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.
CHAPTER THREE
A mere two hours later, I was falling head over heels in love with a Japanese dentist.
I know my passion is a hard sell to someone who’s never been to Japan. I might be allowed my dalliances with pretty college boys, but in the world’s eyes, middle-aged Japanese men are by definition the opposite of sexy. They dress in bad suits, their feet are small, and they’re constantly clicking away with expensive cameras as they follow the tour guides with flags around Westminster Abbey or swarm the red light districts of Manila and Bangkok.
Only when you come to the country do you learn the secret—they keep the best ones hidden safely away in Japan as living national treasures.
I was sitting with my friend and benefactor, Dr. Matsumoto, on the spacious terrace of an exclusive restaurant overlooking the Kamo River. Dr. Matsumoto and his wife treated me as a daughter, a spoiled one, and all I had to do in return was help the cheerful dentist keep up his very good English over dinner at some of Kyoto’s best restaurants. On this particular night, Mrs. Matsumoto was meeting high school friends for their annual reunion at a French restaurant a few blocks away, leaving me to enjoy the local cuisine with her husband and his colleague visiting from Himeji.
The sun had set and the sky stretched over us like a bolt of blue-gray silk. Yet the heat of day lingered—it was hard to tell where the summer air ended and my body began. Seated on a cushion with my legs tucked under me in the formal position, I felt a sense of deep contentment, in spite of the inevitable tingling in my feet. I was closer to the secret heart of Japan than ever before, soon to experience culinary delights many Japanese themselves would never know. Not to mention I had a gorgeous bishônen of a boyfriend and my sex life was fabulous. What more could I want from life?
A few moments later, the kimonoed waitress ushered an older man to our table.
Dr. Matsumoto rose and bowed and the two men exchanged the greeting of longtime friends. ‘Hisashi buri ya ne.’
‘This is Lydia-san. My wife’s English teacher,’ Dr. Matsumoto said in English. ‘My old schoolmate from dental college, Dr. Shinohara.’
‘Very pleased to meet you,’ Dr. Shinohara replied. His amber eyes took me in, but the fading light masked any glint of pleasure or disappointment. Sit ting down across from us, he let out a volley of Japanese, from which I picked out some good-natured complaints about a meeting going on too long.
I took the opportunity to study Dr. Shinohara’s hands. His fingers were thin, graceful, the color of old parchment. His face, too, was lean, with high cheekbones and a slightly weathered look around the eyes.
I realized I did want something more from life now. I wanted this man to find me interesting. And not as a daughter.
The problem was that I didn’t know how to proceed. I was pretty good at picking up American guys with flirtatious banter and Japanese boys with a simple invitation for an English lesson back at my apartment, but how could I charm an older man, a sensei no less, oozing otherworldly wisdom and refinement?
Three waiters appeared, setting large black lacquer trays before each of us at precisely the same moment. Each tray held five small dishes with bite-sized seasonal delicacies, a diamond of pressed sushi, a square of fish paste, fresh vegetables sculpted into the shape of flowers. A miniature glass goblet occupied the right corner of each tray and at the left glowed a small lantern, painted with a scene of a mountain rising above a tiny city. On the side of the mountain burned a red-ink ‘dai,’ the Chinese character for ‘big.’
Dr. Matsumoto explained the theme was chosen especially to suggest Kyoto’s upcoming Daimonji festival, when bonfires were lit on five mountains surrounding the city to welcome dead souls back to earth. I’d heard of the festival, one of the highlights of summer in Kyoto. Dr. Shinohara added that it was an impressive sight, but the downtown could get very crowded.
‘Some of the hotels have special Daimonji dinners where you can watch from
