A Woman's Nails (8 page)

The Mormons, however, are brilliant. They've taken missionary work and made it a flashy, marketing bonanza with a sales staff of clean-cut blond virile men from the Theocracy of Utah. If the power of The Word isn't enough to win over the souls of the heathens, well then maybe good looks and a smile will captivate their heart
s. The Mormons even offer free “English lessons,”
and who wouldn't take them up? I certainly would if I were a pimply teenage girl with my crotch wet and itching for a blue-eyed American with gleaming white teeth. And what bored housewife wouldn't open her front door, if not more, a little wider for the two charming young men in white shirts and ne
ckties who've paid her a visit?

But what's the deal with Aya? Why the sudden interest in Christianity? And why did she turn a sympathetic ear to the Mormons rather than the Catholics who have been inculcating her for ten years? Bit of a home goal there, isn't it
,
sisters?

Aya tells me she wants me to look at something as she digs into her backpack. She pulls out two copies of the Book of Mormon, one in Japanese, another in English, which she hands to me. So that's why the bag was so heavy. We all have our crosses to bear; Aya schlepped those two bricks all the way to my apartment. It’s tempting to boot Aya and her two copies of the Book of Mormon out, but as repelled as I am at the prospect of bible study, I am also drawn to the promise of those mounds of flesh under Aya's burgundy sweater. I find myself surrendering and it just isn't fair.

“
You don't really expect m
e to read this, do you?”
I say.

She pulls at the ribbon bookma
rk and opens the bible for me. “Here, read this,”
she says, pointing to a passage.

“
Yo
u are aware that I am Catholic,”
I prot
est. “
I was force-fed this most of my life and the mere thought of returning to those dark, insi
pid days gives me the willies.”

Aya doesn't answer, just taps her gnawed down fingernail on the passage I am supposed to read. I look reluctantly at the page and sigh dejectedly. Did she really come all this way just to chat about her personal savior Jesus Christ with me? I mean, is the girl nuts?

“Just read it, will you?”

“
It's the Bible right? I have read it. I, I can't count the times. I've read it, been read from it, been hit on the head with it, I know the bible
like the back of my hand . . .”

“
Then
you'll recognize this passage,”
she replies. She's worse than a Jehovah's Wit
ness with one foot in the door.

“
I'll read it, but tell me one thing first, Aya. Why did you . . . What does
it mean for you to be a Mormon?”

“Not much, I guess,” she says with a shrug. “
They're nice, but they have too many rules. No caffeine. No Coca Cola. No green tea
, no alcohol, and . . . no sex.”

“What?”

“
You can't drink and you can't
have sex until after marriage.”

“Well, where's the fun in that?”
I say refilling our glasses with beer.

“
Yeah, like I
said, too many rules, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Some things they say are nice.”

“What things?”

“
Like
this
,”
she said tapping on the bible again.

I give in and look at the bible resting heavily in my lap.

“Read this,”
she says pointing with those short tanned, fingers of hers.

I skim the pages to see how it's organized, to try to understand how it differs from the bible I was indoctrinated with throughout my sixteen years in Catholic Gulags, but it's all unfamiliar gibberish. There are far too many "Yea's" and verbs ending with "eth", the kind of window-dressing, which tries to make simple and self-evident truths sound like the monolithic Word of God.

She opens her own bible to where a cloth divider was marking the page and follows along in Japanese as I rea
d aloud in English. Words like “puffeth” and “proudeth”
dribble clumsily from my mouth. I end up focusing more on style, than on substance, and the meaning is lost on me altogether. Aya then reads to me the Japanese translation, which is refreshingly straightforward. No sooner does she utter the first verse than I recognize the fa
miliar quote from Corinthians, “
Love is patient, love is kind .
. .”

I ask her what it means to her, and she repli
es simply that it's beautiful. “
Yes, but what does it
mean
to you, Aya?”

She struggles to find an answer, so I tell her what it means to me: unconditional love. Love without strings attached. Unconditional love. It's what I wanted from Mie and other girlfriends before her, what I had expected of my parents, but what no one has been able to deliver. I wonder if it is also the kind of love that this high school girl has come here to find today. An unconditional love to wrap yourself up in and warm yourself with when the reality of our shitty little lives is cold disappointment.

Given that my theories as to what may have really motivated Aya to come all the way out to see me this afternoon isn't as rock solid as, say, my erection currently is, it is with much trepidation that I make my move. I put the bible aside, and kneel before her. The girl is ten years younger than myself and yet my heart is racing. I am self-conscious, nervous, lack the confidence a man my age ought to have. This awkwardness was Mie's parting gift to me. I offer my hand because I haven't the courage to take hers. Her small hand opens slightly and I take it, then, ever so gently draw her to the edge of her seat towards me, and into my arms. How long has it been since I embra
ced someone? Six months? Seven?

I hold Aya tightly, feel her hard breasts pressed against my chest, inhale the fragrance of her skin, and am overwhelmed by unwelcome memories that make me miss Mie more than I've missed her in weeks. I long to the feel her body against mine, to smell her hair, to hear the sound she uttered whenever I kissed her neck. Why, why, why, why goddammit can't it be Mie in my arms now? My body shudders and any moment I threaten to break down and start crying.

Aya asks if something's the matter. I am so close to tears that I can’t talk. I kiss the girl, instead. She kisses me, soft awkward kisses, the kisses of a high school girl. I lie down on the rug and gently pul
l her to my side.

Aya lays next to me, eyes closed, face turned towards me. I want her to take me in her arms, to kiss me passionately, to pull my clothes off the way Mie did that first night, bu
t Aya just lies there, waiting.

I kiss her neck, but Aya doesn't stir. Is she nervous? Scared? Her arms remain frozen at her sides, she doesn't seem to know what to do with those cute hands of hers, so I move them above her head. I then begin to lift her burgundy sweater up. She says,
damé-damé
(no, no), but arches her back to help me all the same. I maneuver the sweater over her massive chest and off revealing what I found so captivating about her. Locked away in an industrial strength, utilitar
ian white brassier her breasts.

The bra is more engineering and mechanics than lingerie and art. It serves a function: supporting a load and preventing unnecessary jiggling, the kind of jiggling that gives middle-aged PE teachers a fresh boner and inspires hour-long lessons of sprints and jumping jacks. It's the kind of bra your dear old mom would have worn after having given birth to and breastfeeding a half dozen kids until her breasts had become droopy sacks of useless flesh.

I sit Aya up, so that I might better fiddle with the four latch-like iron hooks groaning as they contain her breasts, but undoing the bra is no easy task. It requires concentration and strong, but nimble fingers. With a little practice any amateur could master undoing the support of a woman less endowed, but this bra has been designed to stay put, to defy the laws of nature. With a snap the first hook is freed, with a second snap another hook comes undone. She utters another
damé-damé
, but doesn't fight or push me away. With both hands tugging on the strap, which is as taunt as the cable on a suspension bridge, I manage to get the slack needed to loosen the third hook. But as it comes free the hook snaps open, catching the skin of my index finger and lodging itself deeply, painfully into my flesh. I bite my lip, to keep from howling. I've made it this far; I will not be discouraged. From this point on, there is little you can do, but hope for the best. With the burden of that marvelous chest of hers reigned in by the last remaining hook which was never designed to withhold so much pressure alone, nature takes charge and with a grating, achingly remorseful croak, and yet another
dame-dame
from Aya, the hook surrenders, throws up its arms in defeat and lets the bra fall unveiling the most glorious pair of tits a sex-s
tarved man could ever hope for.

God and I look at what He has created and we both agree: it is good, very good. What Aya lacks in looks, she has more compensated for: a body that would terrorize a man in his dreams. Full, beautiful, bluish white breasts, hard as boulders, with small pink nipples, like pickled cherries on rice. I kiss them, lick them, tease and fondle them. I pay obeisance to those breasts as a true believer would before any awe-inspiring manifestation of the Almighty.

Six months have passed since Mie left me, and for the first time in all these sad, lonely days, weeks and months, during which I have wandered aimlessly like a somnambulist, I can feel life trickling again through my cold, dry veins. As I suck on Aya's tiny pink nipples and listen to her soft, meaningless protest of
damé-damé
, I feel as if I am finally beginning to reclaim my life, one small kiss at a time, finally starting to laying the pa
st to rest, one nail at a time.

4

Remember that feeling I had of life flowing again through my veins? Well, it doesn't
last very long.

As the inbound train approaches, the off-tune chime of the railroad crossing starts clanging away, I take Aya into my arms and hold her tightly. With her face buried in my ch
est, she tells me she loves me.

The words are spoken softly, nervously; they're unsure of how they'll be received. I knew this was coming. Aya had been wearing the grateful, yet forlorn look of an abandoned dog that's just been fed, the look that compels you to take the poor mutt home with you. And so, I tell her that I love her, too. The train pulls into the station, the doors open. Aya kisses me once more before boarding the train. The driver, leaning out of a small window and looking back down the platform, blows a whistle. The doors close and the rusting, sun-bleached train begins to move forward. I remain on the platform, watching the train as it ambles down the single track and takes Aya out of my life. My love for the girl is neither patient, nor kind. It is rude and self-seeking. It doesn't protect and it cannot be
trusted. My love for Aya fails.

And, as soon as the train disappears around a bend, the familiar emptiness, another one of Mie’s parting gifts, returns.

5

MACHIKO

1

On Monday morning, a man in a poorly fitting navy suit comes into the offi
ce and takes a seat near Yumi; t
he heavy dark clouds that usually hang o
ver my co-worker’s head break, t
he sun filters
in.

Yumi chats animatedly to the man, using that gratingly high and overly delighted voice she normally reserves for the phone.

The man goes about his business, opening what looks like a large physician's bag and taking out a narrow, but rather thick envelope which he places on the table. Yumi gives the man a slip of paper, which he examines then marks with a small stamp. He hands the slip of paper back to my co-worker who continues to rattle away cheerfully. The man then opens the envelope revealing a two-inch thick stack of cash. Holding the stack at the bottom with two hands, he flicks his wrists a number of time producing a fan of ten-thousand yen note.

Good Lord! Whatever this man's job is, I want it!

As much as I'd love to stay and watch the man perform his magic, I’ve got a class to teach and it’s about to start. This morning it’s a group of beginner's, made up of six housewives ranging in age from their late thirties to early fifties.

When the oldest of the group, Mieko, asks me how I spent the weekend, it is tempting to say that it was spent lying naked on a wooly throw rug tossing about with a high school girl. I tell her, instead, that I spent Sunday studying Japanese, which produces a cackle of praise from the students. Mieko says she respects me and wishes her hus
band were as diligent as I was.

The woman should be
careful of what she wishes for.