Naomi - Junichiro Tanizaki

TWO

"NAOMI, you look like Mary Pickford." This came up one evening at a Westernstyle restaurant in which we'd stopped after seeing a Mary Pickford movie.

"Oh?" She didn't seem particularly pleased. She looked at me quizzically, as if to ask why I should say such a thing out of the blue.

"Don't you think so?" I persisted.

"I don't know if I look like her or not, but everybody says I look Eurasian," she said nonchalantly.

"I'm not surprised. To begin with, you have an unusual name. Who gave you a sophisticated name like 'Naomi'?"

"I don't know."

"Your father, maybe, or your mother?"

"I'm not sure . . ."

"Well, what does your father do for a living?"

"I don't have a father."

"And your mother?"

"I have a mother . . ."

"How about brothers and sisters?"

"Oh, I have lots—a big brother, a big sister, a little sister . ."

These subjects came up again from time to time, but whenever I asked about her family, she'd look annoyed and give evasive answers.

When we went someplace together, we usually arranged to meet at a certain time at a bench in the park or in front of the Kannon Temple. She was always on time and never broke an appointment. Sometimes I was late for one reason or another, and would worry that she might have gone home; but she was always right there waiting for me.

"I'm sorry, Naomi. Have you been waiting long?"

"Yes, I have." She didn't seem to be particularly resentful or angry. Once we were to meet at a certain bench, when it suddenly began to rain. I wondered what she'd do. When I got there, I was touched to find her crouching under the eaves of a little shrine by the pond, waiting for me.

On these occasions she wore a well-used silk kimono—probably a handme-down from her sister—with a colorful muslin sash. Her hair was done in a traditional style appropriate for her age, and her face was lightly powdered with white. On her little feet she wore tight-fitting, white Japanese socks, patched but nonetheless smart. When I asked why she did her hair in the Japanese style on holidays, she just said, "Because they tell me to at home." As usual, she didn't offer a full explanation.

"It's late. I'll walk you home." I made this suggestion a number of times, but she always said, "That's all right. I can go by myself. It's not far." When we reached the corner by the Hanayashiki Amusement Park, she'd say good-bye over her shoulder and run off toward the alleys of Senzoku.

- I almost forgot. There's no need to dwell too much on the events of those days, but we did have one rather intimate, leisurely talk.

It was a warm evening at the end of April; a gentle rain was falling. Business was slow in the café, and it was very quiet. I sat for a long time at my table, sipping a drink. That makes me sound like a great drinker, but in fact I hardly drink at all. To pass the time, I'd asked for a sweet cocktail of the sort that women drink, and was nursing it slowly, one sip at a time.

When Naomi brought my food, I asked, "Won't you sit down here for a minute?" I was somewhat emboldened by my drink.

"What is it?" She sat down obediently beside me and struck a match when I took out a Shikishima cigarette.

"You can talk for a few minutes, can't you? You don't seem to be very busy tonight."