Demon Stories

Beau: The Most Familiar Phrase, 1994, Japan

Beau

The Most Familiar Phrase

1994, Japan

"What's 'tea'?"

"O...ocha..."

"Is that right?"

"How am I supposed to know? You're the one who's Japanese."

"Oh you're right. Why is this so hard to keep up with?! What's 'good-bye'?"

We have reason to feel ashamed. In the last 150 years, Japanese as a language has changed so very much. It feels more so changed than any other language, especially to our Violette, a native. To Violette it is betrayal. However, as much as the language has changed, it has paled compared to the people of this land. Gone are the distracting fluttering kimono, their silks like flag colors in the wind to us, signaling the differences in class distinction and even taste. Today we must watch out for much more. Clothing signifies interests and levels of modernity. It is hard for us to tell who is educated, married, employed, who is even poor or wealthy. It is hard for us to adapt to these foreign changes, causing us to once again be foreigners in this land. Unwelcome more so is this to poor Violette, the only one among us who was never a foreigner.

"I think 'good-bye' is 'ja na...ne...?' "

Violette looked at me with her blue eyes clouded with confused sadness, and then her tongue said to me "Good bye" in the Ancient way of her beloved past. We parted ways.

I adjusted my mini skirt with tiny tugs as discreetly as I possibly could. The late night gift of snow flakes silently kissed my flushed cheeks, seeking comfort on warm inviting skin. It was I who needed comfort. A familiar comfort. 

The cold air burst into my lungs as I breathed in deeply my warm breath. Searching for those familiar smells. Rubber tires, nylon combined cottons, motor oil, Western perfumes. None of it was desired to me. And then there was one. Mingled between modern hairspray and treated leather. It smelled like surrender and deep-seated loneliness. Like a mesmerizing attraction.

I walked towards the bar like an old friend. Seen and heard from wiithin, there was a golden glow and boisterous red faced laughter. Waiting a little before meeting this familiar smell, I breathed it in and felt it with my whole body.

Walking into the establishment, I met with almost familiar decor. Large kanji scrolls, natural wood chairs, natural wood bar, not so much as a varnish on their grain. A sea of black haired heads in white collared shirts were singing and laughing and spilling drink from right to left. And there at the bar, alone and forlorn like a sad yet handsome swan was that familiar smell. 

Such a handsome specimen there never should have been or ever will be again. Sitting there, hair tips bleached yellow and curled to an unnatural wave like ocean foamed wave tips; swathed in thick new smelling rich leather; face masked in all the wonder the modern make-up industry has to offer with American white cigarette dangling from pierced plump irresistably salacious Japanese lips.