Grotesque

by Natsuo Kirino

  “Feet on the eighth beat; hands on the seventeenth.”

  One of the students was of slight build with a nicely symmetrical figure. She looked very agile. She danced with amazing precision, as if not even thinking of what she was doing. It seemed she had even greater agility in reserve.

  “That’s Mitsuru. She’s best in the school. She always wins. Everyone knows she’s aiming for medical school.”

  “And the other girl?”

  I pointed to a skinny girl who was moving jerkily like a puppet on a string. Her hair was thick and heavy, and the expression on her face and the way she moved her body made it look like she had reached the limits of her ability. She seemed to be in pain.

  “That’s Kazue Sat. She’s an outsider student. She wanted to join the cheerleading squad but was shot down. She made a real stink about it too.”

  The skinny girl looked over at us as if she had heard what Kijima said. When she saw me she froze. Applause welled up from the onlookers. Mitsuru had won.

  • 7 •

  I suspect there are lots of women who want to become prostitutes. Some see themselves as valued commodities and figure they ought to sell while the price is high. Others feel that sex has no intrinsic meaning in and of itself except for allowing individuals to feel the reality of their own bodies. A few women despise their existence and the insignificance of their meager lives and want to affirm themselves by controlling sex much as a man would. Then there are those who engage in violent, self-destructive behavior. And finally we have those who want to offer comfort. I suppose there are any number of women who find the meaning of their existence in similar ways. But I was different. I craved being desired by a man. I loved sex. I loved sex so much I wanted to screw as many men as I could. All I wanted were one-night stands. I had no interest in lasting relationships.

  I wonder why Kazue Sat became a prostitute. How strange that I met her last night for the first time in twenty years. And on a hotel-lined street in Maruyama-ch at that.

  I admit that when money got tight, I took to the streets on my own. I’d stand on the corner and call out to anyone passing by. But the streets along Shin–Okubo with their bars and clubs had been claimed for whores shipped in from Central America and Southeast Asia. The competition there was fierce. The area was cordoned off by an invisible line and if you happened accidentally to cross into their territory you were in for a beating. Police enforced the law in the Shinjuku area, and it wasn’t easy to get away with walking the streets there. Times were tough. I was on my own with no one to watch my back. And that’s how I ended up at Shibuya that night—in an area I had rarely trolled.

  I selected a street in front of a row of hotels near Shinsen Station and stood in the gloomy shadows on the corner in front of a statue of Jiz waiting for a man to come by. It was a cold night and a sharp wind was blowing from the north. I clutched at the collar of the red leather coat that I had pulled on over my silver ultra-minidress. I wore a thin slip under my dress and that was it. An outfit like this would allow me to get down to business without a lot of fuss, but it offered no protection from the cold. I took a drag of my cigarette and shivered, waiting.

  I had my sights set on a group of drunks on their way home from an end-of-year party when a skinny woman stumbled down the narrow road sandwiched between cheap hotels. She looked like she was being blown along by the wind. Her black hair hung down her back nearly to her waist and swung from side to side with each step she took. She’d cinched the belt tightly around her flimsy white trench coat. Her legs, swathed in cheap flesh-colored nylons, were so skinny they looked as if they might snap in two. What was most remarkable about the woman was her appallingly impoverished body. She was so thin as to be nearly one-dimensional, a skeleton covered in skin. Her makeup was applied so thickly I at first thought she was on her way home from a costume party, and then I wondered if perhaps she was crazy. Under the glare of the neon light I could see the heavy black of her eyeliner and her bright blue eye shadow. Her lips glittered a deep crimson. The woman raised her hand and waved to me.

  “Who gave you permission to stand there?”

  I was startled by her words.

  “Is it off limits?” I threw my cigarette down and crushed it with the toe of my white boot.

  “I didn’t say it was off limits.”

  The woman wore a strange expression. She spoke with such force that I worried she was with a yakuza gang. I looked around me to be sure. I saw no one else. The woman was staring at me.

  “Yuriko.” Her voice was so low and muffled it sounded like a curse. But there was no mistaking what she’d said.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Her features were distinct but nevertheless somewhat graceless. She looked like someone I knew but I couldn’t remember who, and it was driving me crazy. I stared at her carefully. Of all her features, her long thin horselike face was most prominent. Her skin was dry. Her teeth protruded. Her hands were like little bird claws. She was an ugly woman, a middle-aged woman not unlike myself.

  “Don’t you remember?”

  She laughed gaily. When she laughed the smell of stewed foods wafted up around her, a nostalgic smell. It lingered briefly in the cold winter air and then was snatched away by the northern wind.

  “Might we have met at a club somewhere?”

  “Guess again. My, you’ve grown old. Look at the lines on your face! And all that flab! I hardly recognized you at first.”

  I tried to remember the face I found behind the layers of makeup.

  “When we were young we were like night and day, you and me. But just look at us now: we’re not that different. I suppose you could say we’re the same—or we might even put you a peg or two lower. What I’d give to show you to your friends now!”

  The gloating words that spewed from her red mouth were tinged with bitterness. The black eyes beneath the layers of smeared eyeliner darted brightly. They resembled eyes that had glanced over at me one time long ago. Eyes that revealed—even as they tried to conceal—that their owner was at the end of her rope. I could tell that meeting me made the woman nervous by the way she sucked in her breath and chattered away. I realized that the disgusting-looking woman standing in front of me now was the student who had tried her hardest to keep up with the rhythm contest. Despite the years that had passed since then, I could still recall her name: Kazue Sat. She was in my older sister’s class. A strange girl who had had some interaction with my sister. Kazue had had a bizarre interest in me, following me around like some kind of stalker.

  “You’re Kazue Sat, aren’t you?”

  Kazue gave my back a sharp push. “You got it! I’m Kazue. It took you long enough. Now get out of here! This is my turf, you know. You can’t be picking up men here.”

  Her words were so unexpected they made me laugh bitterly. I repeated her own words. “Your turf?”

  “I’m a hooker.”

  Her words pulsed with pride. I was so taken aback to learn that Kazue was a streetwalker that I didn’t know what to say. Naturally, I thought I was special. Ever since I had reached the age of self-awareness I was convinced that I was different from other people. And I have to say the realization left me feeling somewhat superior.

  “Why you of all people?”

  “Well, why you?” Kazue shot back without hesitation.

  I stared at her long hair, unable to answer. I could tell at a glance it was a cheap wig. Men don’t go for women who try to turn tricks in wild getups. There was no way Kazue was going to get a good customer that way. But then, there weren’t many good customers heading my way either. Even though they said nothing, I could tell by their expressions that they weren’t interested in me. Quite a contrast from when I was young. Now we lived in a world where young amateurs played at being prostitutes. A professional like me or Kazue was practically worthless. Kazue was right: I was nothing like I was twenty years ago, and she and I weren’t much different.

  “Bu
t you know, Yuriko, I’m not like you. I work during the day. I bet all you do is sleep.” Kazue pulled something out of her pocket and showed it to me. It was an ID card for some company. “During the day I earn an honest living,” she said, somewhat sheepishly. “I’m a businesswoman in a first-rate firm. I do a difficult job that you could never even dream of doing.”

  Then why are you involved in prostitution? I caught myself just before the words left my mouth. I didn’t want to know. She’d just add one more reason to the list of reasons women go into prostitution. And I didn’t care.

  “Do you come here every night?”

  “I work the hotels over the weekends. I’d like to come every day but I can’t.”

  Kazue spoke like a pro. At the edges of her words lurked a kind of happiness.

  “Do you think you could let me use this spot on the nights you’re not here?”

  I wanted my own turf. I’d been a prostitute since I was fifteen, but I didn’t have my own territory or a pimp to help me out.

  “You want me to let you use my corner?”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Well, under one condition.”

  Kazue grabbed my arm roughly. Her fingers were so bony it was like being gripped by chopsticks. My arms prickled with goose bumps.

  “I don’t mind if you use the corner when I’m not here, but you have to dress like me, see?”

  I saw her point. If the same woman worked the same corner, she’d build up a base of regulars. But would I really be able to look so hideous? I found the prospect so unnerving that I began to tremble. But Kazue couldn’t have cared less. She had set her sights on a pair of salary men on their way home.

  “Hey, fellas, want to go somewhere for a cup of tea?”

  The men looked at Kazue and then at me and hurried away as quickly as they could. Kazue dashed after them. The faster they went, the faster she ran.

  “What’s the rush?” she called after them, in a coarse voice. “There’re two of us, one for each of you. We’ll give it to you cheap and then you can trade partners. Look, she’s half. And I’m a graduate of Q University.”

  “What a crock of shit,” one of the men jeered.

  “It’s true. I’m not kidding,” Kazue said, pulling out her ID card to show the man. He refused to look at it and knocked Kazue roughly out of the way as he pushed past her. Even as Kazue fought to keep her footing she chased after the man.

  “Wait! Wait, why don’t you?” Giving up, Kazue finally turned back to look at me and laughed. I didn’t have experience chasing down johns. It looked like I would have a lot to learn from Kazue.

  On my way home I stopped at a twenty-four-hour supermarket in Kabuki-ch and bought a jet-black wig with hair that fell as far as my waist, just like Kazue’s.

  I’m now standing in front of my mirror wearing the black wig. I’ve painted bright blue eye shadow over my eyelids and red lipstick on my lips. I wonder if I look like Kazue. I’d just as soon not look like her. Kazue had decked herself out to look like a prostitute so she could go stand on the corner in front of that statue of Jiz, benevolent protector of the damned, guardian of lost children. I’ve dressed myself in the same costume and will stand in the same place.

  The phone rings. A customer, perhaps? I answer hopefully. It’s Johnson. He’s supposed to come see me the day after tomorrow but he has called to beg off. His mother in Boston has died, he says.

  “Are you going to go to the funeral?”

  “You know I can’t. I don’t have the money. Besides, I’ve been disowned, remember? I’ll just go into mourning here.”

  Johnson says he’ll go into mourning, but he doesn’t do anything special. He said the same thing when his father died.

  “Do you want me to go into mourning with you?”

  “You don’t need to. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “True, it’s none of my business.”

  “That was cold, Yuriko.”

  Johnson’s laugh was tinged with sorrow. Related. After he hung up I thought about my relations with others. Earlier I wrote that I imagine I became a prostitute because I didn’t want to have long-lasting relationships with other people. Other than my father and my sister—to whom I’m related by blood—Johnson is the only person with whom I’ve had a lasting relationship. But this doesn’t mean I love him. I’ve never loved anyone, not once. That’s why I’m able to get along just fine without an intimate relationship with another person. Johnson’s the only exception, and that’s because I had a child with him fourteen years ago. No one else knows: not my father, not my sister, not even the child.

  Johnson is raising the child himself: a boy. He’s now a second-year student in junior high. Johnson told me his name but I forgot it. The reason Johnson stays in touch with me and comes to see me four or five times a month is because of the child. Johnson has faith that I secretly cherish a love for this child. I find his faith annoying, but I won’t affirm or deny it.

  “Yuriko, the boy seems to have a lot of musical talent. That’s what they say at his school. Doesn’t that make you happy?”

  “The boy has really grown. He’s already over six feet tall. He’s such a handsome fellow, why won’t you at least meet him?”

  I have no use for a child who shares my blood. And Johnson’s appeals to a mother’s love only make me wince. Still, because I’ve been a prostitute for all these years and have only gotten pregnant once, it makes me think that my child with Johnson must have a very strong tie to this world.

  I withdrew from Q High School for Young Women before I turned eighteen. I had just entered my senior year. It was because Masami found out about Johnson and me.

  Around that time Johnson would sneak into my bed every night, knowing full well how dangerous it was. He didn’t come just to have sex with me. He wanted to hear about the men Kijima had introduced me to.

  “After the kid on the baseball team screwed you, what did he say?”

  “He said that if I slept with him again he’d hit a home run.”

  “What a jerk!” Johnson laughed as he gazed appreciatively at my naked body. He enjoyed any sort of affirmation that I, his possession, was perfect. If Johnson had only just listened to my stories and then gone back to his own bed—but no, he’d get excited by the details I shared with him and would have to have me all over again. Just as Masami couldn’t go to sleep without her nightcap—into which Johnson had secretly taken to putting sleeping pills—Johnson’s day wouldn’t end until he’d heard my stories.

  That particular night he must have had a difficult day at the office. His face was drawn with weariness and he had me tell him stories again and again. He lay on the bed beside me, drinking bourbon straight out of the bottle. That was the first time I’d ever seen him so disheveled.

  “Tell me more!”

  I’d run out of my usual fare, so I started to talk about Kijima’s father.

  “If someone has an interest in me, he’ll always let me know. But there’s one person who won’t approach me specifically because he’s interested, and that’s Kijima’s father, Professor Kijima. The biology teacher.”

  “What kind of teacher is he?”

  Usually when I stared at Johnson, his eyes looked like those of some kind of bird of prey—a vulture or a hawk. But tonight they were murky and dull.

  • 8 •

  Johnson had absolutely no interest in my academic life. Not in my grades, my experience on the cheerleaders’ squad, or even my first encounters with Mokku. But from time to time when he’d come to my room he’d make me put on my cheerleader outfit. He’d run his fingers over the gold and blue pleats of my miniskirt and smile bitterly. Your school’s just imitating American cheerleaders. What a bunch of copycats. Johnson couldn’t stand Japanese girls. Maybe he hated me too, and Japan as well.

  Mine was a strange existence. Not Johnson’s daughter and hardly his wife. To put it bluntly, I was nothing more than the daughter of an acquaintance who was there for his sexual pleasure, so of course he
didn’t feel the need to play a parental role. Sure, Johnson was immoral. It was clear that he expected me to provide him sexual services in return for the portion of the exorbitant tuition fees that he paid.

  “Tell me about Professor Kijima,” he said.

  I was exhausted and wanted to sleep. But Johnson was drunk, his eyes awash with lust. I suppose he suspected my story about Professor Kijima would reveal a new source of sexual excitement, and it was to my benefit if I could entertain Johnson night after night with fascinating stories—just like the beautiful maiden Scheherazade in the thousand and one tales of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. But I had no idea what about my stories would excite Johnson, so all I could do was just tell them as they happened. I rolled over on my back and began my story, slowly, haltingly.

  “He is the professor who approved my admission to the Q School system. On the day of the interview, when I entered the classroom, there was a huge brown turtle that they were raising in an aquarium. I’d just flown in from Switzerland and was about to die of exhaustion. On top of that, my marks on the entrance exam had been really bad. I knew I wasn’t going to get in so I was totally depressed. And then I saw the turtle. There was this snail crawling slowly along the glass of the aquarium, and the turtle just stuck out its neck and snapped the snail up, right in front of my eyes. Professor Kijima asked me what kind of turtle it was. I told him it was a tortoise, which apparently was the right answer. Since Professor Kijima is the biology teacher, that was enough to satisfy him and he decided to pass me.”

  Johnson erupted in laughter, letting the bourbon dribble out the side of his mouth.

  “Ha! It wouldn’t have made a bit of difference if you’d called it a tortoise or a terrapin. ‘What’s this square thing?’ Kijima could have asked. ‘Oh, it’s a desk,’ you’d have said, and he’d have passed you!”