Taroko Gorge. Jacob Ritari
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song they were singing. I know four languages pretty well—English, French, Russian, and Japanese—and I taught myself Japanese when I should have been learning another language, in southern Nepal, where it was the only educational book in that sad little dry goods store. It came in handy later. The chorus was all I remember hearing:
Tongara gatta sekkai
Hikkuri kaeshi
Hikkuri kaeta sekkai
Hoppori dashi de
Meaning: Turning the confused world upside down. Tossing away the upside-down world. Then:
Hai, sarabai!
Hai, sarabai!
Hat, sarabai!
Now sarabai, as far as I can figure, is a strange pun. But then it was a strange song. Saraba is a slangy Japanese way of saying good-bye. Bai is just bye, as in bye-bye. I had never heard the word and at the time I didn’t get it.
Three girls came into view holding hands and swinging their arms and skipping, as much as this configuration—and the narrow path—allowed.
Three young Japanese girls in sailor-suit uniforms. Blue-and-white jackets, blue skirts and red neck ribbons. My lager went down the wrong way and I choked, the colors were so sudden.
On instinct Pickett and I both moved our beers into less obvious positions. There we sat: two dimwitted foreigners, blinking in the sunlight. Against us they were brilliant and quick. Like fish, two of them darted behind the tallest one.
The tall girl covered her mouth and laughed. She had slightly wavy hair coming down on either side and framing her face, and a yellow hair band: this I remember clearly.
I swallowed a burp, a painful feeling, and said, “Ossu,” meaning, Yo.
Her face brightened. “Speak Japanese?”
“Un, chotto dake.”
“A-aah umai deshou!”
Of the other two girls, one was sort of plump and had a bowl haircut; one was slender and had long hair.
Pickett punched my shoulder. “The hell you waiting for, man, introduce me to these fine ladies!”
But that phrase brought me back to earth. Feeling strange, I looked down and shook my head.
He put one hand on his chest. “Pickett!” he said.
“Pikketto!” the girl shot back at him, like she was spitting. Her cheeks were full of mirth.
“Suman,” I said, cutting my head at him. “Kochira baka da.”
I think Pickett guessed what that meant without my telling him because he punched me again. The girls laughed. It was bright on the path and their laughter was also bright.
“Kiotsukero, kimi,” I said. “Hittori dakara.”
“Ee yo.” She flapped one hand. “Ee yo.”
Although it wasn’t exactly right, I had told her to be careful because she—they—were alone. She’d told me there was nothing to worry about.
Pickett raised his camera. “Smile, now! I’m a big photographer from Time magazine; I’ll make you all famous!”
The other two were bolder now. All smiling, they threw their arms around each other’s shoulders and flashed us V-signs. The camera snapped. All of a sudden one of the girls—the plump one—broke from the others and ran a ways up the path.
“Taeko-chan matte!” yelled the tall girl, then, as she passed us, flashed a last smile.
“Sayonara, Pikketto-san!” said the third girl and gasp-laughed and bowed.
“Sarabai!” the tall girl called back.
“Hai, sa-ra-bai!” came the voice of the one apparently called Taeko-chan.
“Sarabai!” said Pickett, waving vaguely, thrown by this suddenness. But he should have known that’s how young girls are, darting from place to place like cats, like birds; like nothing so much as young human girls. Beautiful things flit through our lives like that. Other things, like Taroko Gorge, are just there.
“Cute,” he finally said.
“Cute,” I agreed.
“Man,” he said, “real Japanese schoolgirls. Fuckin’ A.”
I arched an eyebrow. “I thought you said you didn’t have any interest in fifteen-year-old girls.”
“Well, no,” he said quickly, “but I have friends who might.”
I laughed.
“Hey—Crazy Pete. You got kids, man?”
“One. Boy.” I pulled out the wallet and showed him the pictures. Steve. They were old pictures; Steve when he was ten, twelve years old, in the backyard.
Pickett laughed. “Motherfucker looks just like you. What’s he up to now?”
“Dunno. I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Oh. Man, I’m sorry.”
He stood up and hefted his belt.
“I gotta take a leak.”
“Knock yourself out.”
I took a pull on my lager.
“I’m sorry, man,” he said. “That shit’s heavy.”
“Tell you what …” I shifted my back up against a tree, and my eyes wandered up to the speckled leaves overhead. “Take your time, why don’t’cha. I might just doze off here.”
“Shit. Well, don’t get robbed.”
I hadn’t been serious—but while Pickett was gone, I must have fallen asleep. Here I’m not so clear on things. My head started aching a little when he asked about Steve. But that was no surprise; I had gotten next to no sleep the night before, and I was hungover and freshly—if only slightly—drunk. And I suppose it’s normal not to be able to tell exactly when you fall asleep, let alone how long you sleep for. It could have been a minute or ten minutes.
All I know is that at some point Pickett came crashing back through the trees, wiping what I assumed was vomit off his chin. I was surprised he’d venture so far with that spider still hanging across from us.
“Sorry, man,” he said, grinning. “Guess last night caught up with me.”
Immediately I realized what had happened and looked at my watch, but I hadn’t checked it before I’d dozed off. It was seven past three in the afternoon.
“God, we pissed the whole day away. Come on if you want to see the gorge.…”
So we climbed the hill, and we saw it. We stood on the rock looking down into that roaring pit. There was a wooden railing as high as your waist. The slope was gradual, but at that height it was still frightening. A sheer drop on the other side, just a wash of white stone as tall as most New York skyscrapers.
An elderly Taiwanese man came up beside us. Pickett and I turned away. We hadn’t seen the Japanese girls but the path had branched a few times.
“Should we just go back?” he said.
Maybe it was the light behind him now, but his face looked hard.
“Hey, man. You okay?”
“I dunno.” He shook his head. “Still feel kinda sick, honest.”