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Introduction
Should you ask me, whence these stories?
Whence these tales of tunes and taxis,
With the moons that split asunder,
With the elevated highways,
With Ah-o-MA-Mey and Ja-NA-check,
With the stairways, hidden, secret,
With the magic Little People,
With the women, always leaving,
Always leaving, always tricking?
Always tricking, not conniving.
Ask again about the women,
Always leaving, then returning
(To their foil-hero baffled
By the simple and the complex).
Should once again you ask me,
Whence these stories? Whence these fables?
I should answer, I should tell you,
“Pay attention:
Life is hidden -- unrevealing,
Like the world at play around us.
Buckle seat belts, Yoko Kanno,
Roller-coaster ride commencing.
Life is here for those who seek it.
In these fables, in these stories,
So we’ll start again with music,
Music strange, unknown, delightful,
Music all-important, clearly,
Music with its clues and kindness,
Music with its strong emotions,
Music that shall lead our way.”
Should you ask me, Whence this traffic?
With this taxi and the broadcast
From the Philco, of this music,
Of the fanfare from the contests
Of the jocks and of the jockettes,
From 1926 and counting?”
I should answer, I should tell you,
“From the Gods perched all around us,
From the Gods poised all around us,
From the Gods who play with puppets,
From the Gods who play with humans,
From the Gods who seek to steer us,
Gods whose tasks for us are hidden,
Hidden in the moonlight awful,
Hidden in the moons’ lights awful,
Gods persistent, Gods unblinking.
From these Gods unnamed in legend,
The strong are with survival gifted.”
I should further answer to you,
“So again the music’s classic,
So again it’s on FM, it’s
On the radio broadcasting
To our heroine heroic.”
If still further you should ask me,
Saying, “Who was she: Aomame?
Tell us of this Aomame.”
Congested traffic stalled her mission:
‘Hitman-woman hit your target,
Meet your Karma, death-dispensing,
Even scores, protect the weakest
Victims needing wraths of justice.’”
Canto I
Expressway taxi on the highway
In the traffic, on the highway,
On the elevated highway,
Sat she, Sweetest of the Sweet Peas,
Sat she, Greenest of the Green Beans,
In the back seat of the taxi.
In the traffic-snarled taxi.
(Ah-O-Ma-Mey)
Aomame, queen apparent
Of the land beneath the moonscapes,
Queen unknown to those around her,
Known not by herself or others,
Queen sublunary, was resting
In the back seat of the taxi.
To the radio she listened,
Eyes half shut and softly breathing.
Driver-Chauffeur, are you listening
To this music, strange and wondrous,
While your fare, back-seat reclining,
Lightly shut her eyes unseeing,
Grasps this music to her bosom,
Wondering why she recognises
Music puzzling, made obscurely?
Driver-Chauffeur, silent, watchful,
Are you reading fortune’s blazes
In the stalled stream of the traffic?
--------------------------------------------------------
Aomame read her history.
Played some softball, prized them both. Both were equal
History she does her best in.
“Why do others have such trouble?
When years and months and days, mere numbers,
Follow one another, ordered?
No tricks, no traps, all rhyme and reason,
It's no problem to remember
Dates historic, dates important,
At least for me, a student humble.”
Aomame sees this history,
On the sidewalks, on the highways,
In the parlors or the trick bars.
Count the people, tapping feet and
Slightly nodding to this music
On the broadcast of this program.
Count the people who can name the
Writer, maker, song composer
Of this strange and wondrous music
From the plains of old Bohemia.
Count these people on one hand or
Count these people on one finger.
Why should she, our Greenest Greenbean
Be the one ‘can do the naming?
Be the one who does the knowing
Of Janácek, Maestro, Master?
“Couldn’t say,” thought Aomame,
“Why indeed would it be me who
Knows the name of this strange music?
Knows the name of its composer?
Knows the era of its writing?
Knows the place of its creation?”
Czechs compose the strangest music
That evokes the strangest feelings,
Feelings from the years before us.
Sixty Summers, sixty winters,
Sixty winds crossed old Bohemia,
Sixty suns basked peaceful drinkers
In cafes, to danger blinded
Of the evil on their doorstep.
Kafka bailed two years before this,
Kafka bailed unknown, un-noted,
Hitler now, unknown, un-noted,
Plans destruction
For this presence, peaceful, calming;
Now so calm, without his hardships.
Aomame is her real name.
Fukushima was the cradle
Of her family’s birth and entry
To this world of pain and sorrow.
Was the origin of troubles
Business cards, for working needed,
Caused more trouble than they offset,
People looked, then hemming and hawing,
Tried to guess which bean was mentioned.
“Kentucky Wonder? Are you waiting?
“Fava? Stringless? Here on business?”
“I shall tell you, I’m not that fancy.
“No, not soybean, not vanilla,
“Not a bean bag, not for coffee,
“Just plain Green Bean, that’ll suit me,
“Just plain green bean, that’s all I am.”
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