Dead in the Water

by Nancy Holder

  Ignoring the growing, biting pleasure, Satoshi began to lead his American charge down the main street. Halfway between here and Tokyo Tower was the Hard Rock Cafe. Beers there currently went for eight hundred yen, about eight dollars. That would give her something to talk about back home.

  His back was to the windows, but he felt the sudden heat of the spring rain, and he struggled not to turn around.

  Buchner-san touched his arm, and he almost shouted. “Wait, Nagai-san, please. What’s that place?”

  Of course it had drawn her. How could it not? He replied, as evenly as he could, “Oh, that’s Cafe Endless.”

  “Those windows are beautiful!”

  As indeed they were, even in the grey light of spring rain: turquoise and emerald and ruby blood; lapis and onyx. There were no designs, no patterns, but one responded to the intention: enticement, seduction, promise.

  She said “I wish I had my camera.”

  Immediately Satoshi began to scan for instant cameras as well as umbrellas. Buchner-san had no idea he was doing so. She was staring at the windows, unaware that washes of color were shifting over her face. Hypnosis; Satoshi felt only a fleeting pang of jealousy, for he was secure in his love.

  And his need.

  “Let’s go there.” She jabbed her finger toward the windows as if he might not know where she meant. “We could get some coffee.”

  He smiled. If that was what she wanted to do, that was what they would do. “As you wish.”

  “Oh. That is, if you have time.” Now she looked concerned. She checked her watch. Americans were so unbelievably direct, yet they constantly put others in the most awkward of positions. How could he ever admit that yes, he was in a bit of a rush? For now he was beginning to sweat, so close were they to Cafe Endless. The scars on his neck burned; on his chest, burned; on his penis and testicles. Burned up.

  “Of course we have plenty of time.” He gestured for her to go first, although it made more sense for him to lead the way. She smiled at him, happy puppy, and with his guidance behind her, led the way to the plain grey elevator that opened onto the street.

  They got in and he punched the button for the third floor. The doors opened and he shepherded her out, very politely. There was no sign, although it was not a private club.

  “Do you think they’ll have cappuccino?” she asked over her shoulder. So far they had not been able to find cappuccino for her. He had a feeling they called it something else in Japanese, although he didn’t know what. That could have been a cause for embarrassment, but since she was American it was simply an amusing puzzle for them to solve.

  “Perhaps they will,” he said. Before he opened the swirling Art Nouveau doors of carved wood flowers and etched pastel glass, he smelled the blood that was for him the essence of Cafe Endless. He breathed in and dreamed of pain, and of her.

  Cafe Endless.

  He had first seen her in the winter, in a kabuki play, which was outrageous: even in ultra-modern Japan, women did not perform kabuki. It was the province of men, men playing men and men playing women and men believing in the women and men believing themselves to be women, so strong was their commitment and talent.

  He had ducked into the kabuki theatre only to get out of a driving winter rain. It was so odd, the streets icy, the sky liquid. It seemed that as soon as the rain hit the earth, it froze. He was loaded with parcels from his shopping expedition: this was the Ginza, the famous shopping district of Tokyo, and he was buying himself a new suit to celebrate his promotion. But he was loaded down, and it was rush hour; so he thought to buy a standing-room-only ticket for one act of kabuki until things calmed down.

  Inexplicably (to this day), there had been plenty of seats, and he had been able to settle in and relax. The scrim had lifted; the musicians began to play.

  Marvel.

  She danced of a snow ghost, traveling sadly through a landscape of white. Shimmering white and blue, a figure of distinct and profound loneliness, a creature of tragedy.

  And then a bride: moment of joy! Flashing snowflake instant!

  And then a heron, a bird of majesty and delicacy. To him, a winged picture of fidelity and forbearance that flew away, away, over the snow.

  Silence had blanketed the theatre, then applause so overwhelming that Satoshi absorbed it as if for himself, and wept. Backstage he tried to find the actor, billed as Tsukinosuke. But no one saw Tsukinosuke then, nor ever again.

  In that winter rain he had stumbled out of the theatre, bereft. He was in love with that dancing creature. His new clothes, his promotion, his being were meaningless beside the beauty of that dance. As never before, he understood the vitality of tradition, the dignity of the worship of what had existed before one’s own self had come into being. There was no shame in awe; there was exaltation.

  The wonder was that she believed that, too.

  Now, with Buchner-san, he sat at a wrought-iron table of leaves and sexual flowers topped with glass. After some discussion the waiter brought Satoshi some absinthe and—voilà!—what they called café au lait in Japan, but in America was cappuccino.

  “It’s like finding the Holy Grail,” Satoshi said as the waiter set the cup down before his charge. “I feel that I can die now.” Buchner-san laughed long and hard and told him he was a card.

  As they sipped their beverages, he couldn’t help but look past her toward the doors on the other side of the cafe. She wasn’t there; he would feel it if she were. But there was exquisite pain in the longing that made his body tight and hot and breathless.

  And then:

  Marvel.

  As the weak sun began to sink and the windows washed orange, crimson, blood, blood red, the Chinese scarlet of dying birds. Voluptuous and ostentatious, free of restraint, smears and pools of red that transformed the rooms of Cafe Endless into the chambers of a beating heart.

  “Oh,” Buchner-san murmured, “look.” She pointed at a mirror, and for a moment he panicked. Slowly he swiveled his head, and saw his reflection. And he knew in that moment that he did not fully trust her, and he was ashamed. Quickly he recovered himself and said nothing, waiting for a cue to reveal what Buchner-san was talking about.

  “I look like I’m bleeding.” She made a little face. “I look terrible!”

  “Never.” Satoshi picked up his absinthe and sipped the bitter liqueur. Discreetly he held it in his mouth so that the taste would linger when she kissed him.

  “Oh, you’re so gallant.” She smiled at him and turned her head this way and that. “It’s ghoulish.”

  “No, very lovely. Very kabuki.”

  She struck a pose, tilting her head and crossing her eyes. “Banzai!”

  He liked her so very much. For a moment he considered sharing his situation with her, not in the sense of telling her about it but of inviting her to participate. But as she said, she was far too earth-bound for that. And he was too selfish.

  Then it was dark. “Jesus, we’ve been here for over an hour!” she said, glancing at her watch. “It seems like we just got here.” She drained her cup. “I’ve got to get going.” Satoshi let the last few drops of absinthe slide down his throat and signaled for the check. “No, no, you stay. I’ll grab a cab.”

  “Your Hard Rock T-shirts. It will only take a minute,” he said, and then: Marvel. Waves of pleasure, excitement, desire. The blood in his veins warmed, literally; he began to sweat, his organs to warm. Warm, endlessly warm, heat melting away the last snow, the first endless spring rain. His nipples hardened, his penis stiffened and throbbed, his testicles contracted and pulsated with semen.

  “I’ll have to get them later,” she said breathlessly. “I have a dinner tonight.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” It was natural to apologize. He hadn’t asked how long she could stay out. His forehead beaded with perspiration and he put his hands in his lap because they were shaking. If he left Cafe Endless now, he would probably fall to his knees in the street, reeling.

  He got to his feet. “I’ll take you
back to your hotel.”

  “No, no, I’ll grab a taxi.” She held out a hand. “Don’t worry about it, Nagai-san. It’s really no problem.”

  The waiter silently glided over to their glass and metal table. Satoshi signed for the drinks. Moving cautiously, he got to his feet. His mouth was filled with absinthe and the memory of blood. His scars ached, and burned. He daubed his forehead with his handkerchief and put it back in his pocket.

  “You really don’t have to bother,” Buchner-san assured him as they went to the elevator. “I’ll just grab a cab on the street.”

  They got to the ground floor. Satoshi felt as if his penis were being pulled through the ceiling of the elevator and back to Cafe Endless, back to the rooms above Cafe Endless. She was there. She was there, and she was waiting, his blue snow goddess.

  Buchner-san cried, “Look, there’s one!” and waved her hand. Instantly a cab pulled over. Satoshi had been to New York many times, and realized that he would probably never see that loud, raucous place again.

  “Thank you so much,” Buchner-san told him as she climbed into the cab. Satoshi smiled and told the driver in Japanese exactly where her hotel was. “It’s been so nice to see you. I’m really sorry I have to dash off like this.”

  “Oh, please excuse me,” Satoshi replied. His English was beginning to go. “It was nothing.” He would order a number of T-shirts from the Hard Rock and have them sent to her hotel. Different sizes and the two choices, white or black. But not too many to overwhelm her. Just enough to impress her and perhaps—if it were possible to so affect this brassy American lady—to make her feel indebted to him and therefore, to Nippon Kokusai Sangyo.

  “Ciao!” she cried gaily, and the taxi took off, weaving her into the traffic and fabric of Roppongi.

  He stumbled, wiping his forehead, and lurched back to the elevator. No one else was inside; he fell against the wall and closed his eyes, his penis fiery, found the buttons and hit the one not for the third floor and Cafe Endless, but for the fourth floor, where she was waiting.

  He saw her as he opened the door, as she often appeared to him: Tsukinosuke, kabuki master in a kimono of ice blue, snowy white and golden herons whose embroidered wings were the long, floor-length sleeves of the fabulous gown. She twirled slowly in a circle, her face chalk white as if with kabuki make-up, her eyes black and liquid. Her hair, a long tail of smoke that reached her hips. Her mouth, tiny red flame. In her hands she held two white fans that she moved like heron’s wings. The room was Japanese, spare and beautiful and natural, with paper shoji walls and straw tatami floors. Two pen and ink drawings of irises flanked her as she stood against the black-night window, the curtains pulled back.

  “Good evening,” he said, locking the door. She regarded him. She rarely spoke. Slowly she waved the fans, as if teasing the flames in his blood to rise.

  He pulled off his shoes and clothes and went to her, facing her. She moved her fans over him. He opened his mouth and she flicked one of the fans shut and held it sideways. He accepted it into his mouth. She pulled from the folds of her kimono sleeve two white silk sashes, came behind him, and tied it to the ends of the fan, brought it around, tied the other ends behind his head so that he was gagged with the fan. His eyes watered as if from smoke. His body quivered.

  A slice across his buttocks. He almost ejaculated.

  A slice over the nether part of his testicles. A pearl of semen blossomed on the tip of his penis as he moaned.

  The blood, trickling.

  Holding his penis, stroking with her frigid hands and long nails, she sliced his neck.

  Drinking, drinking as he became a bonfire, taking more, draining more, and more and more as he began to suspect with mounting ecstasy that this was the night, tonight it was the fulfilment, and he groaned louder, fighting not to come.

  Too late, almost too late, they fell to the futon that when he touched it, became a field of snow through which tiny iris buds shot. Her long black hair swirled like waves against the moon. She threw open her legs and Satoshi thrust himself into the iciness. From his penis rose steam that was not steam but spring mist.

  Oh, he loved her, he loved her; and he filled her as she gave a hoarse growl deep in her chest. And still coming, as she came, he reached under the futon for the stake and pressed it between her breasts until droplets of blood burbled hot around the tip. Her eyes were wild with pleasure and fear; she threw back her head and convulsed around him. He pushed harder than he ever had before, piercing the skin. She gasped and reached out her hands to stop him.

  He captured one of her arms and slipped the black velvet restraint around her white, cold wrist. Pulled on the rope through the hook in the wooden brace of the wall, taking up all the slack until she was stretched, hard. Restrained her other arm. She sobbed once, and he could see the question in her eyes as well: Tonight?

  He looked past her eyes and into her hair that swirled and moved and made him see ghosts. Then he rose and went to the phone beside the alcove where he prayed to his ancestors. Chrysanthemums, not irises, stood in a black bowl. A scroll of a heron flapped gently against the wall.

  He took the gag out of his mouth and called the Hard Rock Cafe and ordered the T-shirts, giving them the number of his Nippon Kokusai Sangyo Enterprises Visa card. Buchner-san’s hotel address.

  The joy of being Japanese was that each action existed for itself, and fulfilment was possible in infinite, discreet moments. He had been a good representative of Nippon Kokusai Sangyo. He had been a good host. He had been a good man.

  He would be a good vampire.

  “Satoshi,” she whispered, and his heart seized inside him as if she were boiling the blood into a heart attack. Silently he returned to her. She was still bound, and she writhed. Opening her mouth, she beckoned him toward her. He covered her, closing his eyes, bracing himself.

  Fire, fire and pain; he felt the blood stripped from his veins and arteries like gunpowder trails. Her white face beneath his as he hardened again and thrust inside her while she sucked and sucked. He wasn’t afraid, and he was terrified.

  Then it was happening, not as she had ever said it would, because she had never told him what it would be like. But his soul rose into the sky like a vapor and hovered with the stars above Cafe Endless. He had a sense that she was with him; together they soared through the exquisite night sky of Tokyo, lights and clouds and moon and spring rain dropping on umbrellas and upturned faces, the wings of herons.

  On the roof garden of the New Otani Hotel, where Buchner-san lay.

  In through her window. She stirred and moaned. Soft from a bath, and fragrant, and searing to his touch. She slept naked. Satoshi glided over her burning breasts and parted her burning legs. She protested mildly, asleep or enthralled; he bent over her. He was very, very cold and she was hot enough to melt metal. Where he touched her, steam rose. And smoke.

  Then the vapor that was she guided him to Buchner-san’s neck. Tears slid down his face and became sparkling icicles. He bent, and drank.

  Ecstasy! Lava into his freezing loins, his penis, his heart. Warm candle wax, boiling miso soup. A bath among steaming rocks and bubbling hot springs. And pleasure of the most sensuous nature, hard and soft, pliant and conquering. It would be his last gift to Buchner-san, whom he admired greatly.

  And she with him, taking also, then sharing with him, her hands on his body, inside his body.

  Ecstasy! Beyond all imagining; the fulfilment of the dance she had promised short months before, indescribable wonder that set him to weeping.

  And then:

  On top of her body, on the futon, as she pulled her teeth from his neck and swallowed the last pearly drops. His eyes barely able to open. He whispered, “Was it just a dream?”

  Her black eyes answered, “Wasn’t it all just a dream?” And Satoshi was sorrowful for everything left behind, for this discrete, infinite moment that he would lose and for all the other moments that had been his life.

  They regarded one another.


  She whispered, in her real voice, “It will be soon. Hold me very tightly.”

  He did, arms around hers, legs around hers. He fought to keep his eyes open. Hers were drooping as well. He had thought they would be aware together.

  Moments passed. As he drowsed, he listened to the rain.

  Then he felt the heat on his shoulder first. He gasped and his eyes popped open. Beneath him, she took a sharp breath and tensed, and looked at him.

  “I’m not afraid,” he whispered. And truly as never before, he understood the vitality of tradition, the dignity of the worship of what had existed before one’s own self had come into being. There was no shame in awe; there was exaltation.

  “Nor I,” she said. “Nor am I afraid.”

  Then at once he ignited. Flames and smoke; he heard the choked cry in his throat but then had no throat to express it. Hair, skin, bone, but no blood as the weak sun began to rise and the window washed orange, crimson, blood, blood red, the Chinese scarlet of dying birds. Forgiving and enduring, free of restraint, crackles and washes of red that transformed the rooms above Cafe Endless into the chambers of a burning, stilling heart.

  And then, as she caught fire as well, a moment of joy! Flashing snowflake instant!

  Writhing, they danced of ghosts travelling gloriously through a landscape of white. Kabuki masters, transcendent beings shimmering white and blue, figures of distinct and profound companionship, creatures of triumph.

  And then, two simple herons, birds of majesty and delicacy. A winged picture of fidelity and forbearance that flew away, away, into the spring rain that was not rain exactly, but tears of exquisite emotion, to the Empress’s iris garden, where the ghosts of other herons lived.