HONG-KONG - OSAKA - TOKYO

A hotel room romance, crammed subways, and battles with sliding doors...

Butterflies

My little concerts are a hit. It’s getting easier to reproduce the music I hear in my head. It’s also easier to make money and earn a living... And I can continue travelling. Next on the itinerary: Hong Kong, Macao, and Osaka. Wanting to spend some time in Japan, where the guitar has become all the rage, I've decided to stay at a small guesthouse.

- For how long will the honorable foreigner be gracing us with his company?

The woman who owns the place is wearing an obi and a pair of elevated wooden sandals called getas.

- Gosh, I really don't know, Madam! Let's say... a week.

- Haï! May the honorable foreigner enjoy his stay here.

Dead tired, I collapse on my bed. When I awake, I have absolutely no idea what day or time it is. In the darkness, I fumble for the light switch. I press a button directly above my head. The bed begins to vibrate, which makes me a bit nervous. It’s not altogether unpleasant, but it catches me by surprise. I press another button, still searching for the light switch. This time, the bed springs start shaking rhythmically. What on earth is going on here? I try a third button. Aha! Some light at last. I've just turned on the television. At least now I can see where I'm going and try to find that elusive light switch. But wait. What kind of a TV program is this, anyway? I hear the sounds of heavy breathing and moaning. Good Lord, Oriental couples are engaged in scenes usually seen only in old Japanese etchings! Where's that blasted light switch, then? With the help of the glow emanating from the TV, I try every single button above my head, one by one. I hear the sounds of mellow music followed by a tape recording of highly suggestive encouragement—even in Japanese it’s obvious what they’re trying to encourage! A ceiling mirror begins to rotate, and an illuminated water fountain starts gurgling. It now begins to dawn on me that this particular guesthouse wasn't really conceived with bachelors in mind. Not easily shocked, but intrigued nonetheless, I put on the kimono which had been hanging behind the door and go downstairs to the reception desk.

- Madam, the refinement of your establishment has exceeded even my most optimistic expectations. There's just one thing: How much does the honorable room cost?

- Here is your honorable bill. One hour costs 3,000 yen and so far you've spent 18 hours here. That makes a total of 54,000 yen (about USD 350 at the time). Since our most revered guest did not wish to use the automatic camera, there are no additional fees.

"Love hotels" are an ancient tradition in this overcrowded country. Even married couples use them, since intimacy is such a precious luxury. In my case, however, it's a bit expensive, especially since a key part of the experience was obviously missing.

- Terribly sorry, but I've just remembered that I have an urgent appointment in Tokyo. Don't forget to charge me an extra three minutes.

- Haï! May the honorable foreigner enjoy his journey!

******

The most famous Japanese guitarist at the time, Jiro Matsuda, who happens to be passing through Osaka, has agreed to meet with me.

- I've just called the organizer of a music festival in Tokyo. He's offered to include you in tonight's show. You’ll be playing three pieces. Are you interested?

- Haï!

- In that case, hurry up and catch the bullet train.

I grab my suitcase, my two bags (I've brought a few things with me), my guitar, and make a dash for the subway. Since it's the beginning of the line, I have no difficulty finding a seat. At the first stop, however, a wave of humanity surges into the car. I do my best to keep my belongings near me. Next station: Another wave of commuters inundates the train. I'm literally lifted off the ground, causing my bags to scatter every which way. I successfully attempt to get my guitar back. In doing so, however, I unfortunately lose track of my other belongings. Asking for help is pointless. This crowd is not a group of individuals, it is an entity with a life of its own. Another station. The steady onslought of humanity continues to stream into the train. Somehow I manage to get one of my bags back. But I've got to get off at the next station. Let's see, I've got to work out some sort of strategy. I'll use the wave of people exiting the train to drop my guitar and bag onto the platform. Then, I’ll get back into the train with the new wave of people getting in. Then all I'll have to do is find my suitcase and the remaining bag, and get out of the train as fast as I can.

Everything goes according to plan. The guitar and bag are transferred to the platform, and I've even managed to retrieve the remainder of my belongings. However, since I'm now at the back of the car, getting out has become impossible. And the train is now too densely packed with people for me to make my way through the crowd and out the doors. The train is going to start moving soon. I say goodbye to my guitar and all the memories I’ve accumulated during my travels.

And the concert? No, not that! A renewed hope gives me energy. I hoist myself up and onto my neighbors' shoulders, grab my bags, and Banzai!, I begin a mad crawl over this sea of Japanese backs. I'm just about to reach the promised land, when the doors start to close. In a desperate attempt to salvage the situation, I go for broke by tossing my bags onto the platform and making a frantic effort to join them. The doors are closing fast. In a final, desparate effort, I stretch my arm out as far as it will go. The two doors close, squeezing my head and right shoulder in the process. "Geronimo!" I shout at the top of my lungs. Through the film of sweat now clouding my eyes, I catch a glimpse of a conductor’s white glove. With an authoratative gesture he stops the unyielding mechanism that was about to behead me.

******

Finally. Finally, I'm in the station. But where is the platform? I see stairways everywhere but all the signs are in Japanese. I try to ask for directions, but people turn away the moment they cross my path. Suddenly, a man plows into me. I turn around to look at him. He's drunk. As I try to find my way, he shouts, threatens, and makes off with my guitar. I've now drawn a crowd as I chase after my aggressor, making guttural sounds as I run. Still, people refuse to make eye contact with me. I finally catch up with him and get my instrument back. He takes advantage of this to rush towards my suitcase and make off with it. This little farce continues until I spot a sign that says Ticket Office. At least somebody will speak English or French there! I walk inside, still followed— scratched, tugged, and verbally abused—by the drunk. Gasping for breath, I ask:

- Do you speak English?

- Haï!

- Quick, call the police, and get this guy away from me!

- So deska! This isn't the police station, but I'll draw you a map...

No one could, no one wanted to help me. Drunks are untouchable here, because they are free, for a few hours at least, from the stifling environment that restricts their freedom.

*******

In Tokyo I decide to take a taxi. Once in the theater I'm shown the way to the dressing rooms. The buzz of guitars fills the air. I put down my things and walk down the hallway. Imagine my surprise when I hear virtuosic passages being played with remarkable speed. I open the door. A young Japanese guy is in the process of warming up. His scales are dazzlingly beautiful. I press my ear to another door. I can make out bits of the aptly-named "Capriccio Diabolico". Elsewhere, some kid is playing segments of "The Cathedral," which requires both courage and confidence on the part of the performer.

I can feel my stomach muscles tightening. My forehead begins to contract into a frown of worry, my palms start sweating. I have stagefright. A result of the admiration I feel toward these artists and my fear of appearing ridiculous by comparison. I enter my dressing room for a disastrous last-minute rehearsal. This time, however, I find myself trembling. Let's see, perhaps I ought to start off with something fairly simple. How about that little Bach prelude for instance. I must have played that one a hundred times. Let's play that one, then. D, D, F, A... But why did I play a B instead of an A? I've never made that mistake before. Oh no. The young Paganini next door just pretended to look at me in admiration through the doorway! All of this is rather irritating. Ok, Ok. It was just a false start, after all. Let's give it another go. And this time, let's get it right. Three wide-eyed faces are staring at me now. I keep expecting them to throw a few coins my way. Peeping Toms! I'm all scrunched up now. And my left shoulder has developed a nervous tick and feels as if it's been welded to my ear. I’m sweating profusely...

- Honorable Jumez-San, please come to the stage!

- Just a minute!

One of my guitar strings is a bit too long. I pick up a pair of scissors to remedy the problem but, nervous as I am, cut the string in the middle instead of simply removing the bit of excess from the end. Frantically I try begin to replace the string.

- JUMEZ-SAN!

- Just a minute, I'm replacing a shoe string!

I feverishly attempt to slide the new string into the eye of the peg. One of the witnesses to this lamentable spectacle comes in from behind the door. Feeling sorry for me, he's decided to come to my rescue.

- Jumez-San!

I rush toward the stage, bump into a prop, and miss one of the steps, bumping my guitar in the process. Gasping for breath, I finally make my way onto the stage. To my horror there are at least three thousand people in the audience, all of them as quiet as church mice (applause hasn't yet become common here), solemnly waiting to see how I do. It would be impossible for me to express my sense of panic in words. When I try to remember that performance now, I draw a blank. Did I really get through those three pieces? To this day I can't for the life of me remember what happened that evening. And even if I did manage to get through them, was my performance any good? When I left the stage, did I walk off or did I need to be pushed out in a wheelchair? My only hope is to ask the people who were there to give me an eyewitness account.
I'm never going to put myself through that again. Ever! I'd sooner finish the rest of my trip on foot.

Much to my surprise, a couple of young people come up to me after the show to ask me for lessons. Maybe our fingers instinctively reproduce the pieces they've played in the past, much the way a horse makes its way back to the stable alone? At any rate if I did manage to get through the evening, I didn't make music so much as mechanically reproduce it. How could those people possibly have been impressed with what they had just heard? The only explanation I can come up with is that, as a Westerner, I represented something exotic to them, at least at the time. Because of this, I'm forced not to give up—yet.

For three months I taught guitar in the Land of the Rising Sun. In the process I learned to play the basics of the biwa, a distant cousin of the guitar. Koto players learned about my repertoire. The capacity of Japanese musicians for memorization never ceases to amaze me. Years later, the Japanese would conquer the world of the guitar, producing some of the greatest virtuosos of all time. And each time their unshakable concentration remains intact, regardless of the circumstances. One of them played "Pictures at an Exhibition" in its entirety, a feat that is virtually unheard of. Another went on to win a prestigious contest and rave reviews in Great Britain, and then voluntarily severed the tendons in his left hand upon returning to Tokyo. A third won a contest sponsored by Radio-France by playing a breath-taking rendition of a Bach suite. Later, he would play that same piece in my living room, without noticing that one of the strings was out of tune, and that what he was playing was, therefore, unlistenable.

Japan has never been known for its openness to the outside world.Yet years later the guitar had produced so many great musicians in Japan that a French guitarist, Claude Sciari, would become the first foreigner ever to run for senator there.