Something Strange Across the River (10 page)

The time that we spent in the house by the embankment was, by no measure, composed of cheap flattery, it was something I had imagined from a young age. When I was young I’d heard it from an older man, who’d spent his life in the brothels more than anywhere. “When you find a woman,” he said, “a woman you love more than anyone, a woman that makes you feel like you need to rush to her side and confess your deepest desires so as to keep her from being taken by another customer, those are the women that either die of illness or are taken off to some distant land by the most vile men you can imagine.” His melancholy musings have proved accurate.

Oyuki was filled with talent and beauty that was without compare anywhere in that quarter. Pearls before swine. But the times have changed and moved on; there was little chance of her death or depression. Little chance that she’d spend her life with an unjust miscreant either.

Once, in that dirtied house, under the dirtied roof paneling, before the onset of a storm, the sky was filled with oppressive, heavy clouds, so low they glowed by the street lights, and Oyuki and I sat at the window on the second floor, sweaty hand in sweaty hand, speaking of mysteries and of nothing. A sudden flash of lightning lit her face. The moment still appears to me as if she were before me. I cannot forget it. I’d lost myself to the games of love when I was near 20, but to think, at this age, I’d find myself overcome. Is it not the height of stupidity to ridicule one’s destiny? There are many empty lines left in my manuscript. Perhaps I will allow my brush to fill them, to ease the grief of this night.

A lingering mosquito

Stabs my forehead

Spot of my blood.

From your pocket

Produce a tissue, wipe it away.

Toss it in the corner of the garden.

The stalks cannot support the weight of the amaranth leaves.

With night, the fog grows cold.

Without thought of the evening winds

The leaves,

Without thought of their approaching deaths,

Their burning embroidery grows brighter,

Even as their stalks bend and curl.

The butterfly grown ill

Totters on broken wings

The flowers bloom in the shadows

Of the dying leaves