That was it. A week later, he carried me into bed, reciting a Japanese poem, the first night we made love. I learned to speak Japanese, enough — the first thing he taught me was, “Watashi wa suru kara; anata wa suate `i nasai.” It means, I will do it for you; you sit down. At first, I thought he was the one who would be doing whatever, “it,” was, and I would be the one sitting down. There was only brief confusion as to that. Obviously, I did not sit down a lot when he was around.
I read everything he bought for me to read. I studied every painter he thought was important. I hung on his every word, and I screwed his brains out. Minako’s father was an exquisite sword, brilliant and reflective, but being in love with a sword is rather a difficult thing. No amount of training could have prepared me for the process.
When we divorced, there was no fight — we never fought. He decreed that he would take the baby, because she was his, I was young, and would have another child someday. I knew if he took her, I would never see her again. I knew it in my gut. I also knew her father was still a Japanese citizen. He could attain citizenship for her easily. It was not out of spite. He was not at all spiteful.
It was just his culture, like when he told me that I should not be upset, after I found out he had been boning the downstairs neighbor. He looked at me as if I was so out of line and said, “You are being ridiculous. It has nothing to do with you.” He dismissed me.