"Then what about lipstick?" she asks.

"Do you have black lipstick?" you ask.

"I've got all colors. Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"That's the job of the makeup artist, I can't do everything," you say.

"But we've already had the last performance!" she sighs.

"What new performances are coming up for you?" you ask, changing the topic.

"I'll just have to wait and watch out for opportunities. There is a musical that requires actors who can dance. Next week, I've got two auditions. My father told me to come back to Japan a long time ago, but, unless I joined the workforce there, I would have to get married. My father says I won't be able to make a living by dancing, and I should be satisfied, now that I've amused myself with it for so long."

She also says her father would soon retire and couldn't support her all her life. However, her mother says it is up to her to choose; her mother is Taiwan-born Chinese, and is quite open-minded. She says she doesn't like Japan, because women in that society have no freedom. You say you like Japanese literature, especially the women in Japanese writings.

"Why?"

"They're very sexy and very cruel."

"That's in books, it's not true. Haven't you ever had a Japanese woman?" she asks.

"I'd really like to have one," you say.

"Then you will have one." Having said this, she glances over to the bar.

You pay the bill and she thanks you.

You separate at the Grand Central Station subway entrance at Forty-second Street. You clearly remember Forty-second Street, because you changed trains here for rehearsals and performances every day. She says if she comes to Paris, she will look you up, and that she would write. However, you never get a letter from her. In your case, it's not until several months later, when sorting a batch of papers from the New York trip, that you see the address she has left on a torn-off piece of paper napkin. You send her a postcard, but nothing happens, so you don't know if she ever went back to Japan.

58

He came upon a crowd. There was great excitement and a din of gongs and drums.

"Run, run, run!" the crowd shouted.

He said he was busy, he had personal matters to deal with.

"Personal matters? No matters are as important as this! Run, run with us, run with all of us!"

"Why are you running?" he asked.

"We're going to see the good times, the good times will be here soon, we're going to greet the good times! How can your piffling personal matters be as important?"

Everyone was jostling one another, jubilant, forming ranks, shouting slogans.

"Where are the good times?" he couldn't help asking.

"The good times are ahead! If we say they're ahead, then they're ahead! If we say they're ahead, then ahead they will be!"

Everyone was saying it with growing enthusiasm and conviction.

"Who said that the good times were ahead?" He was jostled, and had to run as he asked.

"If everyone says they're ahead, then they're ahead. If everybody says it, it can't be wrong. Run with us, the good times are definitely ahead!"

The crowd loudly sang good-times songs. As they sang, their spirits were uplifted, and, as they sang, their morale rose. He, who was stuck in the crowd, also had to sing; if he didn't sing, he would be eyed with suspicious stares all around.

"Hey, what's the matter? Is something wrong with you? Are you a deaf-mute?"

If he wanted to show he didn't have a physical disability, the only thing he could do was to sing loudly with the crowd, he had to sing as well as keep in step. He had to keep in step, because, if he were half a step slower, the heel of his shoe would be trodden on, and he would lose his shoe. If he were to get under people's feet to pick up his shoe, wouldn't people's feet run over his head? He would just have to leave behind the shoe he had lost. The foot that had lost the shoe would be trodden on, so his other foot could only hop and stumble along. Anyway, he would have to keep up, keep singing with everyone, and keep singing loudly in praise of the good times.

"The good times are ahead, the good times will soon be here! And the good times are simply good, and the good times will always be ahead!"

As the singing became more rousing, the good times became even better. With the hot waves of the good times seething, and the singing more fervent, the good times would come faster.

"The good times will be here soon! Let's go and welcome the good times! Charge into battle for the good times! Die without regret for the good times!"

Everyone had become feverish, gone crazy, and he, too, had to go crazy, even if he wasn't, he had to pretend to go crazy.

"Trouble, there's shooting!"

"Who's shooting?"

"Is there shooting up ahead?"

"Rubbish! The good times are up ahead, how can there be shooting up ahead?"

"Rubber bullets?"

"Flame throwers?"

"Tracer bullets!"

"Arrgh-"

"Blood? People are getting killed!"

"Charge into battle for the good times, break the enemy ranks for the good times! What greater glory than to sacrifice oneself for the good times! Become martyrs for the good times! Uggh-"

The crowd did not think that assault rifles, machine guns, would strafe and fire in bursts, fire in bursts and strafe. It was like frying soybeans, like letting off crackers. Everyone was like a homeless dog, and ran off in all directions, some were killed, others injured. Those who were not killed or injured fled like birds and animals…

Agitated and grief-stricken, he managed to escape to a dead-end alley, where the bullets couldn't reach. Gradually, he again heard voices in the distance. Sure enough, it was another crowd of people beating on gongs and drums and, faintly in the distance, they also seemed to be shouting slogans. When he listened carefully, they, too, seemed to be talking about the good times, but, when he listened again, they seemed to be arguing. The good times will soon be here, no, for die time being they have been delayed, but they will come.

The good times are sure to come. Sooner or later, they will come… He hurried away. The good times terrified him, and he would rather sneak off before the good times had come.

59

You are in the military port of Toulon on the Mediterranean coast, a place you had learned about in geography lessons in middle school.

You're sitting in a big tent erected on the harbor for the book fair.

Like the hundred or so invited writers seated behind rows of bookstalls, you're next to your own book, holding a pen and waiting for book buyers who want a signature. But all the people passing by are looking at the books and don't notice the writers whose names are hanging there on the placards. For writers, it's not the same as with singing stars. Hysterical fans queuing for autographs mob Johnny Hallyday when he gets off the helicopter, and his bodyguards and the police have to yell and shove to keep order. You are beyond the pairs of roving eyes, and people look but don't see you. They pass right in front of you, sometimes stopping to leaf through the books with your name printed on the cover. But what does your name signify? People inevitably seek self-identification in books, the light from their eyes is refracted from the book to a person's heart.

Luckily, you don't have anything to do, and have time to amuse yourself by taking in all these pairs of worried, or blank, searching eyes. A good-looking young woman is moving in the crowd, her chestnut hair casually swept into a bun, but there is a deep frown on her forehead and a startling sadness in her face. Her big eyelids droop wearily, probably from a sleepless night. Maybe she couldn't get the man she was in bed with to stay, but, in the case of such a fine-looking woman, it was more likely that the man wasn't able to get her to stay. Otherwise, she would not be on her own, wandering at the book fair early on Sunday morning. She eventually comes over to your stall, but picks up a book by someone else alongside, then, without looking at the introduction on the back cover, puts it down, then leafs through another book. She is not thinking of buying a book, maybe she doesn't know what she wants to do. She puts down the book and picks up your book, but she is looking somewhere else. Her eyes eventually return to your book, the book in her hand, and turn to the back cover, but, without reading more than a couple of sentences of the brief back-cover blurb, she puts it down, not noticing that the author is right next to her. She is right in front of you, the deep frown still on her forehead. The sad expression delicately roaming her face is wonderful to look at, and is more alive than any book.