What could he say? He wouldn’t marry her. He had known it almost as soon as they’d landed in Narita. Her confidence and self-possession had mesmerized him in college. Her equanimity, which had seemed so important in the States, seemed like aloofness and arrogance in Tokyo. She had lost her life here, this was true, but marrying her didn’t seem like a solution.
Then the whole Japan-is-evil stuff. Sure, there were assholes in Japan, but there were assholes everywhere, nee? Ever since they got here, either she had changed or his feelings for her had changed. Hadn’t he been leaning toward asking her to marry him? Yet now, when she put forward the idea of marrying for citizenship, he realized that he didn’t want to become an American. It made sense for him to do so; it would have made his father happy. Was it better to be an American than a Japanese? He knew Koreans who had become naturalized Japanese, and it made sense to do so, but he didn’t want to do that now, either. Maybe one day. She was right; it was weird that he was born in Japan and had a South Korean passport. He couldn’t rule out getting naturalized. Maybe another Korean wouldn’t understand that, but he didn’t care anymore.
Kazu was a shit, but so what? He was one bad guy, and he was Japanese. Perhaps that was what going to school in America had taught him. Even if there were a hundred bad Japanese, if there was one good one, he refused to make a blanket statement. Etsuko was like a mother to him; his first love was Hana; and Totoyama was like an uncle, too. They were Japanese, and they were very good. She hadn’t known them the way he had; how could he expect her to understand?
In a way, Solomon was Japanese, too, even if the Japanese didn’t think so. Phoebe couldn’t see this. There was more to being something than just blood. The space between Phoebe and him could not close, and if he was decent, he had to let her go home.
Solomon went to the kitchen and made coffee. He poured two cups and approached the bedroom door.
“Phoebe, may I come in?”
“The door’s open.”
The suitcases on the floor were brimming with clothes folded and rolled like canisters. The closets were nearly empty. Solomon’s five dark suits and half a dozen white dress shirts hung on the long rod with a yard of hanging space left. Her neat rows of shoes still took up most of the closet floor. Phoebe’s shoes were black or brown leather; a pair of pink espadrilles, which had once given her terrible blisters, stood out from the others like a girlish mistake. During their junior year, they’d gone to a party, and she’d had to walk back to the dorm barefoot from 111th Street and Broadway because the pink espadrilles had been too narrow.
“Why do you still have those shoes?”
“Shut up, Solomon.” Phoebe started to cry.
“What did I say?”
“I have never felt so stupid in my life. Why am I here?” She took a deep breath.
Solomon stared at her, not knowing how to comfort her. He was afraid of her; perhaps he had always been afraid of her—her joy, anger, sadness, excitement—she had so many extreme feelings. The nearly empty room with the solitary rented bed and floor lamp seemed to highlight her vividness. Back in New York, she had been spirited and wonderful. Here, Phoebe was almost too stark, awkward.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“No. You’re not.”
Solomon sat down on the carpeted floor cross-legged, leaning his long back against the narrow wall. The freshly painted walls were still bare. They hadn’t hung anything on them because the landlord would have fined them for each nail hole.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
Phoebe picked up her espadrilles and threw them into the overflowing waste basket.
“I think I’m going to work for my dad,” he said.
“Pachinko?”
“Yeah.” Solomon nodded to himself. It felt strange to say this out loud.
“He asked you?”
“No. I don’t think he wants me to.”
She shook her head.
“Maybe I can take over the business.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
Without saying a word, Phoebe continued to pack. She was willfully ignoring him, and he continued to look at her. She was more cute than pretty, more pretty than beautiful. He liked her long torso, slender neck, bobbed hair, and intelligent eyes. When she laughed at a joke, her laughter was whole. Nothing seemed to scare her—she thought anything was possible. Could he change her mind? Could he change his? Maybe the packing was just a dramatic gesture. What did he know about women? He’d known only two girls really.
She rolled up another sweater and dropped it on the growing pile.
“Pachinko. Well, that makes it easier then,” she said finally. “I can’t live here, Solomon. Even if you wanted to marry me, I can’t live here. I can’t breathe here.”
“That first night we arrived, when you couldn’t read the instructions on the aspirin bottle, and you started to cry. I should have known then.”
Phoebe picked up another sweater and just stared at it like she didn’t know what to do with it.
“You have to dump me,” he said.
“Yes, I do.”