Hands on the Wheel Ch. 01

He told her that when he left State Center for Iowa State in Ames to start his BS in computer science, he was scared to death but at the same time felt like he was ready to take on the world, maybe even change it a bit. How eager he was to go back for the last two years to get his MS. He frowned as he confessed his first experience with heartache—his high school sweetheart went to Iowa State, too, but moved to Des Moines to teach 3rd grade. Just before he finished his MS she wrote to him that she was engaged.

His voice turned flat with a hint of remembered anger. "To my best friend. They were getting married soon because she was pregnant. She said she was sorry but she fell in love with him and it just happened and she hoped I would be okay."

The shadowed anger passed as quickly as it came. He told her how his family celebrated with him when Golkonda offered him a job, how they shared his excitement when he told them that he was being sent to Japan for the data mining conference. He reached across the table and took her hands when he concluded his life story.

"But I had no idea what a great experience it would be, because I never imagined I would meet and get to know someone like you." Before he could release her hands and apologize for being so presumptuous, she lowered her eyes and seemed to shrink into the chair. For a flickering moment he saw not a confident, professional woman, but a shy Japanese schoolgirl. Just as quickly, the moment passed. Even though the chimeric vision was a product of his imagination, Ivan was entranced.

She slid her hands from his and sipped her tea. Just as she lifted the pot to pour them each another cup, their train was announced. He looked into her eyes and held her gaze. "Are you in a hurry to get back to Tokyo? I've done all the talking and haven't had a chance to hear about you. I think there's another train in an hour or so. Why don't we wait for that one?"

She smiled and poured their tea. "My life isn't so much interesting, but if you would like to sit here longer, that would be fine." She wondered why she had difficulty putting together what should have been a simple sentence.

She told him about growing up first in Osaka, where her father taught biology at the University. How he grew weary of the bickering and petty jealousies of academia, so when she was nine her father resigned his professorship and bought a small farm half-way between Osaka and Nagoya where they grew cut flowers and garlic.

Ivan chuckled at the incongruity of garlic and flowers, but Fumiko solemnly informed him that garlic was called "the stinking rose" by the ancient Greeks and is still sometimes called that; then, with a sly grin, she added in a mock pedantic tone, "Of course, it's really more closely related to lilies."

The scale of farming she grew up with was far different from his. They had no machinery, no diesel tractors or mighty harvesters that chewed through ranks of cornstalks or soybean plants, no tanks of selective herbicides dispensed from GPS-guided spray rigs, no genetically modified seed stock that guaranteed immunity to the selective herbicides, no commodity-trading forecasts that recommended whether or not they should hedge this year's coming harvest.

In their stead they had long days of hard, monotonous labor, never-ending battles against uninvited plant forms—her father never called them "weeds"—and insidious insect invaders, primarily nematodes and thrips. Rather than drenching the plants in poison, they rotated plantings. They didn't contract with agri-business giants to sell the fruits of their labor after a frenzied autumn harvest, they took weekly batches of timed plantings to the farmers' markets in Osaka. They didn't borrow money at the beginning of each growing season, they saved enough seed from year to year and fertilized with compost.

But Fumiko and Ivan discovered that despite the contrast in size and practices of their parents' farms, each was nonetheless shaped by similar forces: the rhythm of nature's endless cycle of sowing, growth, death, and rebirth; the rhythm of living close to the earth; the joy of greeting the sunrise that warms the soil and chases the dew. These common experiences and emotions drew these two young people, Japanese and American, to each other.

He loved her sense of humor. She spent a school year as an exchange student in Palo Alto, and delighted in recounting tales of over-the-top displays of entitlement, social media obsession, and angst-ridden outbursts by her fellow high school students. She hastened to point out, however, that such cringe-worthy behavior wasn't exclusively American; Ivan was surprised to learn that when it came to giggling and gossiping, Japanese and American schoolgirls were more alike than different.

Fumiko studied English in elementary and secondary Japanese schools. Her father spoke English quite well; they spoke Japanese at home except on Sunday, when her father insisted they speak nothing but English. As a result of all this study and experience, she spoke fairly good conversational English when she embarked on her exchange in Palo Alto; by the time she returned home, she had expanded her lexicon with a vocabulary of American slang and other linguistic departures that were dizzying, if occasionally disappointing, to her parents and final-year secondary school teachers.

Thanks to the connections and influence of her father and some of the people she met on her exchange in Palo Alto, she was offered enough financial aid so that her family could afford to send her to UC Berkeley; exercising a determination and discipline uncommon among her scholastic cohort, she attended year-round and received her linguistics BA in three years. Despite the hectic pace, she did so well that both Cal and Stanford offered teaching assistantships, but one of her Berkeley profs suggested she check out Middlebury.

He was an alum of the Graduate School of Translation, Interpretation, and Language Education at Middlebury Institute of International Studies at Monterey; without telling her he emailed a strong recommendation to the dean of the graduate school, suggesting that she be considered for advanced entry and financial aid. When he received a positive response, he told Fumiko what he had done and offered to drive her down to Monterey on a Tuesday when neither one had a class. She was uneasy and a bit put off because he had acted without her knowledge, but flattered because Middlebury was a prestigious program and, well, he was an assistant professor and an attractive man.

She was thrilled by the interpretation program at Middlebury, fell in love with the Monterey Peninsula, and expressed great gratitude to this thoughtful mentor who obviously respected her intelligence. She worked diligently to be accepted by Middlebury and, after doing well on the first-year challenge tests, was rewarded with admission to their two-semester program and substantial financial aid.

Her faculty champion drove to Monterey a few times to see how she was doing; the third time he proclaimed was impressed not only with her intelligence but also with her beauty. She expressed her gratitude with the gift of her virginity, but after a second furtive tryst two weeks later, she was rewarded the very next day with an angry, tear-filled visit from a wife whose existence came as a sickening surprise. Horrified at what she had done, Fumiko begged forgiveness from the distraught woman and entreated her to believe that she had no idea he was married.

This was before Berkeley got religion about sexual harassment, so the young assistant professor was allowed to humbly apologize to his wife and Fumiko, acknowledge that it was a terrible mistake, and now can't we all just forget about it. Well sure, the powers that be at Berkeley forgot about it—more accurately ignored it—but his wife divorced him. She became active in a women's organization that lobbied, ultimately successfully, for the equal-rights provisions of Title IX to be applied to campus treatment of allegations of sexual assault and harassment.

They also made noisy, public complaints to the UC administration about the not-so-cunning linguist's abuse of one of his students. The third time he failed to be granted tenure, he was asked to leave Berkeley; after two more incidents of sexual involvement with students at other universities, he wound up as an adjunct lecturer teaching remedial composition at a junior college in Twin Falls, Idaho.

Caught up in each others' stories, Fumiko and Ivan skipped two departures for Tokyo, but when the next one was announced they finally gathered their wheeled bags and went out to the platform, still talking; twice Ivan had to dodge to avoid walking into someone because he was looking at Fumiko instead of where he was going. They found two seats and continued sharing their lives as the Shinkansen left the station and accelerated to 250 kph for the 40-minute trip to Tokyo.

All too soon the PA system announced their pending arrival in Tokyo. Each tried to think of some way to say what was in their heart, but they had spent so little time together that neither trusted their emotions. As they stood on the platform after leaving the train car, Fumiko told him that she had to go down to another platform to take the subway to her apartment; she suggested that it would be simpler and quicker for Ivan to take a taxi to his hotel.

Neither knew how to acknowledge their parting. Ivan finally blushed, took her hands in both of his, and stammered like a lovestruck schoolboy. "Fumiko, I wish...I'm really glad we got a chance to know each other...you're...I mean...you mean a lot to me."

She blinked several times, drew breath to say something, then stifled a sigh and kissed his cheek. She backed up a few steps and bumped against her suitcase, then turned quickly and started walking toward the escalator to the lower platforms. Ivan watched her disappearing into the crowds, then started walking quickly trying to get her back in sight.

He spotted her just as she got to the top of the escalator. She stopped, then stepped aside to avoid being pushed onto the moving steps by the crush. Ivan couldn't lose sight of her again, so he yelled. "Fumiko! Wait!"

She turned and easily spotted him trying to push through the crowd—at 6 feet he was much taller than most of the those around him—and burst into a smile. He rushed to her and again took both her hands. "I know this is very short notice, but could you...would you have dinner with me tonight? My flight isn't until late tomorrow afternoon and my hotel has several very nice restaurants or we could go somewhere else or I could meet you at—." He was babbling, trying to make sure he said the right thing so she would say yes.

Fumiko knew she should act reserved, but she couldn't control her smile or her fluttering heart. She cut off his stammering. "That would be very nice, Ivan. I would like that very much. What time would you like me to come to your hotel?" They agreed on 7:30, which gave her time to go home and prepare for her unexpected date.

_________

Ivan stood in the lobby of the Dai-Ichi Hotel, watching the front doors for Fumiko. He was suffering a serious case of anxiety, not only because he was afraid she might not come, but also because he couldn't decide how he should greet her if she did. Shake her hand? Bow? Hug her? Kiss her cheek?

As soon as she walked into the lobby, Ivan sighed in relief and quickly walked to greet her. Then he stood in awkward silence, still uncertain how he could greet her in a way that showed he had come to care for her yet without violating Japanese norms of public behavior. As he dithered, Fumiko smiled; she was pretty sure what his problem was.

"I may have been raised in the Japanese culture, Ivan, but I lived in the Bay Area for seven years." With that, she hugged him gently and kissed his cheek. He gently hugged her back, blushed and managed an embarrassed smile, then turned around and offered his arm.

"Shall we go to dinner then, Fumiko?" Delighted that he was a man still humble enough to be embarrassed by his inexperience, she looped one hand through Ivan's arm and placed her other hand on top of it. He led her to the bank of elevators, then once inside pressed the button for the 21st floor. She raised her eyebrows in surprise at the poster on the elevator wall.

"Ittetsu?" She had never been to the teppanyaki restaurant high atop the hotel, but one of the other interpreters told about being taken there recently by a man who expected her to have sex with him because the dinner was so expensive. "Isn't it very—"

"I'm one of those rich Americans, remember?" He grinned, and she remembered asking him if he was a rich American when he gave Hoshimi $100 because she was fired for dropping fried eggs in his lap. "Besides, I'm on an expense account."

He said that with a good deal more confidence than he felt; he wasn't sure that Jeremy would blithely accept a claim for dinner that cost more than his room, let alone Woodley. What the hell, I'll pay for it if they won't. I want tonight to be special.

They were seated with four other diners around their teppanyaki grill. When asked for their drink orders, Ivan consulted with Fumiko and ordered a bottle of Sancerre plus mineral water for each of them. Then came the menu.

Hiding his shock at the prices, he again assured Fumiko that his expense account would cover their meal. She finally chose shrimp and chicken. Ivan stifled his smile at her ordering two of the lesser-priced entrees. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought, and ordered lobster and Kobe beef, never mind that he had ordered white wine. He grinned at Fumiko's sharp intake of breath and assured her that it was okay and he would share tastes of the absurdly expensive choices.

He then excused himself for a few minutes. She assumed he was going to the bathroom, but instead he located the maître d' and made arrangements for dessert, then returned to their station. They enjoyed the crisp Sancerre and conversation with their fellow diners until their teppanyaki chef showed up with a tray of their entrees and vegetables.

They appreciated the skill of their teppanyaki chef as he grilled, sliced, and arrayed their dinner selections and vegetables on their plates—although Ivan was pleased that the chef devoted his efforts to preparing and presenting the food, not to over-the-top displays of knife juggling so common in the states. He and Fumiko paid more attention to each other than to the food preparation, however; their fellow diners assumed that they were newlyweds and smiled benevolently upon them throughout the dinner.

Shortly after they finished their meal, the maître d' showed up. He guided them to a table for two next to a window with a breathtaking view of Tokyo, introduced the server who would take their dessert order, and informed them that the hotel was pleased to comp their dessert in honor of their recent nuptials. They exchanged knowing smiles, graciously thanked the maître d', then Ivan ordered a cheese-and-fruit plate and glasses of port.

As they nibbled the cheese and fruit, sipped the strong dessert wine, and marveled at the stunning view of nighttime Tokyo, Ivan found himself wishing that he could think of a way to keep this night from ending. He felt happier with this beautiful young Japanese woman than he ever had before. Once again, he took both Fumiko's hands in his.

He wasn't aware that he had done this twice before: when he and Fumiko were about to part on the train platform, and again when he was trying to ask her to have dinner with him. Fumiko did remember what the gesture meant, not only because she was a woman and paid attention to such things, but also because she, too, didn't want the evening to end.

The intensity of his emotions played hob with Ivan's tongue—he stammered as he tried to express what he was feeling. "Fumiko, today... this night has been so... I don't want it... I mean, I wish..." He trailed off, blushing in frustration and embarrassment.

Fumiko tried to mask her understanding smile from Ivan, but only his embarrassment and frustration kept him from seeing what she failed to hide. She spoke in a breathy whisper, more as a lover than a professional colleague.

"Did you not say you have a room in this fancy hotel, Ivan? Would be possible for you to show it to me? I have never been in such a luxurious establishment."

She thought about fluttering her eyelashes and almost giggled, but then stifled the giggle because he might think she was mocking him. Far from it. She, too, wanted nothing more than to prolong this magical night.

Ivan wasn't sure he heard what he thought he heard. But when Fumiko smiled at him, he somehow knew that he wasn't wrong, that she wanted to go to his room as much as he wanted to take her there. And that must mean that she... also... Oh my God. Does that mean she also wants to...? He didn't know how to finish the thought.

Fumiko forced a theatric yawn, prompting Ivan to get with the program. He caught the server's eye and mimed the international gesture for getting the check, but the server smiled and shook his head. Ivan was puzzled, then remembered that the maître d' told them that dessert was comped. He stood, held out his hand to Fumiko as she stood, and led her back out of the restaurant.

As they passed the entrance, the maître d' bowed to Ivan and told him that the food bill and a gratuity had been charged to his room. He then bowed to Fumiko and said something in Japanese; Fumiko blushed, bowed in return, and replied briefly in Japanese. When Ivan asked her what he said, she replied that he hoped tonight would be a beautiful start on their heavenly life journey.

Ivan bowed briefly, thanked him, and Fumiko displayed a beatific smile. As they took their leave, it occurred to Ivan that apparently every maître d' in Japan wasn't a raging asshole. They took an elevator to the 15th floor and walked down the hall to his room.

_________

The room was fairly large, with a king-sized bed, armoire, and writing desk. Beyond the bed was a small couch—more like a love seat—facing a large window with yet another spectacular nighttime view of Tokyo. They both noticed a couple of extras: A beautiful floral arrangement was arrayed in a vase on the coffee table between the couch and window, and a bottle of champagne rested in an ice bucket on a small marble bar top above the glass-fronted mini-bar.

Fumiko covered her mouth and giggled yet again. She couldn't remember when she had felt so giddy. "Do you suppose we should confess that we are not newlyweds?" Ivan thought she sounded a bit less than sincere, and grinned.

"Nope. We shouldn't spoil the good feeling they have about helping us celebrate our nuptials." When Fumiko turned to face him his mind went blank. He had no idea how to say what he was feeling, how to tell this beautiful girl—no, this beautiful woman—how desperately he wanted to take her into his arms and make love to her.

Again, Fumiko knew his mind, knew that he was uncertain about cultural differences, that he didn't want to violate any of her norms. It was up to her to assure him that the only difference that mattered to her was best described as a matter of plumbing. Still, she didn't want to make him think this was how she customarily behaved, especially on a first date.

"I may have grown up on a small farm in Japan, Ivan, but I'm not monocultural. Remember, I lived in Palo Alto and Berkeley for seven years. I am not a virgin, and I am quite sure that I want you to be the second man to make love to me. But it has been a long time, so I ask you to be gentle at first."

With that, she took his face in her hands and kissed him as a woman kisses a man she cares for, a warm and loving kiss with promises of more. When he took her into his arms, her hands left his face and pulled him into her, the kiss grew more consuming. They ended the kiss and looked into each other's eyes, both breathing heavily.