A Woman's Nails (38 page)

The first week alone with Yumi passed like a man
wounded
and crawling
on all fours.
The office
was as quiet and hospitable as a morgue. Every thirty minutes or so, I had to jaunt outside into the muggy evening and greet passers-by to reassure myself that I was still alive. Though the wet heat rising from the street usually saps the will to do anything but sweat and sweat and sweat some more, the atmosphere in the office threatened to rob me of the very
will to live. Compared to Yumi’
s contagious desperation, the perspiration running down my back has been like a palliating salve.

Teaching Reina’s classes has been an equally dismal experience. Most of her students have been so reluctant to speak up they've made me feel as if I am trying to rip the molars out of their jaws rather than merely chat them up. Some of the students refuse to
even offer a nod, let alone a “yes” or a “no”
, whenever I ask them
even the simplest of questions.

It was infuriating at first. With so much bad blood lingering between Reina and myself, I
didn’
t put it beyond her to have sabotaged the classes by telling the kids to give me a hard time.

O
ne of the “better”
classes goes like this:
after fifteen minutes of
what can generously be called “free conversation”
to
loosen
the buggers
up
, we
move on
to an exercise in the text
that covers
weekend activities. I set the text up before
having them
read
it by drawing the kids'
dissipat
ing attention to the pict
ure at the top of the page
. I
then
ask them what
they
t
hink is going on in the picture
.

They have no idea.

I suggest that they make simple comments about what they see. Naturally, no one volunteers. I point to one of the boys in the classroom. He twists his head to the side, sucks air through his teeth, then tells me he doesn't under
stand. In Japanese, of course: “
Sah, wakaran
.”

When that d
oesn’
t work, I have them read through the conversation after which I ask them
a few
simple comprehension questions. The more general questions are met with blank, somewhat frightened lo
oks, so I give up and ask safe “yes” and “no”
questions. Finally, I round up the exercise by expanding the
key phrases and so on. Once we’
ve gotten through all that, I turn to a bone thin, calcium white seventeen-year-old.

“
So Eri, tell me everything you can about last weekend . . . What did you do? Where did you go? Who did you spend it with? Anyth
ing, tell me anything you like!”
I'm hesitant to overload the poor girl with too many questions as it often causes the more timid of students to freeze up, to withdraw within themselves, like a doe awash in the glow of the headlights of
an on-coming
18-wheeler
.

Eri looks up slowly from the table with those deep-set, nervous eyes of hers and
,
not quite stating
, more like probing
with a cane in the dark
, replies, “
I
. . . I
. . .
didn't . . . do . . . anything?”

“
C'mon. You weren’t
in a coma, were you? Ha-ha-ha.”
The joke smacks flatly up a
gainst a cold wall of silence. “
So tell me, Eri, when did you wake up? What did you eat for breakfast? Wh
at did you do after you ate it?”

The machinery in her head creaks, rusting cogs ache into worn grooves, and with a slow jerking motion the
wheels begin to inch forward: “
I woke . . . up . . . at . . . nine-thirty
. . . and . . . took a shower?”

“Yes, yes, and then?”

“
I . . . ate . . . breakfast . . . I had rice and
miso
soup and rice for
breakfast . . . then I studied?”

“
Fina
lly progress!”

“P-pro-goo?”

“Ah, never mind that.”

“Mindoh?”

“
Yeah, never mind
that
either. I was joking.
Jokku
.”

“Don’
mindoh?
Jokku
?”

“
Yes, yes,
jokku
. I was joking.
” Things can get out of hand if you let them get caught up on one thing. Best to keep moving:
“
So, what did
you study? What did you study?”

“
I . . . studied . . . English . .
. for two hours?”
she continues with excruciating slowness. But, hey, she's burning up the minutes here, like a big Chevy Suburban lumbering along at 6 miles to the gallon.
Atta go, girl!

With all the effort I can muster I suppress a yawn, then turn to Tsuyoshi, a rather bright high school boy who speaks rel
atively good English, and ask, “
And, what did
you
do?”

“
I woke up at two, ate lunch, slept again. Woke up again, had dinner,
took a bath, then went to bed.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I present you the future of Japan
.

2

After three hours of dental work, I
plop down
behind my desk, exhausted. After dealing with kids so reluctant to speak
as Reina’s students
,
the stale
mood of the office
almost
seems
refreshing
.

Ever since Yumi to
ld Reina that I ha
d tried to ravish her, an unnatural peace has prevailed over the office. Reina ceased talking to me altogeth
er except when necessity demands it. Even then, whatever she has
to say is always couched in a parsimonious use of words as if she is saving the
m
up for something big. Yumi, on the other hand, has been a black hole. Any brightness you might interject into a conversation gets sucked away and squashed. Lovely
sakura
, you might say and she wi
l
l tell you that in twenty years’
time all the cherry blossom trees
around here
will be dead. Seen any good movies, you might ask to s
tart up a conversation, and she wi
ll reply that she hates going to the movies because of all the
chikan
there. As soon as
the theater goes dark
, they try to cop a feel
. Kind of makes you wonder why
this charming young woman doesn’
t have a
good
man in her life, doesn’t it?

I’
m slouched in my seat rubbing my eyes wearily, impatient for the grueling four-hour workday to finish, when Yumi turns around and asks if I have plans for Saturday. Caught off guard, I
reply truthfully that I don’
t.

After I gave up waiting for Nekko-chan
’s
return
, I’
ve been at a loss for what to do
Saturday nights, and
Sundays,
and
the rest of my life . . . I sometimes feel like one of those large glass buoys that sometimes get separated from Japanese fishing nets, floating on the surface of the sea and being pulled by the currents, not
knowing where in the world they wi
ll end up.

Yumi tells me that she ha
s been invited to a
kimono
party at the Hyatt Residence Hotel in Seaside Momochi. Tickets are five thousand yen. The thought of being among a bevy of lovely young women dressed in
kimono
sounds so tempting it would be a shame to pass on the opportunity, regardless of the
steep cover charge. And while I’
m not particularly excited either about having to attend
the party with Yumi as my “date”
, I can appreciate that you sometimes have to toss sprat to catch a mackerel. And, I'm definitely in the mood to fish.

3

Yumi arrives at my apartment building late Saturday afternoon, ringing me from the ground floor intercom. Considering how eagerly she marched all the way up the four flights to ring my doorbell before, I find it amusing how she now remains downstairs even though I have buzzed the gate open. Perhaps she is worried that after claiming I had tried to rape her, I might actually go for the gold and do it for real this time. The Power of Suggestion, and all that. No, she'll wai
t for me downstairs, thank you.

Whatever
.

It’
s been drizzly and muggy all day, and now that the wind has petered out completely, the humidity is worse than ever. I would have preferred wearing shorts and rubber flip-flops, but put on a linen suit and colorful tie, just to be on the safe sid
e. When I descend the stairs, I’
m surprised to find Yumi in a simple black dress.

“
No kimon
o?”
I say.

She a
pologizes, saying that she didn’
t have the time after work t
o change. I tell her that I don’t mind, and, really, I don’
t. She could have shown up in a red
fundoshi
loincloth and
happi
coat, banging a
taiko
drum and I st
ill wouldn’
t take much notice of her.

We hop into a taxi and drive out to the Hyatt where a reasonably large and promising crowd of beautiful young women clad in colorful long-sleeved
furisode
kimono
is making its way towards the hotel with small, dainty steps.

There are h
undreds of gorgeous women
,
their hair and
faces
done elaborately as if they were going to a wedding reception. As I take in this alluring feast, the five-thousand yen ticket I grumbled about earlier suddenly feels the bargain of the century.

Yumi and I enter the hotel, buoyed along a river of flowing silk towards a banquet room where several hundred women are standing and chatting, glasses of champagne in their dainty hands. There is a sumptuous feast laid out on tables along the far wall. The hall itself has been decorated with elegant flower arrangements here and there, but not much else. From what I can gather, there doesn't seem to be much point to the event, no stage, no live music, not even a DJ spinning shite on a turntable. The guests, as far as I can tell, are the show; the event nothing more than an occasion for the women to dress up in
kimono
.

As we walk among the throng of attractive lassies, I am overcome with an almost childlike giddiness, drunk from
tak
ing in so much beauty so quickly. Yumi goads me on forward, to a table in the corner where a handsome woman in her late thirties is seated with severa
l others so beautiful it wouldn’
t hurt, as they say in Japanese, w
ere I to poke my eye with them.

Yumi introduces me to the woman, a Ms. Yamada, and says that
this is her party. I’m
tempt
ed
to give her a big hug and thank her for bringing so many single young women to this party. After further introductions are made, and business cards exchanged, I sit down next to Yamada while Yumi makes herself useful by
fetching
me
some beer and snacks.

I feel as if I have died and gone to heaven. Two of Yamada's entourage, I am told, are models for her
kimono
boutique. Another, who is dressed in simple beige silk blouse and pants, is introduced as a close friend. I joke that I wouldn’t mind her becoming a close friend of
mine
, either. Every time this friend reaches
over
to pick up a morsel of food with her chopsticks from a
platter
on the low table between us, her silk blouse parts revealing a scoop of vanilla, the lovely soft curve of her round breasts.

Though this alluring woman seems unaware of my voyeurism, it takes Yumi no time at all to catch on. A
nd no sooner does she return
with our drinks
than
she makes the absurd suggestion that I might be more comfortable sitting beside Ms. Yamada rather than across from her. I am reluctant at first, but figure that g
etting to know the woman who put
this party together
might have
long term benefits
for me
, benefits
which
will
more than compensate for the missed opportunity to catch a little tit. I change seats, taking my place between Yamada and one of the models, a young woman by a
name I’ll never forget: Urara.