Part 13 (1/2)

On the way home, my father talked about his new home-building projects in Suffolk County. In the past when he talked about his projects, I would get angry and change the subject, and even now I heard the voice telling me that he cared more about his construction business than he did about me. This time, though, I was also aware that I was proud of him-proud that he was a man who loved building houses and sailing and smelling maple sap in the woods, even if I was bad at all those things. And I wondered: Had my father walked so fast, leaving me to confront the voice, because Ando had willed it?

One thing puzzled me.

”Since the trail was a circle,” I asked while we were still in the car, ”how does it connect to the next segment of your walk across Long Island?”

My father's eyes remained fixed on the road.

”The club will tell you the trails link up all the way across,” he said. ”Truth is, there are rough connections. There are gaps.”

PART IV

MANKIND IS NOODLEKIND

The ba.s.sist signaled the cutoff at the end of ”Four Brothers,” and Gary returned his silver King Liberty to its place on his knee. He awaited an answer.

Why did I go to meet the inventor of instant ramen?

A lot had happened since the walk across Long Island. Upon returning to San Francisco, I ran into Matt on a street corner. When I told him about the walk with my father, he hugged me. Then he filled me in on why he had asked me to place stars next to the names of the women in my letters to Ando. These were the people to whom I had to make amends. Where possible, I did it in person or with a phone call. If I had no way to make contact, or if I judged contact to be ill advised, I simply wrote a letter to that person in my notebook. In cases where I did get in touch, it was difficult to balance honesty with the pain it might cause. I asked Matt how to do that, and predictably he told me to ask Ando for guidance. In general, I apologized for dishonesty, betraying trust, and my inability to be present for the relations.h.i.+ps. One woman told me that she had been cheating, too, a possibility that had never occurred to me. Another ex-girlfriend questioned my sincerity. Matt said it wasn't my job to manage the reactions; all I could do was to tell the truth.

With Matt's blessing, I had begun dating again. Together we came up with some ground rules. I was not to have s.e.x until the fifth date (the number was relatively arbitrary; Matt said I could pick anything higher than three), and if I chose to do so, then I was not to date or have s.e.x with anyone else. After a breakup, I was to wait at least thirty days before dating someone new (to ensure I wasn't using a new person to squelch the voice in my head). If I ever felt like breaking these rules-these limitations-I was to pray to Ando. If that didn't work, I was to call Matt. I had a couple of short-term relations.h.i.+ps, and once I broke the five-date rule. But for the first time in my life, I didn't cheat.

I had yet to find a job, but I was having success selling personal essays. Instead of writing about climbing the Williamsburg Bridge, I mined the transcriptions of the voice in my head for themes. I sold a story based on ”YOU SHOULD BE MARRIED LIKE THE PEOPLE IN THE NEW YORK TIMES NEW YORK TIMES WEDDING ANNOUNCEMENTS” to National Public Radio, and I performed one about ”YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO FINISH THE LARGE AT RAMEN JIRO” for a San Francisco reading series. I wrote a piece on ”YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO FIND GREAT PARKING SPOTS, THE WAY YOUR FATHER ALWAYS DOES,” though I had yet to find an outlet for publication. The voice, I came to realize, was like a pointer to things that I cared about. Interestingly, the more I wrote about it, the more it came out in the first person, and in lowercase. It hardly disappeared, but its power over me seemed to wane. Sometimes it even made me laugh. WEDDING ANNOUNCEMENTS” to National Public Radio, and I performed one about ”YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO FINISH THE LARGE AT RAMEN JIRO” for a San Francisco reading series. I wrote a piece on ”YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO FIND GREAT PARKING SPOTS, THE WAY YOUR FATHER ALWAYS DOES,” though I had yet to find an outlet for publication. The voice, I came to realize, was like a pointer to things that I cared about. Interestingly, the more I wrote about it, the more it came out in the first person, and in lowercase. It hardly disappeared, but its power over me seemed to wane. Sometimes it even made me laugh.

I had been on a date with a woman in a movie theater-we were watching Alfonso Cuaron's Children of Men Children of Men-when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled out the phone and saw a series of square symbols, which was how my phone displayed j.a.panese Google Alerts. I had programmed my Google j.a.pan account to send alerts to my phone whenever Ando's name appeared in the news, but I received them so frequently that I rarely paid attention. Usually they were triggered by nothing more than a Nissin press release about some new Cup Noodles brand extension or a limited-time Chikin Ramen promotion. I once received one after a speech by the conservative politician s.h.i.+nzo Abe, later elected prime minister, who during a campaign stop in front of the Instant Ramen Invention Museum likened his political fort.i.tude to Ando's persistence in the shack. (Abe would eventually resign as prime minister, citing among other insurmountable obstacles, a chronic case of diarrhea.) After the movie, I said good night to my date in front of her apartment building, and when I got home, I logged into my Google account. The alert I had received in the theater contained a link to a newspaper article from the Tokyo s.h.i.+mbun Tokyo s.h.i.+mbun. I clicked on it, reading the headline: ”Momof.u.ku Ando, the Father of Instant Ramen, Is Dead.”

Why did I go to meet Ando?

”I think I went, Gary, because he wanted me to not meet him.”

Gary looked confused and was about to ask more questions, but then the ba.s.sist called out another song and then another, and soon it was time for our fifteen-minute break. I put my trombone back in its case, grabbed a root beer from the warehouse's makes.h.i.+ft kitchen, and walked out to the alley in the back. Gary was already outside smoking a cigarette, his trombone hanging from his elbow, and he was reminiscing with John, the second trombonist, about the days when they supported their families by playing dance halls and musical theater. Gary described how his friend Archie-the man who owned my Conn 78H before I did-made a good living in Las Vegas until producers won concessions from the musicians' union. ”First they moved the orchestra to a back room and piped the sound in through speakers,” Gary said. ”It wasn't long before they plugged a computer into the speakers and sent the musicians home.”

I wanted to know more about Archie, but just then my cell phone vibrated in my pocket again. I had just purchased a new one, with special software that displayed j.a.panese characters. After Ando's death, I had been receiving Google Alerts on his name almost every hour-mostly obituaries and blog posts about him. Like Lawrence Downes, the Times Times editor who wrote ”Appreciations: Mr. Noodle,” the rest of the world seemed as amused as I had been to learn that there was an inventor of instant ramen. editor who wrote ”Appreciations: Mr. Noodle,” the rest of the world seemed as amused as I had been to learn that there was an inventor of instant ramen.

I flipped open the phone, and sure enough, it was a j.a.panese Google Alert. This one was a tiny item from a regional newspaper called the Tokus.h.i.+ma s.h.i.+mbun Tokus.h.i.+ma s.h.i.+mbun: Funeral for Momof.u.ku Ando, Chairman of Nissin Food Products, Is AnnouncedThe funeral for the late Momof.u.ku Ando (the chairman of Nissin Food Products, who died January 5) will commence February 27 at one o'clock at Kyocera Dome Osaka. The funeral committee chairman will be former Prime Minister Yasuhiro Nakasone. Chief mourner will be Nissin President Koki Ando, the deceased's second-eldest son.

Gary saw the j.a.panese characters on my cell phone.

”What does it say?”

I told him.

”Are you going?”

”I don't think so.”

”Why not?”

I had learned that I was suffering from the Fundamental Misunderstanding of Humanity. I was dating women while honoring my limitations. I had learned to accept and love my parents in ways I previously could not.

”Gary, I don't even know if it's open to the public. Anyway, I just don't think I need to go.”

Gary flicked his cigarette onto the pavement, extinguis.h.i.+ng it with his foot.

”Yeah,” he said. ”But what if Ando wants you to?”

There were no cheap flights from San Francisco to Osaka, but I found a good deal into Tokyo. Even adding in the cost of a j.a.pan Rail Pa.s.s to ride the bullet train, I was coming out ahead. As the plane descended toward the Narita Airport runway, I remembered how on my last visit to j.a.pan the waves reminded me of drops of lard atop a bowl of ramen. This time the Pacific Ocean seemed calmer. Tiny ripples were visible on its surface, like scales on the body of a big black fish.

At Narita, I exchanged dollars for yen and bought a ticket for the Narita Express, the train line that connects to downtown Tokyo. Boarding my a.s.signed car, I stowed my suitcase in the luggage compartment and took my reserved seat. Next to me, a young j.a.panese man was staring out the window. His suitcase lay at his feet, not in the luggage compartment, and I could make out the initials ”YVR” on the tag wrapped around the handle. It had been nearly three years since my last trip to j.a.pan-the one when I failed to meet Ando-and I wanted to practice my j.a.panese.

”Excuse me,” I said, ”but I noticed the tag on your suitcase. Were you skiing at Whistler?”

I knew that YVR was the airport code for Vancouver, which is only a two-hour drive from Whistler Mountain. A lot of j.a.panese people ski there.

”No.”

I waited for the man to tell me why he had gone to Vancouver, but he didn't say anything.

”So why did you go there?” I finally asked.

”Did you know,” he said, ”that there are seventeen casinos in British Columbia?”

I did not know that. ”So you went to Vancouver to gamble?”

”No. I went to hike in the mountains.”

”How was the hiking?”

He raised his left arm, extending it straight out. It was covered in the sleeve of a blue jacket.

”I'm sorry,” I said. ”I don't understand.”

The man sighed, as if his meaning should have been obvious.

”Look how thin this jacket is,” he said, pinching the material.

”What I'm saying is, it was snowing in the mountains, and I couldn't go hiking because I didn't have a warm coat.”

”So you gambled instead?”