The Tokyo-Montana Express by Richard Brautigan

Author:Richard Brautigan
Language: de
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
ISBN: 9783499126383
Publisher: DELACORTE. NY 1980
Published: 1991-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

The Eyes of Japan

I am visiting a Japanese home outside of Tokyo. The people are very nice. The wife greets us at the door. Once she had been a very popular television star. She is still young and beautiful and retired now to married life and children.

We are a party of four people, including her husband. I am the only person who is not Japanese.

We are graciously, perfectly welcomed into the house and soon sitting in a Western-style dining room that is also part kitchen. His wife busies herself preparing food; little snacks, and getting us sake to drink. We have not been there any longer than just sitting down when her husband, a very kind and sweet man, says jokingly, “I am the lion of my own house.”

I don’t know what that means but I know it means something or it would not have been said. I have a feeling that it is for my benefit. I look around the house. It is modern and comfortable. The man is a famous Japanese actor.

Soon we are drinking sake on the rocks which is a good drink on a hot, humid Japanese June night. The wife continues busying herself. Now she is cooking things for us to eat and he helps her by cooking some things, too. They are a very efficient kitchen team. This could be a play.

After a while, there are a lot of good things to eat on the table. We eat, drink and talk away. There is nothing more for her to do. She has not sat down since the company arrived.

Now she sits down but she does not sit down at the table. She sits down maybe five feet away and listens to the conversation. I watch her sitting there five feet away from the table and I think about what her husband said jokingly when we arrived, “I am the lion of my own house.”

I didn’t know what it meant but I knew that it meant something. Now I know what it means, watching her sit five feet away from the table, not joining us, but enjoying herself just the same.

I look into her eyes. They are dark and beautiful. They are happy eyes. She is glad that we have come. She has done her best to make us comfortable and now she is enjoying our presence.

In her eyes, I see the past of Japan. I see thousands of years of Japanese women, not sitting at the table and happy. As I write this, I can also see American women reading these words and grinding their teeth while thinking; Oh, the poor downtrodden slave of male tyranny! Instead of waiting on them like a servant, she should kick them all in the balls!

I can see the expression on their faces.

I can see their eyes filled with hatred that is so far away from this room.

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