Something Strange Across the River (6 page)

“I’m sorry. Is it a cavity?”

“It just started hurting. It hurts so badly I feel like the room is spinning. Is it swollen?” she asked, turning to show her profile. “Do me a favor, will you watch the room for me? I’d like to run to the dentist.”

“Is it nearby?”

“Just over by the police.”

“Then it must be near the public market.”

“Well, well—you’ve walked all over this place so you certainly know it well. You cheater.”

“Ouch. Don’t be that way. I just do what I can to keep my head above water.”

“Fine, then, I’m heading out. If it looks as though it will take too long I’ll come straight back.”

“Wait, wait, wait for me—but don’t go under the mosquito net—is that how it is? Oh well, no matter.”

I have made a point of matching my own demeanor to that of hers, so when she speaks roughly, I follow suit. This is not done in an effort to hide my true self, it is simply the way I choose to interact with modern people, no matter where they are from or who they are. Much like going overseas and taking the steps to speak the language of the land you are in, I try to match my diction to that of my conversation partner. In doing so I match my speech to that of the natives of foreign countries when I am there. When the partner becomes over-familiar, even rude, I find that I become the same. This digression grows long, but I might continue to say that when speaking with people in the modern dialect it is no problem for me to take on their tones, yet when it comes to writing letters I am overcome with difficulty in the endeavor. This is especially so with letters to women. Just how coy is one to behave on the page? This is to say little of the modern practice of attaching a “-ness” to words to increase their stature. “Inevitableness” and “importantness” and such rubbish. I often continue talking in said manner as a joke, but when it comes to lifting a brush and putting such words to paper I am overcome, time and again, with a fresh wave of revulsion.

The good things are those that will not return to us. Just the other day, when airing out my books, I’d come across an old letter from a geisha trained at Yanagibashi. She was in Koume then. Those were times when a certain degree of formality was expected in a letter, and despite perhaps not always knowing proper spellings, when she took up brush and ink she saw to it that her letter was true to form. At the risk of inviting ridicule, I should like to record her letter here.

“Please do understand that I wished to write you a letter. The duration of my silence has been far too long. I know it to be so and I am sorry. I also wish to inform you that I have moved to new quarters, as the state of my former rooms was in disarray. There is a matter that is difficult for me to give expression to in writing, but I simply must discuss it with you. At a time of your own convenience, do pay me a visit. I shall be waiting. Pardon the brevity of this letter, I am in an terrible hurry. I will tell you all of it when I see you. Please do hurry.”

“Down by the ferry you will discover a boathouse. Ask the boy working there. The weather has been so nice lately, you might invite Aa to accompany you as well. It would be wonderful if the three of us could go to Horikiri. Would it be easiest to make the trip in the morning? Pardon all these questions. Respond only if you feel inclined.”

Many sentences carry distinct traces of a downtown woman’s speech pattern. The Takeya Ferry is gone now. So is the Makurabashi Ferry. Where, then, am I to search out these sentimental relics of my youth?

Chapter Seven

After Oyuki left I spent the majority of my time sitting in the mosquito net, swatting at the mosquitos, occasionally adding charcoal to the brazier, occasionally boiling a pot of water. The heat of the evening was irrelevant; in this town it was customary to brew tea the moment a guest arrived. The houses were filled with flames and the bubbling of boiling water pots.

“Hey, psst!” someone whispered frantically and rapped on the window. Assuming it was one of Oyuki’s customers, no doubt a hulking man, I quickly considered leaving, then hesitated, considered remaining, and was lost in the back and forth of my indecision when the man thrust the window open, flipped the latch with his thumb, and pressed his way into the room. He wore a white robe tied with a stiff belt and his coarse, unrefined, round face was covered by the creeping growth of a scraggly beard. He looked around 50. He held something bundled in a handkerchief. From the look of his stance and his face I quickly assumed he was Oyuki’s boss. I didn’t wait for him to speak. “Miss Oyuki had some kind of problem, she said she was going to the doctor. I just met her out front.”

The boss-looking man acted as though he already knew. “She’ll be back soon, I’m sure. Just wait for her.” He did not appear to be concerned by my presence, and simply went about unwrapping his towel. Inside was a small aluminum pot, which he proceeded to place in the tea cabinet. It seemed he had brought her meal, which fixed it: he must have been her boss.

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I opted for a roundabout compliment over a simple greeting. “Miss Oyuki sure is busy. She must be very popular.”

“You think? Thanks,” he gave a meaningless response as if he, too, was not sure how best to respond. He busied himself with attending to the coals and boiling water. He never faced me, or looked me in the eye. He seemed rather intent on avoiding conversation as much as possible. He turned away from me, and so, taking the cue, I remained silent.

The management of certain ‘disreputable’ businesses seems to have a very awkward time meeting the customers. Naturally it is awkward for the customer as well. Such meetings were likely nearly always unpleasant, and nearly always identical; they revolved around horrible disagreements over women.

Oyuki typically burned a mosquito coil by the door, but that day it appeared as though the coil had never been lit, as the room was filled with a thick cloud of mosquitos that were no longer satisfied with simply biting at my face, no—they took to batting at my mouth as well. The boss, whom I would have expected to be used to the area, sat still and tried to bear it for a moment or two before his patience wore thin and he dashed for the fan sitting in the corner of the room and twisted the knob. It must have been broken, because it did not move. He fished in a drawer for a moment, and when he triumphantly produced a large chip of mosquito coil from within we both let out contented sighs and finally he met my gaze. I took the opportunity to speak.

“The mosquitos are horrible this year—doesn’t matter where you go. No doubt due to the heat. It’s wretched.”

He looked at me and drawled, “That so? Around here they don’t build up the lots like they need to. Used to be a riverbank you know.”

“But they sure built some nice roads. It certainly is more convenient than before.”

“Sure, but ’cause of all that attention they are cracking down on the rules.”

“Right, two or three years ago they’d snatch the hat off your head in broad daylight from what I hear.”

“Bad times those were. Even if people had business out here they wouldn’t come by. We warned the women, but of course we couldn’t keep watch over them 24 hours a day. So we had to start fining them. So you run out in the street and try to lure in a man? Forty-two yen for that. We made a rule against using guys in the park too, lure in the customers, you know.”

“There a fine for that too?”

He nodded.

“How much?”

I was planning on using these roundabout questions to learn a little more about the area when a man passed by the window and said, “Miss Ando,” and dropped a scrap of paper into the room before continuing on his way. Oyuki came into the room at nearly the same time, picked up the paper, and set it on a board by the brazier. I stole a glance. It was a printed circular; the police were looking for a man on breaking and entering charges.

Oyuki did not even look at it. “Pops,” she said, turning to the man. “They say I have to have it taken out tomorrow.” She opened her mouth and showed the tooth to the man.

“Guess you didn’t need dinner tonight then, huh?” He said as he stood. He then purposefully turned, just so that I could see him, before producing a quantity of money, handing it to Oyuki, and walking up the stairs to the second floor.

The second floor consisted of a very small room with a window and a tea table, one average bedroom, and one other very small nook. The house was so small, I assumed that it must have been larger in the past, but was split vertically down the center. The first floor was simply a tea room and a kitchen. There was no back door. Up the stairs to the second floor and not only do the rooms grow uncomfortably small, but the back wall consisted of little more than a thin board covered in paper. Sounds came through from the other side clear as crystal, their fights and conversations so close you could hold them in your hands. I often clamped my palms over my ears and found myself breaking into laughter.

“Again? But it’s so hot.” Oyuki quickly made for the small room with the window, and pulled back the fading, pattern-dyed curtain. “Come on over here. There’s a nice breeze. Oh, look,” she said. “It’s flashing again.”

“It’s cooled off a lot,” I said. “Nice breeze.”

The view just under the window was blocked by the shade curtain, but across the embankment I could see the buildings lined up, and I could see the face of a woman sitting at the window on the second floor, the shadows of people coming and going, the movement in the street and the town. I could see much further than I had expected. The sky was the color of lead, and it hung heavy over the roofs of the town. There were no stars in the sky, but its underbelly was dyed pink by the neon signs lining the road. It made the hot, steaming night feel even hotter. Oyuki took a cushion, set it on the windowsill, and calmly perched on it to gaze at the sky. Suddenly she reached for my hand and cradled it in hers. “Hey, can I ask you a favor, my darling? When I’ve paid off my debts. Won’t you… won’t you take me in?”

“Look at me. How could I do that?”

“You’re saying you don’t have the right?”

“If I can’t feed you, I don’t have the right, do I?”

Oyuki said nothing, but started to hum along with the violin song that was playing somewhere off down the street. I tried to lean over and look her in the eye, but she shot to her feet in an effort to avoid my gaze. She wrapped her arms around one of the pillars and leaned her torso outside.

I sat at the tea table and lit a cigarette. “If only I was ten years younger.”

“Just how old are you anyway?” She asked.

She had turned to look at me. I raised my eyes to hers and she was smiling, her cheeks dimpled. I relaxed and sighed. “Almost 60.”

“Papa? Only 60? You’re still kicking.” Her eyes flit over my face a few times. “Darling, you’re not even 40. Maybe 37?”

“I’m the son of a mistress, so I don’t know how old I am exactly.”

“You look young even for 40. Your hair’s not graying at all.”

“If I was 40, I’dve been born in 1898.”

“How old do you think I am?”

“You look 22 or so, but I bet you’re closer to 24.”

“There you go again—empty compliments. I’m 26.”

“Oyuki-chan, you, you said you were a geisha back in Utsunomiya, right?”

“Yes.”

“And then you came here? You sure must know a lot about the area.”

“Well, I’d been in Tokyo for a while at that point.”

“Was there someone with money?”

“Not exactly… I had a patron, but he was sick and passed away. And then…”

“It must have been tough for you. This is a lot different than what a geisha does.”

“Not really, besides, I knew what I was doing from the start. A geisha has to spend so much on things, she’ll never get out of debt. Besides… If I’m going to ruin myself anyway, I might as well be able to support myself too.”

“You really thought it all out. Did you think through all that on your own?”

“One of the other geisha knew someone that was conducting a business out here. I heard it all from her.”

“Regardless, you’re really something. Doing all of this on your own—saving up money and all.”

“They say my age is perfect for this work. Still, I don’t know what the future holds.”

She stared deep into my eyes, and I was suddenly uncomfortable again. Could it have been that—there was the feeling, regardless, like something stuck in one of my back teeth. Then it was my turn to look away, turn to the window, and focus my gaze on the sky, or anywhere but on her.

The sky reflected the red neon lights, and was occasionally illuminated by flashes of lightening off in the distance. Suddenly there was a very bright flash, very close by—yet no thunder came. The breeze died off, and the steaming heat of midday threatened to take over the town again.

“Feels like a downpour is coming.”

“You know,” Oyuki said. “It’s
already
been three months since we met in the street.”

There was something about this
already
of hers, drawn out and elongated, that carried a vague but pronounced appeal, as if it were reaching back to the distant past and fumbling for something. Had it been a simple, “It’s
already
been three months,” without any special emphasis then it would have felt like a statement. But this protracted already was not a statement, but a device that reached out and begged for comment, for response. I could feel the answer, Yes, balling up in my throat, but I answered only with my eyes.

Who could hope to count the number of men that sneak down this alley to meet with her each night? And yet, she remembered the day we met? There was something profoundly unbelievable about that to me. She felt a pleasure when reflecting on our meeting. And yet, not even in my dreams, could I have hoped that a girl of this town could hold feelings for an old man like myself; even if she had imagined me 40, I couldn’t imagine that she was capable of not only taking a liking to me, but caring deeply for me as well.

As I have already stated many times over, I had various reasons for making the trek out to Oyuki’s each night. It was research for
Disappearance
. It was an escape from the radios. It was a reaction to Ginza and Marunouchi, those wretched inner-city towns that drew my scorn. I’m sure there were other reasons as well, but none of them included this woman as a conversation partner. Her house had never been anything but a place to relax for me, and in order to facilitate its use as such, I had told a few lies. They had only been simple ones that came to me nearly at the moment they left my lips, and I had not set out to deceive her. But I had not corrected them since, and with time her misunderstanding of my character had deepened. With words and acts I had hidden my identity, and for that much I suppose I must bear responsibility