Water Lily (7 page)

They made Ralph uncomfortable. Each of the four faces re-minded him not of the girl in the elevator, but of Apple. Their cool
unsurprised eyes, arched brows, and soft noses all belonged to Apple. Was she intent on haunting him just as he was over his
loss and about to find happiness again? But he looked for differences and there were plenty. Apple could move well, never
looked vacant. She was thin but shapely, and her skin was soft and firm. These girls were not so clean-looking. They were
scrawny. The lighting was wrong, he was tired, and their bodies were just writhing sacks of loose flesh. He drained his whisky
glass. Terry was back.

“Japanese women are sweet.” Ralph was thinking of the girl in the elevator.

“They’re not Japanese. They’re Filipinas, as far as I know.”

Terry was so cool talking about the women. He thought he knew it all. Ralph felt small and unsuccessful, as if he had arrived
too late. The Orient was meant to be his own discovery, his own piece of brilliance, but it turned out that people like Terry
had got there first. He could hate Terry, or he could learn from him. And there were many things to learn.

“Another drink, Terry?”

“Why not? Are you on expenses?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then don’t pay. You have to be on a yen salary to get drinks here. You buy me a pint back in the Happy Man when I’m next
over. I’ll get these.” He made no move to get the drinks. “So are you here for diplomacy or are they actually making you do
stuff? Your company, I mean.”

“Do stuff? Yes, meetings and things. Possible orders for products.”

Terry’s mobile rang again. He answered, saying
washing-machine
, then mumbled into the receiver. Ralph found it hard to believe that Terry could hear anything in the din of the music.

“Sorry Ralph. Gotta go. My girlfriend’s come home from work early and doesn’t understand why I’m not there. Give me a call
if you want to go out again.”

And Ralph was alone. No one to talk to for the rest of the evening. It was just bad luck, he knew that, but he wished he could
join one of the other tables. He wouldn’t want to talk, just sit among them with his glass in one hand and not look so solitary.

One of the women was dancing at him. She wiggled and gyrated like a whore. But Ralph was not turned on anymore. He was still
thinking of Apple. Perhaps she really was innocent when he met her, just spoiled. He had been innocent, too. He didn’t know
what to do when faced with silence and stillness, couldn’t see how to make anything of Apple. It would not hap-pen again,
not like that, because he wouldn’t choose wrongly again.

A waiter appeared. Ralph caught his eye.

“One whisky,” he said slowly and clearly, holding up his right index finger to make sure the waiter understood.

“One whisky. Yes. Just a moment, please.” The waiter smiled nervously, as if this language were a distant memory from school
days not the International Language, and slunk away to the bar.

Ralph watched people come and go through the main door, more men chattering loudly, probably straight from work. It was better
than looking at the dancers. He gulped his whisky.

Terry hadn’t left any cash so Ralph paid for the drinks with money that was supposed to last a week. He found his way back
to the station by following the crowds on the pavements. They stretched all the way in a fat snake. His head twisted this
way and that to see the faces that passed in the opposite direction. It was a strain having to take so many people into his
vision at once. Some of the girls had frightening faces—dark make-up with bleached hair (didn’t they know their black hair
was one of their assets?) and too much shiny, pale lipstick—so then he tried to keep his eyes on people’s backs. Apparently
the buildings in this district were very high and impressive but he wasn’t planning to look up and find out.

A woman asked him in English if he was lost and would like help. He was sure that he had seen her before. Was she one of the
dancers? But she was Japanese. He wanted to say yes, but she had already gone. He looked around at all the women in their
bright clothes and high heels. All were strangers. He bought a medium-priced ticket and waited at the end of the platform
where the crowds were smaller.

In the carriage he had another experience with a woman. The day had been rich in female contact. There was a young girl sitting
next to him and she fell asleep, rested her head on his shoulder. Was she coming on to him? Or was she just an innocent child
trusting the nearest adult for support? He watched her reflection in the window opposite. She was perhaps still in her teens.
Her hair was bleached at the ends, unkempt. Her boots came up to her knees, had thick yellowish soles like pieces of cheese.
Her skirt was a short, frilly rag-dollish thing. If he could just touch the hem, rub it between his finger and thumb, slip
his hand beneath it onto her naked thigh.

The railway line curved and Ralph took the opportunity to lean into the girl. Their arms touched, pressed together and the
girl sat up straight with a start. Wide-eyed she stared at her reflection, unblinking. She remained rigid in that position
until the train stopped again. Then she stood and left, walking with a slight stoop as the high boots pushed her spine forward.
How could her mother let her wear such heels?

Back at the hotel he broke open a packet of nuts from the mini-bar. As he nibbled them, one by one, he decided that he would
marry a C-lister. He would find a pleasant charming woman, a little past her prime if necessary, and then go home. It was
too hectic and confusing being alone in such a city. He bit on some-thing that tasted funny. He stuck out his tongue and,
from among the crunched-up peanuts, pulled off a tiny silver dead fish. He tossed it on the floor. He would claim his reward
and leave this country at the first possible opportunity.

R
una ran, half limping, through the trees. She pushed away tall weeds with her arms, found a gap in the fence. She reached
the road and paused for breath. Nearby, a woman was digging around the bases of the bamboo trees for shoots. Her figure was
small in the woods, scrabbling at the earth like a thief hunting for buried treasure. Runa kept her head down and sneaked
past. The old woman paid no attention. Perhaps it was the one who had called out that night when Runa was on the roof with
Jun. The hills in the distance were dark, barely visible. The village was asleep. Runa looked closely at each house and shop
as she passed, knowing she would not see them again.

A bicycle glinted against the wall of the convenience store, a nice new blue one with a sharp black shopping basket. She scribbled
a note thanking the owner for its use and stating where it could be collected the next day. As an afterthought she took a
thousand-yen note—more than enough for a bus ticket to the station—and pushed it under a stone with the message. That was
what Nanao would do. It was time Runa started trying to be a good and responsible person, like Nanao. She climbed onto the
bicycle and swooped down the hilly road that led from the village, lifting her feet off the pedals and sticking her legs out.

Soon she was out in the countryside, cycling between rice paddies, following the narrow section of path that was lit by the
bike’s lamp. Frogs croaked in the marshes and Runa croaked back, laughing at the sound of her voice. She took a short cut
through the fields to the river. The riverside path was straight and led directly to the next village. There were a few single
lights dotted along the other side of the river. Runa supposed they must belong to fishermen but there was no sound, no sign
of people. Her eyes were growing accustomed to the blackness and now she could see the mountains more clearly. She cycled
faster. She had never liked to be alone in the dark. That was probably why she had fallen for Jun Ikeda, for company in the
dark. Already the memory of Jun was making her cry. But even as the tears slipped across her face, she knew that crying was
narcissistic. As much as she thought of Jun, she was also picturing her own pretty face, the tears, the romance lost, the
tragedy of running away. She couldn’t help seeing herself through Jun’s eyes, beautiful even when she was disastrous.

The path grew quieter. Runa listened to the bicycle’s wheels, humming like a single mosquito in the night. But after a few
minutes it started to sound as if there were two bicycles, as if the other one was close behind her. It was hard to imagine
who else might be traveling out here by the river so late at night, unless she was being followed. She pedaled faster but
the noise stayed right behind her, just a meter or two away. She braked abruptly and stopped with one leg on the path. There
was no noise, just the quiet pushing of the river and her own breath. She was imagining too many things.

She set off again and headed for the town. She could see the shapes of buildings, distant street lights, the fences and foot-bridges
of the station. She would cycle to the next town, or the one after that, however many it took until she was on time for the
first train of the morning. It was just too bad about the borrowed bicycle.

She made a detour because there was someone she wanted to see before she disappeared, just in case she was not imagining things
and wasn’t alone. In the suburbs, nestled among the houses, was a row of buildings. A couple of shops, a bar, and the Octopus
karaoke place. She leaned the bicycle against the wall of the bar. It was a large brick cube with few windows. From the outside
it was nothing special. Inside there were six or seven tables, a long bar with several stools. This was where she had first
met Jun. No, not the very first time she met him; that was in the classroom. But it was when she first sighted him outside
school, in his own clothes, and she forgot that he was a pupil. She knew his face, his name, but as if he were a friend she
didn’t see often, she was pleased to see him, couldn’t place him. No one would ever believe her—out here in the middle of
nowhere, it was hard to know people who weren’t from the school—but seeing him in his jeans, he looked like a young man in
his early twenties. And she was a young woman in her mid-twenties. Of course, she realized within two minutes that

he was Jun Ikeda from the fifth year. But in those two minutes she had seen him as an adult.

He shouldn’t have been there. Perhaps that confused her too. It was brave of an under-age teenager to venture into a bar,
especially one within a couple of kilometers of the school. Teachers rarely came here—they went to more sophisticated places
in the city—so he may have thought he was safe. Runa had come because she’d had a particularly tiresome day at school and
needed fast escape and peace. Usually she went farther afield. Some of the others thought it strange that she, a woman, would
drink alone in a bar but Runa liked a beer or a whisky once in a while, so that was what she did. Sometimes she went out with
the other female teachers but they worked so much harder than she did in the evenings, planning their lessons and writing
tests. If no one was free to go with her, she went by herself but quietly, not telling anyone.

He was with a couple of older boys—a brother, perhaps, and a friend—and they appeared to be leaving together as Runa entered.
Runa did not notice his face then. She only paid attention when she saw that one of the boys had come back indoors and was
ordering a drink at the bar. Then he sat beside her, glanced quickly at her face a few times with warm eyes, and said hello.
Runa looked back and smiled because she knew him. Then the two minutes passed and she realized how she knew him. She gulped
her drink. The situation was strange but she wanted to laugh. There was something about the promise of trouble that made her
want to lick her lips, rub her hands together. Or perhaps that’s just how she remembered it, knowing the excitement that followed.

Of course, she knew that they must leave the bar. He had ordered a drink and she, a high-school teacher, had witnessed this.
If it were discovered, she would be in trouble and that would not be funny. And here she was with a good-looking man who was
certainly attracted to her and appeared to be flirting, in a fashion.

His hands were beautiful. Soft, brown, straight fingers, one hand resting on the bar, the other on his knee, relaxed but still.
Clean pink fingernails with perfect half-moons. Not a trace of nerves. Not a hint from anything he did that he was only six-teen.

She sensed adventure. His smile was faint and shy but his eyes were searching. She was captivated.

“We must leave,” she said, “or this will be no good for either of us.”

“Now?”

“In a minute, then. I don’t want to go without finishing my drink.”

“You live in the teachers’ apartments next to the school grounds. I’ve seen you on your way home.”

“Have you?”

“I live near. You go out a lot in the evenings. I’ve seen you.” “You’ve been watching me?”

“Is it because you hate living so close to the school that you are always going out? I would do the same.”

“No. I don’t hate it at all. But I like to go out even if I’m not really going anywhere. I’ve never been very good at staying
in-doors. It’s just the way I am.”

“You go to school until you’re eighteen, then you go to university—which is the same thing—and then you end up back in a school
for the rest of your life. In the middle of the countryside with nothing else around. And you go and live right next to the
school. No escape. I can’t understand being a teacher. If I were you I wouldn’t want to live round here. Do you notice the
boys in class?”

“I notice everyone. It’s my job.”

“You’re laughing at me. What I mean is, how do you look at the boys? Do you think we’re all just kids?”

“I don’t think about it.”

“What about me? Do you think of anything when you look at me at school?”

“No. I don’t know. You’re confusing me. Maybe I do, but I’m not aware of it. Did you follow me here tonight?”

“No. I came with my friends. I was excited when you appeared. Don’t worry about them. They’re not from school and they don’t
know who you are. Can we go out together one day? Away from this place, where no one will know us?”