Short Story: “Holding a Battledore”
Note: This story, heavily autobiographical, is the sixth and last in the Haters and Losers cycle.
It was the era of one’s expertise, the century of Obama. The most popular anime in the West was Shingeki no Kyojin and there was still some hope that the Arab Spring might stick the landing. Nicholas Zussman, soon to go into his seventh semester at UMass Amherst and tenth and hopefully final semester of college overall, walked the streets of Hakodate without much care; the personal crises that had beset him in previous years and the terror about the state of the world that would beset him in years to come were, at the moment, nearing the end of what would turn out to be an approximately eighteen-month-long period of equilibrium. No longer did he feel affronted and insecure about his beliefs about the world and about how to behave; not yet did he realize the various hypocrisies and repressions that he had developed to make up for the loss of the affronts and insecurities. Not yet had his relative comfort in his own moral standards given way to ever-stricter philosophy and theology; or, at least, that process had not yet reached its apogee. He knew enough Japanese to have gotten around well enough for the past five weeks and to have been interpreting, as best he could, for his parents, who were with him; Professor Williams would, he hoped, be more or less pleased with him when he got back, even though he had not been doing this through a formal study-abroad program like he had been encouraged to.
Nicholas, if he was being honest with himself, which on this subject at least he usually was, fervently doubted that he would be able to take a whole year or even a whole semester in Japan, cut off from association in common time with his parents and with his close friends in places like New York and Michigan. Today and tomorrow he was going to spend some time with his friend Sarah, who had been spending the past year at Hokudai and would be returning to America shortly after him to take up her own last year at UMass. They had had a couple of friendly but strained interactions in their first year in the Japanese major; in their second year they had become better acquainted, and they had stayed in touch over the course of Sarah’s time in Sapporo. They had planned this excursion entirely via Facebook message because Nicholas did not have a phone that he could use in Japan; he would just have to trust her bus to arrive in Hakodate when she had said it would.
❦
“Watch this with us,” one of his parents had said once, while they were sitting watching a war movie with his ailing grandfather.
Nicholas’s grandfather had succumbed to Alzheimer’s a few days after the end of Nicholas’s first semester at UMass. The funeral arrangements were difficult because it was scant days before Christmas; eventually they had the funeral over a week after the death, on the Feast of the Holy Innocents; Nicholas had not gone, because it had coincided with his first time ever hosting a certain close friend at his house. He felt a persistent moral anxiety about not having gone even now almost three years later. He supposed he would always feel it.
They had sat there in his grandfather’s den and watched the movie together. It was one of a few movies about either war or old age that he watched at least part of with his grandfather during his last illness, and watching them was always an oddly arcane task. There was some precise intellectual or emotional connection that Nicholas found himself wanting to make in these instances, and he was never quite able to make it. He would have loved to be able to say, in later years, that the reason he had become a Japanese major was a desire to establish his grandfather’s past, in the Pacific, more firmly as something to be worked from and built upon and (in peacetime) transcended. But in later years, and even now, peace had become more fragile again, and besides, the real reason had had more to do with a girl he had liked at fourteen and a book he had read at sixteen. The book had included repeated references to an instrument called a “battledore” that characters posed with in New Year’s Eve photos. He had looked this up once and discovered that a battledore was a type of antiquated badminton racket; this, regrettably, had reminded him of his one or two experiences being told to play badminton in PE when he was in middle and high school, but the word appealed to him anyway. He was all the same not interested in Japan because of the word “battledore.” He never knew quite what to say when people asked him why he was studying Japanese. Maybe it had something to do with how different it was from English. Studying it made him feel like he was putting a great deal of faith in the possibility of world understanding.
Shortly after his time in Japan Nicholas would learn that his grandfather had actually acquired a samurai sword at some point during, presumably, his wartime service. The sword ended up living in his family’s attic for the most part.
❦
Nicholas and Sarah, when they met up, took the Hakodate streetcars here and there. They were going to go look for a beach to swim at but when they got there the tide had risen almost halfway up the sea-wall. Nicholas exploded in a moment of frustration; irritability, during the period of his late adolescence and very early twenties that he spent not being medicated, was a common problem for him. Later in the evening they hauled ass across the city on foot to be in time for a trip up the ropeway to the top of Mount Hakodate.
“This is supposed to be one of the three best ‘views of a city from a mountaintop’ in the world,” said Nicholas as he and Sarah pressed through a crowd on the highest level of the mountaintop’s observation turret.
“I wish it were easier to actually see it,” said Sarah, who was short. Fortunately within a few minutes they managed to press their way forward to a railing. The city spread out fan-shaped before them, spreading along both sides of the hammerhead peninsula of which the mountain was the end. The stars in the dusky sky had fallen to the earth and now shone up back at the heavens. Nicholas would normally consider this insolent; tonight he considered it revealing.
“The other great views are supposed to be Hong Kong and Naples,” said Nicholas, who was unsure what else to say or do about beauty, other than pointing and clicking.
In later years he would dimly remember Sarah having said something in response to this, but he was never sure what.
Earlier that day they had been in a bookstore looking at manga. Nicholas had bought a volume of one, which he hoped to be able to take home and puzzle through later because it was a volume with whose plot he was already more or less familiar by means of English fan translations. The volume would, however, float through time unread until he lost interest in the series. They had gone to a restaurant, a Lucky Pierrot, one of more than a dozen of this chain in Hakodate even though there were none anywhere else, with a friend of Sarah’s who had accompanied her from Sapporo. Lucky Pierrot did burgers and curry and things like that and Nicholas had been to another location of it, further from the station and closer to the harbor, several times with his father since arriving in the city. He had developed a taste for a curry that he would later figure out was probably made with shiokara; he would be glad, once he figured this out, that he had developed a taste for it before he had known what shiokara was, because now his taste could inform his opinion of shiokara rather than having preordained thoughts on shiokara averting his taste. Speaking in a more general sense, he had at least managed to cultivate a deliberate and practiced, yet sincere, neutrality on the subject of nattō.
Each Lucky Pierrot in Hakodate had a different theme to its décor. The one near the harbor (“Lucy Pierrot—Bay Area,” it was called) had a circus theme—understandable, since the logo was a clown. The one near the station had something like a roaring twenties speakeasy theme, but with a faint fifties greaser diner twist to it that Nicholas could not quite place, account for, or accept. In later days his memory would sometimes place this Lucky Pierrot elsewhere in Hakodate, near the old Goryōkaku fort, for example, and yet on further and more careful remembrance he recalled that it had in fact been some cooler-energied, probably ostensibly higher-end place where they had stopped to eat after visiting Goryōkaku. They had had salad and a conversation that he enjoyed and found meaningful at the time but did not long remember. He would kick himself for “not having gotten enough” out of his time in Japan in general, further on down the road—he had not gone here, he had not done that, he had defaulted to working with a concierge’s limited English rather than soldiering on with his Japanese all over yonder. It was part of the top-heavy and constantly teetering nature of his happiness, of the equilibrium in which he had temporarily found himself and which he foolishly pretend could, or for that matter should, last forever. Yet he would always keep firmly in mind the logo of Lucky Pierrot. He knew that some hack writer or psychologist might judge him for this and take it as a sign of psychic “brandedness.” For once he didn’t care. He made good memories here.
He kept getting the shiokara curries partially because he did not eat red meat and partially because he wanted to eat Japanese food while he was in Japan, to the greatest extent possible. From time to time he wondered if this was voyeuristic, or touristy rather than pilgrimwise. The taste—sticky, salty, pungent, but feinting at and seeking to remind one of sweetness—appealed to him immediately, and grew on him as his time in Hakodate went on. He had it at least once a day.
❦
A few evenings ago, while out with his father, Nicholas had seen a young woman in a duffel coat and newsboy hat cranking out “Country Roads” on a hand organ that spewed downy feathers and bubbles. She had been standing at the edge of a pedestrian streetway by some old redbrick warehouses, which had shops and restaurants in them now, on the edge of the harbor. When Nicholas had taken some video of her with his camera she had seemed a little uncomfortable and possibly even shamefaced, even though she was the one out here in the late summer evening playing this music. It was possible to envision her as a being akin to one of the late-summer fireflies in the book that he loved. It was possible to envision the feathers and bubbles as entities pertaining to the refraction index of the wind and the clouds. It was not a feeling that he had had before. He had laid hold of it for only a moment. He knew that the song was much-loved in Japan, but something about it still seemed a little more playful than he would have thought apposite.
He guessed it was a good thing, that being the case, that it was not really his opinion that mattered here. He did not want to reduce his own status in his own or anybody else’s eyes, but he wanted to want that. A history of taking actions to make himself impressive would eventually have to all fall down so that a future of self-surrender and sacrifice could take its place. Being here was one way of making himself impressive and humiliating himself at the same time; his height was much remarked-upon, in furtive remarks that the people making them assumed that he as a foreigner could not understand; some of these remarks were impressed or a little frightened and some were obviously derisive. These remarks he would turn into stories, anecdotes about traveling in a country his stature in which would always have been and perhaps ought always to have been athrill with ambiguities.
There were two young women staying at the same bed and breakfast, which styled itself a bed and breakfast rather than a ryokan, as Nicholas and his father. These young women were Japanese, traveling around the country after some time spent abroad in America, studying at a certain West Coast university. In these women one might have seen a partial answer to Nicholas’s own questions about his status in Japan. They could speak to one another in two languages, but there was not necessarily much about which to talk—less, perhaps, than with the middle-aged obasan who had woken up Nicholas and his parents at seven o’ clock sharp every morning for a feverishly prepared breakfast at the ryokan in which they had stayed near Aomori. The question of his stature in Japan was the question of his stature with people like that, in the same way in which the question of these younger women’s stature in America would have been the question of their stature with people like his aunts and uncle.
Nicholas was prone to this sort of pontificating and these sorts of attempts to deduce moral and political meaning from his everyday experiences rather than believing in and delighting in the flow of events as they in fact overtook him. A few times in Hakodate, and more before in Aomori and in Kyōto, he had been able to take a step back and let experiences and happinesses flow through his hands as if letting a pearl necklace fall to the floor: On a train ride, a day trip to Nara; snoozing on another train, going over the mountains of Ōu; looking out over Lake Towada from the passenger’s window of a rental car doing a circumnavigation thereof; watching fireflies in a little marsh above a reservoir in the deep blue part of the evening next to the cab driver who had ferried his family thence. The moment at the top of the mountain with Sarah had been a moment like this. He tried as much as possible to savor moments like this and make them the clear, core, cogent parts of the way he understood himself, but had not lived much (in ways that were positive) and in the future he would have too much fear for the world to carry on a love affair with it. He was just at the beginning of trying to live within limits that both he himself and the world were imposing on him. Even future periods spent doubting his religious beliefs, or having agonizing bizarre adventures over his relationship with gender, or what you will, were in their ways attempts to accept limits.
❦
He kept beating himself up for not having been to that fucking funeral. Most of the time he did not think much about it but occasionally it would come roaring back into his head as a betrayal. There had been things not to care for about his grandfather but over the years of his long last illness Nicholas had grown a ferocious fondness for him, hard to explain. “Yeah, apparently he was in the Pacific for three years or so,” he said to Sarah at one point in their two days exploring the city together.
“Did he know you were majoring in Japanese?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. I only transferred to UMass half a year before he died so I don’t know how much of it he was able to internalize. I hope he knew that. I’d tell him sometimes and he was always interested to hear it.”
“That would have been on breaks from our first semester.”
“Yes. I don’t remember our first semester having gone very well.” Sarah shrugged. “Remember that time I hurt my leg in that game Terayama-sensei had us play?” Nicholas asked.
“Yeah, I do,” said Sarah, glancing up at the ceiling of the trolley, the trolley that was bedecked for an anniversary year. “I think that’s the first thing I remember about you, actually.”
“I think you’re not the only one in our major who remembers that about me. There are also probably a few who’ve dropped out of the major. Didn’t Mary say it has the highest attrition rate on campus—like, higher than chemical engineering?”
“I’ve heard that from a lot of people,” said Sarah. “Come to think of it, you and I aren’t the sorts of people who’d make ‘ideal’ Japanese majors, are we?”
“By which you mean we’re weebs,” said Nicholas who had become interested in Japan through a girl he had liked at fourteen who had had the word “anime” in her email address.
“Put it however you like,” said Sarah.
Nicholas had earlier in the summer lost touch with that girl, Nora, but he did not know yet at the time that he had lost touch with her. His family was preparing, once they got back from Japan, to start the process of moving away from where they had been living for the past decade—near where Nora lived—and rapidly and speedily he would lose touch with quite a few of the people had been to middle and high school with. It did not help that Nora did not have a Facebook. Very charitably and helpfully he might have spent some time wishing that whether or not you were “in touch with” another person did not revolve, these days, so much around online contact. He kept Nora’s phone number, as he remembered it, in years to come. He kept the address of the ryokan in Aomori, too, and his father kept the immigrant owners of an Indian restaurant in Ōdate as Skype contacts.
He tried to stay in touch with these people in much the same way that he tried to stay in touch with his family in Cape Cod, but the family in Cape Cod was reaching out to him as well so with them he had more success. He had developed a liking for seaside towns during visits to Cape Cod as a child; Hakodate, so much like what he had heard said about San Francisco, for him was also a sort of overgrown Hyannis or Chatham. One New Year’s Eve in Chatham he had had a horrible fight with his mother; in Hakodate he had much less strenuous arguments with his father about where to go to dinner or when to go to sleep. He could take the trolley around Hakodate by himself using a daily pass in which he had written his name and the date “8/13/25,” the “25” referring not to the Anni Domini but to the Heisei Era. This was an improvement over Cape Cod, which he had never actually driven around himself and would not get the chance to drive around himself for another several years. In Cape Cod all he could do was to ask to be chauffeured, something that he had sometimes, in his middle and later teens, wondered whether he should maybe find a little more embarrassing than he did. He certainly found it embarrassing now, looking back.
On Cape Cod his aunt and uncle lived in a house overlooking a large pond along a tidal river. He could see fancier houses across the pond; in one of them they left their lights on throughout the night. Coming into Hakodate on the train from Aomori he had seen the city itself spread out white and gleaming from across the bay—white and shining, yes, in the distance, too far out and too far behind the glass of the train windows to be smelled or heard. Here was a city that, after his father had had a health scare in Hachinohe the previous week, the doctor at the Hachinohe hospital had had him understand to be bigger, with more amenities and more to do, in those respects perhaps safer, a safer city in which to be sick. He did not know about hospitals on Cape Cod; the entire Cape’s population was less than that of Hakodate, except in the heightened weekends of high summer in which he and his mother had never liked to visit it anyway. He knew there was one in Hyannis. He had never spent much time in Hyannis. He had gotten a Jerusalem Bible with full plate illustrations by Salvador Dali at a used bookstore in Hyannis.
“You definitely do want to look back at what brought you here, sitting here,” said Sarah on the trolley. “Now that we’re going into our last year.”
“Yes,” said Nicholas, “even if you were able to come here earlier than I was and for longer.”
Sarah shrugged. “Do you think you would have had a good time with a year at Hokudai?”
“There are people I would have missed terribly.”
“For me too,” said Sarah (referring, potentially, to her girlfriend, all about whom she would tell Nicholas that night as they were schlepping back across the city from the tide-submerged evening beach).
Normally Nicholas was proud not to feel a need to be entirely like his friends.
❦
Traveling around northern Japan required a lot of hauling luggage around; laundry was an occasional necessity, and Nicholas and his parents had at least two large pieces of luggage each. His mother had actually left Japan before the arrival in Hakodate to return to America to manage the move out of their current house, but he kept thinking of her as somehow still there and he kept wondering what she would think of all the places he and his father were going together. A period of frustration in Hirosaki, a city that he liked not nearly as much as he had expected to, had led to a meltdown and discussion of the possibility of returning home early; but he had turned things around, partially out of the firm hope and desire of seeing another friend in Japan—he had seen another UMass friend, Alba, in Kyōto a little less than a month ago. At one point Nicholas and his father sent his mother some pictures from a public garden that proudly displayed Lythrum salicaria, purple loosestrife, as a characteristically Japanese flower; all three were used to thinking of loosestrife as an undesirable, invasive weed, albeit a pretty one, and had a hard time thinking of this as a place in which it was native and beloved. Later Nicholas would find out that loosestrife was considered one of the premiere biological pest control success stories. By the time he learned that, by which he had long since been ensconced in the United States again, it was hard to go back to thinking of it as pestilential.
Japan had not afforded Nicholas any opportunity for religious practice, primarily because he had not been trying hard enough to make and keep it a priority. In Hakodate there was a certain intersection, on the lower slopes of the mountain looking down over the harbor towards the station, where there was on each corner a house of worship of a different denomination: A Roman Catholic church, a Russian Orthodox church, an Anglican church, and (next to a teahouse) a Pure Land Buddhist temple. The first two of these had been founded in the 1860s and 1870s as missionary parishes for the conversion of the people of the raw frontier city and for the benefit of French and Russian soldiers, diplomats, and dignitaries. The Anglican church had a shorter history and a vastly more modern style of architecture. The Pure Land temple was difficult to find out much about.
There were also great old houses and ambassadorial buildings executed in beautiful Victorian styles in the neighborhoods along the slope, beautiful so differently from the Edo-period townhouse that Nicholas remembered from his week in Kyōto. He and Sarah looked at a few of these on their perambulations throughout the city but did not go inside. Though he thought briefly that he might like to live in a house like that, he decided eventually that it would be too high and mighty, too grandiloquent and authoritative. The bricks and white-trimmed façade of the old Russian consulate, in particular, radiated a feeling of coiled but somehow still kinetic forcefulness.
“Buildings like that impress me but they also kind of give me the creeps,” he said. “It’s like they have an orbit you get sucked into.”
❦
They went to a junk shop near the harbor while they were in Hakodate. Nicholas in after years couldn’t remember what if anything Sarah had bought, but he remembered his own purchases very clearly. There was a blue-and-white matryoshka for his mother, which put him in mind of the Russian on the public signs and the forceful Russian consulate up on the slopes. There was a little metal cross, with vague ornamentations at the end of each arm—one of the wires of which the cross was made flaring out to either side at each end; this also reminded him of the consulate, and of the Orthodox church at that intersection, even though it was a Latin cross. And there was a little wooden figurine of a Hokkaidō bear.
He also saw a battledore in the junk shop. It turned out that the Japanese word was “hanetsuki.” It was small, obviously ornamental, and had a painting of small birds eating berries on it. It would appear—so he learned—that Japanese people oftentimes still posed with ornamental battledores in New Year’s Eve photos, even though actually playing the game associated with them had fallen out of custom after the war. He thought of his grandfather coming as an avenger over the sea to stop war criminals and mass rapists from playing battledore and shuttlecock. It was an unexpectedly repellent thing to think about. He did not get the battledore; he decided that the matryoshka, and the cross, and the bear would make a better set of purchases.
From a house near the junk shop he could hear someone playing one of last year’s Taylor Swift singles. He bopped his head a little to the beat, half-consciously.
❦
The next day he and Sarah looked around a bookstore and squeezed in a tiny bit of window-shopping in a department store before Sarah and her friend had to get on the bus back to Sapporo. They also went to an onsen. Nicholas had been in onsen before, in Aomori, but it had been in a very small ryokan indeed and he had always gone in the middle of the night and been the only one there. At the onsen in Hakodate that they went to he would have to be around a number of other people in variously more or less entire states of undress. If it had been with family members or close friends, or if he had been more acclimated to Japan, he probably would not have had a problem with this; but as it was, the prospect frightened him a little, and he spent the time that Sarah and her friend were in the onsen sitting in a vestibule reading an old copy of Hesperides that he had picked up at a used bookstore just before coming to Japan. He had been toting it around more than any of his books of Japanese poems and stories because it was a durable old clothbound hardcover while the others were trade paperbacks. In after years he would look back on the opportunities that he had had to buy materials from the Edo period and the Meiji era in used bookstores in cities like Kyōto and Hirosaki. It would be a subject of significant regret for him, as would be not trying out this onsen.
He saw off Sarah and her friend at the station and then took the trolley back to Jūjigai, the closest stop to his and his father’s bread and breakfast. He hit the computer for a few hours—a pastime that had not yet reached its apogee of being a problematic time-suck for him—before it was time to go out for dinner, at Lucky Pierrot again. He had had one non-Lucky Pierrot dinner in Hakodate; it had been at a German-style restaurant and beer hall in or near the redbrick warehouses. Already he could barely remember what he had eaten there; he liked to think it had been a mix of the local and the universal, like a hot soft pretzel with some squid, or flying fish roe with sauerkraut on the side. But for now there was Lucky Pierrot and there was shiokara curry over rice. He ate the curry then and walked to a convenience store later, late at night, to get an ice cream bar. The convenience stores had been a fixture for him since he had been in Japan; the best had been in Kyōto, but there had been good ones in Hirosaki, Ōdate, Hachinohe, and now Hakodate too. His memory flashed back to the hotel in Ōdate where he and his father had stayed for a few days. It was decorated in a style that had probably been impressive thirty or forty years ago and retained some capacity to impress now, and in its lobby there had been a little coffee and tea bar. He wasn’t sure he would be able, if he were asked, to explain what about this moment reminded him of that place, nor what about future moments would remind him, often and again, of Hakodate.
❦
The following day Nicholas and his father left the city for Morioka by way of Aomori. The train bound for Aomori went widdershins around the bay, and it was out of the port side of the car that he watched the gleaming buildings of Hakodate disappear from sight.