A Burden of Flowers

by Ikezawa, Natsuki; Birnbaum, Alfred

• ISBN13: 9784770026866
• ISBN10: 4770026862
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2002-02-01
• Publisher: Kodansha USA Inc

Summary

The action centers on Asia-traveling Japanese artist "Tez" Nishijima and his Europhile sister Kaoru. When Tez is arrested in Bali on charges of heroin trafficking and faces the death penalty, his parents are paralyzed with shame, leaving his Paris-based sister to come to the rescue. She enlists the help of an old expert on Indonesia and two of his friends, and - "like Dorothy with the Tin Man, Cowardly Lion, and Scarecrow" - sets off to challenge a shadowy and, to her, very alien situation.
Her brother, languishing in jail, thinks back over his journeys in Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam, to the two women - one sweet, one sinister - who changed his life there, to his subsequent slow spiral into drug addiction...and to the day a police stooge planted a cigarette carton filled with heroin in his room in the Kuta Beach "backpack territory" of Bali.
Tez's life hangs in the balance, tipped one way by the maneuverings of a dangerous senior police officer, and the other way by the investigative efforts of an undercover agent who, in a powerful climax, is shot and left for dead.

Excerpts

Chapter One

KAORU

* * *

Bali isn't Paris, though both are islands not that I ever really understood how the Greater Parisian Ile de France could claim to be an island in the middle of continental Europe. Or, for that matter, how so many Japanese, never having been abroad, could so easily confuse tropical Bari with gay Pari ( Ls and Rs being all the same to us). As if Japan itself were the mainland and anywhere else just another blip on the map.

    But then again, it never used to bother me that Japan saw itself as "not-Asia," a land apart. Maybe because at the time I, too, knew nothing about Asia. Meaning, I'd never been anywhere near places like Indonesia. Certainly the Paris-Tokyo-Bali connection was something I never expected.

    In 1980, I lived in Paris, a foreign girl studying at the Sorbonne, staying in a Catholic dormitory on the Ile Saint-Louis, upstream from the Ile de la Cité. Strolling from the Quartier Latin along the riverside to the Pont Tournelle where I crossed, I often imagined how Little Louis must feel with his eternal tail-end view of his big brother Cité. One of these days they would sail down the Seine to the sea--to the Caribbean or up the Orinoco or even to Java. My little island was just waiting for the day, only big brother never seemed to make up his mind.

    The early 80s weren't so bad. Not yet. America's war in Vietnam was five years history, even as the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan. Thatcher became prime minister in England, though French President Giscard-Destaing still had a year to go in office LPs and 45s and cassettes were the music media of choice. No merchandise in any store had barcodes. And one franc was worth fifty yen, so for an exchange student from Japan, Paris still bordered on the affordable.

    France was a little more tolerant toward foreign students in those days. Certain stickling regulations aside, we were allowed to work up to twenty hours a week. This was even as refugees and immigrants and illegal overstays were on the rise, not to mention a steadily spiraling unemployment rate. But apparently some sectors of society still had a degree of largesse . Anyway, most of us dorm students received no money from home, so we met day-to-day expenses by doing the odd job. I myself found part-time employment at a tiny agence de voyage --a travel agency, or more accurately a cheap ticket shop--tucked away at the St. Michel end of the Quartier Latin.

    I was fifteen minutes on foot to the university and from there to work another five minutes. A pleasant walk, with plenty to see en route. After afternoon classes, I'd stroll across the Rue des Ecoles, cut through the "olive oil ghetto" of Greek and Turkish eateries on the Rue de la Hache, and a bit further along reach our bureau .

    Volume was our selling point. Different cuts of customer came our way, but the majority were low-budget Euro youths, drifters bound for North Africa and the Middle East. Half of them moved north and south with the seasons like migratory birds. As spring turned to summer, the numbers heading for Scandinavia increased; when the weather turned cold again, they'd be off to the Mediterranean or to Cairo, Tunisia, and Morocco.

    The other half were once-throughs: the eastbound crowd. They wanted out of Europe, preferably by land or sea, spending as little money and as much time as possible. The most dedicated of them never bought plane tickets; they only came to us for information about coaches, then bused out via Rome or Athens for the Asian continent. It wasn't unusual for last year's north-south vacationer to become this year's eastbound trekker. And once they walked out that door not many came back.

    Japanese accounted for less than ten percent of our customers. While white people generally came in male-female couples, almost without exception the Japanese were same sex pairs. One time, Yvonne who sat next to me behind the counter asked, "Are there really so many gays in Japan?" It was all I could do to keep a straight face.

    The ultimate destination for eastbound whites was India. Most people on earth tend to move east, counter to the motion of the sun. Japanese travelers, however, invariably first headed west for Europe. Dozens of scruffy young Japanese backpackers told me they came straight across on the Trans-Siberian Railway. Strange kids, each holding that unique Japanese document, a single-issue passport in perpetuity, its pages to be filled with stamps from countless border crossings--as if the idea of staying away for years on end were their only source of pride. As if returning to Japan would sap their life away.

    One day, an unusually well-dressed customer walked in. Tasteful gray suit and tie, neat horn-rimmed glasses, and slim black leather attaché case --unmistakably Japanese.

    "I desperately need to be in Japan the day after tomorrow. The fare can be a little high," he said in impeccable French. Only later did he really look at me. "Japan? Vietnam? Not Korea or Taiwan. Certainly not as far south as Thailand ...?"

    " Nihon ," I answered in Japanese. This was maybe the second time I'd been mistaken for a Vietnamienne . Vietnamese friends never once said I looked like one of them.

    "About the ticket, I know it won't be easy. It is almost Easter."

    And Easter is peak season in Europe. "Yes, it will be difficult. But I'll see what I can do."

    I made a few phone calls. There were no tickets to be had. "There don't seem to be any," I told him.

    "I know, I went to the other travel agencies and ... nothing."

    Somehow his diffidence made me want to try just a little harder. Who knows why? But for the next hour, I called everywhere , sending feelers into the tiniest pipelines in the complex world of airline ticketing. Straddling agents, waiting, hanging on, flattering, interrupting. Until finally I had it--one single fare to Japan. Feeling rather impressed with myself, I immediately issued the ticket for the man. He beamed with gratitude, counted out a cash sum considerably higher than the going rate, then went on his way. The ordinary out-of-the-ordinary in the ticket trade, but it's still satisfying to know you can really be of service in a pinch.

    The days came and went. I attended my language-and-culture conférence at the Sorbonne, did my hours at the agence , went to the cinema with friends, and wrote the occasional letter to Japan. Paris grew warmer with each passing day and the summer vacances were fast becoming the prime topic of conversation, when out of nowhere the man stopped in again. By then I'd all but forgotten his name: Monsieur Makino.

    "You saved my life. I want to thank you. Let me take you out to dinner." This time he spoke Japanese straight off.

    Poor student that I was, it would have been criminal to turn down such an open invitation. Lunch at the college cafeteria was quite a feast for five francs--starter and main course, even dessert or an asslette de fromages . All the same, sometimes I craved a fifty-franc dinner. And since the man was well-dressed ... well, if he did have other intentions, I could deal with that when the time came. Anyway, the promise of one excellent repas dangled there before me. After two polite back-and-forths, I accepted for two evenings later.

    The rendezvous was set for the Café Flore. Not entirely off-limits to studentkind, but too much of an intellectual snob's place for me ever to set foot in on my own. Paris is a city given to categorizing its inhabitants. Where one goes or doesn't go, what one wears or doesn't wear says everything about one's breeding and pocketbook and schooling and leanings. Thinking ahead to what restaurant might follow the Café Flore, I put on my only half-formal outfit, took pains with my makeup, and arrived exactly ten minutes late. He was sitting at a prominent table out front on the terrasse .

    The tone of the place was a trifle passé perhaps, but any such reservations were more than dispelled by his pleasant conversation. At this sitting, I recall, he played listener for the most part while I talked about student life and the travel agency.

    After thirty minutes or so, Makino suggested we leave. His car was parked nearby. A fairly posh, top model Citroen Sharklike to some eyes, a crushed slipper to others. A toy for a playboy. From his clothes and manner of speech, I had him pinned as a Japanese trading house rep, although trading houses typically had accounts with larger ticketing agencies. Even for personal travel, he'd never come to a discount shop like ours.

    The Citroën ferried us to La Coupole. Why of course! A fitting and proper sequel to Café Flore. Although not an exclusive upper-class establishment --being a brasserie , not a restaurant--it was one of those places where only the right combination of clothes and conversation and wallet gained entry. An arena where successful freelance professionals went to be seen by one another. Trendy and snobbish and fickle, the sort of milieu where waiters and regulars alike passed impromptu judgment on every new face. Merely stepping through those doors was a dare.

    It was becoming less and less clear just who this Makino was. What's more, he seemed to be a known presence there. The waiter addressed him familiarly, and he even greeted a number of other guests on the way to the table.

    "So what do you suppose I do for a living?" Mr. Makino finally asked when it came time for coffee.

    "I don't know. At first I thought you were with a trading firm, but you're not like that at all, are you? And you're not an academic either. And also not the artist-designer-composer-musician type." (At the word "artist," for one split second I saw my brother.) "A dramatist? No, let's not even mention journalism. I give up."

    Makino smiled as he spoke those four inconceivable words: "I'm a Baptist minister."

    Mr. Makino's-- Pastor Makino's--story over our after-dinner demi-crèmes went like this:

    "Both my parents were devout Christians, so naturally I was baptised as a baby, went to church and Sunday school every week. Public primary school, but then it was decided I should go to a Christian middle school. While I never doubted my own faith, I didn't especially think about the Faith. Never imagined a vocation.

    "Middle school was no fun. I wasn't very studious, wasn't good at baseball or track, didn't make many friends. There had to be something else, something outside of school and church. As it was I couldn't apply myself, I was wasting my time.

    "That's when I found bowling. I really had a knack for it, got good just like that. People made such a fuss of me, I couldn't get over it. My parents were easygoing; as long as my grades didn't suffer too much, they didn't say anything. I had a big allowance, and every day after school I'd head straight for the lanes. Weekends I practically lived there. Soon I was competing and winning money. The lanes even asked me to give lessons, which brought in more money. This was around the early 70s ‘bowling boom’ when they were building lanes all over Japan. Everyone was buying bowling shoes and bowling balls.

    "Well, the time came for me to enter high school. There I was, bowling an outstanding average, but handing in less-than-average test papers. Why didn't I just forget about high school and go professional? I'd have more fun, make more money--wouldn't that be a better life all around? It seemed a fairly clear-cut decision to me.

    "My parents panicked. However easygoing they might have been, this overstepped the limits. Whether or not I was thinking about college, at the very least they wanted to see me finish high school. Still I didn't budge. My argument rested on a very obvious skill--I invited my mother and father to tournaments, where they saw me take high-scoring trophies--and on just-as-obvious poor grades. My parents were in a quandary.

    "In the end, we made a deal. That is, I would take the high school entrance exam and give it my full attention. If I passed, I'd go to high school; if I failed, I'd turn bowling pro. And the funny thing was, I passed the exam hands down. Which meant I had to go to high school. I promptly went back on my word and protested to my parents all over again.

    "My poor parents. They went to their minister and told him everything. Let's just call him Pastor K. He was open and fair; he heard out both sides without comment or preaching.

    "‘Might I propose a third alternative?’ he said ‘Say you don't go on to high school, or build your life around a game like bowling. The other day, a young man of my acquaintance formed a company. He asked me to look out for upstanding persons who might like to work with him. Maybe that would be best for you. You have the ability. Why not give it a try?’

    "The company imported clothing from Europe and sold to Japanese department stores. Just out of middle school, I couldn't have been more out of place. Me, who couldn't tell a dress from a blouse, thrust into women's wear. But my parents put great faith in Pastor K, and in the end I turned around. I gave up bowling.

    "My boss, Kei'ichi Goto, was twenty-five at the time. Thinking back on it now, he was awfully young for an entrepreneur. But to me, he was the image of know-how and ambition and resources and connections--I hero-worshiped him. Every day I ferried his samples around to the stores, talked to the buyers, took orders. At sixteen, I couldn't get a driver's license, so I had to dolly that huge display carton onto trains and buses. By evening I'd be dead tired, but it was a good kind of tired. I'd drag that fatigue to night school, and half-slept through French lessons. You see, Goto was already talking about me going along to Paris on buying trips. Not that my piddling French would help much in bargaining. But I had an ear, I guess. Because somehow I got the basics of the language. Day and night I worked at it. For several years, I picked up what I could. There are phases like that in one's life.

    "The lines we imported sold. The start-up timing was good, Goto's eye for styles was good, our choice of outlets was good. Well-heeled women throughout Japan fought to buy our European fashions. The slightest edge over other importers translated into tenfold profits. Goto and I took turns on buying trips. My French had become proficient; I even started learning other European languages. I traveled the capitals of Europe seeking out the best couturiers . I'd snap up several dozen of each line, then head to the next city.

    "The money poured in. I'd have to say we were one of the fastest-growing companies in the business. There I was, twenty-two and living in a condo overlooking the Imperial Palace, driving European imports. I had a steady stream of girlfriends. ‘Growth’ was a beautiful word to my ears. And all thanks to Pastor K!

    "As the company got bigger, Goto thought, why keep bouncing back and forth to Europe, Goto Makino Goto? We decided to set up an office in Paris, with me as branch manager. I found a place, hired staff, and two months later our Paris succursale was on track.

    "A year later, we decided to celebrate our first year in Paris, as well as the tenth anniversary of the company. Goto took a few days off from Tokyo and came over. We decided on La Coupole--that's right, this very restaurant. I came here on my first trip to France, and even after setting up in Paris I probably ate here twice a week.

    "I invited Pastor K to the celebration, I wanted to express my gratitude. After all, it was on his advice that I'd made such a grand succès in the fashion industry, I wrote him, enclosing an airplane ticket, and he came. The celebration went wonderfully. Everyone was happy, we all believed in the company. My future was full-steam ahead, Pastor K was all smiles. Afterwards, I escorted him to his hotel and we sat in the lobby for a while. I told him again it was thanks to him I'd come this far; he'd pointed me in the right direction and I'd found my way.

    "That's when the pastor spoke up. ‘I'm very glad,’ he said. ‘But haven't you already done more than your share for Mr. Goto's company? You've made a great deal of money. Now might be a good time to resign from the business and become a priest. Seriously. From here on, that can be your work. Let me be the one to tell Mr. Goto.’

    "Well, I was in shock. Here I'd spent the last ten years doing exactly as Pastor K said, acting the part he'd cast me in, so to speak. And now that was to change completely. I didn't know what to do. I don't even remember driving back to my apartment in Passy.

    "Pastor K returned to Japan, and I did a lot of soul-searching. Of course, my instincts told me not to pull out of the company. And yet, recalling the lead he'd given me after middle school, I was tempted. What would happen if I listened to him again? The more I thought, the more confused I became. A week later, rather more exhausted than resolved, once again I threw in my lot with Pastor K. I resigned my job--Goto already knew--and entered divinity school. So now I'm back in Paris as a minister, satisfied I made the right choice."

    I heard him out and could only sigh I mean, what a life! What a gamble! Or was it just the daring of a strange character? And this Pastor K of his, reading others' futures--another character.

    Mister-Pastor Makino called over the garçon and paid the bill. Then, turning to me, he said, "I'd like to show you something truly beautiful. Can you spare a little more time?"

    The phrasing seemed just a little too smooth. It put me on guard. Another place after dinner? How was I to know if this story was true? Was he even a man of the cloth? If this was all just to lead me on this late, it was a cheap trick. Better beg off back to the dorm. Still, "truly beautiful" did sound interesting. In Paris, at this hour, what could that be? So in the end I accepted. (All right, maybe I was a little naïve about personal safety in my Sorbonne days.)

    He nosed the slipper-shaped Citroën onto the périphérique and off we sped into the night. We were talked out, we hardly spoke a word in the car. I was a little drunk. Not having driven in Paris myself, I wasn't sure where we were headed. All I knew, it was out past the furthest banlieu . Too late now. I couldn't tell him to let me out in the middle of nowhere.

    Through the car window I tracked the moon. When we first set out I was thinking "truly beautiful" might be moonlight filtering through stained glass windows in a tiny chapel somewhere. That'd be okay, I kept thinking --still thinking so thirty minutes later as we raced along. Ramping off the motorway onto surface roads, we swept past open fields, headlamps beaming down a dark tunnel of trees, until finally the car pulled to a stop.

    "Here we are," said Makino.

    Here we are where? Everything was pitch-black. There was nothing around, but I could hear flowing water. This is where he does me in, I thought.

    The next thing I knew, he was saying he wanted to "baptise" me.

    "To what ?"

    "Baptise you," he said, quite seriously. "Wash away your sins, make you pure again in the eyes of God. I am a minister, after all."

    For crying out loud-- this was his "truly beautiful" scheme?

    "I don't think I want to be baptised just now, okay?"

    "What you want isn't important."

    "But I'm not even Christian!"

    "That's why you should be baptised and become a believer," he insisted.

    "Whatever you say here isn't going to change my mind."

    "Listen. Your soul isn't subject to your whims. With baptism you begin a new life."

    "I'm quite happy with my life up to now, thank you very much."

    So by a dark river in the middle of the pitch-black woods, Makino and I sat arguing. Finally, I threw up my hands. If he wanted to baptise me so badly, well then let him. The soul part I could deal with later. What harm was there in him splashing a little river water on my head?

    No sooner had I said yes than Makino got out of the car, opened the trunk, and pulled out a large, white, fluffy bundle. Robes or cassock or something.

    "Take off what you're wearing and put this on. I'll wait outside." He walked around and opened the hood of the car. The trunk was still open, so there was no looking in from front or back. Next he brought out a black tarp and covered the roof, blocking the side windows.

    Inside Makino's baptism-mobile my hands worked my clothes off piece by piece. Then I pulled his sheet--like a poncho or Greek toga or oversized smock--over my head. It took ages. I could hardly tell the neck from the hem in all that yardage. What was "truly beautiful" about any of this? I ducked under the black tarp and stepped outside.

    It was June, but the riverbank was plenty cold. I was freezing under only a single layer of cotton. The forest huddled close around the car, the river flowing gently, twenty or thirty meters wide. But where was Makino? I couldn't see him anywhere.

    "Over he-ere!"

    I looked in the direction of the voice and there he was, all in white like me--in the middle of the river! Baptism midstream? Not for me, no way. I turned to go back to the car.

    "Over he-ere!" called Makino.

    All right, I'd already come this far, and I couldn't drive--even if I knew where we were. I swallowed what little common sense I had left and walked barefoot across the gravel toward the water. I eased myself in one step at a time. It was so cold, but soon I was up to my ankles, then my calves. The hem of the gown clung wet to my legs. The water passed my knees. It was still a long way over to Makino. I pushed myself forward another step.

    "All the way over he e-ere!"

    One more step. The current was getting stronger. The wet fabric got in the way of walking, so I pulled it up slightly. My legs were numb, but I didn't want to lose my footing. The water was now over my waist. I really had to fight the next steps, the flow was so swift on the bottom.

    I finally made it to Makino. And with not a moment's warning he reached out, grabbed my hair, and plunged my whole head under. Down I went, thrashing about for dear life.

    I knew it! He's a homicidal maniac. Drags me way out in the middle of nowhere, miles outside Paris, hemispheres away from Japan, to kill me in some nameless river. Or only half-drown me before doing something worse! ... He's hurting me ... Why'd I ever accept his invitation to the Café Flore! Was La Coupole to be my last supper? Should never have listened to this pervert, this Baptist lunatic. Icy sharp fast scared angry pain--so many last thoughts in a single moment. Can't breathe. Can't breathe. Going to swallow water ...

    Just then, water gurgling in my ears, I heard Makino saying something up top--not to me, but to someone much higher up. And with that realization, the whole scene changed. My body eased up, I didn't fight what he was doing. Gone was the will to resist. Not that I accepted the Faith then and there--I'm still no Christian--I merely accepted his wanting to wash my soul clean, accepted the waters of the river, the dark stillness of the night. I accepted it all.

    When I knew I wasn't dead, I felt happy. Happy to be alive. What seemed an eternity was over in an instant. Makino pulled me up from the water, his other hand--the one not holding my hair--held aloft. He spoke to the heavens, but only bits of it reached my ears.

    I gasped for breath and, amazingly, there before my eyes was something "truly beautiful." The moon was reflected in the river, glistening off each ripple, framed between the muted silhouette of the trees in a high, vast sky. And the moon was beautiful; each and every moon-bathed riplet was beautiful; the shy, sweet stars were beautiful, too. Never had I seen anything like it. Maybe everything up to then was just to make me see this. If you're prepared to accept what's coming, the world can be this beautiful! Maybe that wasn't the baptism Makino intended, but that's what I experienced that night. And so, through no fault of my own, in a way I was cleansed.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from A Burden of Flowers by Natsuki Ikezawa. Copyright © 2000 by Natsuki Ikezawa. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.