Chapter Four: Definitions

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The modern dictionary defines truth as something like this: “the true or actual state of a matter; actuality or existence; an obvious or accepted fact.” Yet, if something like truth was “obvious” or “of existence” why is that there is some small traces of truth in the unseen? Why is it that as human beings we fool ourselves into believing that truth is something outside the realm of knowledge? Why is it that we even search for truth.

Looking at my newly bought small notebook, I just couldn’t get that out of my mind. In truth, I didn’t have to start writing until I got onto the Tokyo University campus. Yumi wouldn’t discuss what I would write about until I got there anyways. Yet, I wanted to have a plan. Somewhere between the time it took me to wander around the streets of Tokyo to find a bookstore, purchasing a small notebook to takes notes on, wandering back, and sitting down to think – I had stumbled onto this predicament. How in the world could person conceal truth if indeed by definition it is obvious and of existence? How can a writer manipulate true and real truth – into a cipher – a mode of the impossible, the unreal. Let’s not even forgo the idea of someone understanding a presentation of code in a seemingly normal piece of a literature published on a weekly column, no, let us first just discuss the idea of encrypting truth into a lie… quite the oxymoron, and the more I thought about the theory itself, the more impossible my task seemed.

Writers can write, painters can paint, and musicians can play – all because there is a substance of the unreal mixed in with the work. Be it the passion, or the inspiration, but something intangible is there, some emotion that we can’t fathom to describe is being described and so it is perfectly reasonable to assume that you can imbue a falsity – if you will – into a lie, but truth is that much more different.

And so I sat there…

In the silence…

In the dim light…

Of my temporary room at the Tayama residence… I refused to sleep, denied it to all the degrees possible, till a drop of the pen would trigger hallucinations…

I had been awake for almost three days now – certainly not longer than I had been used to, but at this rate I would be getting there soon.

Every tick of the clock depressed me. This silence depressed me. The wooden, straw, bamboo floor – the meshes of skin wrinkled from sitting too long on the tatami. The moonlight illuminating the mirror behind me… my laptop’s low hum of its cooling fan, the cool evening air, the constant sound –

There was a tap on my shoulder.

I jerked around frightened only to meet her eyes.

Yumi. For a second she had a worried look in her eyes, but once the two of your eyes met it disappeared into her usual nonchalant look.

I gave her a confused look.

Was I needed somewhere? This late at night?

She was dressed fully in her night kimono… beautiful…

The moon shone off her face… her violet eyes, her black hair, her pale complexion… her… my eyes traced down her neck line.

I stopped myself and slapped myself internally at how I just disrespected the girl in my mind… I couldn’t stop myself for looking into her eyes though. They were so deep with pain… and yet somewhere deep down those violet eyes was a sense of acceptance. It must have pained the girl so much, to know that she was the daughter of a yakuza family and was a mute. She must have thought it brought disgrace onto her father, a silent torment she would keep to herself… she must have blamed all the family’s misfortune on herself. And yet, there was some factor of acceptance. In the end, she accepted who she was…

She lifted her hands, as if to signal… some kind of sign language but then remembered that I could not understand.

She smiled weakly and placed her thin fingers around my pen. She picked up my notebook and wrote something down. The smile disappeared.

Silence.

She placed the notebook down on the desk.

I looked at it.

“Listen…” she wrote.

“Yumi! You can write in English?” I was amazed.

She pointed at what she wrote with her finger signaling me to be quiet and actually listen.

She had a serious expression on her face.

I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me that she could write in English, students here learn English as their second language and it is required in some primary and most all secondary schooling. Yumi too was the president or editor or what not of the paper at Tokyo University I would be submitting to… but “listen”?

Listen to what? I’ve been listening to everything in this house and everything outside for the last who knows how many hours? What was there to listen to! WHAT?

Silence.

Silence.

And more… wait…

The moment – I realized that there was a sound. The slapping of the bamboo fountain outside… I had seen the fountain before… there was a hollow piece of bamboo that swayed back and forth as the water filled and emptied from it into the fountain…

It was a rhythmic noise…

It was the only noise…

But what did that have to do with anything?

“The bamboo?” I asked out loud.

Yumi with her same complacent expression nodded.

She took my notebook again and wrote another set of letters.

It read… “Constancy”

I frowned.

Constancy? Pertaining to having a consistent nature? What did that mean…

Sure the sound was constant... but what of it?

I thought…

Did Yumi know what I was thinking about? Truth? Constant?

No… she couldn’t have known what I was thinking about… must be something about the… the… yakuza?

And then it hit me…

It slapped me across the face.

It hit me so hard it felt like I had just jumped into the freezing artic ocean with nothing but my underwear.

There is another definition of truth.

An old one…

One that truth is not associated with anymore…

Loyalty.

It was a standard of the Yakuza. Loyalty, fidelity…

And yet… in the pre-modern times… it was just that… truth.

How knights, samurai met their truths was through how they placed above themselves their duties and their loyalties. Truth… did not mean actuality at least not in the sense of proving existence. Truth was a way of proving your existence, your worth… and all of that was through loyalty.

The measure of loyalty… is consistency… the quality of being constant…

And…

I smiled.

Truth… could be found in a lie… or hidden in something…

Because it is a property of truth to be constant – a pattern, a rhythm, a code that had password, a systematic arrangement of ideas or letters or words would be able to bring about truth… the edges of a puzzle piece.

That was my answer.

I turned around, about to thank Yumi… but she was not there anymore… she had walked away while I was in thought.

I stared into the emptiness for a moment.

This still didn’t solve the problem of how I could make sure an Interpol agent or a police detective could find my readings and understand it, nor could it even make sure they would even receive a copy of it to begin with, but that was not the problem now…

The problem now – had been solved.

I looked at the notebook…

I knew how to write this now…

I thought to myself… yes… I can write whatever truth Yumi brings me now… anything… any truth… I would be able to write it…

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Author's Note:

For those that still do not understand - sorry, you'll have to wait till next chapter. Things are starting to build up, and I hope that all are enjoying this read. For those that have reviewed. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Granted, it shouldn't be a writer's passion to write for reviews, but let's just get the truth out there - reviews are nice, and they in some way, shape or form, help motivate a write. And so, if there is anything a reader like yourself has to say - please, hit the review box. I sincerely hope everyone enjoyed, and more to come soon!

Kakyou.