Photos
The neighbours must have been talking amongst themselves: the gaijin is moving out, after two years.
I survey my tiny room, now an empty shell. I have sent most of my belongings away yesterday.
Another train whizzes past, and I smile. The sounds of the railway tracks have kept me up at night and woken me up in the mornings at the start of my two-year sojourn here. I have gotten used to it over the months. Perhaps I will even miss it.
It is still early. I couldn’t really sleep. Would you, if it had been your last night in a city that you have called home for the past 2 years? Thousands of thoughts would be running through your head, memories would be flooding back.
Breakfast, I think aloud to myself.
I grab my camera on my way out. The elderly Mrs. Morimoto is just entering her house next to my building, back from grocery shopping. She must be 80, but still going strong. I greet her with a bow.
She smiles and stops to talk to me, “Claire-san, good morning. I hear you are leaving today.”
“I am.”
“Well, you are going home. You must be happy to go home.”
I smile and nod my head.
“Then, enjoy your last day here and have a safe trip back,” she gives me her well-wishes, before disappearing into her house.
I follow the railway track, walking underneath it, past the 2 convenience stores, and the ubiquitous vending machines.
I climb the steps and turn around at the top. I love watching the sunset here; the sun slowly descending, into the low houses sprawled before me, spreading its warmth into the households to get them through the night.
I will miss this view. My neighbourhood.
I carry on my way and come to the train station. I walk past it and down the steps at the other side of it. This is the neighbourhood center.
I walk into the 7-11, ordering a few pieces of Oden from the friendly robotic employee before joining a man on a nearby bench.
He is leaning back, relaxed. He smiles and nods, when I gesture to ask if the seat is free.
“Beautiful day,” he says in English. “A beautiful spring day.”
“Yes, it is a beautiful spring day,” I reply in Japanese.
He smiles, “You speak good Japanese. How long have you been here?”
“Two years. I am leaving today.”
“Oh? Pity isn’t it? You won’t get to see the cherry blossom. Or are you glad to leave?”
“I am sad, actually.”
He smiles, leans over and pats my shoulder. “Don’t be. People come and go. People stay and move on. It is life, and life is beautiful.”
I smile and nod.
He notices my camera, “That’s a good camera. Are you a photographer?”
“Just for hobby.”
“Why do you take photographs?”
“Because I want to remember what I saw, what I was feeling…and who I was.”
“I see… so have you taken some nice photos of Tokyo?”
I nod.
“Show me your favourite,” he says.
I ponder for a while, before whipping out my camera and switching it to display mode, browsing through the photographs. I come to the one I am looking for, and pass the camera to him.
The picture of a blonde girl laughing as she holds a sushi just before her open mouth with her chopsticks. Happier times.
“That’s you?”
I nod.
“Where are you from, actually?”
“I am Irish.”
“So, what’s an Irish girl doing in Tokyo?”
“To find myself.”
“Have you?”
I do not answer, but eat my oden.
“We humans are always searching. Words; colours, someone, ourselves. Sometimes we succeed, sometimes we fail. But I always think it is better to spend your life searching, than to spend your life in the wrong place. What do you think?”
“I agree with you.”
He laughs, “Just a random thought. Let’s not get too serious or philosophical. So I take it that you have been around the world much, haven’t you?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Show me some other favourite photos of yours. From other places. If you have them on your camera.”
I show him my favourites.
The photo of a little girl skipping behind her mother on a cobblestone street of Paris, carrying a baguette almost as long as her.
The photo of a girl sitting on the window ledge of her ground floor apartment in Munich, leaning against the window frame, writing in her journal.
The photo of a girl stopping in her tracks on the platform of the Berlin Alexanderplatz station and turning as the S-Bahn rolls in, tears on her face.
The photo of a lady standing beside her scooter before a fountain in Rome, having a smoke, her long tresses flowing from beneath her helmet.
“Show me the photo that you didn’t show me,” he interrupts me. “If you don’t mind.”
The man is sharp. He has noticed my hesitation with that photo.
I smile but shake my head.
He nods. “I understand.”
We sit awkwardly for a while, side by side, becoming wordless strangers again.
“What about you? What do you do?” I ask.
“I translate. I translate books.”
“Really? That’s interesting. English-Japanese?”
“Mainly. But I know Spanish, German, French and Italian as well. I love languages.”
“That’s many!”
“You are not too bad yourself.”
“So tell me, what is it like to translate the works of authors?”
“When I translate, I feel like I am taking on the form of the writer, telling his story, looking at things through his eyes, feeling his emotions as if my own, absorbing his essence. Like a shapeshifter transforming myself into him. Or maybe a spirit possessing his empty shell. Or simply a giant sponge, soaking up everything.”
“Tell me about these writers. What are they like? What do they feel?”
“It is always different…but I think most of them…they write for redemption. Or maybe they are writing to find themselves. Or to tell their stories, to anyone who would listen… but even a monologue would be fine.”
“Have you thought of writing your own book?”
“What would I write about? About these poor people?” he laughs. “This is already my life, my work: telling the stories of others. I have nothing more to say about myself.”
“Tell me a word. Tell me your favourite words.”
He thinks for a while. “My favourite French word is allez. Because I used to love an Italian girl named Alessia. It reminds me of her.”
“Used to?”
“Used to,” he affirms. “But the current word I am obsessed with is ‘saudade’. It is Portuguese, which I don’t speak. But I came across it one day, and fell in love with it. It is such a beautiful, non-translatable word. Hauntingly beautiful.”
“I know that word.”
“You do?” he asks in surprise.
I nod. And we withdraw into our shells again.
“But why Tokyo? Why did you come to Tokyo in search of yourself?”
And I show him the photo.
London 2005. The two of us in front of Highbury.
I survey my tiny room, now an empty shell. I have sent most of my belongings away yesterday.
Another train whizzes past, and I smile. The sounds of the railway tracks have kept me up at night and woken me up in the mornings at the start of my two-year sojourn here. I have gotten used to it over the months. Perhaps I will even miss it.
It is still early. I couldn’t really sleep. Would you, if it had been your last night in a city that you have called home for the past 2 years? Thousands of thoughts would be running through your head, memories would be flooding back.
Breakfast, I think aloud to myself.
I grab my camera on my way out. The elderly Mrs. Morimoto is just entering her house next to my building, back from grocery shopping. She must be 80, but still going strong. I greet her with a bow.
She smiles and stops to talk to me, “Claire-san, good morning. I hear you are leaving today.”
“I am.”
“Well, you are going home. You must be happy to go home.”
I smile and nod my head.
“Then, enjoy your last day here and have a safe trip back,” she gives me her well-wishes, before disappearing into her house.
I follow the railway track, walking underneath it, past the 2 convenience stores, and the ubiquitous vending machines.
I climb the steps and turn around at the top. I love watching the sunset here; the sun slowly descending, into the low houses sprawled before me, spreading its warmth into the households to get them through the night.
I will miss this view. My neighbourhood.
I carry on my way and come to the train station. I walk past it and down the steps at the other side of it. This is the neighbourhood center.
I walk into the 7-11, ordering a few pieces of Oden from the friendly robotic employee before joining a man on a nearby bench.
He is leaning back, relaxed. He smiles and nods, when I gesture to ask if the seat is free.
“Beautiful day,” he says in English. “A beautiful spring day.”
“Yes, it is a beautiful spring day,” I reply in Japanese.
He smiles, “You speak good Japanese. How long have you been here?”
“Two years. I am leaving today.”
“Oh? Pity isn’t it? You won’t get to see the cherry blossom. Or are you glad to leave?”
“I am sad, actually.”
He smiles, leans over and pats my shoulder. “Don’t be. People come and go. People stay and move on. It is life, and life is beautiful.”
I smile and nod.
He notices my camera, “That’s a good camera. Are you a photographer?”
“Just for hobby.”
“Why do you take photographs?”
“Because I want to remember what I saw, what I was feeling…and who I was.”
“I see… so have you taken some nice photos of Tokyo?”
I nod.
“Show me your favourite,” he says.
I ponder for a while, before whipping out my camera and switching it to display mode, browsing through the photographs. I come to the one I am looking for, and pass the camera to him.
The picture of a blonde girl laughing as she holds a sushi just before her open mouth with her chopsticks. Happier times.
“That’s you?”
I nod.
“Where are you from, actually?”
“I am Irish.”
“So, what’s an Irish girl doing in Tokyo?”
“To find myself.”
“Have you?”
I do not answer, but eat my oden.
“We humans are always searching. Words; colours, someone, ourselves. Sometimes we succeed, sometimes we fail. But I always think it is better to spend your life searching, than to spend your life in the wrong place. What do you think?”
“I agree with you.”
He laughs, “Just a random thought. Let’s not get too serious or philosophical. So I take it that you have been around the world much, haven’t you?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Show me some other favourite photos of yours. From other places. If you have them on your camera.”
I show him my favourites.
The photo of a little girl skipping behind her mother on a cobblestone street of Paris, carrying a baguette almost as long as her.
The photo of a girl sitting on the window ledge of her ground floor apartment in Munich, leaning against the window frame, writing in her journal.
The photo of a girl stopping in her tracks on the platform of the Berlin Alexanderplatz station and turning as the S-Bahn rolls in, tears on her face.
The photo of a lady standing beside her scooter before a fountain in Rome, having a smoke, her long tresses flowing from beneath her helmet.
“Show me the photo that you didn’t show me,” he interrupts me. “If you don’t mind.”
The man is sharp. He has noticed my hesitation with that photo.
I smile but shake my head.
He nods. “I understand.”
We sit awkwardly for a while, side by side, becoming wordless strangers again.
“What about you? What do you do?” I ask.
“I translate. I translate books.”
“Really? That’s interesting. English-Japanese?”
“Mainly. But I know Spanish, German, French and Italian as well. I love languages.”
“That’s many!”
“You are not too bad yourself.”
“So tell me, what is it like to translate the works of authors?”
“When I translate, I feel like I am taking on the form of the writer, telling his story, looking at things through his eyes, feeling his emotions as if my own, absorbing his essence. Like a shapeshifter transforming myself into him. Or maybe a spirit possessing his empty shell. Or simply a giant sponge, soaking up everything.”
“Tell me about these writers. What are they like? What do they feel?”
“It is always different…but I think most of them…they write for redemption. Or maybe they are writing to find themselves. Or to tell their stories, to anyone who would listen… but even a monologue would be fine.”
“Have you thought of writing your own book?”
“What would I write about? About these poor people?” he laughs. “This is already my life, my work: telling the stories of others. I have nothing more to say about myself.”
“Tell me a word. Tell me your favourite words.”
He thinks for a while. “My favourite French word is allez. Because I used to love an Italian girl named Alessia. It reminds me of her.”
“Used to?”
“Used to,” he affirms. “But the current word I am obsessed with is ‘saudade’. It is Portuguese, which I don’t speak. But I came across it one day, and fell in love with it. It is such a beautiful, non-translatable word. Hauntingly beautiful.”
“I know that word.”
“You do?” he asks in surprise.
I nod. And we withdraw into our shells again.
“But why Tokyo? Why did you come to Tokyo in search of yourself?”
And I show him the photo.
London 2005. The two of us in front of Highbury.
