Intermarriage fruit: I marry a Japanese man

Author: Tang Shaocai / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2000-07-01
Features: My classmate Xiao Wu, who just graduated from Shanghai High School, still has a childlike speech but studies diligently, preparing to take the college entrance exam after graduation. The student behind me, Wei, also from Shanghai, is smooth-talking and worldly-wise. He was one of the earliest Chinese bar managers at Yin Zhao. He studies "life-and-death at stake" (desperate and hardworking), but only in spoken Japanese, because he needs it to "fight a war of eight years" with the Japanese. He introduced me to his bar, where the salary was higher than in Ichibukuro, and the customers were easy to deal with. I thought for a moment and declined. I'm not good at Japanese and didn't dare to try recklessly. I also firmly believed that a boss as good as JOJ's mother was not easy to find. If I ended up with a manager like the one who fought with the monk, I would regret it. I couldn't bear to leave for small gains. Several students from the vocational classes of Guilin No. 7 Middle School wrote to me in succession, envying me for going abroad and wanting to know about life overseas. They also told me that the Party School would be converted into a vocational high school. I wrote back a couple of times, but found it pointless to speak in Japanese and deceive these students, so I stopped replying. At the same time, I was looking for other opportunities. Japanese language schools and bars were only temporary for me and did not mean forever. In Guilin, I happened to meet a Japanese tourist named Suzuki, who was a postcard painter. At that time, I was walking with my daughter on the Flower Bridge, and after he took a photo, he gave me his address and asked me to visit him in Japan. I visited him on a Sunday. His studio was in Koto Ward, and it was eye-opening to see that he didn't hand-paint; he used all computer tools. Almost like many small painters, his situation was not optimistic. He didn't always have enough orders each month, and not all the designed postcards could be printed by publishers—times were changing too fast, and there were too many competitors. Although he could survive, he wasn't living well. I was extremely disappointed, and my once-cooled enthusiasm was almost frozen. Even he was living a modest life, and as a middle school teacher in China, what could I achieve? I had nothing to say, gave him some Chinese gifts, had a meal with his family at his home, and then left. Another hope I had was to hold an art exhibition. At that time, just as I wished, Kawashima invited a calligrapher and a traditional painter from Guilin to hold a "Guilin Calligraphers and Painters Exhibition" at Tōbu Department Store, and also invited us to participate. I exhibited watercolors and prints, performed portraits, and Yujin painted Chinese paintings, while Xiao Lieng carved seals, and the Jin siblings did translation. The Akira couple, though unrelated to calligraphy and painting, came to support. After the exhibition opened for a few days, everyone had their gains, except me, who only sold a few small watercolor paintings. Chinese painting's "freehand brushwork" can be done with a few strokes, but my paintings took a lot of time. I set the prices too high, and even though Kawashima repeatedly asked me to lower them, I refused. They even thought it was too cheap, and every time someone took one of my paintings, it felt like they were taking a piece of my flesh away. The advantage of holding this exhibition was that Kawashima took us on a trip to Yokohama, Kamakura, and finally Hakone. I wasn't very interested in indulging my taste buds, but I lingered on the vast seas along the way—the train line near Yokohama was lined with the sea, the waves shimmering in the sunlight. I had never seen such a magnificent scene. Kamakura meant little to me at the time, because I had only a superficial understanding of Buddhism and couldn't deeply connect with it. I took a few photos and moved on. In 1989, the port of Yokohama and Hakone gave me an unprecedented feeling. The famous Sculpture Forest Museum showed me a world that was both thrilling and moving. Many masterpieces resonated with me and sparked my imagination—they must have also had years of obscurity like me. Who said I would always be living under someone else's roof? I would find a way—I looked out the window of the train returning to Tokyo, watching the beautiful autumn scenery outside flash by. "Heaven has given me a talent, and I will surely use it," I reaffirmed my confidence.
Men were returning to China. The first among the Guilin natives to return was Taigong, even though he still had two months left on his visa. Before returning, he gave up all his entertainment and only played "Bajingke" because there were no such bars left in China for him to enjoy. I played once too, invited by a customer to see the sights, but grew bored before the coins in my hand ran out. The deafening sound of the balls made me restless, and I couldn't enjoy it at all. It was better to sleep at home, so I stopped going. Akira also didn't like this. She was completely different from Taigong, and I couldn't understand how they ended up together. She aspired to study fashion design and planned to open a fashion company when she returned to China. The couple must have argued for a while, but Taigong finally gave in and allowed her to stay and complete her studies. The next to leave was Mr. Jin. He too realized that his prospects were dim, and staying longer made no sense. Miss Jin refused to leave and eagerly immersed herself in Japanese society. I rarely saw her and only occasionally spoke to her on the phone. Although our apartments were only a few steps apart. Xiao Lieng also stopped attending school and seized every opportunity to sell the calligraphy and handicrafts he had brought out. He was preparing to return to his original travel agency job, where he had secured permission to continue leading tours even after returning. Yujin was restless and eager to return, but he was also more cautious and timid than anyone else, afraid that he wouldn't be able to open an art studio in China and lose his visa, leaving him stranded. According to the information from Guilin, the art studio was completely different from what he had done before. The translator and the boss had their own ways, and taxes were stricter, making it harder to make a living. He was about to graduate from the Japanese language school, and if he didn't continue his studies at a specialized school, he wouldn't be able to get a visa. He had come to Japan not to study. Continuing his education would require paying tuition fees, the classes would be long, and working hours would be shorter, only a few hours at night. His classmates were pessimistic about returning to China. They couldn't make a living and couldn't go back to their original jobs, even if they did, they wouldn't fit in. So, they all decided to stay in Japan: go to university, attend a specialized school, or become "illegal residents"—what the authorities called "illegal overstays." He had met an illegal resident at a bus stop. Although he didn't have to worry about attending classes or paying tuition, he had something else added to his face: fear. He was wary and suspicious of everyone, as if the police might suddenly appear from nowhere. He knew he wasn't a thief, yet he was more timid and guilty than a thief. Chinese people feared the police, and it was common for them to suddenly check passports and alien registration cards. These documents were crucial, and we usually didn't carry them with us for fear of losing them. If the police got hold of them, they would cause trouble based on the Japanese Immigration Control Act. So, the eyes of Chinese people were fundamentally different from those of the Japanese. The eyes of Chinese people always flashed with unease and fear, unlike the Japanese, who were calm and composed, with steady and peaceful gazes. Yujin couldn't stand this kind of sneaky life. On nights of indecision, we repeatedly discussed his decision to stay or go. Starting an art studio at home would mean starting from scratch, but life would be stable and relaxed, and there was even a chance to get rich. Many art studio owners in Guilin had become wealthier than the Japanese. Staying would give him much less flexibility, confined only to the funeral company, living under someone else's roof. He had come to Japan to open up broader life paths, but now he found Japan to be extremely narrow, leaving him with no way out. His daughter still haunted him day and night, and he grew more and more desperate to see her with his own eyes. She was already two years old, and her grandmother could take care of her, so he would bring her back from her grandmother's house to attend kindergarten. The other children called their parents "Dad" and "Mom," but she would shout "Japan, Japan" in excitement, thinking Japan was their parents. Every time my mother wrote about these details in her letters, my heart ached, and I tossed and turned on the tatami mat, unable to sleep. We used a public phone to call her about once a month. On the phone, she would call her father "Guangban" and tease him like an adult. Every time the call ended, we felt completely drained, as if the world had darkened.
We would eventually return when the leaves fell from the trees, and Japan was just a temporary stop in life. I could earn a high salary, but Yujin could only earn money in China, where his advantages far outweighed those in Japan. Taigong did well after returning to China. He expanded his art studio beyond its original size and lived a life of indulgence, riding motorcycles around the streets and boasting to everyone about his foresight in choosing to return. Moreover, Yujin's parents were getting older, and he should also fulfill his filial duties. What we never expected was that his return alone would lead to our eventual separation. In Japan, within a year, my ability to earn yen completely reversed—I earned more than twice as much as him. Unconsciously, I began to look down on him, thinking he had aged and changed, that he was no longer as capable as the Japanese I had met. Now, I realize that he hadn't changed at all; he had always been like that. What changed was me—I had changed. In the past, whenever he worked, how he worked, or what he did, I could only imagine based on his description. Because my family had never had anyone in business, I had a mysterious reverence for him. Now, with life taking a sharp turn, we were truly sailing together, and everything about him was laid bare before me, no longer able to hide from my eyes. I could see him clearly, objectively, and distinctly, seeing his capabilities and level. I realized that he was just an ordinary person at this level. In the past, every time he failed, he blamed his bad luck or lack of opportunity. In reality, even if he had a chance, he could only achieve small-town success and never become a big shot. I didn't realize this at the time, only thinking that he was old and that's why he wasn't doing well.