Napoleon crossing the Saint-Bernard
Le Premier Consul franchissant les Alpes au col du Grand Saint-Bernard
After the death of my beloved, I decided to revisit many of the places we traveled to. Now, I am in Tokyo 東京. We dined at a sushi restaurant recommended by a friend. Only a few blocks from the famous pedestrian crossing at Shinjuku 新宿, yet completely different from that scene — it was a typical neighborhood joint tucked under a footbridge and in a dark, quiet side alley. I wore the same navy blue leather jacket (cut in the style of a classic jean jacket) on the blind date where I first met my husband. Paired with a scarf my aunt tie-dyed with indigo and my favorite jeans & silver ankle boots, I ventured into the underground of Tokyo 東京. I was not completely sure I’d find the restaurant again, but luck brought me there tonight.
I arrived around 6pm. The restaurant is only sparsely occupied by diners. Still early. I guess I’ve aged into the group of folks who prefer to eat well before 7pm. The simple interior looks exactly as I remembered, even the chef behind the bar seems to be the same man. I sat down at the same bar seat. Not sure of all the details but everything so far feels right. The chef catches my eye and nods.
About an hour later, contented with the pure flavors & unique textures of sushi 寿司 and sashimi 刺身, I sip the hot sencha 煎茶 commonly served at the end of a meal. Served in the same comical tea cup as 2019 — a straight sided stoneware glazed with caricature heads of Japanese emperors and prime ministers. Some of these faces look downright deformed, like there was some awful genetic mistake. Or inbred — I chuckle to myself. Dining alone is so different from eating with others. From sitting down, reading the menu, ordering, chewing and tasting, every act is unhurried, more deliberate, and totally relaxed. Out of nowhere, a tear formed and rolled out of my eye. Damn, the chef saw me dabbing with my napkin. I glanced up at him sheepishly and explained simply. “I came here with my husband in 2019, and now I am revisiting some of the places we visited together since his passing, as a kind of memorial, I guess.” Without much change in facial expression, he sighed, then bowed slightly. I played up my brave face and smiled back. Upon paying the bill and thanking him for the delicious food, I stood up to leave.
A famous face. Instant recognition. He was walking back to his seat and we glanced at each other. Apparently he sat just a bit down the bar from me this whole time. I never noticed. He is much more handsome in real life, and there was gravity to his presence, not just due to his physical mass. True, he is nearly 2 meters tall and sinewy but there was something else, something energetic that is palpable. The chef went over and they spoke in a familiar way, as if they were old friends. I walked out the door thinking, what a funny encounter. As I took another step, suddenly, my legs seemed like they filled up with lead. So heavy and dense. And without any warning, more tears welled up. I just wanted to get out of there, but all I could manage was lean on a lamp post with my forehead, otherwise I would have surely collapsed into a heap.
It’s Autumn, and the air is crisp. The metal lamp post is cold and smooth against my forehead. A hand lands on my left shoulder. I was not alarmed for the touch was gentle. Very carefully, so as not to lose my balance, I turned. It’s him. “Daijobu desuka 大丈夫ですか?” I know that phrase. Funny because it’s a way to ask “are you ok?” in Japanese but translated into Chinese it becomes “big husband?”. Big [dead] husband? Why yes, that’s why I’m here, and that’s why I’m leaning on a lamp post, paralyzed. I sucked in a deep breath and tried to speak with a steady voice. “Sumimasen スミマセン, I speak English. Huo zhong wen 或中文.” He looked at me as if he was looking at a friend, with an understanding of the circumstances instead of judging a stranger’s peculiar behavior. “I take you home? I have car. In my building. Very close.” He pointed up the alley. “Just 200 meters.” I nodded. I didn’t know what I was agreeing to but I needed help. I wanted help. He lifted me by the arm gently, then I sort of hooked my forearm around his. I was not weak but my legs were still leaden. We began to walk very slowly. How could he walk that slowly with me and not feel completely weird? Yet with each step, as I put one foot in front of the other, felt almost normal, natural.
His building was quite high. Gazing upward, I could not see the top. Suddenly, the thought of going back to my Airbnb felt dreadful. No, I really didn’t want to go back there and be alone with my memories. I looked right into his eyes. “Do you want some tea?” I didn’t really know how to answer. Yes I wanted to go to his apartment but is it safe? He is a known person, a popular film actor, but no one knows me here. No one even knows I’m here in Tokyo right now. No one will hear me scream. “I heard what you said to Musashi San 武蔵さん. Chef. Sorry, I heard your story, about your husband. But please…no problem. I am not a bad man. I just…see that you are sad. And…you don’t want to be alone now? Yes?” I think his English must be more fluent than the way he’s talking to me now, based on the films I saw in which he starred, but this whole situation was rather awkward, so even a native speaker presumably would not know how to speak, what words to use. I thought hard, for a good long minute. Nothing came to mind except I felt calm, and very, very present. I’m definitely here, in this moment. I just don’t know where I am. Is this still the same life I woke up to this morning? I looked down at my feet, then back up at him. “Yes. Thank you. I want some tea. I…trust you.”
The elevator was lined with dark wood, all fixtures were in bronze, the back wall paneled in bronze mirror. Understated extravagance. It felt solid and well constructed like a Mercedes Benz sedan. We stood side by side, our mirror reflections a sepia toned old photograph. I think he pressed button 23. Suddenly there were no thoughts in my head at all. I couldn’t even tell we were being lifted upward; the motor was so quiet. The density of the air in that elevator seemed to triple by the time we passed floor 18. I got a bit nervous. “Well, even if you end up to be a psychotic killer, it’s ok.” I announced abruptly. “I lived a pretty good life. No regrets.” Silence. Then we both burst out laughing. More tears rolled out of my eyes but I was no longer embarrassed.
Ding! Elevator doors soundlessly slid open. Spot lit and heavily carpeted down the length of the long hallway. Lush orchids on top of thick wood consoles. Comparing the various apartments around the world that I’ve been, this one has all the marks of a high-end building. He unlocked the heavy door to his unit and showed me into the foyer. There was a soft ceiling spotlight over the shoe area that turned on automatically. As I removed a boot, I saw
My favorite painting. One of my favorite paintings. The same version as the one in Schloss Charlottenburg. That was only actual painting (out of 5 versions) I ever saw. There it is, a life sized reproduction straight ahead, in this stranger/actor’s home. What is going on? So stricken by the painting that I teetered on my one leg, momentarily forgot I was supposed to be taking off my shoes and nearly fell over. He caught my elbow and straightened me back up. “Napoleon crossing the Saint Bernard. That is one of my favorite paintings! I saw it in Berlin.” I said without taking my eyes off it. He was looking at me with an odd intensity. His lips parted to speak but then closed without a word. On autopilot I slipped off the other boot then walked towards the painting. It was well lit and tastefully framed. Not easily done, for such a large, complex painting. A professional job. He came up behind me and said, “this way, please.”
To our right was a spacious living space. Tatami 畳 floor, though the room was not decorated in a traditional style. There was a modern, legless sofa, and a sunken square space so you can put your legs down and sit western style as well. “I make tea. Please, make yourself home here. OK?” The space was minimal, but comfortable. I couldn’t see details outside the lit central area, but I could make out a few objects and furniture along the walls. In this dense city where square footage was worth astronomical yen, his home was clearly designed to feel spacious, but not overly empty. The wool felt orange cover of the sofa was visibly worn, but in a lovely way, like the old, wide banister in the now demolished Hewitt building of The Cooper Union where you can sense the thousands of times different hands glided over hard wood. I loved sliding my palm along the smooth surface on my way down from my college art studio, several times a day, every day. And now my whole body feels that comforting, familiar feeling, sitting close to the tatami 畳 floor, cradled in a woolen sofa.
Before long he came back with a tray. With practiced gestures he made tea, I imagine just like he would do so for himself, a nightly ritual. Sencha 煎茶, fragrant and divine. The color was splendid, jadeite green. Elegant and rustic tea cups. It was not a matching set, or maybe each piece was intentionally unique. I think the tray is lacquer 漆器. He fills my cup, then his own. “My wife passed away 7 years ago.” He said, still staring at the teapot. “She was sick for 1 year.” He hands me one tea cup, and slowly raised his eyes, a bit glazed over and staring hard into the distance. I started to say something but he cut me off, “you don’t have to say…anything.” Ok. I sipped more sencha 煎茶. Was this some super high quality tea or am I imagining the richness? Sip by sip, I savor the flavor. “This is a bit cooler than how the Chinese likes their tea. Which is scalding hot! But I think this must be the best temperature to enjoy sencha. Yes?” He smiled knowingly, without looking up.
I woke up, a little bleary eyed. He had his cup in his hand, though clearly drained. I shifted my torso a bit, and he looked over. “You must be tired.” Somehow, I am not embarrassed. I just fell asleep on the sofa in a stranger’s home in an unfamiliar neighborhood of Tokyo 東京, yet I felt at ease, like everything is…right as rain. “I have futon 布団 for guest. But if you want to go home, I can drive you. No problem.” I looked at him, and I saw sincerity. “Are you sure? I am not disturbing your…schedule? Your life?” He placed his cup down on the table. The teapot looked cold. I wonder how long I was asleep? He moved a seat closer, then looked at me and asked, “Why do you like this painting?” I cocked my head, reflected a bit, and replied, “I like many of David’s paintings, but my favorites are Death of Marat
and this one. Because it’s so clear that I am witnessing a special moment captured in a painting. And the light. Of course, it’s always the light. Also the colors. I like the arresting red of his cloak, and the expression on his face. The horse too, expressing so much, bulging eyes looking back at Napoleon with alarm. So stunningly beautiful. So charged with emotion…and gravity.” Am I describing the painting or him? He leaned in and kissed me ever so lightly on my forehead. I let his lips graze just above the surface of my skin then raised my head up, touching his lips with mine.
He straightened back up. His eyes were so black. I could see nothing but his eyes. Everything else seemed to have faded into abstraction. Silence. I didn’t know how to move, what to say. A warm, wavelike energy washed over me. Very slowly he took my hand and gently pulled me up. “I opened futon 布団. You can sleep. You must be tired. I don’t disturb you. You sleep. Ok?” We walked over to the left corner of the living room. He slid open a shoji 障子 and everything was laid out already. He pointed to the left, “toilet there. Your toilet.” I went with it. I just flowed along. This feels so surreal but I was bone tired. It couldn’t have been late yet; I was already at the sushi restaurant by 6pm. Oh who cares about time. I don’t even know if I am in the real world right now. When I laid down, I saw a balcony outside glass sliding doors. The glass was tinted, but I could make out faint city lights. They twinkled like stars in the night sky, but much closer. That’s all I remember.
I wake up at dawn. The city is still glittering with lights but the sky is already lit with just a hint of brightness. A sliver of light shines through the shoji 障子 frame from the living room. I realize that I slept in a large white t-shirt. Did he undress me? There’s a cotton yutaka 浴衣 laid out for me. I immediately notice how much I like the geometric indigo and white pattern. I tie it on and slide open the shoji 障子. This screen glided so quietly and subtly, he didn’t notice until I stepped onto the tatami 畳. He is sitting in the same seat as last night except now he is wearing eyeglasses and his own yukata 浴衣.
He looks up at me and smiles.
