December 2019
This was the first time I went to the office of the bank. A representative of the agency politely ushered me into a corner room. There were books, files and documents everywhere, stacked on shelves, piled on the rectangular table. In the room were a rep of the agency, a judicial scrivener, a seller, a bank employee and me. Yamada was absent because he was a sales rep. The seller is Dutch. He ran an investment company in Tokyo, spoke fluent Japanese and behaved like a Japanese.
The rep handed me a clean white paper bag, as if to give an expensive gift. Some pudgy files I took out from the bag and laid them on the table. He sat down across from me, and he picked up one of them, opening it to the section. The Dutch was sitting next to him crossing his legs, while my posture had become upright to make me look good. The rep started to read important matters about the property. Of course I just knew what to do the next. It was a lot to handle, learned in Japan where I had done many procedure at public office, banks, car dealerships, school, workplace, etc.
At that time, the IT Minister of Japan was the chairman of the diet members supporting inkan: name seal. It is also called hanko, which is equivalent to Western signature. He was seventy eight years old. Maybe he managed to use Twitter. Ironically, that of Taiwan was thirty eight; he was a genius programmer, Audrey Tang.
I was ready to put my seal somewhere, holding my inkan. He turned a page; I stamped my name neatly where I have to do so. After doing the same thing about five times, I caught a glimpse of the Dutch cocking his head slightly with a stern look. The rep spoke a lot and I continued to stamp the pages, almost without thinking. Then I glanced up at the Dutch, leaning back against the chair and closing his eyes as though dozing. He could not help. I was jealous of Westerner being free-spirited, but can not the same way he did, because I am Japanese.
When I had been sitting tensely I found myself recalling a certain occasion, the client visit. At the entrance I took off my shoes, which I properly put together. Then, I walked slowly down the hallway into the living room, trying not to make my footsteps. For a second, I just stood aimlessly waiting for her to say something.
“Please have a seat,” said the client, a middle-aged woman, palm up, pointing her fingers at the couch―we Japanese would be urge to be humble―“No, no. I’m fine. Thank you very much,” I said. “I’ll bring you some tea.” “Please don’t bother.” Hesitating for a while, I slowly sat down with my hands on my knees, keeping myself upright. It is not like a Westerner talk with someone. No leaning. No crossing your legs.
She brought me a wooden tray holding a cup of green tea and Japanese sweets such as dango (rice dumplings) and set it before me. “Please help yourself,” she said. “I’m kind of sorry,” I faltered, bowing. Then, we got down to business. Maybe I took a sip of tea, or maybe not, until finally I ended the conversation with her. That’s all. Rarely had I touched them. It is just formality, but is the manners in Japan.
The rep still spoke something and I did not listen. I stamped the pages, and it seemed to go on endlessly, however, the Dutch was playing with his smartphone. I thought he was right. Just sitting here. Wasting his time. Feeling crappy.
In Japan, it is ordinary to have many meetings like the report on the current situation, although they can be done by email. I always knew that they would be futile and I do not have potential to waste my time. Fortunately, it was great that smartphones had come into the world. It was two years ago (winter 2017)―I attended the meeting that seemed to be significant for everyone to gather. No purpose. At that time, the price of Bitcoin exploded, so I checked the movement of its price on my smartphone during such fucking conversation.
Of course I paid attention to what they talked about, trying not to lose their trust. After a while I sensed that an ugly woman glaring at me coldly―I wimped out and hid my phone instead, only to find myself having no courage to defy her. But you might want to do that as I did―in order to get your tasks done efficiently. If you could do so, I am just a wimp.
When Japanese language peeked out from the Dutchman’s phone, I filled with something awe, and at the same time someone said to me: “Please listen to him, sir.” “Sorry,” I said submissively, flinching for a moment and pretending to stare at the page of the file, and I stamped and stamped and stamped. Really nobody gave a shit. I felt stupid, because I did as I was told, as so many Japanese do.
I was like, “That’s enough. I’m tired. Don’t read. I read home.” How long are you going to let me do this? These stupid persons around me, except for the Dutch, would just think it make a lot of sense to do that―I was sick not only of Inkan but also of their mind that they took it for granted.
Maybe twenty times or more I would have stamped the pages. Once everything was done, these dude left me behind and sucked up to the Dutch, who discussed business on the phone: “Hai. Imakara Tokyo ni modorimasu.” “Yes. I’m coming back to Tokyo now.” They huddled around him, whispered to each other: “Who wouldn’t think he is Japanese?” But he completely disregarded them and gave me a quick handshake and disappearing.
