Japanese flashback

I met him in Prague. It was at the hostel reception desk at the exact moment I was checking in, probably he was in front of me because I remember him asking the clerk to repeat the directions to the room that had been spoken in an English too fast for him to follow. Then I got engaged in the process of registering and lost sight of him, trundling away his enormous black suitcase that might well have contained half his wardrobe.

Some time later I took the lift to the third floor, got into the dormitory and started to settle in my space. Hardly two minutes had passed when this Japanese man peeped at the door, preceded by the bulk of his huge luggage that he was now pushing. He was sweating and panting for he’d overheard the remark about the lift and had dragged the tremendously heavy and cumbersome suitcase up a tiring six flights of steps. I couldn’t help but smile and told him benevolently that he could have saved himself the drudge by taking the lift. He smiled back and we were friends.

We introduced to each other. Me, an Italian coming to Prague for a long weekend trip; he, a Japanese man with a more complicated story. He’d been a council engineer for more than twenty years, until the day he had been made to work on a building project he was opposed to. It was about developing a complex that would soar high and loom over the residential neighbourhood, an eyesore would even deprive many residents of sunlight. He had been drastic in his ways: without stooping to compromises he had resigned from his post outraged, said temporary goodbye to his wife and children and left on a 3-week European capital city tour… to find himself again.

In paused English that well expressed his still uncertain situation, he told me this and I was filled with surprise and admiration for his soundness of principles, but above all consistent behaviour that had led him to take extreme measures. How many times had I been in disagreement with things I had been given to work on and contented myself with grumbling silently and not make my judgement known?

We met at night in the kitchenette, and talked. And again the following day, while I was cooking my dinner and was probably in my turn cause for wonder to someone who, of all cooking utensils, could only hold cutlery to eat meals. That night he was feeling wistful and decided to drown his homesickness with a special Japanese tea he wanted to treat me to, only I was the one to save the brew, as he was about to pour cold water from the kettle.

The last memory I have is me and other roommates trying to enjoy early morning minutes of sleep on his departure day, he fumbling with his massive suitcase, noisily zipping and unzipping an infinite number of fasteners in the desperate attempt to organise all the bits and pieces in their due place … Since then I have only heard from him by email and exchanged photos and news.

When I heard about the catastrophic earthquake in Japan, I overlooked the bold newspaper headlines during the first couple of days. Then I saw a photo: it was a young man carrying an ailing old relative on his back fleeing from the razed town that had been their home. It was an image that put a face to the tragedy; it wasn’t epic cataclysms anymore stunning the spectators of an all-too-true science fiction film; it wasn’t a special effect you feel inclined to wonder at to let out a casual exclamation of piety for those affected.

All of a sudden I felt a painful reality of extreme suffering lived by thousands, now. And he came to my mind who would have been a silent memory for a long time still, perhaps, if the earthquake and that image hadn’t reminded me that far as they may be, those people had an invisible thread that linked them with me, the thread of humanity, reinforced by the thread of personal experience. It made me feel sympathetic to the Japanese people and I wrote to him to say I was near.