IT WAS ALMOST CHRISTMAS AND MR. KUBOTA WAS BLOSSOMING LIKE I’D never seen him before. He stood proudly outside his home decorated with his masterpieces of lighted reindeer, Santas, sleighs, and trees. He couldn’t stop smiling and talked on with the throngs of passersby who congratulated him on his displays, thoughtfully answering the multitudes of questions.
Takuya had said that this year, in my honor, his father had decided to showcase the theme of stars. They dotted the roof of the house, and strings of them framed the windows and draped the trees, gently twinkling, kira-kira. The television crews and reporters kept coming, the crowds increasing. Takuya said his mother was going crazy.
But the Kubotas were able to get away from all the madness on Christmas Eve when they came along with Takuya, Hiromi-san, Mariko and Frederick, and my father Kenji, to the Ozawa Kaikan Hall in Shinjuku to see me perform in concert. JBS ended up going along with my idea of singing enka, and I had recently finished my first recording.
There was nothing that prepared you for the thrill of holding your own CD in your hands. The title was Celeste Duncan, written in both English and Japanese. The cover showed my face, my eyes gazing at my palm, which held the comb Aunt Michiko asked to be returned to her sister, the one I wore in the old photograph. It was tasteful—nothing like you’d see on Hen na Gaijin—and I didn’t look half bad.
My debut song, called “Kokoro no Furusato,” or “My Heart’s Hometown,” told the story of a woman without a family who had never been to Japan, but once she arrived she found her home, the place where she truly belonged. It was where she discovered the people most important to her and where she’d found her soul.
The moment I received some copies I sent one to Dirk, which I autographed. I couldn’t resist adding something else, not a letter but a piece of paper where I’d written, “So what do you think of this?”
A week later I received a note from him. “Congratulations! You should be proud of yourself,” he wrote back, minus any comments on my singing. And it was such a coincidence, he went on, because he had also just made a CD himself, though self-produced, entitled Live from the Clipper Lounge. He enclosed a copy for my listening plea sure.
Now, backstage at the concert hall, I waited to hear my introduction. I looked in the mirror, brushed an eyelash from my cheek, and added a little more powder to my face. I was ready.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Celeste Duncan.”
I walked to the middle of the stage, which was decorated with a set of a Japanese screen painted with white cranes resting near a lake, the stars in the black sky shining bright.
Even though it was my first concert, I did not feel nervous or ill at ease. At last I was ready for this, at last I knew this was what I was meant to do. And I could also share it with Takuya. When I waved in his direction, I could see him blow me a kiss.
I bowed deeply and the audience applauded. I felt their warmth and was glad to see them. I would do my best, my gambarimasu. And I would give them my all because they had come all this way to listen.
They had come to hear me sing.