Mama-San By Bengman When I first saw her, she was sitting slumped on the shadowed inner stoop of the Aoi-So' Inn,gazing through heavy-lidded eyes at the dirty white pug that lay by her knees. She wore a shapeless grey cotton dress, white knee-socks, and a pair of worn pink felt slippers with flowers embroidered on them; the entire ensemble looked as if it had been purchased at the Japanese equivalent of K-mart. There was something solid and inert about her, as if she were a lump of soft clay, able to be molded and moved by external forces but herself incapable of motion. She lifted her head only slightly as I came through the slatted exterior door, followed closely by the taxi driver with my suitcase in his white-gloved hands. The dog, who looked to me like a white rat with hair extensions, leapt smartly to his feet and began to yap as if to say, how dare you trifle with my mistress, causing her to MOVE? She herself simply looked at me, her sagging face expressionless. The taxi driver grinned a toothy greeting at her and deftly slipped off his shoes, stepping up beside her and carrying my bag through a lace-curtained doorway to the hallway beyond. For my part, I stepped across the shallow courtyard -- it was only two feet deep but as wide as the entire house, open to the relentless sky, with two or three scraggly bonsai trees spreading their stunted leaves in supplication, and a plastic bottle of water heating in the glaring noontime sun --then I was through the inner door to the sunken entryway, bordered on one side by a set of small cubicles, some with shoes tucked away; it made me think of a honeycomb, and busy Japanese bees storing away shoes for the winter. On the other side there was a listing wooden cabinet with an old-fashioned phone. Over the phone was a small calendar with a tacky glossy photo of chrysanthemums in bloom, and a shakily lettered sign: "Do not use phone. Mama-san." The interior was lit, but dimmer than the outside, and I blinked as I introduced myself in stilted Japanese. She grunted in response and spoke over her shoulder to the taxi driver. "Sutero, upstairs." He replied cheerily from behind the curtains and, from the sounds of things, set off down the hallway with my bag; I could hear the creak of stairs somewhere within. Meanwhile, she had turned her attention back to me, as I stood forlornly in the entryway clutching my camera bag, and she began to speak. She had a strong Kyoto dialect, and a way of speaking in the back of her throat that made her syllables run together like melted ice cream, but I did manage to catch the gist of what she was saying. Apparently she was used to dealing with foreigners of no particular language skill, because she punctuated every main point with a summary in terse, accented English. So she spieled a bit about shoes and dirt and such, then leaned forward an inch or so, like a mudslide, and pointed at the entryway, where the taxi driver's black loafers were lined up neatly with a few other motley pairs of gym shoes and slippers that never made it to the cubicles. "Shoes off here," she said firmly. She listed the curfew, when to check out, the protocol for going out and about, and the payment schedule -- 2000 yen a night, not too bad -- then, "You pay now." A quick listing of the amenities the Aoi-So' Inn had to offer: "Shower. Hundred yen. Air con. Hundred yen. Kitchen next door." -- I wondered at this, but she went on -- "Gas coins. Five for hundred yen. Washer. Dryer. Three hundred yen." She waved at the hallway behind her, then added in Japanese that I must on no account go where I didn't belong, wherever that was. Then she looked me straight in the eye, leaned forward with her hands folded in her lap, and said, "You call me Mama-san." Mama-san it was, and I handed over the money for my first night's stay, ignoring the dog, who seemed mortally offended that I was being allowed to stay -- if he'd had anything to say about it, none of my kind would be allowed in the front door, but did Mama-san ever listen to him? The taxi driver came back through the curtain, rubbing his hands, and seated himself beside Mama-san. They had a quick conversation, too fast for me to catch, at the end of which he stood and beckoned to me. Mama-san jerked her head slightly. "He show room." I followed him into the hallway, pausing in surprise at the other end. It opened into a square garden, about four yards to a side, complete with a gnarled pine tree, a stone basin of water, and a conglomeration of mossy rocks and bushes. A walkway circled the open garden, sliding doors currently open to the sunlight; a slight breeze wove its way through the pine needles and into the house. In one corner was an olive-green washing machine, its pipes set up to drain into a patch of the garden where moss was especially thick; a dryer was suspended from a wooden frame above it. There should have been a sense of dislocation, I suppose, but instead the appliances seemed to blend in with the landscape; I was struck by the expectation that someday the moss would creep up their smooth metal sides until the washer and dryer were just two more rocks in the garden. The taxi driver went to the right around the garden; as I slipped after him, I noticed that the walkway to the left was blocked by a door with a magic marker sign that read: "Do not enter. Mama-san." Then we were up the narrow carpeted stairs to the second floor; he showed me an airy-looking tatami room, six mats, with a window that looked out on the building next door (where the mysterious kitchen was?) and a low table. A futon was heaped in one corner, and my suitcase stood like a tapestry island in the very center of the smooth straw-colored floor. The taxi driver smiled broadly -- I could swear his white teeth glinted, like in a bad seventies flick -- said "Okay?" and at my nod went back down the stairs, his stocking feet soundless so it seemed as if a ghost were causing the creaking of the steps, or perhaps that elusive wind. A moment later I heard his bright voice laughing and Mama-san mumbling something in reply. I wasn't quite sure what to make of the taxi driver. I had gotten lost on my way to the Aoi-So' Inn, dragging my suitcase the wrong way down Kuramaguchi Avenue. It wasn't until I reached the Kamo River that I realized my mistake and headed back the way I had come. Even going the right direction, though, I couldn't find the place. I called several times during my odyssey, but there was no answer. Finally, when I had just about given up hope, someone answered at the other end -- but instead of the slurred woman's voice I had made my reservation with (Mama-san, I know now) it was a man, his voice filled with the cheeriness of someone who is required to be pleasant to people constantly, and doesn't really mind. He said he'd come get me, which threw me off a bit, but he wouldn't answer any questions and just hung up the phone after learning my location. I'm not sure what I expected, but it was certainly not an impeccably uniformed and gloved taxi driver; he picked up my suitcase, grimaced companionably at how heavy it was, and settled me in the back seat of his cab, a pristine Toyota with lacy white seat coverings and tinted windows. He drove for about two minutes -- we were that close. As he pulled up in front of the dingy white building, its facade edged by clunky black bicycles instead of decorative bushes, I asked him how much, and he shook his head. "I'm a friend," he said, shifting to Park and stepping out to hold the door open for me. Listening to him talk to Mama-san now that I was ensconced in my room, staring emptily at my suitcase, I could sense the closeness, but it seemed to me an odd sort of relationship. "She knows a lot of taxi drivers," Kerryn was to tell me later, as we sat in the kitchen drinking some oolong tea. "But that one's her special friend. He comes in to visit almost every day." She rolled her eyes a bit as she said that, stirring her tea leaves around with a plastic spoon. Kerryn Love was one of the first residents of the house that I had met, one of several foreigners living on a semi-permanent basis in the annex where the kitchen was located. The kitchen, I had discovered, was a smallish room with a table and chairs, a fridge, the gas stove Mama-san had mentioned (with a hand-lettered sign proclaiming that the stove operated on gas coins, which must be purchased from Mama-san, and by the way, Mama-san was not going to clean up after us so we'd better do it ourselves), and a thermos that Mama-san requested (by way of another sign) that we keep always full of water for the convenience of the other residents. It was also the only room with an air-conditioner that didn't require money, so it was a fairly popular hangout, and the old-timers were all eager to meet the new girl, even if I was only a short-term visitor. Most of the "permanents" I met there were from various English-speaking countries, in Japan to teach their native tongue; Kerryn was one of two girls from Australia, who had taken to sightseeing with me in her free time. I had trouble believing her name at times, it seemed too AUSTRALIAN to be honestly Australian, but I couldn't see why she would lie to me about it. In any case, we had taken to each other rather well, with a hint of the clinging desperation of strangers in a strange land. I was traveling alone by choice and necessity, and for the most part it suited me. I could do whatever I wanted and not have to convince anyone else to, say, bop over to Toei Uzumasa Movieland and watch them film bad samurai dramas. But Kerryn was more than willing to follow my lead, on the premise that sightseeing on someone else's itinerary was better than nothing, and it was nice to have someone I knew in my pictures. In my first few days, I had taken to photographing random Japanese tourists, just to liven up the rock gardens with some human faces. (I also took a picture of the owner of the first ramen shop I ate at, but that at least was a commemorative occasion. 15 cent Maruchan, or even its more flavorful cousin Cup Ramen, is nothing compared to Real Ramen, with sliced pork and green onions and mushrooms and freshly made broth, steaming and glistening in a clean stoneware bowl... But I digress.) Anyhow, this particular conversation was prompted by an encounter I had had with Mama-san that morning, the sixth day of my stay. When I came down the stairs for my shower, she was sitting on the other side of her "private" door; I could see her across the garden. She had on a dress with maroon flowers and was fanning herself slowly, staring out at the pine tree. I thought I could see her lips moving, almost as if quivering with the breeze. I didn't want to stare, of course, but I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I pretended to survey the day. (Yep, it was hot and humid again. August in Kyoto is like that, I discovered.) She didn't move an inch except for the movement of that fan, that tremor in her lips, and the inconstant rhythm of her hand stroking up and down her dog's flank. A short while later, when I was dried and dressed and ready to head out the door, she came up behind me as I was putting on my shoes in the foyer. "Mama-san is going out today," she said abruptly. I had grown more used to her voice by now, and, as if she sensed this, she had stopped subtitling her own words. It struck me as a little bit strange that she always referred to herself as "Mama-san," never "I" or "me." It reminded me of a five-year-old, for some reason -- an impression partially caused, I suppose, by the simple language she used with all her charges. She went on. "The door will be locked today. You won't be able to get in until I get back. Make sure you have everything you need." "Okay," I said with a smile. "I'll be out all day myself." She heaved herself slowly down to the floor, looking at me sidelong. "Where are you going today?" I listed the tourist attractions I had planned, some of the temples to the northwest, and she nodded in approval. I thought about asking her where she was going, but she beat me to it. "Mama-san is going to visit her friend today. Mama-san will be back at three o'clock." The dog came up beside her, and she patted the dog's head absently, her eyes focused somewhere just past the open door. When she made no sign of speaking again, I finished tying my shoes, left with a cheery "I'll be back," and headed over to the kitchen next door. About fifteen minutes later, I saw the taxi driver pull up outside the kitchen window, which made me ask Kerryn about their friendship. "Sometimes she'll go off on a trip," Kerryn continued with a slight frown on her face. "She'll just call up a cab, usually that friend of hers, and head off to Arashiyama, or down south of the city. If she's in a good mood, she'll take one of us with her." She took another swig of her tea, shaking her blond bangs out of her eyes. "One Sunday I was just sitting here in the kitchen, and she came in looking for Sarah. She's her favorite, I guess... Well, Sarah was out, and so she ended up taking me with her to see the cormorant fishing on the river. She didn't say more than a few words to me the whole time. It was really quite strange." She paused for a long moment, thinking. "I think she's a little bit crazy." "Who, Mama-san?" This was from Warren, who had entered the curtained doorway during that last speech. Warren was English and comfortably gay, with a goatee that was truly goatlike and curling brown hair brushed back from a high forehead. He pulled a cup out of the cupboard and filled it with hot water. "She's senile, I think. Both her and that rat dog of hers." He stirred in some tea leaves and reached up to turn on the air conditioning, then added thoughtfully, "She doesn't like me very much." "Maybe it's because of what you say about her here in the kitchen," Kerryn said in a half-teasing, half-disapproving tone. At my look, she jerked her head towards one corner of the room; for the first time I noticed the intercom that was halfway hidden behind a box of soba noodles. "She listens in to our conversation," Kerryn shrugged. "We know for sure because she asked Sarah to translate what someone was saying once." I tried to imagine Mama-san sitting on the floor of her cramped private kitchen, like a cotton-clad boulder, letting waves of incomprehensible foreign voices wash over her as she fanned herself in the heat. Did she try to imagine what her young tenants were thinking? Or did she simply listen as if to music, or the chirping of pine crickets heralding evening? Her face in my mind gave nothing away, and I turned my thoughts back to the conversation. "She's either looking for things to charge us extra for, or reasons to evict us," Warren was noting cheerfully, obviously not worried by the prospect. "Oh, she's not that bad." Kerryn stepped over to the sink and began to wash her cup. "Probably not," he admitted affably. "But just the same, I always make sure to get a receipt when I pay my rent, just in case she conveniently forgets that I paid it." That was something that had been bothering me, because despite her insistence that I "pay now," every time since that first night that I had tried to pay the rest of my bill, she had waved me off. "Mama-san is tired now," she'd say. "You can pay later." I entertained visions of her presenting me with a hugely padded bill on my last night there, calling the police when I didn't have the money (having spent it all on laserdiscs and the trashy goodies at the Hundred Yen Store) -- I would be dragged out miserably by white-gloved policemen past the amiably grinning taxi driver... I immediately vowed to make sure money changed hands as soon as possible. And to get a receipt. It seemed Mama-san was a prime topic of conversation, because she came up again a couple of nights later, when we went out for cheesecake and cappuccino. The place was named Papa Jon's, and they were like the Baskin Robbins of cheesecake, with more than thirty flavors to choose from and what is probably the best cappuccino I've ever had. It was tucked around a corner next to an all-night video rental store named Ooh La La, a five-minute ride on the black bicycles I had seen when I checked in. Of course, I had no bike of my own, so I was given the dubious honor of "pegging" with Warren. Most of the bikes I saw in Japan are equipped with a rear-wheel axle that sticks out an extra five inches on each side; you plant one foot on each peg, straddling the rear wheel, and hold onto the shoulders of the pedaler. It sounds weird, and I sure as heck wouldn't do it wearing a skirt, but it's actually quite exhilarating to be standing, the cool wind rushing past your ears as you look around at the overwhelming lights of nighttime Kyoto, freed from watching where you're going, or thinking about where you're coming from. Anyhow, there were six of us on this trip. Kerryn had opted for a slice of Hazelnut Chocolate cheesecake and plain cappuccino. Warren did the opposite, plain cheesecake with something called a Cafe Brazilia (and no, you don't want to try pronouncing that in Japanese syllables -- I'm surprised he managed to order it). There were two Canadians, Barry and Nathan, who had gone for weird fruity cheesecakes with their Cafe Mexicano and Cafe Crema, and an American named Joe, whose cheesecake order I must confess I didn't hear, but it looked chocolatey; he drank water. Me, I had gone for a turtle cheesecake and plain cappuccino, because the funkier ones cost way too much for me to contemplate. Joe bartended at a frightening place named "Bar Isn't It: Louisiana Mama's," where (and I am, as Dave Barry puts it, not making this up) twentysomething Japanese girls did line dances to American hip-hop music. A few of us had gone there the previous night (yes, including me; few Zen temples are open past five o'clock, and sometime's a girl's just gotta get out and dance) and it was in discussing our trip that talk turned again to Mama-san -- Barry said something about all those uber-cute girls turning into Mama-san when they got old. Warren shuddered dramatically, murmuring "there but for the grace of God..." I asked Barry why, if that was the case, he was so interested in picking them up, and he replied that he would never let them end up that way, and so he was saving them from a fate worse than death. Everyone laughed at that, then Kerryn pensively lifted a piece of Hazelnut Chocolate on her fork, staring at it as if in meditation. "I wonder what Mama-san was like when she was young." That silenced us, as we all entertained our own visions of it. For some reason, I imagined a round-faced five-year-old in a sunflower dress, playing with that rat-dog, or one just like it. I saw her standing out in her garden, her doughy hands held out to the sun, then skipping around the hallways, then finally when she grew tired simply curling up in the hall with her dog, her thumb close to her mouth but not quite in... I shook myself and realized the conversation had gone on and left me behind. (Happens to me a lot, I'll admit it.) Kerryn was nodding at Warren. "Sometimes I wonder how she manages to run the place. She just lies around all day. Once when I went to do some laundry, she was asleep on the floor in the hallway. And I've seen her turn away people at the door, when the main house is entirely empty, just because she couldn't be bothered to deal with them that day. And she can be so rude sometimes..." She shrugged. "But then again, it's her house. She can do what she wants." With that the talk turned to other matters, though my mind was now filled with an image of Mama-san, the Mama-san of the present, lying there in the hallway, her fan drooping like a lily onto her chest. That image was fairly close to the way I found her the next day, when I stopped in around noon to drop off some souvenirs I had found. She lay on her side right on the stoop, snoring faintly; I took off my shoes as silently as possible and stepped carefully over her short legs to get to the hallway. Her dog, curled by her cotton-clad shoulder, yipped sleepily at me, but by now he was used to my presence and mollified by my having petted him once or twice, so he left it at that. When I came back out a few minutes later, Mama-san was sitting as if she had never been lying down, looking at the row of shoes by the stoop as her fan seemed to wave itself. I greeted her awkwardly, a bit embarrassed at having woken her, but she didn't seem to care. As I stepped past her and began to retie my shoes, she spoke up. "Mama-san will be gone today. Mama-san has to go to the doctor's." I looked at her in concern, but she looked the same as always. "Are you sick, Mama-san? What's wrong?" I said, sitting back for a moment. She shrugged slightly, her head tilting sluggishly to one side. "Mama-san's back hurts," she said after a moment, her expression not changing an iota. There was a long pause while I tried to decide whether she intended to add anything. Finally, I said something along the lines of "get well soon." She smiled at me, faintly, as if a thumb had smudged briefly at the clay of her face. It was the first smile I had seen on her face, and it made her into a different person in my eyes. I felt the tiniest bit guilty about asking her for a receipt. I even, for a moment, felt a small bit of liking for her dog. "Thank you," she said tersely. There seemed to be nothing more to say, and so I finished tying my shoes and was preparing to leave when she spoke up again. "Where are you going today?" she said softly, her eyes looking out into the street. "I was going to take the Philosopher's Walk," I replied. "From the Silver Pavilion down to Nanzen-ji." "Ah," she replied. Then, in an even quieter voice, "Are you stopping at the Eikando'?" "I think so," I said cautiously, not knowing where this was leading. "Ah," she said again. "There is a pine tree there." I waited for more, since there were in fact lots of pine trees in Kyoto. After a moment, she went on in a dreamlike voice. "This pine tree looks like a normal pine tree, but if you look very closely, you can see it has three needles to each leaf. Most pine trees only have two needles, you see. It's one of the wonders of the temple. Three needles. It's very rare." She suddenly focused her eyes on my face, and leaned forward. "Very rare," she repeated, her eyes curiously intense. I nodded a bit nervously, glancing towards the door. She looked at me for a moment longer, then looked back down at the shoes, lined up in a row. "Go," she said shortly. I wasn't about to argue. But I did look extra carefully at every pine tree in the Eikando', until I thought I had found the one she was talking about. It looked so ordinary, not so much different from the tree in her garden, but all the same I felt as if I were in the presence of something magical. Two days later, I left the Aoi-So=93 Inn for the last time. It was early in the morning, and when I slipped on stocking feet around the garden and down the hallway, I could hear the soft sound of Mama-san's snores coming from one of her private rooms. I had already paid my rent and cleaned my room, so there was no reason to wake her, but as I put on my shoes and walked out, sliding the door shut behind me, I couldn't help but wonder what her real name was. bengman *** "On the appointed day, I notice something amazing. When I take a step outside the vacant lot, a meadow spreads out before my eyes. And there are lots of horses and cows staring at me. Since when has there been a ranch on Akane's street? -- Where the heck am I?!" -- Ryouga, "Ittai koko wa dokonan da?"