Читать книгу Amorous Woman - Donna George Storey - Страница 22

In Japan, almost every social occasion continues with a nijikai, a smaller, more intimate second party. In this case, it would not have been unusual for Dr. Matsumoto to send me home in a taxi so he could take his old friend to a hostess bar for some male bonding. We were all having such a good time, however, he invited me along as well.

I was supposed to meet Jason in less than half an hour, but I’d never been to a hostess bar and was dying to see what it was really like. Should I go deeper into the mysterious neon canyons of Gion with Dr. Shinohara? Or trade predictable banter followed by equally predictable sex with an American tourist I’d never see again?

When ten o’clock rolled around, I was sitting in a hostess bar tucked away in the basement of a narrow high rise a few blocks from the restaurant, agreeably tipsy on whisky and compliments. Sorry, Jason, but in my place, you’d probably do the same.

The room was tiny, no bigger than my eight-mat apartment, and papered and upholstered all in red, like a womb. The mama-san seated us at a small table and brought out more snacks and a bottle of imported whisky wearing Dr. Matsumoto’s name on a necklace resting on its shoulders. I wondered what picture we must make to her: a twenty-two-year-old Western girl with a middle-aged dentist on either side. Back home my dentist was just a silver-haired guy with stale breath and hair on the backs of his hands, coming at me with metal probes and a water pick. If he had a private life, I wouldn’t imagine it was taking young Japanese women to dinner at fine restaurants followed by drinks in the company of ladies who made a living from their charms.

As if on cue, a slim hostess, no more than a few years older than me, slipped onto the free seat at the end of our table. I wouldn’t call her beautiful, but her sleepy eyes and full lips gave her an undeniably seductive air. She greeted Dr. Matsumoto with a pout and a flutter of her eyelashes—it had been such a long time since he’d visited and she’d missed him. He smiled and made introductions. Her name was Yukiko and she shook my hand in the American fashion. Her hand was faintly moist and as soft as padded satin.

With a perceptiveness I would appreciate later when I was in her shoes, Yukiko immediately sensed that Dr. Matsumoto was the customer in need of her attention. She invited him to sing a duet at the elaborate karaoke machine set up near the bar, leaving me and Dr. Shinohara to entertain ourselves.

‘I would like to see you dance some time, Lydia­san,’ he said, bending close. I got the impression he meant what he said.

‘No, I’d be too embarrassed. I’m not very good. The lessons are so different from ballet. My teacher never explains anything. She just walks through the steps, and I have to try my best to follow her. We do the same thing over and over again until I get it right, which often takes a long time.’ Rather like sex, I thought, remembering my morning’s lesson with Hiroyuki.

‘That’s the Japanese way, to learn with the body.’

‘Yes, but it’s hard for me. Americans don’t really trust the body.’

‘That is unfortunate. The body has many wise things to tell us.’ His eyes twinkled and I thought for a moment he might touch my hand, but instead he merely reached for his whisky glass and took a polite sip.

Dr. Matsumoto had finished his first song. To my relief, my ‘father’ had a pleasant bass voice, and I could applaud with genuine enthusiasm.

‘Please sing a song in English,’ I called out merrily, although my motives weren’t exactly pure.

Nor were my thoughts. In spite of my protests, I realized I did want to dance for Dr. Shinohara, in an elegantly appointed tatami room, just like the geisha of Gion. I could picture the scene perfectly: the doctor seated on a cushion, me standing before him in the opening pose of the tea maiden dance I was practicing for my concert in the fall. Except, at his request, I wasn’t wearing a kimono. I was wearing nothing at all. I want to see you as you really are, he whispered, and I wanted to show him. Everything. And so I dipped and turned and twirled my fan, my skin flushed pink under the warmth of his steady gaze. Could he hear the click of moist flesh between my legs as I moved? Could he smell my arousal? Of course he could, he knew it all, and when the dance was through, he would come and lift me from my low—in my gratitude I would take his finger in my mouth and suck it, like a cock, to taste the complex, ancient flavor of his skin.

I was sure his body would have many wise things to tell me. With the way things were going, I might even have the chance to hear them this very night.

My reverie was shattered by the return of Dr. Matsumoto after his creditable cover of Frank Sinatra’s ‘It Was a Very Good Year.’

After a few more pleasantries, Dr. Shinohara checked his watch and said, ‘I’m afraid I must be going soon. I have an early train tomorrow.’

Suddenly things were not going in the direction I hoped at all. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I have to go, too,’ I blurted out. ‘I promised to meet a friend at a disco near here at eleven.’

And so, in another twist of the usual custom, the two guests bowed our host off in his taxi home. Then Dr. Shinohara chivalrously offered to walk me to the meeting with my friend.

It was now or never. ‘Dr. Shinohara,’ I said, my voice sounding bolder than I felt, ‘I don’t really have to meet anyone.’

He gave me a puzzled, but genial look.

I preferred subtlety, but time was running out, and the direct approach had always gotten me what I wanted in the past. Besides, indecent proposals are always easier in a foreign language. I took a deep breath. ‘What I was hoping to do is go back to your hotel with you.’

A change came over his face, although I wasn’t quite sure how to read it. Then he smiled. ‘There is a certain place I’d like to take you, Lydia.’ He hooked his arm in mine, and led me down a narrow street, the neon lights twining up the buildings as thick as jungle vines.