The Gargoyle

IX.

Since the moment I wrote the words, they have haunted me. Wipe that condescending look off your face, you Jap bitch. The urge is always with me to retouch yesterday’s canvas with today’s paintbrush and cover the things that fill me with regret, but I want so desperately to remove these words that I am convinced I must leave them in.

Sayuri Mizumoto is not a bitch and she did not have a condescending look on her face. That much should be obvious. I said those horrible words because I was mad at Marianne Engel for not visiting me in a week.

I am ashamed of how I treated Sayuri and afraid that leaving that sentence in will make me appear racist. How could it not? But I assure you I chose the word “Jap” only because I was looking for any advantage that might make Sayuri feel vulnerable. I used the word not because I think Japanese people are inferior, but on the possibility that Sayuri might feel herself inferior, being Japanese in a non-Japanese culture. (As I’ve gotten to know her better, I’ve discovered that she absolutely does not have an ethnic inferiority complex.) And just as the word “Jap” suggests racism, so the word “bitch” suggests misogyny, but the truth is that I dislike most men as much as I dislike most women. If anything, I am an equal opportunity misanthropist.

Or rather, I was. I believe that I have changed since the day I attacked Sayuri. While I’m not claiming that I now feel great love for all people, I can state with some confidence that I hate fewer people than I used to. This may seem like a weak claim to personal growth, but sometimes these things should be judged by distance traveled rather than by current position.

Dr. Gregor Hnatiuk, in righteous anger, was beautiful to behold. He stormed into my room to demand that I apologize to Ms. Mizumoto. Apparently he was behind the times: he’d heard of my insult, but not about my Japanese-speaking act of contrition. But still, it was breathtaking to see the shine on his sweaty brow as he defended the honor of the fair lady.

It was then that I understood upon whom he had his crush.

I explained that all the necessary fences had been mended and added that in the process Sayuri had even found a new companion with whom to speak Japanese. This placated Gregor somewhat, but he still felt it necessary to throw one final barb. “Someday you’ll have to learn that your big mouth is the front gate of all misfortune.”

“Yes, Gregor, I’ve heard that before,” I said. “From Sayuri.”

His chipmunk cheeks turned red. It was obvious that just hearing her name spoken aloud was enough to unsettle him, and the way he spun on his heel to exit confirmed all my suspicions.

At the door he stopped suddenly, turned back around, and said: “Marianne can speak Japanese?”

What follows is a translation of the conversation between Marianne Engel and Sayuri Mizumoto.

Marianne Engel: Ms. Mizumoto. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Marianne Engel.

Sayuri Mizumoto: Is it so? It’s nice to meet you, too. Please treat me favorably. You can speak Japanese?

Marianne Engel: A little bit. I lived on a lavender farm in Hokkaido for a number of years. May I ask, is your first name the Chinese character for “Small Lily”?

Sayuri Mizumoto: Yes, it is. Your Japanese is very good.

Marianne Engel: No, it’s not. And your family name means “Source of the Water,” doesn’t it?

Sayuri Mizumoto: Yes, it does.

Marianne Engel: Your name bodes very well for my friend. Please take good care of him. Please forgive his very bad manners.

Sayuri Mizumoto: Yes, I will do my best.

The question: how can I include a translation of a conversation that I did not understand when it was first spoken?

The answer: Sayuri helped me. She assures me that it’s faithful to the original conversation but I really have no way of knowing that it is, other than to trust her. Which I do, mostly, although I still have a nagging fear that the whole thing is a massive manuscript error that Titivillus will throw into his sack for Satan to use against me on Judgment Day. But this is a chance I’ll have to take.

I’m pleased to report that my cruel words did not fatally sabotage what has grown into a friendship between us. In the many hours that we’ve spent together, I’ve learned the truth of Sayuri’s childhood (or, at least, her version of it), as I reported earlier.

But what I have learned above all else, in the years that have passed, is that Sayuri Mizumoto is an exceptional woman. What other word could be used to describe a woman who has helped with translations for a book in which she’s called a Jap bitch?

Sayuri and Marianne Engel decided to work together on my rehabilitation program. Dr. Edwards had some reservations about the idea, but acquiesced when Sayuri suggested that a partner would make the program both easier and more enjoyable for me.

I had stood and even taken a few steps, but Sayuri wanted me walking. The process was not going to be as simple as me jumping out of bed and lurching down the hall. She brought in a special chair that allowed my legs to dangle while she crouched in front of me, pedaling my legs in circles. She, or Marianne Engel, would press her hands against my soles to mimic the resistance of the ground, and I was to push back against them. Sounds simple; wasn’t.

At the end of each session, Sayuri would make me stand for as many seconds as I could. It was never very long, but she’d yell “Fight! Fight! Fight!” to encourage me. When I could take it no more, I was placed back in bed and we’d review the day’s progress.

Sometimes Marianne Engel would hold my hand and I’d have trouble concentrating on what Sayuri was saying.

Marianne Engel arrived in clothes so dusty I was surprised they’d let her in. She must have sneaked past the nurses’ station, although I don’t know how that was entirely possible, as she was dragging her two hampers. When she squatted to start unloading them, I saw a little cloud of dust cough out of the crook of her knee.

“I’ve been thinking about the story of Francesco and Graziana,” I blurted, remembering that I had never updated Marianne Engel about the improvement to the idealistic aspects of my personality. “It’s romantic.”

She laughed at me while pulling bottles of Scotch out of the cold hamper. “These are for Dr. Edwards, Mizumoto san, and the nurses. I’d prefer that you don’t lie to me, but maybe you’ll like tonight’s story better.”

I noticed the dried blood clinging around the edges of her battered fingernails as she took food from the coolers. Fish ’n’ chips, bangers ’n’ mash. Prime rib with pudgy Yorkshire puddings. Finger sandwiches: ham and egg, cheese and vegetables. Scones with strawberry jam. Kaiser buns. Garlic and onion bagels. Herb cream cheese. German butter cheese, Swiss, Gouda, smoked Gruyиre, and Emmenthal. Fresh cucumber salad with yogurt sauce in a delightful little bowl adorned with images of Hдnsel and Gretel. Chunky red potatoes, quartered to show their white interiors; chubby green stems of asparagus, sweating butter; a plump eggplant’s fecund belly pregnant with stuffing. There were fat mutton slices piled up in an obscene monument to arterial sclerosis. A lonely pile of sauerkraut that seemed to have been added at the last moment only because someone had thought there weren’t enough vegetables. Roasted eggs, even though who the hell eats roasted eggs? Then, an abrupt culinary turn towards the Russian states: varenyky (pirogies, in layman’s terms), cavorting with candy-blackened circles of onions, and holubtsi (cabbage rolls, fat with rice) in tangy tomato sauce.

Marianne Engel popped an egg whole into her mouth, as if she hadn’t eaten in days, and devoured it in a manner that was almost bestial. How could someone this hungry not have sampled the meal while preparing it? When she had tamed the worst of her hunger, she announced, “The story of Vicky Wennington has great storms, vigilant love, and saltwater death!”

I settled in, anxious to hear it, and took another bite of the holubtsi.