A Woman's Nails (41 page)

“No, no, no. I don’
t want to be a
dorei
. I already am a slave for my company. No, I want to surf, you know, s
urfing.”
His gestures remind me of a clown ba
lancing on a giant rubber ball.

Now, the only reason I'm teasing him is that after living in this country for almost a year and a half I have never seen so much as a rip
ple on the surface of the sea—n
ot much to skip a pebble on, let alone ride. Still, I have met so many goddamn surfers, that were I to throw a rock into the crowd of pedes
trians milling about Oyafukô, I’
d surely hit one, if not two of these poseurs.

It’
s ironic, I tell him, that travel agents in Japan are so busy they sel
dom travel themselves. He doesn’
t see the humor
in it, though. I guess I wouldn’
t either if I were working six ten-hour days a week and my summer bonus had just been cut again because of the
recession. No, I don’t think I’
d find it funny at all.

“
So, if you really want to travel and
surf, then why not just do it?”

He drops his
head dejectedly and mumbles, “It’s difficult.”

When he asks me what I want to do with
my
life, I answer: “Build things.”

“
Daiku
?”

“
No, not a
carpenter
, you
dummy
, an architect,” I say, chuckling. “
Kenchikuka
. Here, let me show you.”

I borrow a pen from Shô and in matter of a few minutes draw a pretty good rendering of
Umie
on a napkin.

“
Sh'geh
,”
he exclaims.
Wow
!

I tell him that’
s nothing; any kid with a good eye, a steady hand and a prescription of Ritalin can produce a picture lik
e this, especially the kind who’
ve got their noses in
manga
all day. On another napkin, I sketch a plan for what
Umie
could look like with minor changes, such as moving the DJ booth to the other side, losing the beer cooler, adding a second, narrower counter that would run parallel the current one for standing customer
s, halving the restroom with it
s single Japanese style toilet such that a second room with a urinal could be built, and so on. Again, this is something any
boared
housewife with a subscription to
Better Homes and Gardens
could manage.

Just as I am about to knock his white socks and black loafers off with a sketch of how
Umie
could be by resembling what its name implied, a beach house, rather than the mildly seedy bar that it is, two women sit down on the empty stools besides
me.
I
look
up from the napkin and make the happy discov
ery that they're both gorgeous.

The one sitting further away, while the better looking of the two, possesses a beauty that is almost too perfect, rendering her unapproachable. Not that I am missing out on anything because the girl is so obviously enamored of
Shô it is as if a sign saying “
No Unauthorized Personnel P
ermitted”
is hanging
around her neck.

I get the feeling I’
ve met the o
ne closer to me
befoe
, but,
alas
, can’
t remember where. With her hair done up in pig-tails, she has such an innocent look about h
er, what the Japanese call the “Loli-type”
, that were sh
e not drinking shots of vodka I’
d place her age at around
seventeen or eighteen. Not that I’
d have a problem with that; I can be, I have shown before, equal opportunity in that regard. Call me
ecumenical
.

Pigt
ails turns to me and asks, “Don’
t you remember me?”

“Of course, I do,”
I shoot back, scrambling through the dimly lit, cobwebby labyrinth of my mind, frantically running my fingers through dusty filing cabinets, searchi
ng for a clue, a bone, a hint. “
We met . . .
t
he other day . . . at . . . um . . .”

“
At the
kimono
party last night,”
she says.

“Yes!
U
rara . . .”

“
Oh
, you do remember me after all?”

With a name like Ooh-la-la?

“How could I forget?”

Mind you, the Urara sitting next to me looks nothing like the Urara I chatted with at the
kimono
party only twenty-four hours ago. Not only her hairstyle, but her make-up as well
couldn’
t be more different. She’
s like a chameleon that has changed its colors. This adorable Urara, in a matter of only twenty-four hours, has gone from looking like an exquisite Japanese doll to being a spunky, little
peaches and cream cheerleader.

“It’
s just, I
didn't recognize you at first,”
I say.

“I’
m surp
rised you recognized me at all.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, you didn’
t seem all th
at interested in me last night.”

“Nonsense!”

“
You never to
ok your eyes off of Tomoko-san.”

“Tomoko?”

Urara bends over pretending to pick up food
from
an imaginary table before her, then with her finger draws a line from my eyes to her
breasts
.

“
Ah,
right, Tomoko. Was it obvious?”

“
Obvious? You were staring at
her breasts the whole evening.”

“I am what I am.”

“
I
t must be tough being a man.”

“
It is
,”
I admit.
“It is.”
Especially for someone who was bottle-fed
.

“
You know, last night w
asn’
t the first time I saw you,”
Urara says tapping me playfully on the shoulder.

“It wasn’t?”

“No. I’
ve seen you around. In Tenjin and on
Oyafukô. Come to think of it, I’
ve seen you a qui
te a few times here on Oyafukô.”

“Here? Really?”
I pretend to be surprised by this, but I am as inconspicuous as a giraffe trotting through
a flock of sheep. “
You have
n't been stalking me, have you?”

“No!”

“Ah, what a pity.”

“Do you want to be stalked?”

“
By
you
? Yes, definitel
y. Shall I give you my address?”

“
Yo
u already did
last night.”

“Oh, that’s right I did, didn’
t I?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“But what?”

“
Oh
, nothing,”
she says. Finishing off her vodka, she holds her empty glass up to Shô who takes it and without a word pours her another shot.

I’
ll regret it in the morning, I know, but tell the Shô to give me the same. Raising our shot glasses t
o each other, we say, “
Kampai
!
”

“You like drinking, don't you?”
she asks.

“
Do
es the Pope shit in the woods?”

“I'm sorry?”

“
I do, y
es. A bit too much, I'm afraid.”

Giggling, she tells me she does, too.

When I ask her when
she first saw me, she replies, “
Around
Golden Week
, I think.”

As if d
islodged by a soft tap, unwelcomed memories flutter down
like dust
.

“
April twenty-seventh. Urara, you were wearing your hair in pigtails like tonight, and were standing in front of the bank of cigarette vending machines at the corner. You were in a tight-fitting dress with
CABIN
written across it, weren't you?”

“Wow, Peador! That’
s some memory you’
ve got! Have
you got a photographic memory?”

“I do, yes.
Unfortunately most of the photos are out of focus.”

As much as I would prefer not to recall that unfortunate night
when Mie and I last met, I can’
t keep the more embarrassing images of it from being projected in heartlessly living color against the inside of my skull. This is where I suspect my migraines come from.

“
Did you notice
me waving to you?”
she asks.

“
That night?” I say. “When I was
standing outside
Mister Donut
?”

“Yeah.”

“
I w
ondered who you were waving at.”

“
Was that your g
irlfriend you were waiting for?”

“
No, no, no . . . No, that . . . That was just, er . . . a, uh, a
friend
,”
I answer without a note of credibility in my voice. Looking beyond Urara to the drop-dead beauty she came in with who has been making the goo-goo eyes
at Shô,
lucky bastard, I ask, “So, what’
s her story?”

“Hiromi-chan? Oh, she’
s just in love with S
hô.”

“
You don’
t say. I never would have gue
ssed. And, who does Urara love?”
I point to Jaggerlips,
then to
a third bartender named Naoki who is sna
pping a towel at the lanky DJ. “Any of them your type?”

She makes a show of glancing deliberately around the bar, taking in staff and cust
omers alike, before answering. “Yes, there is one
who is my type
.”

“Yeah? Who?” I figure it’
s Jaggerlips because if there is one thing I have
learned
after
coming here
all these months is that
most of the women who come into
Umie
fall into
one of
two camps: those, like Hiromi-chan, who find Shô with his Bundeswehr tank-top an
d wimpy arms irresistible; and
those who go weak in the knees for Jaggerlips.

“You,”
she says, turning those big brown eyes of hers to me.

“Who?”

“
You
,”
she says ag
ain and takes my hand. It’
s a kind gesture, humoring
me like this, but frankly I can’
t
believe it. Especially when she’
s been drinking straight shots of vodka and
G
od knows what else. Pump enoug
h booze into any woman and they’
re liable to find even a manhole cover
charming
.

Urara and
I continue to chat and knock
back
vodka until Hiromi says that it’
s time to go. I look at my watch. It’s only twenty after eleven.

“Last train?”
I ask.

“
Yes, I’
m afraid
so,” says. “Peador?"

“Yeah?”

“Call me, will you?”

She gives my hand a final squee
ze. Lovely, slim fingers. I don’t want to let them go. I’
ve zeroed on those fingers all evening, watching them twist around loose strands of hair, touching her face just between the chin and mou
th, playing with her lower lip.

God, what I’d give to bite that lower lip.

I pro
mise Urara that I will call her
, and with that the two of them are gone.

4

Everything slows down in the city as the Buddhist festival of the dead, the
Bon
, nears. While most
salarymen
and
OL
s have at least three days off from the thirteenth to the fifteenth, giving them what amounts to a long weekend, the more generous of companies allow their employees to take the day before and the day following the three day festival off so that they might avoid the inevitable crowds at airports and train stations
.