door. I open up and, before he can say a word, I trot out a quotation from Plato, ancient Greece’s intellectual superstar. He doesn’t know who I’m talking about; he figures Plato must be one of those bums who hang out in the park across the street. But the landlord is Greek, he must have heard Plato’s name at least once in his life. I’m almost proud of knowing a Greek who doesn’t know who Plato is. Besides, I can’t stand all that propaganda about Greek philosophers— give me an enigmatic Japanese poet any time.
“I won’t be able to pay you until later,” I tell him, not batting an eyelash. “Plato will be dropping by any minute now to pay back a debt.”
I always come out with long sentences when I talk to him. The less verbose the person is, the more pompous I become. I can’t stand taciturn people. They’ve got nothing in their heads: reactionary peasants, all of them—or old farts, if they happen to live in town. The landlord retreats, since only money interests him, whereas my wealth is in words. I can pay him his rent in words right on the spot, all the way to the end of the year. Ten minutes later, I hear him racing back up the stairs, no doubt suffering from a fit of panic—my crowns, my crowns!
“That friend of yours, that guy, he’d better pay you,” he stammered, out of breath.
“What guy?”
“Your Plato guy.”
“Play-doh is for kids. I’ve gone beyond that, haven’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Play-doh. If you ask me, it’s just occupational therapy. It keeps your hands busy and your mind empty. Like your worry beads.”
He took a step closer to me. He knew he was being insulted but he didn’t know exactly how.
“Play-doh, Plato—for you, it’s all the same.”
“Have you gone crazy?”
“I wouldn’t tell you if I had, would I? It’s up to you to decide if I’m crazy or not. Maybe so. . . Maybe not . . . Maybe so. . . Maybe not.”
I started dancing circles around him. He stalked off, more furious than before. People who are always furious impress me; I imagine them giggling to themselves on the sly. I have to find some way of spying on him when he’s alone in his room. Drill a discreet hole in the floor. I picture him sitting on the bed, watching a vhs tape of some old match between young Greek boxers who’ve been dead forever. One of them must come from his village . . . Maybe he’s a former folk dancer. I imagine him dancing, sweat running down his face. His legs: he is all legs. They are the heart of Greek folk dancing. My Zorba is dancing, his eyes straight ahead. Beneath his heels, the earth. At his feet: his people, his culture, his cuisine, his music and his woman. I can mock him all I want, he always has the last word. Sooner or later, I’ll have to fork over the dough. Plato can’t argue with that immutable fact.
HIDEKO'S SECRET
IT’S ALWAYS THE same thing. You think you’ve finished, then you have to start all over again. The imaginary producer wants a final scene. Why? The film’s too short. Besides, you don’t end a film with a question, he told me. Who says so? Money. Even imaginary money is irresistible. Where was I, again? Hideko’s secret. What’s her secret? Shame. The shame of loving a woman no one else loves. We start off by seeing her the way everyone else does. She’s ugly. She’s the one who must always sacrifice herself. Her sexuality is buried so deep she’s even stopped masturbating. She couldn’t find her sex if she tried. To masturbate, you need to imagine yourself with someone else, to take him against his will, or make him take you, kiss you, and this is an operation that demands a minimum of self-esteem. She doesn’t have it. Neither does she have any malevolence or ambition. She is a tree waiting to be watered. Nothing sexy about that. She knows nothing about power, and less about seduction. I’m not talking about Hideko, of course, but about the woman she loves. Her secret, her shame. Unlike
“I won’t be able to pay you until later,” I tell him, not batting an eyelash. “Plato will be dropping by any minute now to pay back a debt.”
I always come out with long sentences when I talk to him. The less verbose the person is, the more pompous I become. I can’t stand taciturn people. They’ve got nothing in their heads: reactionary peasants, all of them—or old farts, if they happen to live in town. The landlord retreats, since only money interests him, whereas my wealth is in words. I can pay him his rent in words right on the spot, all the way to the end of the year. Ten minutes later, I hear him racing back up the stairs, no doubt suffering from a fit of panic—my crowns, my crowns!
“That friend of yours, that guy, he’d better pay you,” he stammered, out of breath.
“What guy?”
“Your Plato guy.”
“Play-doh is for kids. I’ve gone beyond that, haven’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Play-doh. If you ask me, it’s just occupational therapy. It keeps your hands busy and your mind empty. Like your worry beads.”
He took a step closer to me. He knew he was being insulted but he didn’t know exactly how.
“Play-doh, Plato—for you, it’s all the same.”
“Have you gone crazy?”
“I wouldn’t tell you if I had, would I? It’s up to you to decide if I’m crazy or not. Maybe so. . . Maybe not . . . Maybe so. . . Maybe not.”
I started dancing circles around him. He stalked off, more furious than before. People who are always furious impress me; I imagine them giggling to themselves on the sly. I have to find some way of spying on him when he’s alone in his room. Drill a discreet hole in the floor. I picture him sitting on the bed, watching a vhs tape of some old match between young Greek boxers who’ve been dead forever. One of them must come from his village . . . Maybe he’s a former folk dancer. I imagine him dancing, sweat running down his face. His legs: he is all legs. They are the heart of Greek folk dancing. My Zorba is dancing, his eyes straight ahead. Beneath his heels, the earth. At his feet: his people, his culture, his cuisine, his music and his woman. I can mock him all I want, he always has the last word. Sooner or later, I’ll have to fork over the dough. Plato can’t argue with that immutable fact.
HIDEKO'S SECRET
IT’S ALWAYS THE same thing. You think you’ve finished, then you have to start all over again. The imaginary producer wants a final scene. Why? The film’s too short. Besides, you don’t end a film with a question, he told me. Who says so? Money. Even imaginary money is irresistible. Where was I, again? Hideko’s secret. What’s her secret? Shame. The shame of loving a woman no one else loves. We start off by seeing her the way everyone else does. She’s ugly. She’s the one who must always sacrifice herself. Her sexuality is buried so deep she’s even stopped masturbating. She couldn’t find her sex if she tried. To masturbate, you need to imagine yourself with someone else, to take him against his will, or make him take you, kiss you, and this is an operation that demands a minimum of self-esteem. She doesn’t have it. Neither does she have any malevolence or ambition. She is a tree waiting to be watered. Nothing sexy about that. She knows nothing about power, and less about seduction. I’m not talking about Hideko, of course, but about the woman she loves. Her secret, her shame. Unlike
Similar Books
