighborhood (except to get something to eat at a restaurant or spend the evening with a gang of liberated Japanese girls), I accompany a poet-monk step by step on his last journey. A young man who sets out on the road—that’s nothing. A man at the end of his life, who can calculate the risks involved, that’s something else entirely.
The telephone goes off again. I can say “Hello” all I want, nobody answers. I hear someone breathing on the other end of the line.
Finally, a small female voice murmurs, “I was sitting near you in the subway three days ago.”
“Who are you?”
“I was sitting on your side of the car, and you were reading Basho.”
I can’t make the connection between the voice and the face. I was expecting an Asian accent.
“Oh, now I remember...”
“No, you’re mixing me up with the Chinese girl across from you that you kept staring at.”
“That happens all the time,” I tell her. “You look at someone, but the whole time someone else is looking at you and you don’t even know it.”
“She was Chinese, but I’m Japanese. That’s normal, since you were in Asiatown.”
“How could you tell she was Chinese?”
“My mother is Korean and my father is Japanese, so I know about that kind of thing. If she isn’t Korean or Japanese, that means she’s Chinese.”
I hear her laughter.
“What about the way they laugh? Is there a difference?”
“Not really. On the other hand, the Japanese vagina is diagonal, but the Korean is horizontal. I don’t know about Chinese girls, if they’re vertical. You see, we’re all very geometrical.”
I laugh. “It’s funny, you don’t have any accent at all. You talk like you and me.”
That really set her off laughing. A regular belly laugh. Admit it, it’s pretty strange that despite these migrations all over the planet—people can’t or won’t stay in their home countries—an accent is still the thing that determines someone’s place on the social ladder, more than race or class. An accent speaks for race and class. An Asian girl speaking English with a French accent is a strange hybrid.
“Do you know Basho?”
“A little.”
“Do you like him?”
“No.”
I have no further questions.
“Then why are you calling me?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone.”
“Where are you?”
“Across the street from your place, standing on the sidewalk.”
“How did you get my phone number?”
“I saw your name on your mailbox and I called Information. They gave me your number. It’s that simple.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Nothing... Nothing at all.”
“Come on up, we’ll see. The door is open.”
“I’ll be right there.”
The girl is determined! Something isn’t right about this business. Since when does a young woman have to make the first move? Still, I’m not dreaming. Have things changed while I wasn’t looking?
Basho had scarcely rested at all after this endless journey, nearly 2,340 kilometers in five months. Sora went with him to Ise, where he had family—we were at the sixth day of the new moon. Basho wanted to attend a ceremony, the Transporting of the Relics to a new sanctuary. For one last time, he took up his walking stick with the firm intention of eating the clams at Futami-ga-Ura. He would have to leave Sora once and for all, and the thought saddened him. Basho composed a poem to mark the occasion. Sora left to keep from crying.
Must I choose between Basho and the woman who is about to show up? Between the past, with its fascination, and the present, so warm, so true, so alive? Both attract me, but can I keep them both? That is my dilemma. I slip beneath the surface of the water. The present is already coming up the stairs.