The Sogo Saga
...written on 02.11.03, @ 1:47 p.m.
Part 3 of The Oshogatsu Trip, one more to go!
Tue February 11, 2003
The gaunt goateed face appeared under the yellow triangle of light cast by the hanging lamp. The neck and torso melted in the darkness, while the hands, bearing saucers of large slices of toast with jam, hovered disjointedly over our conversation.
"Where are you from?" said the coffee shop owner. Leeanne and I were surprised that he spoke English as he had given no such indication when we were struggling with deciphering the menu.
We told him that we were from Ohio and that we were on a program with our university to teach English for 6 months at the university and high school at the top of the mountain. We asked him where he had learned English and he said he had learned some in school, but most in his travels abroad.
When anyone mentions international travel and their experiences to me, I just light up. I love to hear about it, so he sat down with us and told us about his trips around the world. It turned out that we both had been to South America, so we compared notes.
Sogo's shop was built like the inside hull of a ship. The walls, the floors, and the furniture were all wood. It had a real YANG feel to it, except for a painting that was over his bed that was in the back corner of the shop ( it still is very typical for many Japanese to live in the structure where they work). It was a black and white painting that depicted fluid wind and water. I believe there was a ship in the waves.
NEW: Hey! I found a picture of Sogo from 1985. You can see the painting in the background.
Sogo turned out to be a very good story teller and in my estimation was rather attractive with that black hair and goatee, so I would go down and have breakfast sometimes and would stop in at night as well. We shared a love for Andean music and I gave him a copy of a tape of my favorite band from Bolivia.
We also would go off on jaunts around the countryside. He took me to many temples and shrines and even to meet his friends one time at the docks. Sogo, you see was working on building his own boat. It was his dream to finish the boat and go off on a two year sailing adventure around the world. The local newspaper had even done a write up with a picture of him working on the boat. I never saw the boat in person, but we often talked about it.
One day while I was cleaning my room, listening to the Bolivian group, Sogo called me and told me to come to his shop immediately. I turned off my tape and hurried down the street in less than a minute. When I entered his shop, I was struck by the oddity of hearing the very same song I had just been listening to in my room. It was the radio and Sogo said that the band was coming to Japan!
While I was in Bolivia with Kathy and Hiro (a Japanese man we had met at Macchu Picchu), we split up to go to different cities. Hiro and I went one way and Kathy went another. I had been listening to the band's tape since getting it from our hosts in Peru. Well, when we all got back together in La Paz, Kathy said she had gotten to see the band play and I just about died because I had missed them.
So can you imagine my utter amazement, thrill, joy, etc. at having the chance to see them in Japan? I asked Sogo when and where, that I had to write a letter, please help me find out where to send it, I have to go to the concert, etc. etc.
I wrote the letter in Spanish and recounted the many hours I spent enjoying the South American people and countryside to their "soundtrack". I described how their music moved me and how I had missed them in South America and how I would endeavor to see them in Japan. Sogo called the radio station for me and got all the information and I sent off the letter.
The concerts were going to be in Kobe and Osaka. Sogo for some reason couldn't or wouldn't go with me despite my urgings, so I went by myself.
I was so excited when I got to the concert hall. The band members were sitting at a table signing posters. I got one and nervously approached. As the first one of them was signing it, I told him that I had written them a letter. When he found out that I was the one who wrote the letter he stopped everyone and announced who I was. They complimented me on the letter and said that it was very touching and validated what they were doing as artists.
On my way to sit down, I ran into a man who introduced himself as the Bolivian Consulate to Japan. We shared fan notes and then I sat up close and took many pictures of the guys in action. After the concert, the Bolivian diplomat invited me to go with the private party to a nearby South American restaurant.
What a treat! So up close and personal! I took many candid shots and got to hear the guys sing some songs acapella and some with their guitars, it was a dream! I talked with all of them about their families, their travels, their philosophies on life, etc. One of them impressed me by explaining it was important for them to sing in Quechua as well as Spanish so they could share their music with more of their people.
The next night they went to Osaka and so did I. This time after the concert there was an informal gathering in a hotel conference room. (I'm rather loathe to bring this high to a crashing low, but it illustrates what can happen when you elevate people to a superhuman status).
After hearing how important their music and their families were to them, one of the married band members invited me upstairs to a "private" party. It didn't need to be explained, my instinct knew it all. I felt a curtain of ice close around my soul and my eyes dimmed. The band member took that reaction for something else and repeated his invitation. I feigned innocence, I made an excuse, I didn't leave with them then and for the longest time thereafter, I couldn't bear to listen to their music.
I returned to Sogo with the posters and the story. He could tell I was disappointed and did his best to console me. Being hurt was a different side of me that he hadn't seen before. He had taken many pictures of me with a certain look on my face. I think he was enamored of that look that represented independence and determination.
We had become lovers by that time and I spent many nights riding the waves in his boat-like shop. Early in the morning I would try to scurry up the hill to my apartment before being noticed by the throngs of high school boys who were my students.
One day, Hiro, the Japanese man I had traveled with before through Latin America came to visit me. He stayed the night in my room, and though the memories of our ardent lovemaking in Peru, Argentina and Brazil were still with me, I wouldn't let him touch me in that way, because I didn't want to betray Sogo. My old traveling companion couldn't understand that and I never heard from him again.
A couple of months went by and I knew my time in Japan was coming to an end. I started to decrease my visits to Sogo's place. Sogo wanted answers, but what he really wanted was HIS answer. He asked me to marry him. I said no. Leeanne pestered me about not seeing him, but she couldn't make me feel guilty because I thought I was doing the right thing.
You see, life dreams are very important to the Japanese. Every English text, every speech, almost every English class, touches on the subject of the goal of every individual. I read an article the other day about a Japanese dancer who had been murdered and the writer's comment was how agonizing it must have been for her to die knowing that she had not completed her dream to dance a major part in a ballet set for the next day.
I cared deeply for Sogo and I loved him, but I didn't want to marry him. I had to be truthful to him and to myself.
The last time I saw him in Okayama, he came to our goodbye party. He was dressed in a yukata and had brought utensils and supplies for a tea ceremony. His face was drawn so tight, I didn't think light could get in to his eyes. I could feel the quivering under his skin as he tried to concentrate on performing the ceremony for me. I watched and understood how special it was that he was doing it. We drank the tea and he left.
Now, seventeen years later, I was standing at the Seno train station with Veronica, waiting for my former lover. It was cold and the snow flurries were whipping around us. Once again, in a triangular pool of light, he stepped into my life.
The spiky black hair was replaced with a shiny silver crew cut. The goatee was gone and his face had measurably filled out. He looked healthy and robust! He walked us to his house and showed us the room in which we would sleep.
He had put two futons on a heated carpet and piled them high with covers. They would all be necessary as it was freezing! I had brought a gift of coffee, but before we could partake of it, he wanted to show us where the toilet was. I thought it was in the other wing of the house where Sogo slept, but it turns out we had to walk three streets down to the Shinto shrine when we had a "stomachache". Hey, at least it had toilet paper.
Sogo lives alone in his mother's house. She died two years ago. The kitchen part of the house has no floor covering, but is dirt and gravel with a tree growing up in the middle of it. His kitchen utensils and other appliances are worn and most likely second hand, but his music equipment is impressive as is the fact that he has two ivory keyed pianos in his kitchen! He is teaching himself how to play and he plays very well.
Conversation that night was slow. Veronica thought if she left, that might free the air somewhat, but it didn't. I asked all the questions, "How have you been?" "What have you been doing?" "How is the boat?" "Where have you gone?" etc. He asked nothing and it felt too awkward to offer unsolicited info, so I kept quiet about myself. We made plans for the next day and said goodnight.
When Veronica and I hit the futons that night we couldn't stop giggling. She was worried that Sogo would think we were laughing about him. Naw, just about having to go shit in a shrine!
Offerings left at an altar at the shrine.
We breakfasted on the baked goods and coffee that I had bought in Hakata and started off on our separate journeys. Veronica was going to see the famous garden in Okayama and then meet me a couple of hours away in Himeji. Sogo and I were going to see . . . the boat.
Maybe it's my own meaning and metaphor tied up in this boat, but I felt like I had to go see it. It was such a symbol of Sogo and our relationship and I thought it might bring a resolution of some kind, you know, when two dreams collide . . .
It was a beautiful ride to the coast, marred only for a short time by my attempts at conversation. I gave up after a while and remembered that the Japanese are very comfortable with silence and that I could enjoy it too.
Brutal whipping winds greeted us dockside as we walked down the swaying landing. Sogo beamed like a proud papa when he pointed it out to me. He had built every inch of it by himself. I was surprised that he hadn't named it.
He indicated the two methods of getting on his boat and asked me which one I preferred. Both of them looked like thicker versions of styrofoam lids to an ice chest on which you were to leap and then float to the vessel. Now if my stomach wasn't queasy enough before, it bellowed instant rebellion then and as much as I wanted and needed to get on that boat for whatever misguided realization of scant illumination I could think of, I whined about getting seasick easily. Sogo nodded and jumped on the styrofoam surfboard and got on his boat to batten down the hatches for the coming storm.
I saw where his head disappeared and tried to imagine there being room enough for two people and how they would feel about each other after two years of sailing around the world, one of them on a strict diet of dramamine, and I felt totally at ease with my long ago decision. I could see his affection for the boat and the ocean and I enjoyed it.
The sun poked shiny slits through the thick veil of gray as Sogo drove me to the train station. I told him how great it was to see him again, thanked him for his hospitality and invited him to come see me in Ogaki. I think that's when the reserve broke somewhat. He smiled warmly and told me to stay in touch.
Next and last stop . . . Himeji Castle