‘You’re not eloping, are you?’
‘Very funny. I just want to spend some time alone with her, to make sure of her feelings, before introducing you. Pretty awkward to have you meet her and then find out she’s not looking to get married after all.’
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Pops, but . . .’
‘What?’
‘Have you told her that she won’t exactly be leading a life of luxury? That there’s no family fortune to speak of? That you don’t own this house, for example, or that your car is Made in Japan instead of being a Mercedes or something?’
‘Not in so many words, no. What – you think she’s after me for my money?’
‘Nah. I think even you would be able to see through somebody that shallow. But it’s possible she might have this vague idea that you’re rich, right? It’s important to be clear about things like that.’
‘You’re right. I’ll make sure we have that discussion during the trip.’
‘I think you should, Pops. You have a tendency to come off as sort of a rich guy sometimes.’
Shige said he’d invite a friend to stay over Saturday night, and that he’d explain the situation to Rie-san.
‘I bet she’ll be surprised,’ he said.
The hotel, about an hour’s drive past the city of Ito, was connected to a championship golf course. A major tournament was held there each spring, and through summer and into autumn the place was always full. In winter, however, reservations were easy to come by.
They didn’t talk much during the drive. But anticipation hung like a haze in the climate-controlled atmosphere of the car. As they flew along the motorway with their sunglasses on and their bags in the trunk, it was as if the tension of desire were a tangible force in the narrow space between them. Aoyama barely even noticed the scenery. Yamasaki Asami had brought a flask full of coffee, and on the way, between brief bouts of small talk, he drank three cups. He’d decided to hold off on the serious discussions until they were alone in the room. They’d be spending an uprecedentedly long time alone, after all, a whole night together.
The hotel stood at the tip of a promontory overlooking the Izu seashore. Its orange roof had appeared suddenly as they rounded a curve in the descending road, and then the building itself, which wouldn’t have looked out of place in the south of France. The long, winding driveway, the immaculate landscaping and flowerbeds, the courteous service of the doorman and bellboys, and the spaciousness and warmth of the lobby, with its oversized leather sofas, all seemed to make quite an impression on Yamasaki Asami. ‘It’s fantastic,’ she murmured as they strolled to the front desk. Now that he thought about it, ever since their first meeting he’d taken her nowhere but the finest restaurants and bars he knew of. And now this.
She might have this vague idea that you’re rich, right?
Shige had said. Pretty perceptive, Aoyama thought, for a high-school kid. Or should he make that:
because
he was a high-school kid?
She stood close to him, looking up at the high ceilings and the huge Spanish-style wrought-iron chandelier, as he filled out the registration card. Putting her name down as ‘Aoyama Asami’, he wondered if the excitement he was feeling didn’t somehow contradict his dream of establishing a new life, a new little family.
There was a small balcony attached to the suite, from which you could see the golf course and the sea.
‘So,’ Aoyama said, sinking back on the sofa, ‘what shall we do till dinner?’
There was a lot they needed to talk about – most pressingly the subject of Shige. But it would be just as well, he thought, to discuss such things at leisure, over dinner. It was now past three in the afternoon. The sun would be going down in an hour or so. There was no dearth of possible activities, but it was too early for some and too late for others. She sat down right next to him. Red leather pumps, pale beige trousers, red sweater, beige scarf, hair tied back artlessly. Her knee was pressed lightly against his. She put her sunglasses on, then took them off again and peered up at him.
‘There’s a small museum,’ he said, ‘about twenty or thirty minutes from here. Mostly Japanese paintings, but a decent collection of impressionists too. If we leave now, I think we can get in well before closing time. Or, let’s see . . . There’s a fishing port over that way, behind the hotel, that’s kind of fun. A little port with a few beat-up old fishing boats and a café overlooking the docks. They serve the most incredibly delicious coffee there . . .’
She set her sunglasses down on the coffee-table and undid her hair. It cascaded to her shoulders in slow motion, and Aoyama became conscious of a certain indefinable fragrance. Her shampoo, or some other hair product, maybe. Or perfume. Or maybe, he thought, it wasn’t a fragrance at all, but some other force washing over his senses and expanding to fill the darkening room. Something dense and powerful and chilling.
‘The owner of this café is an interesting guy. He used to be a boxer, and he loves movies and literature, so the place is full of books and film magazines and whatnot. Nothing quite like a fishing port at dusk.’
She wasn’t listening. She removed her scarf, folded it neatly, and set it down on the arm of the sofa. The heat was on, and Aoyama was beginning to perspire beneath his sweater. She stood up and walked to the entryway, where she turned off all the lights in the room. The shadows of evening rushed in, and he was aware of the fragrance, or whatever it was, growing thicker and heavier, like wine fermenting. He didn’t know what to do. He felt completely at her mercy, and was unable even to ask why she’d turned out the lights. It was getting harder to breathe, but he continued blathering on.
‘I know! Let’s go to the baths. They have these huge hot-spring pools. You get to them through the golfers’ changing rooms, but they’re open to all the guests, not just golfers. And as I recall there’s a sauna, too – or is it a Jacuzzi? Anyway, we could soak in the baths awhile, then play billiards afterwards. Or table tennis, they have that too. Or we could always have a cocktail at the bar . . .’
The last of the sunlight was slowly bleeding over the floor at his feet, and now she was standing in the semi-darkness between the twin beds, undressing. Her face was in shadow, but as she peeled off her clothing, slowly revealing her back and shoulders, her neck and arms, her thighs and knees, she seemed to be either grinning or scowling. When she stepped out of her panties and got into bed, Aoyama sputtered and ran out of mindless drivel.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Come here.’ There was nothing tender or submissive about the way she said this. Her voice was urgent and intense, almost like a cry for help.
‘Don’t take off your clothes yet. Come over here first. Hurry.’
Aoyama got up and wobbled towards the bed. It felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room, or as if someone had wallpapered his tongue and throat. When he reached the bedside, she flung back the covers, exposing everything.
‘Look,’ she said, gazing sadly up at him. ‘See these burn scars? My mother’s husband did that to punish me.’
She pointed at two small, almost parallel lines that puckered the skin of her left thigh. Aoyama swallowed. He could see the two scars, but no other marks whatsoever. Right before his eyes were her face and neck, her breasts and nipples, her waist, her navel, her pubic hair, and the exquisite curves of her naked legs. Her body was like an idealised abstraction, a porcelain figure.
‘Did you see?’ she said.
Aoyama nodded robotically.
‘Everything?’
He nodded again. He was seized with alternating, contradictory impulses. One was to flee the room, the other to bend down and kiss those flawless breasts that softly rose and fell with her breathing.
‘Lie down beside me, then. No, don’t undress yet. Lie down beside me with your clothes on.’
Aoyama followed her instructions. He lay down at her side in his sweater and trousers, without even kicking off his shoes. She turned towards him. He pillowed her head with his left arm, and she clung to him and hooked one leg over his.
‘You saw everything, right?’ she whispered in his ear. ‘Did you notice my feet?’
Uh-huh.
Her breast pressed against his sternum, and each thump of his pounding heart caused it to jiggle perceptibly.
‘You saw them? What do they look like?’
The toenails are cracked.
‘They got that way from ballet.’
I thought so.
‘I’m the only one, right?’
Of course.
‘Do you understand? You’ve got to love only me.’
I know.
‘Everyone says that, but they don’t really mean it. You’re different from everyone else, though, aren’t you? Only me. I’ll give you everything, but I’ve got to be the only one you love. Do you understand?’
Only me, she kept repeating, only me, as she began to undress him.
10
She pulled his sweater up and unbuttoned his shirt with those deft, slender fingers. He watched dumbly as one button after another came loose. The room was darkening rapidly, and her pink nail polish faintly reflected the pale winter sunset. At some point they’d both sat up on the bed, though he couldn’t have said when. Her downward-tilted face was right before his eyes. Something about her profile stirred a memory in him, but it was a memory that never quite materialised. Her cheeks were flushed. Her breasts had filled out as she sat up, and the size and shape of them, in proportion to her narrow waist, seemed too perfect to be real. It was, he thought, as if a sculptor from some other world had found a way to imbue his work with softness and moisture and warmth and bring it to life.
Time seemed to be flying by at many times its normal speed, and then again it seemed to have stopped completely. She slid her hand inside his shirt and explored the skin of his chest with plaintive, quivering fingertips, like a blind person reading a long-awaited letter. Her touch was like a gleaming scalpel slicing open his breast, and then again like the miraculous, gentle touch of a healer. He couldn’t distinguish the border between his body and the outside world and was aware only of the points where her fingertips touched his skin, and of the hitherto unimaginable sensations emanating from those points. Her fingertips were like ice, and then again like molten lava. He found himself standing between the two beds with his sweater in his hands but no memory of having stood up or removed it. His shirt was completely unbuttoned, exposing his chest and stomach. Yamasaki Asami undid his belt, then plucked gently at his zip and slowly pulled it down, like a surgeon opening an incision. She was sitting, knees together, on the edge of the bed. He had the dizzying illusion that the green velvet bedspread, illuminated by the white porcelain lamp of her naked body, had billowed out to cover the entire room. Once she’d lowered his zip all the way, she looked up at him, and he felt his pulse throb in his temples. She peered into his eyes and smiled. Then she reached out to press her pink fingernails into his chest and dragged them downwards in a lingering, catlike scratch. He had to stifle a cry. Shameful sounds – a sob, a moan, a sigh – stuck in his throat and threatened to seep out between his lips. Why, he wondered, wasn’t he taking control? Why wasn’t he pushing her down on the bed and climbing on top of her? He was just standing there with his arms dangling uselessly at his sides, twitching involuntarily in response to the stimulus of her touch. Where had she learned such technique? Were moves like this in the repertoire of all young women these days? Or was it only because of her stunning beauty, and the intensity of his desire for her, that her touch seemed so excruciatingly sensual? When she’d stripped him of his pants and shorts, her eyes seemed to lose focus and her lips parted to reveal the somewhat pointed tip of her tongue. It was as if a pink thorn were sprouting from her face. This tender, wet thorn traced a line down from his navel to his thigh, then back up towards his chest. She got on her knees on top of the bed and lifted her face towards his. He bent down to take her tongue in his mouth. She kissed him hungrily, grabbing his left hand and pressing it against her breast. He closed his eyes to savour the feel of her flesh – she wasn’t porcelain after all but unbelievably soft and human and warm and female. He moved his hand down to cup the tuft of her pubic hair. She was wet down there, and hot, and she moaned in a voice unlike anything he’d ever heard before – a hard, deep, metallic voice, like rusted gears groaning into motion.
Aoyama was asleep, and in his dream he was being tortured by persons unknown. After a brief interval of terrifying silence and darkness, a red-hot poker was suddenly in his face. He cried out, opening his eyes wide with terror, but the light was so intense that he immediately closed them again. He was utterly disorientated. He moved his lips, trying to ask what was happening, but the mucous membranes of his throat felt like cobwebs, dry and sticky, and no sound emerged. The insides of his eyelids glowed orange and his optical nerves spasmed with pain. He was utterly devoid of strength. His head felt numb, especially at the temples, and all his senses seemed anaesthetised. What in the world was going on? And where was he? He was lying on a strange bed, uncovered and apparently unclothed. His right hand was down by his hip, his left resting on his stomach.