Water Lily (3 page)

He had not bought a present and it was now too late. He pictured the two girls he had met the previous day—whatever their
names were—how sweet they both looked in their little skirts, rose pink lipstick, long tidy hair. Unfortunately he had left
the room before they did so he hadn’t got to see them move. It would have been nice if they had given him a twirl be-fore
saying goodbye. Maybe he would ask them today—
would you walk a little for me? Just across the room, that’s lovely
—and then he would decide.

He tried to recall the words he had read and reread in bed that morning. He couldn’t remember them exactly but their gist
was vivid.

He wondered if it was all right to be sitting on the steps. He felt conspicuous; no one else was sitting on steps anywhere
along the road. He couldn’t shake off the fear that he might be doing something socially terrible or illegal. When you were
abroad, you didn’t know what they might arrest you for. In Singapore, he had heard, you couldn’t even chew gum; not that he
wanted to—too much chewing gum could cause stomach ulcers. After a few deep breaths it occurred to him that the girls might
be looking down from a window. He wouldn’t want to be seen so weakened, a crumpled old potato chip packet rustling around
on the steps.

He climbed slowly to the top. The heat intensified with each step and the metal railing scorched his fingertips. Which of
the girls would be waiting there for him? If both were there, how would he choose? And how would he know that he was right?
There were no criteria. He could say, I find this one more attractive, that one more fun to be with, but you were never sure.
He had made the wrong choice before. He looked up at the remaining concrete steps, chipped and uneven. Now that the time had
arrived, he wished he were back home, cutting flowers in his garden, mowing the lawn in fine summer rain. He was suddenly
nostalgic for the loneliness he was trying to escape, as if it had already gone. But it hadn’t.

The agency reception area reminded Ralph of a botanical glasshouse. Large potted plants stood along each wall and in the comers.
The air was humid, almost steamy, and water dripped somewhere in another room. Spidery ferns hung from the walls on either
side of him. He sat back in his chair and leaves folded in front of his face so that he was peering through as if camouflaged.
A fan near the desk began to whirr and Ralph let the air, though warm as blood, brush one cheek and then the other. Around
the walls were crooked posters of Japanese women in kimonos. One woman was getting off a bus, another was cuddling a little
dog. They were all pretty and charming, but they weren’t quite straight and needed a good dusting.

Mr. K. popped up from behind the desk and exclaimed at seeing Ralph there.

“Mr. Turnpike. I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.”

He sat beside Ralph, pulled back the wisp of foliage that parted them and pushed it behind the back of the chair. He had a
proper name—beginning with K and lasting for three or four syllables—but Ralph had forgotten it. It was no good with foreign
words, hearing them only once and being expected to remember.

Mr. K. was stout and balding. Ralph looked at him and felt superior. Ralph may have been losing hair but was still slim, thinner
in fact than perhaps he had ever been. Of course, they were not in competition. Mr. K. would be married already. He might
have married when he was young so that his middle-age weight and shiny crown wouldn’t matter at all. For Ralph, it all mattered
still, but Mr. K. was Japanese so it was probably different. No doubt Mr. K. had never, ever had to cook for himself after
a busy day at work.

Before leaving the UK, Ralph had forgotten that there would be Japanese men in Japan. He had somehow imagined a land of beautiful,
mysterious women and then himself, so he wasn’t sure how to talk to Mr. K. or how they would understand each other, culturally.
When Ralph first came to the agency, he had expected to meet a British man. He’d thought it would be similar to the place
in Bangkok where he’d found Apple several years before. That one was run by an ex-army officer called Tom. Ralph had half
thought he would find Tom here in Tokyo, or at least some brother or cousin, showing him the ropes, discussing the different
girls and introducing him to the nightlife. He was shocked when he met Mr. K. and realized that they would have to talk. Ralph
needed to share with him all sorts of personal details. He knew what to expect of Japanese women—you could tell by looking
at the pictures and there was plenty of reading material—but not a man.

He shifted on the chair to unstick his thighs from the fake leather.

“Mr. Turnpike. How are you today?” Mr. K.’s expression was one of assumed concern but perhaps he resented Ralph for his desirability
to Japanese women and was hiding his feelings. It must be a difficult job. He would spend his working days in a state of envy,
handing women over to tall Western men, each time silently affirming his own inferiority.

“I’m fine.”

“You seem very hot. It’s humid today,
ne
.”

Mr. K.’s English was good but he tended to say
ne
at the end of his sentences. Ralph couldn’t guess what it meant or whether Mr. K. knew he did it.

“Very hot, yes.”

“Japanese summer is always hot and humid,
ne
.” He stretched his arms.

“So I’m learning.”

“Well. I expect you’re wondering what response we have had from the ladies you met the other day.”

“Yes. I would certainly like to know.” Any moment now, he would be engaged. He should have brought a bottle of champagne.
It would have been the perfect gesture.

“I’m sorry but—how can I say this?” His glance flickered between Ralph and the wall. “You need to keep all your options open
in this situation.”

“Yes. I am doing so. All my options are open.”
Both of them
, he thought.

“Good. Because I think perhaps neither of the ladies is quite right for you.”

“Oh.” Ralph was thrown. “That wasn’t my feeling at all.” Ralph was thrown. His throat started clearing itself involuntarily.
Surely Mr. K.’s opinion was not relevant. The girls could make up their own minds. “But I found the ladies delightful, both
of them. We really hit it off. I know we only had a short meeting together, but there was something special between us. I
could feel it. I don’t quite understand what you’re getting at.”

“I mean, perhaps these particular ladies would not be the ones for you.”

“You’ve just said that but I don’t understand why. What did they say?”

“I’m afraid to tell you that neither of them has given a positive response.”

Ralph’s ears were ringing. The money he’d borrowed, his time away from the shop, and the expectations of the people he had
told, all pressed down on him. He had planned to get married, had paid for everything. He thought he might stop breathing.
Steady on, Ralph. Deep breath
. Sweat dribbled down his chest and he couldn’t move. He was melting and dripping like a candle.

Mr. K. went on. “But don’t worry. We are here to help. If you want to come back tomorrow there are two other ladies to whom
I would be delighted to introduce you.”

“Oh, yes.” Ralph heard his voice, gruff and pathetic. “Right-o. Of course. I’ll come back.”

“Mmmm. But,
ne
, there’s a small point I should make. These women are from our C list. They are lovely ladies, I assure you, but they are
a little older than the ones you have met so far. It’s just that I feel you will have more success if you are prepared to
meet ladies a little closer to your own age.”

Ralph fingered his wrist. His pulse was racing. He must remember to take his pills as soon as he reached the hotel.

“I’m hardly ancient. I’m a little over forty.”

“Yes, I know that but—”

“They’re attracted to older men. I’ve heard it from lots of places and you must know it, too. It’s a fact. It was the same
in Thailand when I got my first wife.”

“Yes, sometimes.”

Ralph understood the problem. He looked older than he was, much older. In comparison, the girls looked younger than their
stated ages. They probably thought he was lying. His father was grey and wrinkled at forty and Ralph had inherited all his
father’s bad genes.

“I don’t see why you can’t find me a younger woman. My first wife was very young indeed. She was nearly twenty years younger
than me.”

“Of course and I’m not at all surprised. Mmmm.” He paused. Ralph wondered what this
mmmm
meant. “Your previous wife, Mr. Turnpike, she is now …?”

Ralph mopped his face with a sodden handkerchief. He shouldn’t have mentioned Apple. He hadn’t meant to do that at all. This
had nothing to do with her. She was maneuvering her way back into his head and he must put an end to her before she injured
him again. He must replace her with a new wife as soon as he could.

“She’s gone. All right. I’ll come tomorrow. Just to get my money’s worth. And to show good manners to these ladies.”

“That’s a very wise decision, Mr. Turnpike. I’m certain you won’t regret it. And if any more of our A- or B- list women express
an interest, I’ll be sure to have them here tomorrow, too. We won’t waste any opportunity to help you,
ne
. Do you play golf?”

“No. Why?” Ralph had never liked sport. He knew he could try, but he didn’t like the people who liked sport. He preferred
to keep fit by walking on gentle hills, with his sketchpad, sometimes with his half-brother or one of his fellow drinkers
from the Happy Man. He would play table tennis or snooker if it was there but that was his limit. Members of his local golf
club were high on the list of people he didn’t much like. They had their small businesses—as he did—and then their flowery
wives and dull, dull conversations about second homes and school fees.

“Personally I find it a pleasant way to relax when I’m stressed.”

“I’ve never played.”

“Is your hotel good?”

“It’s all right. The best I can afford.” He would prefer not to share with Mr. K. the details of his trip.

“Swimming pool?”

“A very small one.” Ralph had spotted it from the hotel elevator but hadn’t thought of going in. He couldn’t stand communal
changing rooms and wasn’t good with chlorinated water.

“Perhaps a swim or two before tomorrow would help prepare you, ne. You know, exercise can be a form of meditation. I just
mean that you mustn’t take all this so seriously that you make yourself unwell. If you’re not used to Japanese heat, you must
take extra care of your health. You seem rather hot.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure you will. I look forward to seeing you again.”

The door swung shut and Ralph was on the staircase, dizzy above the street. He was C list. He wondered if there was a D or
an E list. He suspected that he had already reached the bottom. This place was bad for his heart, bad for his blood pressure.
If he concentrated, he could hear his blood agitating through his veins, feel his feet inflating like balloons and pushing
against the hot leather of his shoes. The pavement back to the hotel was soft in the heat. It felt spongy. He could imagine
he was walking on gingerbread and that nothing around him was real.

T
he pupils were practicing for the annual English speech contest. They sweated boredom in their rows and batted steamy air
from desk to desk with paper fans. The selected competitors came forward one by one and droned through their pieces. One of
the prettier girls had a hand mirror propped against her pencil case and was tilting her head from side to side to get the
best view of her lips, perhaps to check her lip-gloss or practice her pout. The classroom windows were open and voices from
outside drifted in. Two geography teachers, in different rooms, were explaining the same point about rubber plantations in
Malaysia. Their voices mingled, then alternated as if one were the interpreter for the other, though they were speaking the
same language. Out on the field, Mr. Kawasaki screamed at a boy for daring to come to baseball practice with a sprained wrist.

Runa was facing her class, her chalk box and register on the window sill beside her. She must concentrate on the speeches,
give comments and criticism at the end, correct pronunciation and persuade the pupils to add a little intonation, even if
it was incorrect, but they were sending her to sleep. She looked out at the school grounds, the boys playing softball with
energy that was hard to believe on such a hot day. Her eyes moved to the edge of the playing field, to the bamboo forest that
circled the school, the lumpy green mountains beyond. Soon she would be hundreds of miles away.

Almost a week had passed since she’d returned from Nanao’s flat and she hadn’t slept through a single night. She had tossed,
turned, sweated, and boiled in her bed. She had crept out into the forest and breathed woody air for hours, had taken scalding
baths and showers that lasted all night. She had scoured the area around her to see if someone was following, but there was
never a sign. She hadn’t closed her eyes and slept. And her dreams had come while she was awake. And still her period hadn’t
started. But Nanao’s passport had arrived back from the Chinese consulate that morning, stamped with a tourist visa. Runa
was equipped for her journey and would leave after dark when it was safe to get away.

Her stomach was in knots. Jun Ikeda was watching her closely from his desk by the window, but did he know about the letter
or the photograph? Did he think that this was just a regular school day? Certainly he could have no idea of her plans and
she must tell him soon. But how would she explain any-thing to Jun when she couldn’t even look at him? Runa let her eyes move
around the room, taking in all the other pupils.