The Unquiet Heart

by Juliet McCarthy

  Libby sighed and moving a little closer, sought his hand, entwining her fingers between his. The hot water had made them both sleepy and lethargic and they closed their eyes, savoring the blissful stillness that enveloped them like the thin mist hovering over the water.

  “Perhaps we should go back,” she murmured sleepily.

  “Are you bored?”

  “Of course not. I just thought … since we have to go back in the morning … ” she stammered.

  “You thought I should get a good night’s sleep? Is that it?” Kojiro asked with mock seriousness.

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “Hmm … . Let me guess,” he said, as he slipped his arms around her waist, lifted her up, and cradled her on his knees. They shifted a little lower, so just their chins were grazing the surface of the pool. “You wanted me to touch you here,” he said, cupping her breasts. They were light and buoyant in the water and he kneaded the soft flesh in a fever of excitement. “And here,” he whispered into her ear. His fingers stippled playfully across her stomach and between her thighs. “And here … .”

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed. “Yes.”

  His touch was so gentle, yet so assured — the consummate lover leading her into an ever-expanding realm of self-discovery and fulfillment.

  “Kojiro,” she sighed.

  Unable to endure a moment longer the delicious tension coiled in the pit of her stomach, Libby twisted around and, straddling Kojiro’s hips with her knees, guided him deep inside her.

  “Do you think this is allowed?” She sighed, gliding her hips provocatively back and forth.

  “I’m sure it isn’t,” he laughed, overcome with such fervor and happiness he thought his heart would burst. “But if you are worried, I will call the attendant. Just to make sure.”

  “Oh, Kojiro, I think it’s too late for that. I … .”

  Kojiro grasped her roughly around the waist, tethering their bodies together, and then bracing his legs on the bottom of the pool, made one final thrust and exploded inside her. Their cry of release shattered the silence.

  Afterwards, he helped her out of the water and into her clothes and they retraced their steps up the path to the ryokan and to their room. A single oil lantern cast seductive shadows on the walls of the small chamber. Two futons had been laid out, side by side, on the floor and were made up for sleeping with starched white sheets and quilted comforters. Discarding their yukatas, Libby and Kojiro sank gratefully on to the mattress and into one another’s arms.

  Libby dozed fitfully, her head nestled snugly on Kojiro’s shoulder but he was too agitated to sleep. The thought of their impending separation was so agonizing he felt physically ill. A crushing weight bore down on his chest, suffocating him, extinguishing his joy. That was how his life was going to be from now on, without Libby. How would he be able to endure being apart from her? Never holding her, like he was holding her now, never making love to her? He was deluding himself if he thought he could forget her, or believed being married to someone else would ease his pain. It would make it worse. And not just for him, but for poor Motoko, and for Libby. What a monster he was! And yet he could not see a way out of the awful conundrum.

  Kojiro kissed Libby tenderly on the forehead and she smiled in her sleep and nestled closer and he cradled her in his arms and wept silently, his face buried in her hair.

  Libby awoke with a start, to the sound of raucous singing coming from a room down the hall. The vocalists were in high spirits from having spent the evening comparing various brands of local sake and their discordant voices reverberated noisily in the stillness.

  Kojiro, up and dressed in a fresh yukata, was standing by the window, staring down at her.

  “Kojiro?” Libby murmured. He had turned the lamp down, and his face was in shadow. “Is something wrong? What time is it?”

  “Nothing is wrong. I couldn’t sleep.”

  Libby smiled. “They are rather loud,” she said, stretching her bare arms languorously overhead. The sheet slipped down, exposing her breasts, until she pulled the comforter up under her chin and snuggled contentedly under the warm covers.

  “I’ve never slept on a futon before.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I had no idea it could be so luxurious. I thought it would be hard and uncomfortable but I don’t think I’ve ever slept as soundly.”

  “The thermal waters are very relaxing,” he said.

  “Oh, very. I’ve never had such a gratifying experience. Ever,” Libby added on a more serious note.

  “Nor have I,” he said gravely.

  “In Japanese we have an expression: ‘Ki ga iku.’It refers to what happened to us tonight, Libby, in the pool, when we came together. Our two spirits were set free. It is a very good thing. What happened.”

  Libby lay very still trying to decipher the meaning and significance of Kojiro’s words. Did they mean he loved her? She wondered. Or wanted to spend the rest of his life with her? Or were they simply a quaint Japanese euphemism for fantastic sex?

  Oh, why couldn’t he just take her in his arms and tell her he loved her instead of trying to frame his sentiments in pretty and incomprehensible conceits? ‘Libby, I love you’ would not overtax his English vocabulary.

  But she was in the heart of old Japan, in an ancient ryokan, with a man that, for all his modern, Western trappings, epitomized the traditional Japanese male. Libby had no other choice than to be patient or to end the relationship. And about the only thing entirely clear in her mind was that she did not want to give up Kojiro.

  “You and I, Libby, we have something very special with one another,” he continued. “Yes?”

  “I think so,” she said, although she wasn’t sure whether he was referring exclusively to their sexual compatibility or their relationship in general. Kojiro had never discussed anything of such a personal nature before and sometimes his English was a little mystifying.

  Down the hall, the singing was growing fainter as, one by one, the men succumbed to the imperative of sleep. Kojiro adjusted the flame in the lantern, and then knelt on the floor beside Libby.

  “I have something for you,” he said.

  Libby, touched by his thoughtfulness, and curious, smiled. “You’re full of surprises tonight, Kojiro.”

  He traced a finger across her brow and behind an ear, to the nape of her neck, twisting his fingers through the strands of short, silky hair. “I wanted you to have something … ” He hesitated and then started over. “I wanted to give you something to remind you of me. When we are apart.”

  “I don’t need a present to do that. I think about you all the time,” she admitted. “I used to be preoccupied with work. Now, when I’m not flying, I’m wondering about Major Yoshida, where you are, what you are doing, when you’re going to call.” Libby reached up and touched his cheek. “When I’m going to see you again.”

  “There are far more interesting things to think about,” he said with a frown.

  “Not to me.”

  “Libby … ” Kojiro sounded as if he were about to make some critical announcement, but then he stopped and abruptly handed her the small, tastefully wrapped package. “Here, open it.”

  Whatever it was, jewelry from the looks of the box, it was obviously expensive. It bore the label from one of the most renowned jewelers in Tokyo. “I bought it last week.”

  Libby sat up and, after anchoring the sheet over her breasts, proceeded to carefully unwrap the box. Someone, probably Darlene, had regaled her one evening about the etiquette involved in exchanging gifts in Japan. She folded the embossed paper and ribbon and laid them aside, before opening the green velvet box and revealing a flawless strand of luminous white pearls.

  “Oh, Kojiro,” she said. “They’re beautiful. But … ” She was about to question the propriety of receiving such an ex
pensive gift, when he interrupted her.

  “I want you to have them.”

  Libby fingered the necklace. Her grandmother had given her a strand of pearls on her sixteenth birthday. It was of modest size and childish looking, compared to the one in the box, and she rarely wore it anymore. Kojiro had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble choosing a necklace that suited her so perfectly. “Thank you. I … Thank you. Really, I’m at a loss for words.”

  He shook his head and smiled. “It is not often an American woman is at a loss for words.”

  “Do you think I talk too much, Kojiro?” She looked a little piqued by his comment.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Then I’ll have to remember to curb my tongue,” Libby said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

  “There are other ways in which to communicate,” he suggested. “The Japanese have mastered the art of nonverbal ah, communication. I know it must be difficult for foreigners to understand our hidden language but I think you have succeeded very well. Better than most, Libby.

  “We don’t need words to convey what we feel in our hearts,” he said, tapping his chest.

  “I need them, Kojiro,” Libby said softly.

  For a long time Kojiro sat motionless, as if he were straining to hear the lyrics of the melancholy song coming from down the hall. Then without speaking, he removed the sheet covering her breasts, took the pearls out of the box and fastened them around her neck. “Perfect,” he said and he smiled.

  Libby gazed down self-consciously, at the splendid necklace. The pearls were as smooth and unblemished as her skin, and as creamy and lustrous.

  “I have never had feelings for any woman, like I have for you,” he began. “The first time I saw you … I did not think it was possible to, to fall in love … .” Kojiro took a deep breath. “Well, there, I have said it. I love you, Libby Comerford. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered.

  “Whatever happens in the future, you must never doubt my feelings … . Never question how happy you have made me.”

  “Kojiro … ”

  “I did not believe it was possible,” he said. “I did not believe it was possible.”

  For someone who had just made a declaration of love, he didn’t sound very happy, but the tenderness and devotion shining in his eyes, overcame Libby’s disquiet. Kojiro had actually told her that he loved her! He had given her the beautiful necklace as a token of that love, brought her to this magical place … . Libby held out her arms, an invitation, and a validation of his love.

  They made love in a more leisurely fashion than they had earlier in the evening. Kojiro seemed determined to express physically, the depth of emotion he found so difficult to convey in words and Libby responded with renewed sympathy, her ardor enflamed by every kiss and caress.

  “I’ve never made love in a pearl necklace,” she murmured, combing her fingers through Kojiro’s dark hair.

  He twisted the strand of pearls around his fingers, dragging his hand to her lips. “Libby, Libby,” he crooned, his eyes greedily scanning her body. The flame from the lantern cast playful shadows on her flesh, as his hands roamed over her breasts, squeezing, stroking the tantalizing pink cusps.

  She was getting impatient. He could feel her writhing under him, hear her labored breathing, smell the faint, intoxicating scent of her body. She was so moist, and warm, and welcoming.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  Kojiro acknowledged her confession with an anguished cry that, in her excitement, Libby mistook for pleasure, for just before the murmured endearment, he had plunged inside of her and was striving to bring them to another simultaneous completion. But it didn’t happen again that night. Or in the morning, when he took her hurriedly and in silence.

  There was no preliminary lovemaking, no long, passionate kisses or gentle stroking. He rolled on top of her, nudged her legs apart, and entered her. Afterwards, he acted as tense and edgy as he had when he awoke.

  He apologized over a traditional breakfast of raw eggs and rice, but he did not offer any explanation for the objectionable behavior. “I am sorry,” was all he said. “About what happened this morning. It was not very nice for you.”

  They set out for home shortly after breakfast. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, it had begun to rain. Melting snow made the roads almost impassable, so it was dark by the time they reached Misawa. Kojiro carried her bag upstairs to her apartment. “I cannot stay,” he said, before she had even unlocked the door.

  “When will I see you again?”

  “I have a lot of paperwork to do. I will have to go away for a recurrency course in a couple of weeks. And the general mentioned a conference at Yokota. I will call you and maybe … .” Kojiro forced a smile. “I will call,” he repeated, as he took her in his arms and brushed her lips with a kiss.

  He was about to pull away, when he suddenly crushed Libby to him, squeezing her so hard, it took her breath away. “I love you,” he whispered into her hair. And then he was gone.

  There hadn’t even been time to give Kojiro her photograph, she thought, he had been in such a hurry to leave.

  Libby went across the room to her desk and rummaged in the drawer until she found the envelope. There was a colored picture of Charlie and her, posing hand in hand in front of an artificial Christmas tree. They had been immortalized on New Year’s Eve by a local photographer who set up his equipment in the lobby of the officers’ club.

  A fleeting pang of remorse for the rupture with Charlie stung her conscience, and she couldn’t help wondering how things would have turned out between the two of them if Kojiro hadn’t walked into the restaurant that night. They might be engaged by now, planning a summer wedding. Darlene had told her she saw Charlie in the BX looking at engagement rings.

  But with Kojiro’s scent still lingering on her skin and his taste on her lips, Libby was too besotted with memories of the weekend to indulge in nostalgic might-have-beens about Charlie.

  Perhaps she should surprise Kojiro and have her picture taken in a kimono. There were photographers downtown who made extra money taking portraits of American women from the base dressed in sumptuous silk kimonos. Of course she wasn’t exactly the shape or size to do justice to traditional Japanese clothes, Libby thought, remembering how awkward she had felt in the yukata. And her short blonde hair would certainly look a little silly. But what the heck. It would be worth the torture just to see the expression on Kojiro’s face when she handed him the photograph.

  If he didn’t like it, she could always send it home, to add to her parent’s collection of family photos adorning the mantle. She could just hear her mother trying to explain that one to curious friends. ‘Libby loves Japan. She’s studying Japanese and taking a course in flower arranging.’

  Libby wondered how thrilled her mother would be if she knew her daughter was in love with a Japanese pilot. That might be a little harder for her conservative, Midwestern family to understand than her enthusiasm for Ikebana.

  A week later Libby found herself in a tiny dressing room at a photography shop, being garbed in a kimono in preparation for her ‘souvenir portrait.’ She had dragged Darlene Washington along for moral support after convincing her friend she was having the picture taken as a Christmas present for her parents.

  Darlene was doing her best not to laugh as the earnest attendant endeavored to disguise Libby’s large breasts so they would not spoil the overall effect of the ensemble. After putting on an undershirt and floor length half-slip, the hollows around her collar bone had been filled in with cotton wool, the small of her back with folded towels. But the size and shape of her bosom did not lend itself to such an easy solution and the woman kept rearranging specially designed pads to fill in the large gap underneath Libby’s breasts.

  It was apparent from the troubled expr
ession on her face that she was not satisfied with the results. But there was nothing else to do but finish dressing the tall gaijin as best she could. She held up the nagajuban, the full-length, linen under-kimono, for Libby to slip her arms into, adjusted the collar, and then tied the garment in place.

  Because Libby was unmarried, the attendant had selected a bright sapphire blue, embroidered furisode, or ceremonial kimono, with long flowing sleeves, and a patterned double-fold obi, tied in the “plump sparrow” bow for her to wear for her portrait. As Libby’s hair was so short and sleek, it was impossible to use any of the beautiful silver or tortoise shell ornamental combs and hairpins.

  But in spite of all the discrepancies in the gaijin’s appearance — for instance, it was impossible to get the panels of the kimono to lay as flat and smooth as fashion dictated — the end result was not entirely displeasing and the assistant nodded her head and smiled at Libby.

  Darlene was certainly impressed by the transformation. “Leonard will never believe it when I tell him about this. You should write a book, Libby. ‘How I Gave Up My Life as a Fighter Pilot to Become a Geisha in Japan.’ All joking aside, you’re not really serious about some Japanese pilot are you? Leonard said … ”

  “He’s a friend,” Libby said. “I’d like to leave it at that for now, Darlene. If you don’t mind.”

  “Don’t do anything crazy, Lib.”

  “Maybe I already have,” Libby sighed, as she stared at her image in the mirror. She could hardly breathe there was so much padding in place, so many constricting waistbands and wide sashes and silk cords wrapped around her middle.

  Darlene chewed indecisively on her bottom lip. “Do you think I dare have my picture taken in a kimono?”

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t think it would be too outrageous for an African-American woman to pose in that get-up?”

  “Not anymore outrageous than it is for me,” Libby said, as they both burst out laughing.

  The classic pose for a woman was a full-length portrait intended to display the straight lines of the kimono to the best advantage; but once the photographer got Libby in front of the lights he decided to concentrate on her upper torso. Despite her unfortunate height and shape, the sloping collar on the kimono emphasized her long, graceful neck and oval face and if he took the shots head-on, her bust line would not be that apparent.