Chapter 5: Geisha Watching

Geisha watching was fascinating, but perhaps slightly more so in warmer weather. Connor was no longer sure if the tenseness in his shoulders was from the anticipation or the chill in the air. He allowed that it also was due at least in some part to the shrieks and gasps he would hear every time there was an almost sighting. His group had seen one maiko, or apprentice geisha, duck into a corner store, which was odd to see a girl in a silk kimono at the counter of a store, and seen another in a flash as she darted down a side alley. Finally, a moment presented itself and the full marvel truly was revealed.

If the wait had resembled an extended period in captivity, then the eventual appearance of two geisha walking the length of the long road towards them was like watching the parting of the Red Sea. These two women shuffled, gliding as if on air, towards Connor and the rest of his group. Only the scraping of wood sandals against the ground confirmed that both were earthbound. For all of the people who wanted to be so close to these women, no one dared to actually stand in their way. These two were not at all like the girl who the group had seen before. The woman on the right had the prettier of the two faces, her features frozen beneath a sheet of white powder. Her cream kimono was worn over another white robe. She wore a thick orange colored sash with an intricate tile pattern which shimmered like fish scales wrapped around her. She carried what appeared to be a box covered in a blanket or roll of some kind, maybe a pillow or musical instrument. Her perfect wig was accentuated by a dark, wooden hair band. Her eyes were amazingly lifelike compared to the mysterious quiet of the rest of her face. Even her blood red lips seemed painted in place, not simply covered.

The woman on the left, who was closer to Connor, wore a mint green kimono which had white and orange flowers embroidered on it. She wore pink flowers in her hair and was wrapped in a copper band with shiny maroon ribbing. She was noticeably older, though only in her eyes. The funny thing was that here this made her more attractive. Geisha were to seem ageless, yet they were also masters of so many things that a slightly older and wiser woman seemed more authentic for the role. What a change from America's obsession with barely legal performers (who could barely, if ever perform), Connor thought. Connor quickly took a picture of the two geisha as they were maybe ten feet away and then tried to take another as they walked directly by him. It was the second picture which would remain with him forever as a reminder of his time in Japan.

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Connor sat in his hotel room in Kyoto and looked back through the pictures he had taken earlier that evening on the screen of his camera. He had pictures of the guide, a school where geisha would learn to perform and a doorway with three sets of wooden sandals set just inside. He had pictures of the name plate signs which were the way to tell which geisha was working where at any given time and if a certain woman was available for hire that night. Finally, he reached his two geisha pictures. The first, as they approached was nothing special. It looked almost surreal though, like the picture of a Rembrandt taken on a disposable camera might have. The focus was perfect and the eyes and lips and colors of the kimonos were all easy to see. The alleyway, which Connor remembered having been dark, appeared artificially lit from all of the flashes that had popped simultaneously. It was the kind of all too normal picture that would take him back to this place for years to come, but it wouldn't mean nearly as much for him as it might mean to others.

The second picture didn't come out as he had planned. He had snapped it hoping his camera's flash could recharge in time, but clearly it had failed. What Connor saw now was all blurs. The blur of two kimonos, the blur of flowers set against jet black wigs and blurry lines of movement as their bodies twisted with that step. What Connor could not have possibly planned was that as he had turned to try to take the picture, the backdrop for this failed shot had become a blurring of old and new. In it were the geisha, but also the traffic buzzing across the street which they were preparing to cross. In the picture Connor could see a crosswalk and two sports utility vehicles, one silver, one white. Also easy to make out were the neon lights across the street. These time-honored geisha appeared smeared on the image as a picture of a ghost might were they trapped in this modern world. From that moment on, it was this picture that would come to represent Maruko and Osaka as Connor looked back at it for years to come. As he focused on the blurry image on the screen, Connor spoke out loud.

"Maruko. If I can be something that helps to bridge these two ages, these two worlds that you inhabit, please may I be found worthy, may I earn the trust you've offered me and may I," he stopped for a second, stroked his finger against the view screen of the camera and corrected himself, "may we do something truly wonderful with all of this."

Connor turned over and turned out the light. His train back to Osaka was in the morning and no matter what was to come next, he knew he had a date in his immediate future. He hadn't been so eager, nervous or truly at peace with whatever was to come in a very long time.

Chapter 5: Grand Pas d’Action?

Maruko walked in to the studio and instantly felt relieved. There stretching was Hinata, her best friend here at the academy. She wore a black leotard and white tights while Maruko wore a simple black one piece. Maruko moved towards Hinata and they shared a simple, yet sincere hug.

    Hinata stopped, holding Maruko by her shoulders and craned her neck back to get a better perspective.

    "Now sweetie, what's new with you this week?" Hinata asked with an inquisitive smile. Her enthusiasm was only hindered by her detailed knowledge that Maruko's new adventures, though novel, tended to be ambiguous at best in their eventual impact on Maruko's universe.

    "Umm," Maruko bit her lip, though her eyes sang of happiness.

    "Well look Maruko-chang," Hinata replied softly; adding chang after Maruko's name to indicate the closeness, familiarity and affection which they shared, "I've seen you soar with a growl and down with a giggle. What's new, this one," she put her index finger to her cheek to feign deep thought, "Ah! This one feels... good?"

    "OK," Maruko, as if shot from a cannon, began, "so the other night, I left here and went to Tower to get the piece we were rehearsing, right?"

    "Yes, go on."

    "K, so apparently this guy saw me there."

    "Apparently- did you see him?"

    "Honestly I don't remember."

    "Oh Maruko-chang, even the bad ones are memorable!"

    Maruko, partially flustered, partially winding herself up for the story waved her arms franticly, "Would you please let me begin the story?!"

    "Geesh, sorry!"

    "Thou art forgiven," Maruko stated matter of factly while making a gesture as if knighting Hinata. "OK," she began once again, albeit even more dramatically this time, "so, after Tower, I went to the coffee shop to get a latte," here she sang her approval, "yum! There," she continued, "this guy approached me, or rather I startled him, I was reaching for the sugar, but yeah, we got to talk and well…"

    "Is he a cutie?"

    "He is!" Maruko blushed. "And there's a way he looks at me when I talk, wow!"

    "So, are you going to go out with him?"

    "Yeah, I think we're up to dinner next."

    Hinata stared at Maruko, waiting for her to catch on as to why. She waited and then continued waiting.

    "Oh," Maruko finally caught on, "um, yeah, well we met there again the next day."

    "OK, well that's nice. How did that go?"

    "Five gallops," Maruko smirked, rolled her eyes and gave a fake, toothy grin.

    "Oh God, what happened?"

    Maruko quickly caught Hinata up on the juggling act gone astray.

    "Well, after that, so do you think...?"

    This time it was Maruko who did the staring.

    "Good God, kid!" Hinata took Maruko's hand and feigned looking for a wedding band, "No? OK, so you're still in control here, well that's good."

    "Oh shut up!" Maruko exploded into one of her contagious giggles. "He wanted to see Osaka-Jo, so yeah, we met there and we saw the Yokimura Sanada exhibit, it was really great actually. The mural they had was breathtaking!"

    "Maruko-chang?" Hinata made a deliberate pause between each of her next words, "Why. Hadn't. He. Seen. Osaka-jo?"

    "Oh, right. Ummm, well he of course would have seen Osaka-Jo a million times..."

    "Uh-huh."

    "Were he Japanese, but yeah, being American..."

    Hinata hung her head theatrically. It wasn't that she lacked the love for Maruko that it took to endure her misadventures, quite the opposite, in fact. The truth was that she adored Maruko immeasurably. However, Hinata simply hated to see how these 'lessons in life and love' sometimes left Maruko's heart bruised. Hinata gathered herself so as not to destroy Maruko's spirit or, even more so, her trust and finally spoke, "So, what's his name?"

    "Connor"

    "Cute name… and he's...?"

    "Tall, cute, brown hair with light eyes, really funny and smart, he went to one of those ooh la la schools even," she twisted her mouth up, "Dart-vard?"

    Hinata started to respond, but as always, Maruko was rolling and it was clearly still her turn to talk. "He loves to hear me explain things, which I really like. It makes me feel that I have some things that I've learned, too. He lives in L.A. and works at a financial planning place."

    "And he's…" Hinata giggled at having to start again. With all of the information she had just been presented with, her question had either been missed or, more likely, avoided, "And he's leaving when?"

    "Oh yeah, not sure there, but it's got to be soon I think… which would be fine, but," Maruko's eyes darted away. The terrible side-effect of the way one can light up a room is that when they look away and especially if something takes them away, the lack of their light can cause a blackout; everything simply goes dark.

    Hinata was more than ready to finish Maruko's sentence, "But, you like this one, don't you?"

    Maruko bit down the inside of her lip and exhaled through her nose, "Yeah. I do, I think I really do."

    "Well then," Hinata tilted her head and took on another persona, one more official, "the question is: Is it a Grand Pas Classique or a Grand Pas d'Action?"

    "What? Tonight, ummm, didn't Ogamu-sensei say we'd...?"

    "No Maruko, come on, we've learned about these. And yes, we learned it here, but just follow me: Remember that a Grand Pas is an active intermission. In ballets which feature one, a Grand Pas is a break in between pieces of the storyline. This recess features some of the most beautiful, most graceful and most talented dancers. This is of course a fantastic portion of the show, but, unless it is a Grand Pas d'Action, it does nothing to carry the plot forward. There is the key difference. Any interlude that is beautiful and alters the attention of the audience could qualify as a Grand Pas, but only the d'Action will have any effect on the final destination of the plot. So, we know, I mean we KNOW, that this one, Connor, is it?"

    Maruko nodded, she sensed where this was going, but restrained herself from finishing the thought so that Hinata would continue.

    "Connor is a Grand Pas, clearly," Hinata continued. "He is fantastic for you to look at and he has quite grabbed our darling audience's attention. So, my dear sweet love who I adore, the question remains: d'Action? Does Connor advance the outcome of the production? Does Connor advance the plot and outcome of your production?"

    Maruko nodded, knowing that the correct and accurate answer was that she really didn't know. She hugged Hinata, holding her for an extra moment so there would be no questioning how much she'd appreciated the analogy, and at that moment, the call to begin stretches came and rehearsal began.

 

    For as much as Maruko did sometimes dread the repetitive nitpicking which rehearsal could present, she truly loved stretching. Standing at the bar, her long frame propped upon a deceptively stout piece of wood, she felt part of all who had danced before her. She stood at the bar and, at the call from the director, felt the familiar burn as her thighs took their first deep bend of the evening. Next came her arms and shoulders and Maruko finally began to feel relaxed as she stretched her arm away from her body before next tucking her chin against her shoulder blade and stretching her free arm back towards the bar. As she bent back towards the mirror, she could feel everything from the digits of her fingers to her ribs to each muscle in between stretching to their last centimeter of flexibility before being held just one moment more.

    Japanese ballet had been heavily influenced by the Vaganova (Russian) school of ballet and this meant a greater concentration on the line of the upper body. It placed added emphasis on arm movements and their resting positions especially. Stretching was a way to free the body so it would be prepared for the true magic of ballet: the ability to fight through agony to hold a position while seeming all the while to be making no effort at all. To struggle, to even show the flexing of a muscle would imply that something was being asked of you which was not readily available. This simply would not do.

    In these areas, Maruko had always found ballet a suitable mirror to Japanese culture. She believed that to make an offering to something greater than yourself was to do it without needing to tell others or make sure that they had seen you doing it. Likewise, in both of her worlds, one had to give 100% and yet be sure that, while maximizing the dedication that was put forth, none of these efforts showed outwardly. Maruko always excelled in these areas for, amazingly to those who knew her outside the studio, she was a sea of calm while in rehearsal and simply otherworldly while on stage.

    At times, the etiquette of ballet dictated that she only excel to a point where those accompanying her would be able to keep up. This too was true of Japanese culture. Greatness was admirable, but to do it in a way so as not to show up others was not only something closer to divine, but necessary. Maruko took these cultural beliefs and infused them into her dancing. The combination was seamless, though at times she longed to simply break out from the others. On the stage, when allowed, she in fact could explode. She hit steps with a ferocity which her character, demeanor and cloud like landings would never belie, but still, she did it all within the confines of her troupe. She dreamed that one day she would be on an immensely bigger stage, one in which her every effort would be needed to even keep up. Then, only then, would she be able to summon up even more from her deepest reserves and know that she was truly still above the rest.

    Stretching finished and rehearsal went on as planned. The piece of music which Maruko had bought that fateful night which seemed so long ago was played and dissected and replayed. At times, changes were made to previous routines and these were welcomed, for Japan's integration with ballet was still fresh to the extent where it wasn't really mature enough to grow on its own yet. It could often feel formulaic and trapped by the way one master or another had done it in the past, though they too had adapted it to themselves and the time of that performance. Each time the music resurfaced, in those slightest moments, she allowed herself to think of Connor. Remembering how it felt to be his guide through Osaka's castle and to have been so aware of how safe and listened to she had been while standing only inches from him, feeling each breath leave his chest through his lips, took her breath away here once more.

    It wasn't just within her mind where Connor was present at rehearsal, either. Maruko, who had never lacked in confidence while dancing, was nonetheless more self-assured that day. Connor's words seemed to have emboldened her. She felt now more than ever before that that she had a reason to believe in dance as her vehicle. She'd never lacked much faith in this conviction, but the way he had completed her relation of Ichiro to how she could use dance seemed to make each step in this first rehearsal since Osaka-jo burst out and land even more resolutely.

Chapter 4: Why Ichiro matters…

    "So up here is the garden I was telling you about. Did you pass it on the way in?" Maruko asked looking back over her shoulder to where Connor had lagged a half a step behind. She just needed to break the deafening silence.

    "I didn't see it, I was sorta on a mission," Connor replied with a clever grin and a raise of the eyebrows. God, don't let her see through this, he prayed as they walked.

    "Ooh, on a mission, I like that a lot!" She slowed and tossed her elbow into his and looked up at him. Good, we're back in the now, she thought to herself.

    Before them was a lake surrounded by a magical and otherworldly arrangement of small bushes and hedges. The water was crystal clear, but appeared mossy from the amount of greenery reflecting into it. The season was fall, but these bushes were more alive than anything Connor could recall. The entire backdrop behind the lake could have been one bush, and looked as such when Connor stared lazily and let all the colors bleed into one. In fact, there were a countless number of tiny and perfectly manicured brambles, all above a floor of coarse leaves and grass. In the center of the lake stood a diminutive island with a small, though stout stone pagoda. It stood no more than three feet high and may have stood in memoriam of someone or something.

    "This is awesome. So much work must go into this," was all Connor could offer in an overly-simple way. "It must have..."

    "Yeah, this is someone's Zen," Maruko, ever the leader, interjected, "keeping this garden, this serenity in the midst of everything else here. The difference between Zen and other paths," she continued, "is that it holds that enlightenment can be achieved through meditation and direct experience, not piety. With Zen, worship is in the practice and so for this gardener, this is church. This is his alter. Sure, the castle is quite beautiful too, but still, people enter it, they leave. Some mornings there are groups of hundreds and other days, there are barely a few. All through that, there is a need for a constant. Maybe, this garden can be that for someone. I don't think that the people here at the castle ask this man to make his garden a moment of constancy. I do however think that he relishes this chance to explore the dynamic of this one corner of this one area in Osaka. He is probably grateful for this one area, this one thing that he can make stable in this world especially. Our world, Japan, is keenly aware that this is a world which is changing so, so fast."

Maruko looked off into nowhere as she spoke. Her country was changing as if in a whirlwind. These developments, one precipitating another, happened so fast; too fast, she often thought. Then again, she had to allow, anyone who isn't on board always feels left behind. Therefore, while perhaps there was nothing wrong with Japan's momentum, she still longed to know where it was that she fit into it all.

 

    "Oh, hey, have you been to Kyoto at all?" Connor cut in, it was his turn to summon her back. "I'm not sure what made me think of that just now." In truth, while Connor had just remembered that he'd wanted to ask her this, he also needed to get his schedule on the table as a way to ask Maruko if he could see her again before... no, not before, he chided himself, just if he could see her again. He didn't even like to say to himself what was coming.

    "Yeah, sure, many Japanese make the trek there, it is a living history museum for us in so many ways. Why do you ask?"

    "Oh, I've got a client to see there, or a client who would like to see me there, I guess, it all came out of left field."

    "Wow, well, if you are going to Kyoto, why in the world are we staring at this little thing?" she asked while gesturing towards the lake and garden.

    "Well, for a few reasons. Most importantly of which, unless you are coming to Kyoto with me, then this is the lake I got to see with you, so that makes it..."

    "Makes it...?" Maruko prodded him to go forward.

    "Makes it different maybe," the same broad grin returned to his face, "I don't know, but seeing things with you around; I've enjoyed this."

    Maruko blushed and looked away, though she quickly returned to meet Connor's eyes with a nod and a pressed, restrained smile.

    "I can't believe you can just miss your conference." She spoke these words, but knew that this wasn't the case. That meant only one thing. It had wrapped up, and with it, his time in Japan must've been beginning to come to an end.

    "Oh, no, it ended this morning; for me at least. The rest of the trip is just..." He stopped short and forced a short breath after a pause where it was him whose eyes did the darting to and fro.

    "Well you should love Kyoto," she began again. She needed to find a way to keep this moving forward, for if given a moment to contemplate, she might've burst into tears. "Thank Goodness you'll get to see it. I mean it's really what we have to offer here. It's our showcase. Sure, go to Tokyo for the fashion and neon, shopping and clubs, but as far as culture, the temples, shrines and just that feeling of Japanese history frozen in the moment, that's Kyoto. Wow, I envy you for sure, you will just adore it."

    "What you have to offer," Connor repeated back in an impressed tone. "See, for me that would have been the baseball diamond." He let the words hang for a moment before raising his hands in mock protest, "but really, I'm serious. My country hasn't created much. We are great at adopting things from others and adapting things to ourselves. As far as American novelty, wow, that isn't as long a list. We have hamburgers and, to some degree, our form of democracy. As far as sexier things, well jazz and baseball are the two I always think about. I've actually heard some great jazz while here, just the other night…"

    "I'm a bit young for jazz, I think." Maruko seemed to ignore the gasp Connor shot her through clenched grin before continuing, "But baseball? Yes, sir! Thank you U.S.A." She looked back at Connor and then added in a dramatic voice, "America's past time, a game created by the most powerful land on the planet," Conner looked back as if to acknowledge the heavy sarcasm in her tone, "But," here she proceeded with a fake frown and drooped eyes, "that all changed in 2001, didn't it gaijen?"

    "Oh did it?" Connor quickly inquired. What was 2001 (surely she didn't mean September 11)?"

    "Foolish foreigner," Maruko continued in an amusing tone, "2001 was the year which saw the coming of the great Suzuki Ichiro. He changed the game forever. We allowed you to control baseball for, well, a long time, but with Ichiro," she paused, "it has begun, my friend. 2001! Look at his 2001 season! 127 runs, 242 hits and an OBPS of .838!" She was rolling once again as she rattled off these statistics.

    OBPS? OBPS was a calculation which stood for a player's on base percentage plus slugging percentage. Connor could not believe she had just brought up OBPS, who was this girl? "He's great, but wow, a bit of a fan, are you?"

    "Ha, a bit!" as she said this, Connor wondered if her eyes were actually wider than his at the moment. "And I even like the game a little, too," she tried to suppress a guilty grin. "But Ichiro-san, no one uses his last name, is so very important to us; not only to me, but to us even more so. That season he went to America, Japan was awake with every pitch he took. Every at bat was shown in public squares on massive movie screens. Every hit was talked about openly whether that person had been a baseball fan before that season. Ichiro was far more to us and an athlete playing a sport much of this country loves. There had been Japanese players in America before that, Nomo Hideo who pitched for the Dodgers, for example, but never an every day player."

    "You're right there," Connor was in heaven, as a child, he had often prayed to God for a girl who would care about baseball. "And Nomo, he had that kinda weird delivery and everyone would always say..."

    "Right! Sorry to interrupt," she was so excited that she couldn't hold it all in, "they always said that it was the unorthodox windup. And it was, maybe to an extent. He was so unique and the pitches looked different when he threw them. But then again, to the Japanese fans, when Nomo won the rookie of the year," Maruko shook her head in disbelief, "we were so proud and all anyone wanted to say was that it was because he had confused the major league hitters, not that he had dominated them. I think Americans felt threatened."

    "Well, baseball purists did for sure, yeah." Of course, Connor thought, this had often been the case. He thought immediately of Jackie Robinson's debut for Brooklyn or Henry Aaron's assault to topple Babe Ruth; America had often felt threatened when what it perceived as the homogeneous makeup of its game was put in danger. That the game, any game really, was almost without exception always better for these moments of diversity and innovation went without saying. Still, those moments of initial introduction could often be tense.

    "But Ichiro," Maruko continued, "he played every day. He faced the uniqueness and the strength, whichever a pitcher brought at him. He saw and hit it all. He was rookie of the year, but also the M.V.P. His team won more games than any other had before in one season and it isn't as if the media spotlight wasn't just tremendous."

    Connor knew she was right, Ichiro had faced a constant David Beckham-like media presence, initially from Japanese reporters of every kind and, eventually, from western press as well. His rookie year had been truly amazing.

    "And then there was the prejudice," Maruko continued, "I mean still, no one wanted him to succeed."

    "Well I don't know," not wanting to argue, but suddenly defensive nonetheless, Connor still felt a need to stand up for the American dream that he felt foreign ballplayers were given to follow. "Do you think it was that bad for him? I think America was really excited." Connor stopped himself short as his recollection corrected his words.

That season, his beloved Yankees had faced Ichiro's Mariners in a playoff series. During the games in New York, Connor had seen a few occurrences which were of note. These games were played in the weeks following 9/11 and Connor had rejoiced at how the Yankees had taken to representing America's fighting resolve. Nonetheless, as Seattle was eliminated from the playoffs the fans had serenaded Ichiro with 'Sayonara, sayonara, hey, hey, hey, goodbye' chants. In another game, a fan in the hyper-passionate bleacher section had come dressed as Godzilla and chanted, 'eeeeeeee-chiro, eeeeeee-chiro' at the diminutive superstar from the Far East. At the time these things had brought a smile to Connor's face, a few giggles perhaps, but maybe they had meant something else to those who saw Ichiro as a representative of their Japanese heritage. Finally, Connor relented to Maruko's accusation, "Yeah, I guess there were moments; I mean he was unstoppable, people got passionate about it."

    "Absolutely," Maruko was not looking to cross-examine Connor or America. She showed no intention of pursuing any apology for history which she saw simply as reality, not necessarily offensive or benign.

    "I think you are right," she continued, "He was just, wow. We were proud of some of the harassment he suffered, really; it meant that he was getting to you guys. It meant that people saw his talent."

    "Exactly, yeah"

    "I fell in love with him that year," she continued in an awe-struck whisper. "Not just me; we all did. All of Japan stirred with passion and admiration for Ichiro. Men looked at him as the foremost example of Japanese precision, while every girl's heart fluttered with the vibrancy of a schoolgirl crush. Still, there was more to it than that. The papers called Ichiro an ambassador, but to me, he was hope. He carried Japan wherever he went. What was more, he wasn't succeeding in a traditionally Japanese medium. He excelled, and excels still, in an arena that is undeniably yours. He plays by America's rules and simply takes what he is given and plays at an even higher level than others. As I watched him, I felt that something that was not traditionally Japanese might be an acceptable way to express my love for Japan."

    "For you, that's dancing?" Connor was fascinated by how important this world was to Maruko. There were things that others took for granted every day that she lived and died with.

    "Ha ha, not so fast; don't go trying to see all of my secrets in one try," she tugged at his sleeve before noticing that his reaction seemed slower than it should.

    "Hey, did I lose you?" She looked up at him, waiting for whatever he was confronting to pass.

    "No, sorry, I'm here. Just, there are so many things that I don't know." He looked over her head and to the right, not focusing on anything in particular.

    "Oh, I know," she responded quickly. "Sure, there's a longer list of what we don't know than of what we..."

    "But wait Maruko, it's not that I don't know, it's that I really want to learn it; all of it." Though the sun was sinking, her eyes sparkled as he spoke these words to her.

    "I'm in Kyoto for a few days," he began again slowly, not sure what her reaction might be. "I leave for there tomorrow morning and am back the next afternoon. Could I see you that night? What would that be, Saturday? Let me take you out, maybe even be the guide for some of it," he watched to see if this was eliciting any reaction, and it was.

She looked as she felt: stunned. Perhaps, she had been ready to say goodbye. If not ready, perhaps she'd at least understood that she might soon need to be. However, instead of recognizing what was on the horizon and running from it, this was an entirely different occurrence. Connor seemed to want simply to glide towards the sunset, not in denial of, but in rhythm with it all. Maruko wasn't sure. She wanted to see him again. She knew that there was so much still not said; so much not yet shared. However, she also knew that it had to all be ending soon; he'd said so much just minutes before. There were so many reasons to say no. She had the control right now; this hadn't gone anywhere that she wouldn't be able to repair herself from. She could walk away and this would be another fantastic moment, something to build on. Then again, she hated how everything was to be built on. She wondered when she would get to enjoy the fruits of all these experiences.

    Connor could tell that she was going to say no. Damn it, he began to berate himself, he didn't want this to be it. Certainly, this was a great opportunity to say, 'Yeah, we met, we laughed, and we had one afternoon that was just great.' Maybe this had been their date. Here he was asking for another, maybe she had taken that to mean that he hadn't truly loved today. Well, if this had to be it, he was grateful. She had shown him something, even if it would live on in the space she'd left, that he knew he could look for again in his future. He shouldn't have pushed her. Connor began to belittle himself. It was dumb to even ask, he thought.

 

    "I'd love to," Maruko broke the silence. "OK, call me when you get in. In fact, if you'd let me offer a suggestion, there is an art exhibit I'd love to see. It's a little more Zen, pretty amazing. It won't have any baseball," she looked up with a grin, "but I think you will like it. As for the rest of the evening, it'd be yours to guide away as you will." Maruko smiled on, though she was terrified. She had just betrayed every safety net that she'd ever erected inside her. But then, what was the use of a safety net if one never took a chance and walked out above it?

    Connor was stupefied by his misread on which way Maruko had been leaning. Still, he was thrilled that he'd have another chance to see her.

"Now, sadly," before any silence could set in, Maruko spoke once again, "I need to run actually. Tomorrow is jammed and there will be another big rehearsal and you have your trip to prepare for."

    "I do," he was almost relieved to end this day right at that moment. There was no reason to dance around the fact he was leaving, but if it didn't have to come up again before he saw her once more, all the better, he figured. He walked her back to their train station and they said goodbye with gentle touches on one another's arms; contact which they each hoped might conceal their common longing for the unknown. He had her number and would call her as he got in from Kyoto. The museum sounded great, even without any baseball.

Chapter 4: Osaka-jo

Walking underneath a canopy of willow trees, Connor approached the main entrance square. To his right was the bridge, far larger than it'd appeared from so much further away. It led inside a high-walled complex and behind the wall, ahead to his left, he saw the top of the castle building itself, though only barely. It was a white tiered pagoda with antique textures and glimmeringly ornate details which captured the wandering eye at almost every corner. Each level was separated by a layer of green which changed progressively from rusted bronze to jade.

Navigating around the couples who'd stopped to take pictures on the great walkway, Connor walked the last hundred yards and reached the large Japanese tori gate that acted as an entrance. There ahead of him, like a golden fleece no further from Greece than his home in the States, stood Maruko. She was in a long, thin skirt, the cloth of which fluttered in the gentle fall breeze though still it clung to her hips and backside. On her feet she wore simple sandals with brown leather insoles and barely a heel. The sandal's white straps matched the petals of the lilies printed on her skirt. Over a dark brown spaghetti strap top, she wore a white wool sweater. This sweater was unzipped and hung open, showing her shoulders and neck, though still giving her a modest air. The outfit in its entirety was nicely put together to celebrate the sunny day, all the while preserving the elegance of these truly Japanese surroundings. She wore her hair clipped off to one side in a waterfall and stylish sunglasses with large-lenses that gave her a slightly Hepburnesque appearance.

What she didn't wear, at least outwardly, was the fear she would later admit to herself that she'd felt in this moment. Coming to the castle to meet Connor had dared this, all it was and might become, to prove itself authentic. His arrival had met and satisfied this challenge completely.

Maruko swallowed before greeting him honestly, "I hoped you'd come. I mean, err" she stopped herself short before innocently regrouping, "how was the journey here?"

"Worth it," Connor replied though a remarkably calm smile. If he'd ever felt attracted in this way to anyone before that moment, he was oblivious to the memory. Even the anxiety he should have felt to be with someone whom he truly felt no entitlement to was absent. There was something equally stimulating and calming about Maruko, she was both sides of something he'd never known to desire until that moment inside the gate.

"Want to head inside and see the castle?" she asked.

"Well of course, that is why I came all this way, right?"

Maruko giggled and, without a touch, led Connor one step behind her.

They walked ahead, past gardens and up a stairway where Connor paid a nominal admission fee for both of them. Now entering the castle proper, they wound up a slightly steep staircase which led in a tight hook to a pagoda and an old iron cannon which was set upon a large stone block. Connor still couldn't truly take in the grandeur of the main building, but that was actually a good thing. He'd always been attracted to those pictures which were not easily taken. Those things which forced one to experience them with a craned neck if they wanted to see them at all seemed more vital to absorb in person.

As they entered through a large doorway, Connor spotted a floor map. The half a dozen floors displayed the history of the castle and held artifacts from different periods. On the second floor was a special showing entitled, "Yokimura Sanada and the two wars of Osaka."

"You need to see this," Maruko looked up at Connor from underneath the sunglasses before finally removing them with a toss of her head for impact in an adorable, yet sincere way, "It's really important."

Connor once again was drawn immediately to the way that the light danced in Maruko's eyes whenever she was excited. It was enchanting and impossible not to become swept up in. Much like the way that one imitates an accent without any thought or intention, his course was legitimately altered and, furthermore, no longer his, whenever he stood in her wake. Her mere presence was force enough to pull Connor along to somewhere entirely new and unexpected.

They wasted no time in moving to the second floor to view the main attraction. There were many framed 8x10 photos of old drawings showing tiny scenes from an epic battle. The pictures began with the head of the clan and the samurai he'd commissioned. Apparently, there were two wars, one in the winter and another in a warmer season. The pictures were rather episodic. One showed a horse pierced by arrows. Another depicted an archer aiming to the heavens. There was a flag bearer, well far more than one actually. This made perfect sense to Connor, for in all of his work he'd learned that in most wars, those officially declared and those fought through pressure and poverty, it almost always came down to that one thing: flag bearing. The desire for those who carried themselves into battle to plant their flag in as many new territories as was possible had long motivated many individuals and nations in all varieties of conflict.

In the next image, a band of samurai crouched behind a hill, perhaps waiting to attack. Their armor appeared to be a combination of large rectangular platters made of bamboo and painted in quilt-like sections. They each wore a chest plate and helmet. From each came a fan of smaller, though no more slight, tiles painted in the same style. Each man wore silk or satin pants to allow for movement beneath their armor, which also included shin guards that matched the chest plates. Connor was struck by how exposed, armor or no, these men appeared. They looked 100% the role of fierce warriors, but they were clearly so much less protected than any other knight or soldier that he'd seen depicted in the West.

Though each frame contained only a photo, the ornate patterns in each drawing really came through.

Connor reached to his left and placed his hand at the base of Maruko's back without a thought that this was their first real contact. "Thank you for sharing this with me, it is really fantastic. I can't even imagine what these men faced as they went into..."

Maruko smiled, which froze Connor mid-sentence. "These are the previews, follow me." She reached her right arm into a lock around his and, with eyes once again ablaze, gave a tug, "Come and see THIS!"

Ahead was a tall doorway, through which many people stood in dimmed lights. As Connor approached, he could see a large glass wall. Behind the wall was an independently standing oriental screen which was made up of six connected panels and depicted an entire battle. Connor quickly realized that the 8x10s outside had been taken from this screen.

This ancient and freestanding history book, meticulously retelling the battle of Nagashino, grabbed the attention of all who entered. Each army's lines and reserves seemed to demand that any who passed stare directly at that one small area alone. The room was hushed, and yet as each new group entered there was an audible gasp.

The more Connor studied the screen, the more it seemed to reveal itself. It was taller than two-thirds of his six feet plus and featured three distinct areas of painting. To each side were one army's reinforcements. In the center, there was a kind of beautiful chaos as this was where most of the confrontation was taking place. Each hill, each recess in the landscape, suddenly took on a new meaning as a place where one had waited, a place another had pursued and a place one or both of them had died.

"What were they fighting for?" Connor asked Maruko softly.

"The same things we always chase," she replied without looking up at him, "love, land, wealth and honor."

"Honor? Wow, they fought for honor," Connor repeated back to her before then continuing in a voice like the man who announced previews at the cinema, "another time and place, when mankind still fought for honor."

Maruko stopped and this time looked directly up into his eyes with a sense of incredulity, "We still do; fight for honor. Don't you? Live for honor; die for honor; live with honor... No matter what the details of a fight, it's a fight for honor."

Connor nodded slowly with pursed lips, as if to agree, though inside, he knew this simply was not true. Then again, maybe here, it was. He found Maruko trustworthy and of everything else that was so strange about this place, here was just one more thing: the sincerity of the Japanese tradition of fighting battles to maintain and defend honor.

His eyes caressed not only the texture of the screen, but also the details of each combatant. Those in the center clutched rifles and spears, flags and lances. However, to the sides, amidst the chaos, were groups of men standing casually. These men even held conversations in some instances. There they were, planning, strategically deciding their next, perhaps final, moves. In tales of ancient soldiers, Connor had always been stunned be the concept that so often many would stand back in wait, holding until it was their specific turn to kill or be killed. In these times he'd wondered if this might have been much more horrible than the quickness of fate which awaited them.

According to the screen, the side to the left seemed to be fairing better. Their sides appeared to become more organized as one moved to the back of their mass. The side to the right, on the other hand, seemed to be holding on for dear life. Their lines were broken and, in some instances, had even turned into a series of one-on-one battles using the traditional sword of the samurai. In the very back, to the center of the right-most panel was their castle. Around it, the ground was darker, more fertile. Perhaps this was part of the attraction of the land. Before a fortress was ever erected, food would have been the motivation for this settlement and the battles that would surely follow. Still, Connor wondered if the red tinge of the ground was also from the many, many men who'd died in this area.

All of this, fertility, the erection of boundaries and imminent attempts to break through them, reminded Connor of his work. It wasn't so different in other areas of the world. It was all too much like a game of Risk; a large, disgusting, never ending game of Risk. Some battles had simply been won long before. Still, nowhere that was ripe for strife today didn't almost mirror a place where this had all happened centuries before.

In the lower-right corner stood a small and heavily-ornamented group of samurai. Their moments numbered, they were not under siege; at least not yet.

Singling out one of these samurai, Maruko asked, "How do you think he felt?"

The question was so simple that Connor stood there not sure where to begin his answer. Finally, he tried, "Well, sad of course."

"But why?"

"Well, he's about to lose his castle."

"Castle," Maruko twisted her face and rolled her eyes, "those are just bricks and boards."

"But his people," Connor amended his initial offering.

"Yes. His people and their security; the things represented by these walls. What else?"

"Scared?" Connor wondered what she was getting at.

"Maybe, but scared to die, you mean? No," Maruko shook her head gently, "I wouldn't suppose he is that. Like a captain on a sinking ship, his concern is not that this very real part of his job cycle is occurring. Instead, the captain of these samurai is concerned only that he be the last to die. He will soon be battling, literally fighting for his life until he knows that he can allow it to end. And then?"

Connor had no answer. "And then?" he repeated back to her.

Maruko looked deeper into Connor's eyes, "And then he can have peace. When the writer has finished the poem, there is nothing left, but to set down the pen." Maruko's eyes were all of a sudden darting and alert, though regretful. "My Ojiichan used to say this. My father wasn't ever able to sit still, so when he needed to just slow down my Grandfather would say this to him. He'd tell him, 'Shhhh, it's finished. When the writer has finished the poem, there is nothing left, but to set down the pen. Perhaps you've written enough for now, yes?' Then, as I grew up and was, well ME," she giggled at herself and continued, "well, my Father finally got his turn to use this on someone else. 'It's done blossom,' he'd tell me, 'stop writing and set the pen aside.'

"He taught me that a writer holding a pen too long was just as potentially tragic as one who never picks one up. However important it is to know when to start something, it is just as important to realize when something has come full circle. Whether a task, a regret, a relationship, whatever; when it's done, we move forward and begin anew. Likewise, when the writer has finished his poem, his pen should retire."

Connor stood staring, for a moment he had to remind himself to even breathe. Who was this wise teacher in the guise of a child, he wondered to himself. Her laughter, her giggles, her darting eyes; all belied the serene genius and generations of knowledge which this girl possessed. All these and my heart, was all Connor could think. He knew that before any real amount of time, she'd possess that as well.

Chapter 3: Five Gallops, Five Gallops

Perusing the room, suddenly Connor was frozen. His lips parted slightly in wonder as he watched Maruko walk into the café. Like a buck captivated by the shiny barrel which would bring him death, he stared, fixated by her air. She shone like a sacristy. Beyond her silken shroud were wonders of old, waiting to be discovered anew. He longed to know if he would see any shininess in her as beauty or merely as a glass covering. Would scratches in her history appear to him as blemish or as character? Furthermore, he couldn't help but wonder whether if he gained her trust and learned her secrets, he would prove wise cleric or fool? Would he, given an eternity, even comprehend some of what he could learn from this girl across the room? Connor took a deep breath and drew strength in knowing that there was only one way to find these answers and rose to meet her at the counter. Any burden that had not been absolved merely by her arrival was immediately put to rest when her face lit up as she saw him coming towards her.

Maruko was relieved, she truly did come here almost every night anyways, but this was the first time she had come with such anticipation. She'd met guys here before and had been confronted by many more waiting, uninvited, for her to return and reconvene the previous night's small talk. Still, this was her place and for that reason she had cursed herself for allowing Connor to inhabit her every thought the night before and this entire day. Were he to stand her up, it would have made a permanent mark of something that never truly was on this place where she really loved to come. For this reason, she hadn't told a soul that night at her ballet studio about this rendezvous. Likewise, she hoped that no one would recognize her here tonight, she just didn't know how to play this or how any number of different faces might affect the impression from last night that she was hoping to either confirm or release. Her face was burning and she was sure she looked like an idiot, but still she couldn't lower her gaze. It felt nice to look up at him. She was thrilled that he'd come.

"I really did try to learn hello in Japanese for you, I thought you would appreciate the effort." Connor smirked as he delivered a line he honestly hadn't really practiced, not that much at least.

"Konichiwa. Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" Maruko fought to keep her eyes feigning inquisitiveness, though she knew, and Connor suspected, that the way she was biting down on her bottom lip fully gave her away.

"Hi." Connor allowed himself to stop and enjoy her smile before adding, "I wondered that same thing myself. What can I get you? Coffee, Latte..."

"Wow, I see you have done this before." Maruko replied.

"Honestly no, I'm not all that... outgoing. I don't just meet women while away…"

"Whoa, I meant coffee shops, but go on?" She giggled and hit his elbow with hers. They both continued to keep their hands in their pockets; figuring that it looked more mysterious, in a classical way. "I'll actually take an orange juice," she finally answered. "I really shouldn't always try to destroy my hard work within moments of finishing at the studio."

"Juice it is, I'm getting a latte, just have to." Connor leaned in to order, but the timid cashier clearly preferred Maruko. As she moved between the counter and him to place their order, he noticed both how tiny she was and also how smoothly she moved.

They returned to Connor's table and both sat down. Connor reached and handed her the orange juice. The bottle slipped from her hand and hit the table, resting for a moment before pulsating onto the surface in front of her, glug, glug, glug.

"Oh! Oh! Five gallops, five gallops!" Maruko fumbled to stand the bottle back up and then scrambled for napkins. "Five gallops, five gallops," she repeated again. "OK, wow, sorry there, phew." She looked back into Connor's eyes and visibly regathered herself.

As if he'd looked into a before-and-after picture with the spill in between, Maruko had, in a flash, returned to her composed self.

"So wait," he started, "five gallops: what was that?"

Maruko looked down and bit into her lip. Her teeth were white and straight, but Connor hated them right now as they covered her plump bottom lip. Like an obese man in a tank top, her lip exploded out from under her bite's restraint.

"Five gallops," she began, "My favorite book when I was a little girl was called, 'One Ballerina, Two.' It's similar, I guess, to any other counting book, though this one is for ballerinas. It starts, 'Two ballerinas, together,' and then counts down from ten of this step to nine of those..."

She didn't regurgitate every position or step and, in fact, Connor quite got the point, but Maruko's eyes did a dance of their own as she retold the story to the point where he wished that she would tell it all. Plus, of equal importance, with each word, her lip was temporarily released from its prison. Go on, go on forever, was all he found himself thinking.

"So, anyways," she continued, "When the little ballerina gets to 'five: five gallops,' she stumbles and says 'oops.' So, from as far back as I can remember, I fall down, I spill something," here she grabbed wildly at the air with terror in her eyes, "I just say, 'five gallops.' Stupid, I know."

"No, not stupid at all," Connor offered in consolation. "It does, however, sound really vivid. When was the last time you read the story?"

"Umm," she chuckled and twisted her puckered lips as if trying to whisper the answer into her own ear, "Wednesday?"

Connor laughed, "Wednesday as in six days ago, Wednesday?"

"Yeah," Maruko giggled, "It's an oldie, but a goodie, like you I guess."

"Ouch," Connor's mouth exploded into a grin as his eyes darted down at the table. After all, he was older than her; it was by how much that he still didn't know. "OK, so let's have it," he began. "I mean I am not old, but yeah, we should at least get it over with."

"Oh, I don't think it is all that bad. I've finished college, I'm twenty-three." She looked up at him, was he really that much older? She hadn't wanted to know. She figured that this wasn't going to go anywhere, but she quite liked the fantasy.

"Wow, see? I didn't know. You seem older and you certainly have a way of carrying yourself, but then again," he paused before repeating, "I just didn't know. I'm only a few years older than you then, OK, five, but still." Connor looked back at her, awaiting the 'Oh my God' reaction which this confession would surely bring, but it never came. He may have been older, but this girl, her soul was so nicely aged, like a bottle of fine champagne. This analogy fit, he thought, because she was intoxicating. She was, he repeated to himself, slower this time, intoxicating.

"It's funny actually," Maruko continued from where she had left off a moment before, "that book represents such a part of my opinion on books in general. I love old, used books. I guess I always have, but never more than in middle school. My teacher started assigning us these horrible books. No one could get into them, these Classics. I tried, I swear I really did try, but it," she paused after each of these last three words to attain the proper dramatic impact, "just... wasn't… happening.

"I went home that night," she continued, "And cried to my mother. 'Oka-san,' I cried, 'no one can read these books! Look at them, brand new and crisp! I bet no one can read them. We're probably some kind of guinea pigs for these teachers and book publishers!' She replied that she was quite sure that they were not only readable, but that they had been read before. I dared her to prove it to me and figured that was that."

Connor giggled, Maruko was on a stage at this point, lights in her face, looking each patron in the eye as she spun her tale further.

"Well the next day," she became hushed and looked up; her eyes glowing out from a face partially hidden because her chin was tucked into her chest. She looked just like a child on Christmas morning. As Maruko visibly fought to hold the excitement in as long as she could, Conner looked directly at her, begging her to continue.

"The next day, my mother came into my room with an old, beat-to-hell copy of that same darn book from school. 'This one looked read' she said." Maruko raised her eyebrows as her mother must've done.

"I thumbed through it and there were underlines and notes scrawled into the margins. The pages were dog-eared, suggesting perhaps even more than one reading, or a reader with massive A.D.D.," Maruko giggled and Connor had to laugh as well. "The book," again she paused, "it even smelled old. I took out the crisp copy from school. Its shine repelled me once again and, after some fast checking, saw that this worn-down and bleeding copy was the same.

"'You said,' my mother continued, 'that there was no proof that anyone had read this book. Well baby, this one looks well read.'

"I read that torn and battered book and trusted that if someone before me had found it OK, then it must be, I don't know, survivable, and I ended up using it in my class even. Since then, whenever possible, I choose used books. It's like someone else checked to make sure it was OK."

Maruko, her mouth understandably dry from this complex tale, reached for her orange juice, forgetting for a moment the spill that had started this all.

"We can get you another," Connor chuckled.

"No, I only wanted one."

"But that one didn't really do its job."

Maruko arched her eye brows and twisted her puckered lips once more, "Didn't it, though?"

Chapter 3: Maruko

The record store's style was a blend between throwback and ultra-modern. The wall with the new releases featured tacky 1980's neon piping. In contrast, each island had a Sony flat screen TV which played the visual music video for whichever artist's music that stack held. Likewise, the listening stations featured thick black iron pipes holding modern displays and a massive iron hook- on which hung a set of earphones not all that different from what Connor's parents had used to listen to records when he was a child.

Walking to the Rock section, Connor realized that part of the problem of trying to visit the breeding ground for the cutting edge was having no idea upon which edge to cut. Everything was so fresh here that one had little idea where to start. In front of him were CDs from any number of bands; each of whom could very soon be the next big thing. Of course, most of them would never reach any higher than being a band that at one time could have reached this plateau. Each band seemed to follow essentially the same formula: four guys with a combined weight of barely 550 lbs. in jeans and one t-shirt or another who's iron-on emblem was only obscure because of how long it'd been since that trademark had been fresh.

Trix cereal, GI JOE, My Little Pony; amazing, he thought to himself. If only my parents had kept these from when I was young, he continued before reconsidering, not that I'd have given a thought to the chances of them coming back into style.

Now though, these pimple-faced teens full of feux-angst and rage wore these idols to a bygone era to show... perhaps even they didn't know what it really showed. But still, they wore them, and if they didn't? Well then that would have shown an admission of a lack of whatever defiance it was that the shirts were meant to show in the first place.

Connor took a set of headsets from one of the hooks, chuckling as he rescued the forever-youngness of new music from the clutches of Captain Hook. He heard a jangly guitar and knew it had to be British in origin. The band was pretty good, though this still didn't establish their coolness. Connor bobbed his head and was carried away by the quick riffs, melodic scales and tinny-drums. The angry drawl of the singer seemed to indicate that the pendulum of British rock was swinging back to the more impoverished docks and away from England's more well-off districts. This band really was half-decent. They played with a very lively swing to them and their songs had, hidden within, enough fun lyrical references to make the listener feel like they were cool because, of course, only they had untangled this clever web. As Connor allowed his body to continue to awaken to these child-poets, he wondered if he was the only one in the store who was allowing himself to give in to this release. Suddenly self-aware, he turned around to survey the rest of the store.

In that moment, Connor, and all time around him, froze.

This eclectic world and all its urban energy slowed to a crawl as the most beautiful girl Connor had ever seen strode towards him. Her clothing was a modern take on classic 1950's American fashion and while this would have looked rather cute on anyone, it was how she wore the clothes that made him stop. She wore an over sized black letterman sweater with white ribbing along the cuffs, pockets and buttons, one of which was fastened. The sleeves were pushed up to reveal her slender forearms. She wore a fitted button up white blouse with a broad starched collar which she wore open and a denim mini-skirt which revealed strong and sexy legs which, as quickly as they had been revealed, disappeared into dark brown cowboy boots with black socks which peaked out over the tops. She had straight brown hair that went just past her shoulders and a broad, yet delicate face. Her eyes were attentive and focused; she very much seemed a woman on a mission. She held her mobile phone with her left hand and in the bend of that arm, an over sized white bag that hung at her hip. Her right arm hung straight, holding a lime green shopping bag from another store.

Connor found himself fumbling for the CD case of the band he was listening to, hoping to somehow confirm his coolness as she walked directly towards him. Wondering if his breath was OK, how these headphones made him look and whether he'd done all right when choosing his clothing for the evening, Connor collected himself. He straightened his back, filled his chest with a breath of air and stood soldierly, though relaxed, or more like a relaxed, but ready and honorable soldier, as he anticipated her arrival. He looked intently at the nonsensical CD case he'd just moments ago scoffed at, knowing he'd be standing next to her in only moments.

From the corner of his eye, Connor watched her take one last long stride before... walking right past him. His head turned to follow, but was confronted and momentarily deterred by the lilac scent which came from her as she brushed by him. She strode with purpose as Connor watched every step. Her hair swished and shone against the soft, dull black wool of her sweater which itself hung below her skirt, only revealing the backs of caramel colored knees and the beginning of strong-looking calves before entering into her boots.

Finally she came to a stop in the Classical section.

"Classical?" Connor whisperingly asked only himself. He was stunned by the thought.

Setting down the shopping bag, she switched her mobile to her right hand and used her now free left hand to flip through the CDs in front of her. Amongst all of this perfection, Connor's eyes were drawn to a piece of white ribbon dangling from her bag. It, and only it he thought, seemed to betray that this princess was perhaps just a schoolgirl. She gently leaned her weight from one foot to the other as she made a quick decision. Picking up her shopping bag, she smoothly turned on her heel and tossed her hair to one side, all in one motion. Walking back past Connor, he could now see a quiet about her face, with its fleshy cheeks and gentle eyes. For the frantic movement of her entrance, her body line and facial expressions were very calm.

She moved past Connor once again in the same way that she'd entered. This time prepared for the intoxicating scent, Connor took in a deep breath as he observed her long powerful strides which seemed to waste no energy. As he watched her pay for her CD, Connor's attention jolted as he suddenly noticed guitars and drums in his ears. Checking the CD player, he was shocked to find that the same rock CD had been playing all along. He'd swear in the years to come that in that moment, her moment, he'd heard only classical.

Just as quickly as she'd entered, she was gone. Connor was left utterly breathless. He'd never see her again, but in that moment, he knew that he and Audrey were through. The fact that he could be jolted- so explosively penetrated in a moment's time and that no wall, guard or scar tissue had even deflected the thrust told him that there was more to this life for him to discover; certainly as pertained to his heart.

Connor had often marveled at how he could recall his first kiss. He could remember tasting it for a week and that afterwards his teeth had felt differently, like a glaze of someone else's lip gloss was still upon them. He couldn't revive at will the face or memory of the girl who had delivered him into adolescence with just one kiss, but she was there all the while from then forward. This moment was like that. As Connor walked out of the record store, holding a bag with some British band that would now forever be an awkward soundtrack for this moment of discovery, that smell, her smell, was still in his nostrils. Like the kiss, it wasn't there to be focused upon, but still, as he breathed through his mouth especially, the crisp fall air would tease him and push a hint of her back across his upper lip, up his nose and to the back of his throat.

He didn't know where to go or what to think, but he felt that he wanted to remember every part of this moment. He stopped in the first coffee shop he saw, fortunately it was a chain from home, so he knew what to expect. The remarkably familiar back-lit corporate sign out front would have seemed destined to cover up the older city walls in this seaside metropolis, but it actually fit in well. Walking inside, relieved there was no line, he ordered a large coffee. He took a pen from inside his coat and grabbed a stack of napkins from the island which also held a good amount of sugar and just a touch of cream. Connor got his coffee and returned to a seat he'd claimed nearby. He furiously started to scribble down the tiniest detail from the past thirty minutes. He tried to remember what he'd been thinking about this rock band who had now sold a CD because of this angel and how he had almost never seen the escalator to take him upstairs to the store. He tried to reconstruct what she had been wearing, the shape of her eyes and the color of her skin. Some details were elusive, obstructed by other more prominent impressions, but these powerful few, like her smell and that walk, came back with no effort at all. He shook his head slightly at her classic Happy Days style and how she had still looked so very Japanese. However, Connor then realized as he stopped and looked around, this same juxtaposition of old and new, East and West, had been the theme of this entire evening. The way she dressed was little different than the modern restaurant with its Miles Davis or the street performer who, while striving to be anti-establishment, seemed to fit all the more inside of it.

In fact, Connor noticed as his eyes continued to dart around, for an American chain, even this café was different from how one back home would have been. He took note of how the young man at the counter who had taken his order wore white gloves and also how payment had been placed on a silver dish and then passed back to the worker so that his and the customer's hands never met. As Connor had explained his simple order, the boy, who clearly understood, must have said hai (yes) and bowed, noticeably, three or four times. The barista, an adorable girl in a white shirt and apron had repeated this verbal confirmation while receiving the directions that he was calling to her. Then, the island and the seats, even the wood grain here had a different age to it. This looked very much like the sister stores Connor had frequented in the West, but still there was just something older about this place.

Connor wondered if these differences and how they complemented each other so well could be attributed to Japan. In contrast to other impressions he had seen and heard so far, he noticed how the Classical music that this coffee shop was playing sounded so much more modern than it might have back home. These piano sonatas which were the soundtrack of choice in many coffee houses worldwide nonetheless made a different impression here. As Connor added this observation to others which he'd collected earlier, his auditory impression of Osaka was starting to take shape; all this classical urban energy, like Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14 with a techno beat.

Connor returned to his napkins, 'What does this all mean?' he wrote at the top of another napkin. 'Must it mean something? So, I'm moving on, but to where? What now? What would she be doing now?' He wrote each of these simple inquiries on a separate line, underlining some of them quite fiercely and looked back up before diving in for another round of questions. Strained from the intense focus he was giving to his attempted recollection, he looked upwards at the ceiling and rolled his neck from side to side before tweaking it even worse than before as he caught something from the corner of his eye.

Connor winced, but was just as quickly relieved of any pain he may have felt, as he watched her walk once more towards him. She stopped abruptly at the counter, but still seemed to be moving against the completely suspended backdrop of the coffee shop. She stood in line a few people deep from the cashier; Connor could only stare. Though this would have been a wonderful time to complete his written sketch of her, he just couldn't take his eyes away from her, lest in writing he miss even one moment of this, another chance to exist in her propinquity.

She ordered her coffee, probably some annoyingly complicated, yet delicious concoction, he thought. Connor watched in disbelief as she reached into her backpack for her money and moved the long white ribbon aside to reveal ballet shoes. Wait! Ballet shoes, he wondered almost aloud. This explained the grace, but wow, an urban classic indeed. Talk about an old art being covered by the new. Or, just like all he'd seen outside, was it the new who was really keeping the focus on the old? Was she headed to or from a rehearsal then? Not in this teenage parade of fashion intensity, he figured before noticing that it was all just clothing; boots, socks and clothes. Her cheekbones had been left free of blush by her delicate hands. She was a pulsating paper doll; that day's clothing tabbed and folded over her classic frame. She allowed the day and time to influence her not as a victim, but as a canvas. She was astutely catching a ride from this era to the next, or previous in her case. Underneath, Connor bet that her soul was of old. He imagined her dancing through this urbanized society of the future, all neon and jackhammers, to the ping of a piano key; toe step to toe step slicing her way to tomorrow- a relic so new, she was as yet unborn.

Connor, thinking this simile would somehow fit into his scrawling illustration of this messenger who'd come to deliver him into the next stage of his life, gave in and returned to his napkins. He wrote without pause and made a conscious intention not to edit anything until later. The sensory implications of this girl, he was quick to reason, were coming too fast and too furiously for refinement. Looking back up, Connor watched as she sat at a table across the room and it was all he could do to not get noticed ogling her. Here he was, an American who was God knows how much older than her, just staring at this girl while franticly working out these writings, half diary, half therapy. Some thoughts had nothing at all to do with this girl, though all had been inspired by her just the same.

Continuing to scribble, he rubbed his forehead between his thumb and index finger before then twirling a curl of hair behind his ear. I'm fidgeting, he thought franticly. Stop it, you look like you have some sort of tick or are high on drugs. Wait, he stopped himself. Now I'm not breathing! Breathe damn it! Don't look so stoic! He read nothing in particular as he prepared to return his attention to her table. He wondered if it had been moments or hours. He looked up, she was gone. He caught his breath and then exhaled, almost relieved. The muscles in his jaw were taut like he'd just had an orgasm or awoken from a nightmare. It really was one of these two; this entire moment was ecstasy or horror show, all that for nothing. "How to file this away," he wondered aloud. He would get up, take his hand full of scribbles and what, capture all that she had been inside of a playlist? What would he have said to her if he could have?

"Hi, my name is Connor and you have just helped me to realize exactly why I needed to be here, halfway across the world and on the heels of a disappointing episode at home. The way you walked and all of the things I'll never know about you, they make everything that I sadly know all too well in my life perfectly clear. I just wanted to say thank you. I will never forget you and the way that you walked, no danced, through my life. The moments that our paths crossed will now dictate my every future expedition."

And to this, she would have replied what exactly? "Excuse me." No, that wouldn't have been it, there would have to be more. "Excuse me, ummm..." Again with the excuse me? She wouldn't have said that, he thought. Just then, Connor felt a slight touch on his arm.

"Sweet Lord!" Connor yelped while appearing visibly startled as she now stood beside him. He smiled, terror in his eyes, was this real?

"Hi," she began again in wonderfully delicate English. "Sorry, but can you reach me the sugar next to you? The one over at the podium thing is empty."

Connor reached for the sugar and handed it to her, watching her thin forearm and strong wrist become more exposed from her sweater as she reached out and gripped the large glass jar from him. "Here you go," he stammered. "Sorry I was kind of spaced out there, just got in," anything, he thought, have to tell her anything, "from America, on business."

She giggled at his stuttering and replied, "It's not a problem. I'm pretty fried tonight, too, so I totally understand."

"Were those ballet shoes I saw in your bag?" Worrying this may have sounded a bit creepy, he quickly added, "I saw you at the counter and you were moving the ribbon aside or something and it caught my attention."

She smiled again, the gentleness in her response continued to set him at ease, and responded, "yeah, another long rehearsal. What brings you here?"

"Oh, conference, research and development for things that will go overseas to," he stopped himself, "actually it isn't that interesting." Finally at ease, Connor smiled broadly and looked away from her as he often did when he smiled. He returned his eyes to hers and continued, "How long have you been doing ballet?"

The girl stopped before answering. If all of the control had been hers the moment before, she hadn't known it. However, what she knew now was far clearer: she was caught in the gaze of this foreigner. It was in his smile. The way he just let it explode from inside of him before quickly looking away afterwards showed an honesty and humility which she was not used to finding in the guys who might try to talk to a girl in a coffee shop. He was handsome and, more refreshingly, clearly not as arrogant or egotistical as many Americans she had met.

"Actually," she finally forced herself to say something, anything, she pleaded with herself silently. "I think your conference sounds interesting. It brought you across the world and has to do with things in a third far-away place. Me? I just dance; been doing it forever. Alas, it's my passion." She framed the word 'passion' in such a way that she may as well have made little quotation marks with her fingers around her face while saying it.

"Alas, it's my passion?" Connor responded. "You don't sound too sure there. Anyways, may I ask where you learned to speak English so well? I haven't been here long, but you seem to be much more fluent than…"

"No, no, it's fine. Ummm," she looked up and to the side in an exaggerated way before answering. "Let's see, I have an uncle who traveled to America a lot when I was a child. He insisted that my parents should let him teach me English. He had no child of his own, so I guess he felt an obligation to torture me with endless lessons." She gave a toothy grin to indicate her sarcasm.

"Wow," Connor laughed, "You sound really grateful to him. I'm sorry you were forced to learn my country's language."

"Apology accepted," she answered back quickly with a nod and a smirk. "Well, you see the inconvenience wasn't in the lessons it was that I became," she paused as if considering a word, "obsessed with your culture. From there it was not only lessons, but movies, music and television; I really wanted to learn it all." She stopped again and looked away into the distance. "How did we get on this topic again?"

"Ballet," Connor reminded her as he smiled again. "You said it was your passion, but didn't sound too sure in what way. I think ballet, wow, that is fantastic. That's something that I certainly couldn't ever do. I'm not, as they say, graceful. At all. Really, I am not."

She giggled, "You're funny. And this," she broke away and bit her lip a little, "sucks, but I have to go; just too much to do."

"No, no, it's OK," Connor figured that this was the brush off and started to form the words, I understand.

"BUT!" She interrupted fiercely. "I tend to come here every night after rehearsal and so, I mean, if you were here some other time, like tomorrow night. At 9:30. Or 9:35. PM."

Connor accurately sensed from her explanation that she was eager and determined, if not even a little shaken. She seemed unwilling to risk his having the time to do anything but record and review the exact details of her impending return.

"If you were here," she was definitely fumbling, but he was following every word, "since I would be here, and again, I'd be here either way, but if you were here, then we could continue this? I mean if you wanted to."

Connor smiled again, dumbfounded and honestly unsure if he was imagining what was clearly happening and simply replied, "Yeah, sure, I should. No, I mean I will, I, YES. Yes, I will see you then, tomorrow?"

Her eyes widened and lit up, "OK, well, until then. Oh, I'm Maruko."

"Maruko?" Connor asked as she nodded. "Wow, that's really pretty." She looked away, so he quickly added, "Sorry. Hi, I'm Connor. 'Til tomorrow then."

For years to come, Connor wouldn't remember the rest of that cup of coffee, or the walk back to his hotel. It was only this portion of that night. How she had moved, how she'd smiled. Whether she had intended certain gestures to make a specific impact upon him was of little consequence. Like the soundtrack to a beloved motion picture, these quintessential first images of her which Connor had archived would forever be entwined with the emotions which they had awakened inside of him.