All women die for flowers, I remembered hearing somewhere when I noticed the wilted irises protruding from the top of one of the trashcans that lined the sidewalk. I glanced at my watch, realized I had just a few extra minutes, and doubled back to the florist. I tried to drag my umbrella through the awning of umbrellas that protected us from Tokyo's incessant summer drizzle while trying to remember how to order a rose in Japanese.
I was slightly apprehensive about my second visit to the florist, my first trip resulting in disaster. The symbolism of the flowers are different in the two countries as I had learned the hard way; upon moving out of the house of my friend's elderly parents who had harbored me for my first week in Japan, I had presented them with a bouquet of flowers. Later, I found out that this type of bouquet is customarily left on graves during funerals. However, with the influence of American movies, I expected that a red rose would be universally understood.
In the shop, there was only one salesgirl, and she was busy preparing a bouquet of six red roses for a middle aged couple. I ordered a bouquet identical to the one being prepared.
The woman methodically cut the stems and trimmed the leaves of each rose, surrounded them with green and white baby's breath, arranged the bouquet carefully, spritzed the flowers with water, then wrapped them in plastic and attached a red ribbon at the bottom. Now late for my date, I paid and ran out of the store.
On the train platform, I was well used to the wide-eyed stares of little children who have yet to learn that starring is impolite, even at a tall, blue-eyed, blonde-haired Caucasian who naturally stands out in a crowd where everyone has straight black hair, black eyes, and rarely reaches six feet. But as I held the large bouquet in my hands, awkwardly alternating between the Western style of holding them upright and the Japanese style of holding them upside-down, I felt the eyes of the entire crowd upon me.
The train, as always, was overcrowded with people, and I was forced to hold the flowers over my head to prevent them from being crushed.
Though we lived only about a mile apart, we had agreed to meet at Hachiko square in Shibuya, the place where everyone meets, but when I saw the swarm of people, I worried that I would not be able to find her. A short, young, black-haired girl was difficult to spot in a crowd of short, young, black-haired girls, but as I looked around, I soon heard a voice calling out, "Jai-romu, Jai-romu," which is as close as a Japanese can come to pronouncing "Jerome."
When I saw her again, I knew why I had been attracted to her the moment I first met her. She was painfully pretty, with long black hair that reflected the red, pink, and blue of the Shibuya department stores' neon. Her face was pale white and smooth and her delicate lips were only lightly touched with deep rose red lipstick. And her eyes, unlike mine that hid deep in the recesses of my face, were large and black, and shone with innocent intelligence.
I bent over to give her a kiss, but she had started bowing, and my lips crashed into the top of her head. I pretended I had too been bowing, and apologized, then pulled the bundle out from behind my back, and said, "These are for you."
Though surprised, she took the flowers from me and thanked me, but I was disappointed when she held the roses to her face to smell them. I was hoping the flowers would be more comfortable in her hands than mine, that the deep red of the roses would highlight her lips, and the white of the baby's breath would shine on her face, but her skin was already the deep red that leaves only the thought of sipping them like wine, and the flowers seemed only a poor imitation of her beauty.
"Do Americans often give flowers on a first date?"
"Yes," I answered," it's a unique form of western torture." I laughed and she smiled but did not understand. "Don't Japanese?"
"No. Only as gifts, like for a birthday or congratulations."
"Or funerals." After an awkward pause, I said, "Well, what shall we do? Are you hungry?"
"Yes. Very."
"What kind of food do you like?"
"Um. Anything is okay."
"Do you like Thai food."
"Maybe. I've never tried it."
"It's very spicy."
"I like spicy food."
I worried that she might not really like spicy food, saying she did only because Japanese women are taught not to disagree with a man, but the choice was already decided. We started up the hill towards the restaurant through the thick crowds of high school and college students, their umbrellas' presence on the already chocked sidewalk making it nearly impossible to walk. I had spent many hours in the coffee shops along this street, killing time between classes, staring out at the beautiful girls walking by, but this day I walked proudly, the people peering out through the misted-over windows at this beautiful woman with her bouquet of roses at my side.
We ordered a little of everything on the menu, from the mild to extra spicy. Even the mild dishes were too spicy for her and she barely ate while I devour everything on the table. Meanwhile, we talked about a little bit of everything from flowers to baseball to mixed marriages.
"How do your parents feel about your dating a foreigner?" I asked
She grimaced and made an X of her arms, the Japanese symbol for forbidden, "Dame"
"What did they say to you?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"I didn't tell them."
"Didn't they ask where you were going tonight?"
"I said I was going out with friends and left before they could ask more questions."
I decided not to pry further though I wondered what her mother said to her after I had tried to leave a message in my struggling, broken Japanese. Then I remembered the roses by her side and wondered what she would tell her parents when she brought them home.
When we finished dinner, it was already late by Japanese standards, but we had some time before the last train, so we decided to go for a walk through the brightly lit city. She forgot the bouquet on the chair in the restaurant, but the waiter chased after us, and with a bow, handed it back to her.
As we walked, we talked a bit, stopped for coffee and the Japanese equivalent of ice cream, but too quickly, we had to catch the last train. The packed train, full of drunkards, exhausted businessmen, and drunk, exhausted businessmen, was a very unromantic place to say goodbye. As the train approached my stop, I asked, "Can I see you again next weekend?"
"Un. It's okay, I think."
"Then I'll call you during the week, okay?"
The train doors opened as she said, "Yes, please. Bye-bye."
"Goodbye," I said, bowed slightly, then stepped out of the train.
"Thanks for the flowers," she said and waved them as the doors closed and the train carried her away.
Maybe it was the coffee I drank with dinner, or the sweaty summer heat that my portable electric fan could do nothing to dispel, but I lay in bed that night, unable to sleep, thinking of her, thinking how wonderful it would be to have her laying next to me, her head on my shoulder. I wondered what life would be like if we were married, and if her parents would ever approve or if we would be forced to elope.
After another shower, then another sleepless hour, I decided to go for a walk through the now dark and empty streets. The drizzle had stopped though the air was still thick and unbreathable. I walked without direction, or so I thought until I realized I had wandered into the neighborhood where she lived. For no other reason than my subconscious had already gone to the effort of dragging me there, I decided to see the house where she lived with her parents. I had her address in my wallet and found the house easily. All the lights were off and a high stone fence protected the property, but through the gate I could see a small, traditional style wood house, with a ceramic tile roof, probably built two generations ago from the rubble of World War II, its modesty understating the now outrageous value of the land.
I turned to go, but a glint of white in the moonlight from just outside the wall caught my eye. I looked to the side and saw, on top of a lidless garbage can, the white flowers surrounding the roses that appeared black in the darkness.
I took the bouquet, still in the plastic wrap with the red ribbon from the trash. I hesitated, uncertain what to do. I considered scaling the fence and leaving the flowers on her doorstep, maybe with a note of eternal love, but I had nothing to write with, nor knew what to say. Finally, I started back to my apartment, holding a lit cigarette in one hand, the wilted flowers I carried upright in the other hand.
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