The Long Highway Pt. 17C

Nelson said that the next time he came for a film showing we should all drive here from his place. If I was too busy, had to stay put for work, he could make the cross-country trip with Akemi alone. He wouldn't mind, he said.

I'll bet he wouldn't mind driving her.

He brought this up at a restaurant- bar with outdoor seating- where a crowd of us had repaired for a late lunch- in his honor as usual, fans (a word people in the art world avoid, as it suggests a lack of refinement, but it fits!), aficionados not wanting to miss his rare personal appearance in the city. The great man, author of independent films that had shaken the world of cinema decades ago, was now something of a legend, a man of mystery living off the beaten track in his rural outpost; people would make pilgrimages there as they might to an Indian guru perched on a cliffside.

We'd all been to Nelson's film screening at a nearby museum- in the East Village- and then those that could came along for the lunch, meaning the few who passed muster for whatever reason. As Nelson's friend and former student, I was in. Others got shut out. The table fit only so many chairs.

The din of conversation up close interrupted give and take between Nelson and me across that table, so I wasn't able to respond as I wanted to his daydreaming out loud of long days on the road with Akemi. Serious or not, the proposal bugged me. They'd be spending nights in motels or camping out in deserts. What would I have said to him, "The fuck you will""

There was the moment when Nelson made Akemi's acquaintance, took both her hands in his. "Ah, we meet at last." Soulful look, gazing straight into her eyes, leaning half across the table to draw close.

"Akemi," he said her name with the polished, smooth pronunciation Americans who take pride in their worldliness give to any foreign names, as if all languages not English are basically the same and one can make a good approximation of them if only one gives smooth, polished pronunciation, worldly-wise sounding.

He clasped Akemi's hands and lined them up together, as one might a gun sight to sharpen focus.

Screening everything out, including me, making this a private moment- he'd heard so much about her, seen her photos, he must have said in the "international language" beyond words.

Akemi was good at handling those situations, couldn't be stared down, didn't blink. In some ways, she was stronger than Nelson, at least his match- not necessarily a good thing from my point of view, as she might appear as a result even more intriguing, a challenge in his eyes. Nelson didn't like anyone to make him look or feel weak, less than dominant. He'd want to best her, which might mean fucking her. What else could it, given who he was?

I was introduced to some other filmmakers at the table, people Nelson hobnobbed with, several well-known in that world of independent film, at least two from overseas, distant contacts, if not necessarily his friends then drawn to this small convivial spot, neighborhood bistro, by his reputation- which I must say was impressive.

I'd driven us to the event from our place. I guess that might be what had given Nelson his idea about the coast to coast car journey. He'd looked almost surprised that I knew how to drive, by the way. That's the disdain with which he regarded his former student- which, I must also say, made sense from a man of his status. There was no ill will behind it. He just saw me as young and callow, not fully formed. He was impressed by my wife, though, clearly. Did he think I should offer her up as a tribute? I felt like saying, "She has a mind of her own." Yes, she does, and that worries me (No, I'm joking).

After we'd ordered coffee and pastries, which the bohemian restaurant was famous for, someone asked what I did, as it had become clear I wasn't also a film artist.

No, I wasn't like them or Akemi, not an accomplished person, just ordinary (why did she choose me?)

"I work at a local college."

"No, I mean do you do creative work? Since you know Nelson, I thought.."

He was from Thailand, a director of works celebrated in avant-garde circles. Not having kept up much less been part of that milieu since college, I hadn't heard of the thirty year old or his oeuvre until that afternoon, also wasn't sure if he was a friend of Nelson's or not, how far back there connection went, if it did at all. He seemed a nice enough guy, gently pulling me into the conversation, maybe sensing I was a fish out of water.

"Well, I write," I answered. "Not published. Just online. But I can't say it amounts to much. The reaction is mostly negative. I get slightly over one ranking on a scale of five."

"No, that's okay" the skinny, tall, dark brown mussed-haired director said. "You're doing something, and it's probably good. We all know not to pay attention to what anyone thinks. Most people don't know what they're looking at."

I hoped he was right.

Nelson looked surprised to hear I wrote and made my writing available to readers (though I'd once sent him a story to read and he'd liked it- he tends to forget stuff that doesn't involve him directly- he's the narcissistic type of artist, as Akemi isn't; that selective memory might also be a function of his age).

He looked at me with new eyes from his side of the table, against the brick wall.

"Yeah, I write," I said with my eyes only, mimicking his habit of speaking without words- "because I want to keep a record of all this, maybe to give the police one day, in case there is such a crime as stealing someone's wife, if only a week's road trip, ha ha!"

In my defense, that group had no idea how tough the job was. If I'd started talking about it, I couldn't easily stop. Even describing a single class could take forever. I'd love to have told everyone about the one the day before, stopped the art talk and gone into the nuts and bolts of leading a class, arguably as demanding an activity as winning over an audience with a work of visual art.

We- the students, that is- had built toward a culminating activity- fill in the blanks, hardly mind-blowing but it worked on the basis of the advance study done; students saw a chance to succeed- they had the means, stuff I'd taught them- and were eager to prove their ability to learn.

The intro had gone on too long (students seemed to like it, though).

"Okay, let's finish." I checked the wall clock as they began, bent to the task, each at their desk, an individual universe it became when they worked solo, no one helping them.

"Actually only ten minutes left till break. Let's finish it afterward," I broke in.

Students looked confused. I'd contradicted myself. Consistent, clear instructions are important in a class where people have only limited English. Changing a plan set in motion is difficult and shouldn't be undertaken lightly. It's like turning a battle ship.

Students stopped the work they'd started. But one- a wise guy near me- said, "We can do it." I saw his paper was nearly finished, blanks about seventy percent filled with his dark pen scrawl.

There's aways someone like him, to mess up the timing.

He'd looked at the clock too, seeing ahead boredom if he had to wait for his slower classmates.

"Okay," I said. "Let's continue then. Get it done."

I stopped myself a second time. "No, let's not."

Guy was challenging my authority. I saw I had to make the right decisions, which weren't only about him.

We came back from break, were getting set to resume the exercise when a student, Japanese guy, part of a couple, older, interrupted my preliminary spiel to ask about a word in the text. I'd meant for everyone to start at once, but the pair delayed things. They sat in the middle in back, where I could approach them. The question was innocent, motivated only by a desire for clarification. I'd noticed the two conferring in their own language, leaning their heads toward each other to talk quietly, not interrupt. They looked at a loss.

"What's 'confirm' mean?" the man asked me. The man takes the role of spokesman for the couple in their culture, I guess.

"Confirm?" I said. "It's 'kakunin.'"

I used the Japanese word to save time it would have cost to explain in English to the not very proficient husband and wife team. Their age- mid to late thirties- slowed them down. The others present, twenty-somethings, zoomed past them, learning far more quickly.

I also felt happy to show I knew some Japanese. I was proud of the accomplishment, glad to spring that surprise.

The man and woman stared at me, not realizing at first I'd switched from English.

"'Kakunin' is what it is," I repeated.

They'd think of me as a genius. "He knows not only what he's shown" (it had been a good class) "but also Japanese? What a person!"

Up to then, they'd heard no single utterance in their language from me, had no idea I knew anything at all of it. And now this. A lightning bolt. "Confirm" is a pretty sophisticated word, after all, shows advanced, fairly deep knowledge. You wouldn't learn "kakunin" in a beginning class. From that you'd only get something like "tree" or "book."

At the same time, I'd appear an idiot to them. I was showing off, after all. A real genius wouldn't. And there were Americans who were really fluent, whereas I knew only some words with which to impress, couldn't use Japanese as a language, its intended purpose.

In the space of an instant, their expression had grown complicated.

Older as they were, they might dislike my display of Japanese. They were, I suspected, the "by the book" type, the sort who believed, had been told, English language courses should be conducted only in English and see even a single breach of that hard and fast rule as disqualifying. They looked middle-class, settled. He wore a camel hair vest and kept pushing his dark-rimmed glasses back on his nose as if he felt he were missing something his younger classmates were getting. Solid, settled the pair were probably attending the college course as an adventure to share.

Some Japanese are strict adherents to "the manual." Some are pretty unimaginative that way, even stultifying. My breaking protocol and translating for them, even that single word, might have lowered me in the estimation of the husband, at least.

With intolerant- I should say rigid, rule-bound- people, if you fall out of their favor once, you can never recover it. I detected the guy's regard change, his square face, thick brow harden. He pushed his glasses back on his nose, this time to see more clearly, scrutinize the teacher or the person who put himself forth as one. The kindly small couple had been well-disposed toward me, even wowed by my teaching performance so far, but they- no, just the man, seemed to be reassessing my character. I'd crossed a line. He must have detected the pride that suffused me when I spoke their language. I'd let that feeling show. They were there to learn English. The give and take shouldn't be about me. It was they I should care about. True without question.

His wife still appeared friendly. Confusion registered, but she hadn't yet assessed blame (teachers should give clearer signals). The wife seemed a little more open-minded than her husband- which I might add is also characteristically Japanese and a probably reason Japanese women find partners abroad, as Akemi had in me.

We faced each other. Words had run out and I moved on to resume the class, which was waiting.

And I was tired. Teaching is exhausting. Running all the time, making decisions on the spot about what to do next, while responding to students, like flying an airplane through flak, in a storm.

The people at the table had no idea and wouldn't be interested. They had higher matters to consider, their artwork. A master chef doesn't let shop talk of kitchen staff distract from his or her inspiration. And Nelson had the extra focus then of Akemi, whom he seemed to genuinely like, want to assure she was welcome in the group of strangers. I thought he saw that desire as no different from the one to get into her pants, speaking of inspiration, given who he was.