study. Three year. My mother very sad, many time say, ‘Don’t go!’ But then he send picture from your country, always biggg smile! America, he say, little animal country. He think he living movie world — little Disneyland cartoon. But he much much want return.”
“So he’s here now?”
“Now Switzerland. Jung Institute. You know this place?”
“Oh yes. Have you visited him there?”
“I like.” She paused. “But now I am mother part. Japanese system, man visit other country, very easy. But woman must always stay Japan.” A long pause. “Very sad.”
A difficult silence fell. Then she brightened up. “But my son now little learning English. He want go Switzerland. He much love Matterhorn. T.G.V.”
“Really?”
At that moment, the record finished, so she popped up and stepped over to the tower of video monitors, laser videos, and speaker systems. “You like Chris Lay?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know him.”
Her brow creased up in confusion. “You not know Chris Lay?”
“No.”
“Please you try.”
At this, she put on another record, a very, very slow love song, delivered by a husky, infinitely gentle male voice, about alovers’ parting. We listened in silence to the slow, heartfelt ballad, with its drawn-out, wrenching climax: “I’ll always love you … September Blue.”
There was silence.
“Very nice song,” I said brightly, hoping to lighten things up.
“You like? Please one more time.” She bounced up again, pressed a button, and again, in silence, in the empty room, we sat side by side on her couch, listening to the husky, heartrending strains of the teary love song.
When it was finished, Sachiko-san jumped up again. “I write word,” she announced proudly, and then pulled down from the wall a computer printout on which was typed, “ ‘September Blue’ by Chris Rea,” and all the words in English.
I’ll be all right, though I may cry,
The tears that flow, they always dry,
It’s just that I would rather be,
With you now.…
And every time I see that star,
I will say a prayer for you,
Now and forever,
September Blue
.
“You have a computer too?”
“My husband buy.”
“Is he here?” I looked around. Now it was my turn to be confused.
“Not here. He cannot holiday. Every day, much much work.”
“Sunday too?”
“Sunday too. Every day, he come home twelve o’clock.”
A long silence.
“Your country same?”
“No, not really.”
At this point, two small heads suddenly peered around the screen door: one belonging to a boy of about seven and theother to a five-year-old moppet. “Ah, please,” said Sachiko-san, smiling happily. “Please you see. This my son, Hiroshi. This Yuki.”
They stood in silent shyness at the door.
“And today’s her birthday?”
“No. Today no birthday. Two day before.”
“I see,” I said, though of course I didn’t.
Both children stared at me in neat decorum, at once intrigued and, I assumed, faintly unsettled by this funny-looking foreigner. Then their mother invited them to sit down, and the four of us sat in silence in the small room, presided over by rock stars, and listened again to the slow and emotional ballad, with its air of tender intimacy. “I’ll always love you … September Blue.”
The song was just starting up again when Sachiko-san vanished into the kitchen. I looked at the children. The children looked at me. Chris Rea murmured his love. Then Sachiko-san emerged again, bearing a beautiful cake, with fresh strawberries and melon slices — the ultimate Japanese luxury — pieced around the message
O-tanjōbi Omedetō
(Happy Birthday). Lighting the five candles, she went over to the system, turned off “September Blue,” and turned off all the lights. Then, flashing a smile of encouragement at me, by the light of five flickering candles, she began singing, in quavering, high-pitched English, “Happy birthday to you …” I joined in, and her son did too, three wobbly voices in a
“So he’s here now?”
“Now Switzerland. Jung Institute. You know this place?”
“Oh yes. Have you visited him there?”
“I like.” She paused. “But now I am mother part. Japanese system, man visit other country, very easy. But woman must always stay Japan.” A long pause. “Very sad.”
A difficult silence fell. Then she brightened up. “But my son now little learning English. He want go Switzerland. He much love Matterhorn. T.G.V.”
“Really?”
At that moment, the record finished, so she popped up and stepped over to the tower of video monitors, laser videos, and speaker systems. “You like Chris Lay?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know him.”
Her brow creased up in confusion. “You not know Chris Lay?”
“No.”
“Please you try.”
At this, she put on another record, a very, very slow love song, delivered by a husky, infinitely gentle male voice, about alovers’ parting. We listened in silence to the slow, heartfelt ballad, with its drawn-out, wrenching climax: “I’ll always love you … September Blue.”
There was silence.
“Very nice song,” I said brightly, hoping to lighten things up.
“You like? Please one more time.” She bounced up again, pressed a button, and again, in silence, in the empty room, we sat side by side on her couch, listening to the husky, heartrending strains of the teary love song.
When it was finished, Sachiko-san jumped up again. “I write word,” she announced proudly, and then pulled down from the wall a computer printout on which was typed, “ ‘September Blue’ by Chris Rea,” and all the words in English.
I’ll be all right, though I may cry,
The tears that flow, they always dry,
It’s just that I would rather be,
With you now.…
And every time I see that star,
I will say a prayer for you,
Now and forever,
September Blue
.
“You have a computer too?”
“My husband buy.”
“Is he here?” I looked around. Now it was my turn to be confused.
“Not here. He cannot holiday. Every day, much much work.”
“Sunday too?”
“Sunday too. Every day, he come home twelve o’clock.”
A long silence.
“Your country same?”
“No, not really.”
At this point, two small heads suddenly peered around the screen door: one belonging to a boy of about seven and theother to a five-year-old moppet. “Ah, please,” said Sachiko-san, smiling happily. “Please you see. This my son, Hiroshi. This Yuki.”
They stood in silent shyness at the door.
“And today’s her birthday?”
“No. Today no birthday. Two day before.”
“I see,” I said, though of course I didn’t.
Both children stared at me in neat decorum, at once intrigued and, I assumed, faintly unsettled by this funny-looking foreigner. Then their mother invited them to sit down, and the four of us sat in silence in the small room, presided over by rock stars, and listened again to the slow and emotional ballad, with its air of tender intimacy. “I’ll always love you … September Blue.”
The song was just starting up again when Sachiko-san vanished into the kitchen. I looked at the children. The children looked at me. Chris Rea murmured his love. Then Sachiko-san emerged again, bearing a beautiful cake, with fresh strawberries and melon slices — the ultimate Japanese luxury — pieced around the message
O-tanjōbi Omedetō
(Happy Birthday). Lighting the five candles, she went over to the system, turned off “September Blue,” and turned off all the lights. Then, flashing a smile of encouragement at me, by the light of five flickering candles, she began singing, in quavering, high-pitched English, “Happy birthday to you …” I joined in, and her son did too, three wobbly voices in a
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