I had been waiting to see you for a long time. So long that I got as nervous as I was before my wedding. I could not think of anything else.
There were almost no bus or train seats left. I was searching like crazy on different websites. Frantically opening and reopening new and old tabs, I tried to understand what it said there with my poor knowledge of Japanese.
I was getting increasingly desperate.
Click, click, click. No, no, no. Keep checking. Again, and again, and again.
Then, Is it this one? I think it is! For real? Oh my!
Finally, I landed on a website in English with available bus options. I started booking seats for myself and my husband right away.
The process was almost complete when I pressed something wrong and it took me back to the start page.
Everything went blank. My hands turned cold as ice in the steaming Tokyo night. I could not feel the keyboard under my fingertips anymore.
Not now. Please!
I was about to burst into tears when my husband took my shaking hands in his and started warming them up.
“Let’s try again.”
Speechless, I did not say anything. Some moments passed. I nodded.
By this point it was midnight; I was about to mentally and physically shut down.
I do not know how I did it. I do not remember. But I managed to finish the booking.
We had tickets to go and see you.
At 5am, we rose to set off on the long journey. We went to Shinjuku first and lost ourselves in its confusing corridors, but eventually found the right exit to the terminal we were supposed to depart from.
The bus was fully packed; it was a miracle that we got those last seats. But I still did not know if I was going to see you.
I surrendered to the hands of destiny.
If you have forgiven me, you will show up. I really, really, one million more times really hope that I will be able to say “Hi” again. Even for a couple of minutes. But if not, I completely understand it. I will accept any decision that you make.
Despite my internal monologue, nerves continued to mess with me. I could hardly eat or drink. I knew that the journey was long, so I needed to have breakfast. I swallowed some food without noticing the taste of it, and continued anxiously looking out of the window.
Around two hours on the road passed, and the scenery changed dramatically. From the bustling skyscrapers and noisy streets of Tokyo to the serenity of rice fields with farmers bending over their crops in the early morning, then to the giant mountain chains sharing a huge green blanket between themselves – all this time my eyes kept searching for you.
The bus became quiet: people stopped eating, talking, laughing. My husband was sleeping next to me.
One constant thought looped in my mind. Will I be able to see you?
Restless, I was watching the clouds come and go in the sky when my heart stopped beating for a moment. Something dropped in my stomach, and I almost jumped from my seat.
I saw you. From far away, but I saw you.
You looked tall and impressive with that cloudy scarf lightly touching upon your shoulders. The combination of green and white against the June blue sky suited you so well. You always had that sense of style about you.
Your strong presence filled the surroundings immediately. The rest did not matter.
My eyes got covered with a thick veil of tears. I put a hand over my mouth in order not to start crying out loud.
I looked at my husband: he was still sleeping peacefully. Thanks. Not that he wouldn’t understand me – we were going through everything happening in life together – but it was also important for me to have this emotional moment just for myself.
I needed to fully live through that moment: without any words, exclamations or sounds, just looking at you and not blinking, not breathing, not believing it.
I was fighting spasms in my throat and biting my lips to blood when I heard your voice in my head.
“Nu i nu, kto eto tut nyni do kolen raspustil?”
It was your way to say in Russian something like, “Well, well, well, who’s the one here crying all the way to the knees?”
When I was a kid, you used to say it quite often to me. Then when I became a teenager, and still when I crossed that bridge over to the adult avenue. With all my tears shed during those years, you always found the right way to guide me through.
I smiled and felt better, as it had always been after hearing your words. I think I do not know anyone who could combine laughter and wisdom better than you. The only people I could name with this super ability would be you and my husband.
I nicknamed you ‘Fujiyama’ many years ago. It is funny because I do not remember how exactly it started.
We were always creating different names for each other. I called you ‘Friend’, ‘A.S. Pushkin’ (because of your outstanding sideburns like the ones the famous Russian writer and poet had), but ‘Fujiyama’ quickly became my favorite one. I have always been mesmerized by your wisdom and your impressive presence, no matter which day, month or season.
Only after I started studying Japanese, I realized that the name was from an old poetic form of addressing Japan’s sacred Mount Fuji: Fuji-no-yama. Tale of the Bamboo Cutter – the oldest surviving work of Japanese fiction – says that the name came from “immortal” (不死, fushi, fuji), as well as from the image of abundant (富, fu) soldiers (士, shi, ji) ascending the slopes of the mountain.
That sounds a lot like you to me.
The current kanji for Mount Fuji is written as 富士山 and it is pronounced Fujisan. I will call you Fujisan from now on then, if you do not mind.
Fujisan, you were not that approachable sometimes. Just like the mountain silently getting behind the clouds from tempting eyes, you stood your ground and protected your private space.
And still, people were attracted to you and wanted to see you.
It was always interesting and rewarding to have conversations. About anything. Even on challenging and seemingly uncomfortable topics. Once I talked to you about the benefits of vegetarianism and veganism, and you did not frown upon me, but said instead, “That makes sense.”
When you left for a different world, I simply could not believe it. Nobody could. It was so sudden and all we were left with was an empty void inside.
You, Mount Fuji, so strong and powerful? How was it even possible?
You reached the sky – somewhere behind the clouds in another dimension. You did not disappear. You never will. Your name says it all.
I could not come to your funeral because I was stuck in Sweden. I am sorry. So, so sorry. I was in the middle of a renewal process for my residence permit. I had no documents at hand. At that exact moment, my passport was traveling without me, somewhere between Sweden and Russia.
But we were always connected somehow by an invisible thread – through vast land, endless blue sea, letters written by hand, misspelled words, funny nicknames and even bureaucracy barriers. I loved it when we wrote actual paper letters to each other from time to time. I loved your unique style and mistakes when you were writing them. Especially if you forgot to put punctuation marks; it always made me laugh.
This is one more letter to you (sorry it is not written by hand!), and it is not the last one.
Even though we were not especially close after I moved out, I could feel your presence and support every single day. You helped me find the answers. Cured the feeling of guilt hanging over my head. And especially today, when we came, and you were here to embrace us.
Father, my Fujisan, thank you for forgiving me and meeting with me in Japan. Maybe you were not even angry at me after all. Your wisdom stands tall above all of this.
I am so happy I got to see you again. One more time.
In loving memory of Alexander Sedikov
