No One Knows My Name Chapter 6
Before beginning, I think I should mention, thank you for all the offers for timing! I am a bit busy, but in the week coming up you'll be hearing back from me. Obviously I can only translate so many videos, but I may ask a couple of you to time different vids if I am up to it :) But thanks guys, you are all awesome for volunteering :D
On to the chapter.
Though I have used events from my own life, (and some much more specific than the following example, try to guess which, heh)
, I sortof felt like mentioning this one. Rather than the specific events (zero overlap in the scene below), the house I describe belonging to Nino's great uncle is actually a memory from my very young childhood, visiting my own great uncle who lived in the north of Japan. I'm feeling a bit nostalgic; my great uncle passed away last fall, and this comes from my only memory of him.
Oh, and, sorry if my depictions of nino's gaming aren't exactly the most precise. I'm hardly a gamer myself, just a certified video game watcher. Since the tender age of three I have watched my brother play all these games; still, i had to ask my brother for the technicalities. so forgive me if you just ain't feelin' it.
Chapter 6
I remember the first time I played a video game.
I was visiting relatives in Hokkaido, my father’s uncle and his family. It was a long train ride and bitterly cold in late October. I remember my parents arguing in hushed tones as not to disturb other passengers, and that I sank low in my seat plugging my ears with two fingers so I couldn’t hear them. Mariko had removed them gently, replacing my fingers instead with the headphones to her walkman. Lulled to the melodies of Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven, I let their voices fade away.
My great uncle lived in a large old house in the foothills of impressive mountain woodland. I was torn between fear and intense curiosity of the dark recesses looming in wood and house. But my great uncle’s children, though much younger than their cousin, my father, were in the vague realm of adulthood and I was resigned to boredom. I wandered aimlessly through the long hallways hugging the perimeter of the house to the creaking of my feet upon the wooden floor. My mother and sister had left with my great uncle’s wife to the downtown area but, faced with the prospect of shopping and endless walking, I decided to stay behind.
Still, as any seven year old boy, I was itching for entertainment and hoping for adventure. There was a door which struck my attention-it was the same sliding door with its sakura pattern, only attached to the beautiful wooden frame was a lurid poster. I didn’t recognize its origin of course, but it was at once fascinating and repelling.
The door slid forward abruptly, but frozen by fear, I stayed rooted in place. A tall, lanky young man with a disreputable mop of dark hair started at the sight of me. “Ossu-!” he exclaimed incoherently, staring at me beneath bushy eyebrows. “Dare nanda ke?”
As it transpired, Ryuta was Ojisan's youngest son, and at that time was probably only 17 though he seemed much older to my eyes. I don’t recall much after that except for the unveiling of Ryuta’s brand new super famicon. “Nani kore?” probably the first thing I said after my awed silence.
Ryuta’s room was dark and cluttered, with ramen bowls and crackers freely distributed. Crouched over a wooden dresser wrapped in a large handkerchief, was a medium sized television with old-fashioned, broken looking dials. But I was studying the rectangular grayish shape, its shiny plastic enamel casing, the thin cords attached to odd controllers, the unfamiliar romaji-(I had only learned hiragana by that age).
There was a knowing smile on my cousin-once-removed’s face as he took the measure of this uninitiated one. “Kore wa super fami con.”
I repeated his words without comprehension, yet feeling a thrill of anticipation summoned by Ryuta’s superior manner. A hushed silence passed as I wet my lower lip, and asked finally, “What does it do?”
His surprisingly white, even teeth glinted in a slightly feral smile. “I’ll show you.”
Which he proceeded to do.
The rest of the afternoon and the rest of the week was swallowed by Ryuta’s cluttered hovel and magical enamel box. After a brief demonstration of Prince of Persia, I quickly tried my hand, discovering a deftness and liking for the game. Quickly beating Prince of Persia, I moved on, before an impressed Ryuta, to Zelda and Mario. My head spinning at the simple, obsessive pleasure of beating each harder level, I thought I had discovered my purpose. I was going to be a videogamer.
Of course, that obviously didn’t happen. I hadn’t particularly thought out the mechanics of such a profession, I thought wryly as Elijah sent my Kirby into glittering infinity-my second death this round. There was a feral glint in the sixteen-year-old’s hazel eyes; his nimble fingers twitching with brutal efficiency. I admit I may have met my match in Megumi’s little brother. At least at Super Smash Brothers. The boy (or rather young man) had the look of me at his age-slender wrists and lanky frame, though his dark brown hair was stylishly cropped. His slender frame, however, held the promise of the same considerable height possessed by his English father.
“Yabe,” Elijah muttered as I returned the favor with an unexpected move a few minutes later.
“Itsumade ni gamu wo suru tsumori desu ka,” Megumi asked with a yawn materializing at our side. A towel wrapped around her head, a toothbrush hanging from her mouth. I glanced up briefly at her pajamas, an ancient soccer jersey clashing with light blue booty shorts.
“10 pun mou,” Elijah replied without looking away from the screen.
I glanced at Megumi’s expression, unimpressed by such a promise, and said with a drawl, winking, “Don’t worry, I’m about to win.”
“We’ll see about that!” Elijah retorted, leaning closer to the screen.
Though he spoke Japanese with a native’s grace, Elijah was noticeably less fluent than his sister, occasionally substituting an English word at need. Their mother as well, I observed, spoke with a mixture of English vocabulary despite the existence of Japanese alternatives. When we spoke earlier, she had paused briefly unable to remember the word she wished (I unfortunately not understanding the English) when Megumi flew to the rescue. It was confusing, but my English in most cases eased me into their Nipon-glish.
The game ended at last (I won, just barely), with Elijah claiming a rematch for the next day. Reappearing with towel and toothbrush out of sight, Megumi asked if I would like to sit in the garden. Puzzled, I followed her into the glass encased room behind their home-walking into a miniature paradise. A stained glass table with several matching chairs sat amid a variety of temperate to hothouse flowers, shrouding and enticing those who would stumble upon them. In an incongruous juxtaposition of suburban convenience and organic splendor, what appeared to be the washing and drying machines sat in one corner. At my questioning glance, Megumi explained, “It conserves some energy by sharing the heat. Demo, suate.”
Indeed, the greenhouse was quite warm, despite the bitter cold beyond its glass planes. Seated, I watched the plants fade away as Megumi flipped the lights to the barest glimmer, and felt instead the starry evening and silvered moon shine through the glassy ken.
“The sun’s rays are trapped during the day, and the glass is fairly sturdy against heat escaping,” Megumi spoke into the darkness. “But at night I like to watch the stars.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said, and indeed it was astonishing to see so many stars this close to a metropolitan area. My gaze drifted to Megumi, sitting cross legged in her seat, gazing at the night sky, illuminated as if possessing the stars’ glimmering fire. With her hair blow-dried and a pleasant clean scent emanating as strongly as the exotic blossoms from its flowing length and her glowing skin, Megumi seemed at once softer and younger than she did normally. Particularly in the old jersey, speaking of years and comfort. I smiled, thinking that was precisely what Megumi, her family, and her home, were. For the first time in weeks I felt relaxed, able to smile without the painful reminders, simply being. And it was a space gifted by Megumi’s unconditional kindness.
Still looking at the sky, Megumi asked suddenly, “Do you miss home?”
“Yes.” There were infinite layers of emotion behind Ninomiya’s soft reply. I was not an idiot; if anyone had baggage it was Ninomiya Kazuya. I had long ago learned not to follow personal avenues very far at risk of being shut down. Still, surrounded in the comfort of my mother’s bejeweled haven I felt the urge to summon his unspoken wound. But I could wait-I intuitively felt the release of tightly held reserve, the measure of fragile trust I had earned.
I shifted on the blue cushion as quietly as possible, turning to peer sightlessly at his blue black head.
At last he spoke. “For nearly ten years I have worked with four colleagues, and we were closer than best friends, more bonded than siblings. The eldest, the leader amongst us, was particularly close to me. We spent all our time together, understood each other more intimately than the others.”
I held my breath as he paused, nearly afraid he would stop speaking if he remembered my presence. Finally I asked, “Did you love this person?”
I could feel the familiar wry smile. “I suppose so. I never really thought about my feelings until (he) started dating someone else.” A pregnant pause. “A woman.”
My mind reeled, taking in the implications of his emphasis. This was an unexpected plot twist. “Wait, so she’s…” I wracked my brain but couldn’t think of the word in Japanese, “a lesbian?”
For a moment Ninomiya seemed utterly astonished, caught between the urge to laugh or cry. Instead he contented himself with twitching his lips. “No, my colleague is a man,” his reply was extremely dry.
“Oh,” was all I could say, feeling very stupid. I peeked at his face, but he was glancing away. I was afraid to ask anymore.
“I was angry,” he continued in a softer voice. “I couldn’t believe that he didn’t feel the same way. That all these years… and so I confronted him.” His voice became pained, “The things I said to him…were dreadful. I wanted to hurt him as much as he hurt me.”
He swallowed. “However things became difficult and I decided to quit and study abroad for a while.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling inadequate. His dark eyes glowed like ember coals toward me, as expressionless and distant as the stars above. My mind flailed, wondering how to reach the cold place his heart retreated to. “For what it’s worth,” I offered finally, “I’m glad I could meet you.”
At last a genuine smile cracked open, lines crinkling and smoothing the frightening darkness enveloping those eyes. “Me too,” he said simply. He leaned forward suddenly, his fingers tucking loose a strand of hair behind my ear-intimate enough gesture for an American, but doubly so from a Japanese. I felt my heart heave into action at his fingers brushing the tips of my ear, but he merely let the hand stop, remarking casually, “Can you name any of these stars anyway?”