constitution and the flag and all the amendments. And the founding fathers. But with the Japanese—” She stops to guide the razor up my neck. “If a Japanese says he’s Japanese, he’s talking more about his blood than the government or the flag. America is values. If you agree to the values and take the tests then you can become American. But in Japan it’s not so simple. We have all sorts of labels to describe what kind of Japanese person you are or aren’t. Depending on where you were born or who your parents are. Am I explaining this right? Sometimes Americans take it the wrong way. It’s all very complicated. I don’t even think I could explain it in Japanese.”
With a towel she polishes away the mirror’s coat of steam. “The other kids, even the parents,” she says, “never let us forget we were part Korean. It got pretty bad sometimes.”
“What’s wrong with Korea?”
“Nothing. But that’s not the point.”
“So he wanted to be Korean and not Japanese?”
“It’s not that, either. He thought of himself as totally Japanese. I do, too. But it was like he wasn’t being allowed to be who he felt he was. Not that everyone was mean. Most weren’t. But you only pay attention to the mean ones.”
“Wasn’t it the same for you?”
“He took it harder. We’re different. None of that stuff really bothers me. Then again, I wasn’t the one who kept getting beaten up because of it. I can’t tell you everything that was going on in his head. If I knew maybe I could’ve done something.”
My Adam’s apple gives her trouble. She uses short strokes. She tells me to hold my breath. I feel even more like a nascent sculpture, crawling into life from a vacuum. Is this girl my god? Shall I worship her?
She begins on the other cheek. “He didn’t want any more Japanese blood,” she says, “but they gave it to him anyway. I’m not saying it made sense. I guess it did to him.” Tears in her eyes glisten. She wipes them away.
“I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”
Again she rubs away the steam. She pulls the razor across my cheek and even with all that cream it sounds like sandpaper. “He had been back from the hospital for three days. By the time I got home from school that afternoon the men in yellow jumpsuits were cleaning it up. His body was gone. Mom was crying. Dad was staring out the window at a pine tree.” She holds my chin in her fingertips and turns my face left, then right, then left, then right. “When was the last time someone kissed your smooth cheek?”
She slices away the last of my beard. “When they finally let me in his room, it was so strange. It was perfectly clean, like nothing happened. The yellow jumpsuits erased what he did. They erased my brother. Mom told me how she found him. He was naked in the middle of the floor. The whole floor was a pool of dark red. He finally drained out all that Japanese blood.”
She massages my face again with a steaming towel. I close my eyes and plunge into the moment. Let it never end.
“Thomas, you’re beautiful.” I roll my eyes in an exaggerated way: I can’t afford to let her know that I believe she means it. “Is it weird to say? I just mean that it’s a transformative.”
“Transformation. And it’s not. It’s just a shave.”
“But you’re a whole new person. I did good, didn’t I? Not even a scratch.”
We lie next to each other on the bed. My shirt is back on. My face feels fresh. She might be right about me being a new person. “Do you talk to my wife?”
“No, not really. Sometimes.”
“She used to bring men to the apartment,” I say. The girl takes my hand. I can feel her pulse. If we held each other tight enough, would our beating hearts synchronize?
“You heard them?”
“She’d leave the door open.”
“Did you ever go out there?”
“And do what?”
“She wants attention.”
My wife must have expected that in my room Megumi’s and my feelings would
With a towel she polishes away the mirror’s coat of steam. “The other kids, even the parents,” she says, “never let us forget we were part Korean. It got pretty bad sometimes.”
“What’s wrong with Korea?”
“Nothing. But that’s not the point.”
“So he wanted to be Korean and not Japanese?”
“It’s not that, either. He thought of himself as totally Japanese. I do, too. But it was like he wasn’t being allowed to be who he felt he was. Not that everyone was mean. Most weren’t. But you only pay attention to the mean ones.”
“Wasn’t it the same for you?”
“He took it harder. We’re different. None of that stuff really bothers me. Then again, I wasn’t the one who kept getting beaten up because of it. I can’t tell you everything that was going on in his head. If I knew maybe I could’ve done something.”
My Adam’s apple gives her trouble. She uses short strokes. She tells me to hold my breath. I feel even more like a nascent sculpture, crawling into life from a vacuum. Is this girl my god? Shall I worship her?
She begins on the other cheek. “He didn’t want any more Japanese blood,” she says, “but they gave it to him anyway. I’m not saying it made sense. I guess it did to him.” Tears in her eyes glisten. She wipes them away.
“I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”
Again she rubs away the steam. She pulls the razor across my cheek and even with all that cream it sounds like sandpaper. “He had been back from the hospital for three days. By the time I got home from school that afternoon the men in yellow jumpsuits were cleaning it up. His body was gone. Mom was crying. Dad was staring out the window at a pine tree.” She holds my chin in her fingertips and turns my face left, then right, then left, then right. “When was the last time someone kissed your smooth cheek?”
She slices away the last of my beard. “When they finally let me in his room, it was so strange. It was perfectly clean, like nothing happened. The yellow jumpsuits erased what he did. They erased my brother. Mom told me how she found him. He was naked in the middle of the floor. The whole floor was a pool of dark red. He finally drained out all that Japanese blood.”
She massages my face again with a steaming towel. I close my eyes and plunge into the moment. Let it never end.
“Thomas, you’re beautiful.” I roll my eyes in an exaggerated way: I can’t afford to let her know that I believe she means it. “Is it weird to say? I just mean that it’s a transformative.”
“Transformation. And it’s not. It’s just a shave.”
“But you’re a whole new person. I did good, didn’t I? Not even a scratch.”
We lie next to each other on the bed. My shirt is back on. My face feels fresh. She might be right about me being a new person. “Do you talk to my wife?”
“No, not really. Sometimes.”
“She used to bring men to the apartment,” I say. The girl takes my hand. I can feel her pulse. If we held each other tight enough, would our beating hearts synchronize?
“You heard them?”
“She’d leave the door open.”
“Did you ever go out there?”
“And do what?”
“She wants attention.”
My wife must have expected that in my room Megumi’s and my feelings would
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