Читать книгу Amorous Woman - Donna George Storey - Страница 20

Gaijin—foreigners—in Japan are often told they look like movie stars. I got Brooke Shields, Audrey Hepburn, Jodie Foster, and the occasional Marilyn Monroe, a list varied enough to suggest I might not have a future as a celebrity impersonator after all. However, it is true that the life of an ordinary gaijin is a lot like that of a celebrity. Strangers approach you, bowing nervously, to ask you if you will pose for a photograph with them. You are invited to cherry blossom-viewing picnics and karaoké parties and even weddings of people you barely know. On occasion, your fame also makes you the target of heckling gangs of country boys who troop through Kyoto on their school trips. And guys who get off masturbating on train platforms tend to pull their trench coats open in front of your window for that extra frisson of international exposure. Everywhere you go you are noticed, watched, even devoured, by curious stares.

It may have been that ‘hey-everyone-I-had-my-first­no-hands-orgasm-this-morning’ glow, but I seemed to get more star-struck attention than usual as I criss­crossed the city from my English conversation classes at a construction equipment company to my Japanese dance teacher’s villa in the eastern hills. I was riding the bus to my last appointment, a private lesson with a wealthy dentist’s wife on the west side, when some mutual staring turned into my second conquest of the day.

Everyone’s eyes turned to Jason as he climbed onto the bus at the Philosopher’s Walk stop and asked the driver in loud, but serviceable, Japanese if this bus went to Kyoto Station. I myself couldn’t help staring at his chiseled nose, green eyes, and curly brown hair, light enough to be called ‘blond’ in this part of the world. I had grown so accustomed to the eye-soothing planes of Japanese faces, the restful repetition of black hair and golden skin, that I sometimes jumped when I glimpsed a foreign devil’s face in a train window at night, realizing in the next moment that I was gazing at a reflection of myself.

In Jason’s case, it was more his body that got to me: solid, sturdy, the perfect build for practicing my newfound riding skills. He was definitely a big man. I had to wonder as my eyes grazed his jeans, the brawny thighs and ass—how big? Of course, I wasn’t really planning to find out the answer. I didn’t come to Japan simply to fuck white guys. I’d done plenty of that back home.

Just then Jason’s eyes lit on me—a fellow country­woman who’d obviously had great sex that morning. He made his way past the giggling junior high school girls in their summer sailor blouses and asked if the empty seat next to me was taken.

I could hardly lie.

I was immediately dizzy from the smell of him, the slightly sour, cumin scent of American male. Japanese men smelled of shampoo or tobacco, always something other than themselves.

Jason introduced himself and I nodded back, Japanese-style.

‘You look like you live here,’ he said cordially, taking in my loose jumper and blouse, which was the current fashion for Japanese girls in their twenties, and my fraying book bag with the words ‘Men’s Volcano, Men’s Good Up Down Good Feeling’ silk-screened across the front.

‘Your powers of observation are exceptional,’ I said with a smile. As much as I claimed to spurn fellow foreigners, it was fun to dust off advanced English vocabulary. ‘And you look like you’re taking a character-building trip through Asia before you go home and start law school at Harvard.’

Jason blushed and corrected me—he was starting law school at Stanford in the fall. He then asked if I could recommend any off-the-beaten-track tourist sites, which made me like him again. I was always intrigued by a man who wanted to probe deeper. So I told him about my favorite temple, a place called Rengeji, where the curator would serve him thick green tea on a veranda by a stream that ran straight through the temple grounds. It was hidden away in a quiet neighborhood in the northeastern part of the city, and chances were he’d be the only visitor there.

‘Now, if I were back home,’ he said with the assurance of a future litigator, ‘I’d try to get your phone number and wait a civilized day or two to call, but circumstances being what they are, I’ll just blunder ahead and ask if you’re free tonight. I’d swap a dinner for a few more tips on how to make the most of my visit.’

‘I’d like to, but I’ve been invited for kaiseki by one of my English conversation students. Did you see those fancy restaurants in Gion with the terraces overlooking the river? I never thought I’d get the chance to eat there, but tonight I’m parting the curtains and going inside.’

‘How did you finagle an invitation like that?’ he asked, clearly envious.

‘My irresistible charm, I guess. It just started happening as soon as I got here. Dinners, cruises on the Katsura River to see the cherry blossoms, tea ceremony parties, I’m always booked with something, because it’s just so hard to say no. That’s one advantage to being small and female. I’m kawaii. You’re such a big, scary brute, they’re afraid you’ll rape their daughters. No one seems to mind I’m raping their sons left and right.’

Jason stared at me with amused disbelief, though at what I was claiming to do or at the fact I was talking about it so freely, I wasn’t sure. ‘You could meet me after dinner, couldn’t you? Unless you have plans to rape another Japanese guy?’

I also liked a man who didn’t give up. Maybe I could make an exception to my I-don’t-fuck­foreigners policy after all? ‘No rapes on the schedule tonight, so I guess I could meet you. Maybe about ten in front of Takashimaya department store? But I can’t show you any fancy hostess clubs, I only know the cheap watering holes in that part of town.’

‘I have a feeling I’ll learn a lot from whatever you show me, Lydia,’ Jason said.

‘I sincerely hope so.’

My bus stop was announced by the chirping, recorded female voice. I stood and Jason shifted his knees into the aisle so I could squeeze past.

‘Ten at Takashimaya then?’ he said.

I nodded and gave him a little wave as I stepped down into the narrow artisan alleys of the western district of the city. A nine-course Japanese feast, followed by a creamy hunk of American dessert. It was shaping up to be a very indulgent evening indeed.

How could the kamisama grant me any greater bounty than two cute guys in one day? But they did.