It was early Spring of 2004. I had just arrived in Japan a few weeks before. A recent graduate, the excitement of my new job was compounded tenfold by it happening halfway across the world, in Japan.
I owed this opportunity to three persons in particular: my sister, a colleague of hers, and a man that I shall call Paul for the sake of this story.
My sister introduced me to a colleague one day as I went to visit her at work in the summer of 2003. I was about to start my last semester at university in Boston, and her colleague asked me what I wanted to do once I graduated. I said I’d been studying Japanese, and some Chinese, and was interested in going to Japan or China. He said he had a nephew in London working for a company that had offices in Japan, and that they might be interested in hiring a foreigner for some corporate finance work there. Not expecting anything to come of it, I left sending my cv to the nephew in London for another month. It was only once I was back at university that I finally sent it, expecting nothing of it.
And nothing happened. At least, that’s what I thought in my impatient mind. A month or so later though, I got an email from a man called Paul. Paul was the Vice President of the company’s Japan headquarters. We exchanged a few emails, and he told me he was going to be in Boston a few weeks later and asked me if we could meet for an interview.
I could not believe it.
I prepared for the interview studiously, gathering as much information about the company and its industry as the internet could provide in the early 2000s.
On D-day I put on my only suit, one I had worn only a couple of times before.
I met Paul in his hotel lobby and had the interview. I was surprised to hear that he was on his way from Tokyo to Amsterdam and thought he could swing by Boston to have the interview, and meet some old friends based there in the process. I figured I was more of an excuse for him to visit Boston than a serious candidate with actual chances, but I still took the interview seriously.
Looking back, I must have looked a bit ridiculous, interviewing for a position at a luxury company with my barely worn hundred-dollar-or-so suit and tie, but Paul didn’t mind. He explained that luxury was a strange industry, where markups were high, where ties could go for thousands of dollars, and mentioning in the process that by the way my tie was “perfectly fine.” Had it come from a French luxury company executive, that would have been a mean way to make fun of my outfit, but it sounded genuine coming out of Paul’s mouth.
I would soon learn that Paul was a genuine guy, and that’s a rare thing altogether, but it’s even rarer in the luxury business.
Most of what I remember from the rest of the interview is him talking, and me nodding and smiling, and searching for an opportunity to make a snappy comment. To this day I’m not sure what I did right, but I was surprised to hear that the next step would be to meet with my Japanese would-be boss in London once I was back in Europe after graduation.
The meeting was soon after set to January 2004.
The rest went smoothly. I met Itō-san (another alternate name for the sake of the story) in London, and we could talk about all aspects of the job. Itō-San always spoke English when given the chance (for better or worse, as it will become clear later on), but I made a point to speak as much Japanese as possible, and that played in my favor as well. In the middle of dinner, he finally opened his hands, and, in an English that was slow and well-applied, albeit thickly accented, uttered the magic words: “Welcome to our company!”
A few months later, I was starting my first job in Tokyo.
It had only been a few weeks, and I was just getting used to Japanese corporate culture. That fateful Monday morning, I walked in to work, and was ready to sit down at my cubicle, when I saw Itō-San walk toward me, hand extended reaching out to me, his face contorted in apologetic sorrow.
“Arnaud-San”, he said, putting one hand on my shoulder. I waited for the penny to drop. This was going to be bad news.
“Paul-San is dead”.
My heart stopped. I couldn’t believe the words. Itō-san’s accent was quite thick, but he was very articulate, occasionally even adding in a few extra syllables, as is the case for people who tend to transcribe English words into Japanese phonetic katakana in their heads (similar to French people picturing the English word in written form before pronouncing it).
I looked over at Paul’s cubicle. It was indeed empty. My heart skipped a beat.
“What happened?”
I’m so sorry, he said, moved by my shocked reaction. As I heard him say that, I felt the room spin around me a little. It is one of those times when you see the whole world whirl around you in slow motion. It’s one of those times you remember for the rest of your life.
Looking around, I saw everyone around me sitting at their desk, both hands on the keyboard, diligently typing at their computers, eyes riveted on their screens, nothing distracting them.
I had heard of Japanese discipline before, of course. In Europe, the ability of Japanese people to channel their emotions and become unreadable was the stuff of legends. A legend that seemed to me a little overblown, and actually one of the reasons that had set me on the path to learning Japanese. My experience with other cultures had always been that, despite cultural traits, people are people, and that these kinds of generalizations were unhealthy, and I had decided that learning the language was going to be the first step toward crushing a few cliches about Japan.
Still, I knew that Japanese culture did value steadfast concentration. I still remember my father coming home from business trips in Japan impressed with their work ethics and discipline. He admitted that sometimes it even took unexpected proportions. Upon visiting a factory there, the factory manager who was organizing the tour was proud to announce to all the foreigners in attendance that Her Majesty the Queen of England herself had once visited the factory, and that, even in her presence, not a single worker had even lifted their eyes from their respective tasks.
It was one thing to hear about it from my father, it was another experiencing it firsthand. I was flabbergasted. But, the longer I looked around, trying to comprehend this mysterious culture I thought I had begun to understand, something struck me as slightly odd.
I always had imagined in my mind’s eye a discipline that was full of intensity and purpose. But witnessing it for the first time, the more I looked around, the more I realized people didn’t seem as intense. One could say they were even somewhat nonchalant, even maybe a little relaxed. Except for me and Itō-San, it started to look more and more like just another day at the office. Mrs Sakai was sipping her green tea from the vending machine, Mr. Takaki was calling a supplier, starting the conversation with the same sing-songy, almost algorithmic self-introduction.
Was it the Japanese zen attitude everyone was talking about in the West? My impression had been that zen as perceived in the West, or at least Europe, had always been a misinterpretation of a much more intense practice of Buddhism. But now, I realized all that I had tried to debunk, all those cliches, were coming back to me. I was wrong and the European “experts” on Japan, the japanologists, the Amélie Nothombs, were right. I had to repent, for only Itō-San and I seemed to have a heart and display human feelings for poor old Paul-San.
My whole universe was crashing down around me fast. I snapped back to the present moment when Itō-San continued.
“It’s very sad.”
“What happened?” I asked, incredulous.
“I’m not sure, I think, he... fall down...”
“He collapsed?” I asked.
“Yes.” Itō-san’s answer was curt, and again, almost apologetic. I felt sad for him. And I was getting a little angry at how nonchalant everyone else looked around us.
“When did it happen?”
“Saturday.”
“So,” Itō-San continued. “He go back London, yesterday.”
“I see,” I said. But it sounded so surreal, I had to make sure I understood. “They already shipped the...” I couldn’t really bring myself to saying the word, but I had to be sure. I started over: “He... passed away Saturday...”
“Yes.” Itô-San confirmed, gravely.
“And... they shipped his... remains, his body...”
“Yes...”
“Back to London...”
“Yes, to London...”
I made a hand motion over an imaginary map, emphatically arching my hand from East to West. He followed the motion with his hand.
“To London. Yesterday. Sunday.”
“Yes. Sunday.”
Hearing myself say it, I thought this repatriation process was extremely fast, but I was not familiar with this kind of procedure. It is usually something you don’t want to think about, especially when in your early twenties. I was starting to ask myself what kind of funeral ceremony was going to be held in Japan, along with other questions, but thought it wasn’t yet time for practical talk. I had to process this.
Itō-San surely noticed my mind was racing, and must have felt bad. I saw his face contort once more, and he said again:
“I’m sorry.”
Then I could suddenly see a switch in his behavior, as if mourning time was over. In a much more business-like tone, he declared:
“So, he be back next Monday.”
I stopped. Something clicked. Something didn’t make sense anymore, and yet, some other things started to make a whole lot more sense.
“Wait,” I said. “Paul-San is dead.”
“Yes.”Itō-San said, nodding once emphatically, almost bowing down slightly.
“He suddenly collapsed.”
“Yes.”
“They shipped his body back to London.”
“Yes.”
“But he’ll be back on Monday.”
“Yes.”
I was confused, but deep inside I felt relief too.
I figured I would just ask someone else, one of the once heartless colleagues, after the dust had settled a bit. And maybe I should ask in Japanese, just to see if the story made more sense in my version of that language than in Itō-san’s English.
Itō-San started walking back to his cubicle. I was about to sit down and join my colleagues in a day of mindless keyboard typing, when Itō-San turned back and, like Inspector Columbo when he is about to add his trademark “one more thing”, raised a finger in the air and said “Ah, Arnaud-San!”
I turned to him, all ears.
“Paul-san’s FATHER, FATHER is dead!”