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.
CHAPTER FIVE
Unfortunately, the place Dr. Shinohara had in mind was not a love hotel or restaurant with private booths for postprandial amour, it was a coffee shop with a traditional Japanese theme, the tables looking out over a small rock garden atrium. It was a rather classy way to say ‘no, thank you.’
He ordered us coffee, then leaned toward me and said in English, ‘Lydia, you are a very lovely and intelligent young woman, and I am flattered by your offer. Perhaps this will be hard to understand, even for a person with a wise heart like you. You see, in my youth I was a hungry man. Many times I gorged myself on delicious food until my stomach ached. Only now do I understand that there is just as much pleasure in standing outside the restaurant and breathing in the delicious fragrance.’
I frowned. His fancy words didn’t really ease the sting. Now that he’d rejected me, I didn’t need to play games any more.
‘But I’m still young, Dr. Shinohara. I want to eat the delicious food. I want to know Japan, but sometimes I think Japan doesn’t want me.’
‘That is not true. All Japanese feel akogare—desire, I think you say—for the West. If you stay here for very long, I think you will have the chance to taste many new flavors, many loves. Perhaps you will even grow tired of it?’
I shook my head. I’d never stop wanting more.
Dr. Shinohara studied me, a sage’s smile playing over his lips. ‘May I share with you a poem, Lydia, a favorite of mine? The poet’s name is Teika, a famous poet who lived more than seven hundred years ago.’
I wanted his cock, but I got a fucking poem instead. I almost laughed, but thought better of it. ‘Sure, I like poetry.’
He smiled and gave me a slight bow before he began. The brief stream of words was mostly incomprehensible to me—I caught ‘spring’ and ‘dreams’ and ‘sky’—although there was a definite rhythm to the flow.
‘Do you understand?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘The poet speaks of a “floating bridge of dreams.” In The Tale of Genji these words mean human life and desire, and sadness for how quickly both pass. But Teika makes the dream into a cloud floating in the mountains like a bridge from earth to sky, something so beautiful you will remember seeing it for your whole life. But then the cloud breaks, cut by the mountain peak, a thing that is very sharp and real.’
In spite of myself, I could almost see the pearly white bank of clouds and the jagged mountain peak floating before my eyes.
‘It is sad that the beautiful bridge of cloud and dreams is broken, but the yokogumo, the new shape of the clouds, now slender and more delicate, is also very beautiful.’
Wisps of cloud, a dinner of fragrance alone, could I ever be satisfied with such meager nourishment? Perhaps some day I would be so wise, but now my whole body ached with disappointment. Just when I thought I’d gotten deeper into the heart of this country, there was another sliding paper door, another chamber of secrets before me.
‘Perhaps we should be going now, Lydia? I’ll see you to a taxi.’
I nodded.
But Dr. Shinohara had another surprise for me. He took my hand, bowing as if he were about to kiss it in the old-fashioned European manner.
His skin was warm and slightly rough, and I held my breath, expecting the touch of his lips. At least I’d have that to remember.
Instead Dr. Shinohara inhaled, slowly, his eyes closed, like the Heian aristocrats who trained their noses to identify hundreds of subtle scents and tested their skill in elegant contests.
Oddly, I felt lighter, almost buoyant. And when he let go of my hand, it seemed to float between us for a moment, as if it were separate from me, weightless as air.
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