THE MONKEY'S RAINCOAT

NOTES ON THE WEATHER

Like many Australians of his generation, my father hated Japan. Everyone had a friend or relative who suffered as a forced labourer or in Changi prison camp. Maybe it was in reaction to this that I found it so interesting; first its movies, then its literature and art. My first visit only confirmed this. Gaijin I might be, but their way of life spoke to me.

Researching a book, I went looking for a piece of sculpture supposedly on show in the Petit Palais, a piece of belle époque excess and only “little” compared to the block-long Grand Palais opposite. In the main foyer, a uniformed guard was a rare speck of humanity in a cavern of murals and white marble .

           "Je cherche 'Le Vent,'"  I told him.

           "Comment?"

           "Er...Le Vent?" 

           Maybe I had the name wrong. If it wasn't called The Wind, perhaps it was The Storm.

           "L'Orage?"  I’d seen plenty of photographs, and for a moment contemplated miming the figure of a naked woman, eyes wide, arms spread, mouth howling as she flung herself out of a sort of bronze waterspout.

            I was rescued from certain humiliation by someone behind me saying quietly in English "Perhaps I can help."

           My savior, unexpectedly, was Japanese; about my age, grey-haired, be-spectacled, in a dark suit. I explained I was looking for a statue, or rather a sculpture, of a storm, represented by a female...         

           "I know this piece," he said. “Tempete et ses Nuées – A Storm and Its Clouds. I believe it's in the permanent collection."

           His moue on "nuées" was faultless. If one doesn't understand a language, the next best thing is to pronounce it well. I put this belief into practice immediately.

           "Arigatou gozaimasu,"  I said, and bowed.

           "Douitashimashite."  He followed his responding bow with a torrent of Japanese, which I halted by holding up my hand, palm out, like a traffic cop.

           "Sorry," I said. "But that's almost the only phrase I know. Except..." I took a breath. "....Onako ga suite imasu ."

           "Ah, yes." He nodded. "Very good. But perhaps you mean ‘Onoka ga suite imasu’ - 'I am hungry,' yes?"

           "Forgive my pronunciation," I said. "I've only visited Japan a few times."

            "No, your accent is excellent," he lied diplomatically. "But by all means let us continue in English." He held out his hand. "Yamada Minosuke.”

           "You must come here a lot," I said as he led me along the marble corridors. "Are you an art historian?"

He sighed. "No. Sadly. Excuse me but I am a tour guide. I often bring groups here. We Japanese love art nouveau."

           It didn't volunteer that I too dabbled in the dark art of the guided tour. Instead, I told him why the sculpture interested me. He was immediately intrigued.

           "In Japan, we are also most interested in the weather. It has inspired some of our greatest poetry."

           "You mean haiku?"

           The five-seven-five syllable pattern of these little poems seldom adapts perfectly to other languages, but experimenting can be as absorbing as completing the Times  crossword puzzle. Traditionally, a haiku refers to something in nature. The springtime cherry blossoms in Tokyo's Euno Park and the crowds who walk there, intoxicated by the pink storm, have inspired thousands. I quoted one of the most famous.

           "Wind through cherry trees
           Fragile petals shaken loose
           Drifting like pink snow."

Minosuke pursed his lips. "Yes...not quite like the great Bashō. But most interesting. Do you know....? 

           'Hatsu shigure

           Sarumo komino o

           hoshido nari'

            In English, you might say:

           'The first cold shower.

           Even the monkey seems to want

           A little coat of straw.' "

           "There’s another version," I said :

           'Winter downpour;

           Even the monkey

           Needs a raincoat.' "

           Minosuke actually giggled. "Oh, yes. This is most clever.”

I didn't get to see Tempest and its Clouds, at least not that day. Instead, we sat in the Palais café for an hour, emptying pot after pot of tea, and talking haiku - or, rather, as my new friend corrected me, its plural, haïkaï.

In doing so, we re-affirmed an affinity between France and Japan, between literature and art, but, above all, between art and the seasons. "Panta rhei," said Heraclitus in Hellenic Greek, All things flow. And they often flow to France.

Speaking of haïkaï and the weather,  here’s one of mine:

Hot night. Lightning flares.

           Gasp of wind. The thunder cracks.

           Downpour.  Ah, so cool!