by Vann Chow
“Thank you!” Smith grabbed her hand tightly in his fist, filled with gratefulness. “He lives near the Tokyo Tower. Minato district.”
Genius! Aileen smiled internally as she indulged herself in the warmth of the man's grip. With any luck, Aileen figured they would at least be stuck in traffic together for half an hour. And when he had retrieved the keys, she would persuade him once more to drive him back to his abode, where she would invite herself in with a clear conscience.
“Thirty-three thousand yen!” Smith looked astonished at the bill of the night. It had deviated from his calculation by almost eleven thousand yen and one heavy drinking old lady – Mrs. Newton had apparently consumed three glasses of vintage Merlot from 1991 before the two of them had arrived. The likelihood that he might even be paying for another couple's therapy session before theirs came into his mind. With reluctance, he tossed his American Express credit card in the bill holder, but soon took it back and replaced the holder with cash. “Save us the wait. And I ain't leaving no tip, so let's go before the guy comes back!” he said in a hushed tone as he stood up, reminding Aileen of a fugitive at large in movies.
“Okay...” Aileen replied, following his cue. Smith anxiousness had infected Aileen, as she realized how urgent the matter was to her date. Her heartbeat rose as she gave herself a mental push, thinking that she would earn extra points for helping her date out. By the time Aileen put her feet down on the accelerator when the traffic lights were turning yellow from green in the stretch of road ahead, she had become enslaved emotionally to Carson Smith. She would chase every whim of this man, risking traffic violations and others, in order to catch the last glimpse of green lights in his eyes. Her psychological dependency on him, often mistook as 'love' by most unsuspecting female afflicted with it, had happened without the awareness of either party.
23. A Definition of Romance
A loud sequences of muffled musical notes jolted everyone out of their lethargy. In the quiet compartment of the JR train, a black-white-and-yellow poster reprimanded the noise in bold font, 'Please do it at home. Uchi de yarou .'. Despite that, the short tunes borrowed from the popular anime series first aired in the seventies, Doraemon , about an electronic cat from the future who became friends with an introverted boy, injected a small dose of heaven into the late evening ride. Only an elderly lady gave a disapproving glance at Misa when she finally found her cell phone after a frantic rummage through her purse to turn off the sound.
‘One missed call - Mr. Tsukada’ It showed on the display. Misa leaned back in her seat and looked outside so she could search for signs of where she was. Spots of indistinct lights dotted the darkness that laid outside. That made her wonder whether she had drawn the curtains closed at home. The chilly night air would be unfit for Tatsu to sleep in. He had just returned home that afternoon from the hospital, still recovering from his recent injuries. And worse, the wind might rattle the rickety windows of the old, rundown flat and wake him. And he would realize that Misa had once again slipped away while he was asleep.
“Two text messages. - Mr. Tsukada, 12:32 AM. Mr. Tsukada, 12:45 AM.” The mobile device in her hand vibrated, she was once again reminded of her lateness. The text messages had arrived in her cell phone with a delay as the Odakyu train passed through a stretch of less well-connected suburbs on the way to Setagaya in southwest Tokyo.
In an attempt to soothe her anxiety, she deleted the two messages without reading, one of the few ways a person could escape temporarily from the whirlwind reality in such a highly connected city.
Before Misa had left the house, she had written a memo for her brother and stuck it to the bathroom mirror, knowing for sure that he would see it in the morning when he woke up. It lied blatantly, ‘You're not awake when I have to leave for work. Morning, shift today at the Thunderbird. Love, big sister.’ Lying doesn't offset caring, she thought to herself. Tatsu would get it someday. For now, she was content with her decision, for this was the only way she knew really well how to make money. Enough monetary compensation for what did not feel like work and did not fit in its description. For all the other possible occupations for a girl with no high school education, like waitressing, cleaning, office administration, security and teaching, all of which Misa had dipped her wings in, could not compete with it in the financial freedom it provided. And boy, she was good at it! Since no one, like Constanti Stanislavski, had written an 'An Actor Prepares' for her trade, no outsider should contradict her assessment of self-worth easily. And she knew she was good. She was not shy to feel the sense of pride to be knowledgeable and skilled in what she did. Sometimes, she thought the level of improvisation required in her trade could only be surpassed by the most strenuous of acting jobs. And if there were not enough reasons for her to stay in her trade, she would tell you honestly that she had grown dependent of a few of her clients. Everything they did, or merely talked about, were windows to a life-would-be, a normal life. And that's life, she would argue, she could envision easier by participating in it, even as a smallest, most trivial, most degrading of all roles, that someone like her could otherwise not attain despite her best effort. And Mr. Tsukada that she was about to meet was one of her best clients of all. His life story intrigued Misa, although he found it utterly boring.
“Misa dear, what took you so long?” Tsukada's car slid to a halt next to Misa at the guest parking area of Setagaya station near the east entrance. His tone of voice was not one of reprimand, but of nervous anticipation. He grabbed Misa's hand as soon as she climbed in the low-set seats of his Nissan sports car, and without asking, he rubbed it against his crotch. It had sparked a violent passion in him, the passion that he had suppressed all the way in his drive over. He scooped Misa's head in his palm and forced her lips onto his. The sucking sound he made French kissing her slipped through the windows. Two equally horny teenagers a few paces away peered into the car to search for the source of it. Displeased at the unwanted attention, Tsukada switched into first gear and zipped away from the parking lot.
“The train ride was 55 minutes,” only then had Misa the chance to reply him, when Tsukada shifted his focus on the road. He nodded at her explanation, while his mind was elsewhere, a dream world. A hot, steamy and wet one.
The self-heating elements of the leather seats in Tsukada's car warmed Misa thighs. It was a pleasant feeling only the rich could afford to find out to be necessary. Tsukada had it turned on again. He had once confessed to Misa that the mere thought of her lady part being warmed set him on fire. Albeit being reminded unwillingly of that fact every time she climbed into the car to find the seat heater turned on, she found nothing erotic about it, not even when she forced herself to as a thought experiment. Perhaps that was the point where men and women differ – cool gadgets and equipment always leave icy trails on a woman's mind. They quench fire, not start it. In any case, she was comfortable, and she started to relax and ease into her role. Cliché as it sounded, Mr. Tsukada liked to pretend that they were dating. But if Misa were to keep a diary, it would not describe her rendezvous with Mr. Tsukada as a matter of 'pretension'. Already at the kiss, Misa was charmed into his lover, and that loving feeling that swelled in her chest, made her feel that she could easily win a golden globe for tonight's performance.
And that winning performance was not solely on her account. Once again, Mr. Tsukada grabbed her hand and held it tightly in his grip as he drove. Only occasionally releasing it to switch gears.
Although he was not pretty – a rather tall but slender man of early forties who still had all his hair and wore, at all times, a pair of gold rimmed glasses that reminded everyone around him of his harmlessness – his simple features made Misa let her guard down. Absurd as it might be, Tsukada was the kind of man that was sincere to himself about his need for a better sex life and felt no guilt about it. He took the whole affair seriously for that was what he wanted, and that he would treat Misa like a good partner, even in crime, sincerely.
Misa leaned closer to Tsukada an
d gave him a kiss on the cheek. Her face was prickled by the short stubs of beards that had grown their way out through the long working day. He raised her hand and kissed it in return.
A wave of longing for love overwhelmed Misa's sense. She did not forget about her brother, however. In the back of her mind, she was having an imaginary conversation with him – Tatsu, I know you only want the best for me, but you've terribly misunderstood my clients, and my intention to continue. It was not only because of the money, Misa thought. Never would she discuss her clients and her line of work with Tatsu. It would offend his sensitivity, to know that his sister was a quote-unquote prostitute. Yet she did say that last line the night before Tatsu ran out of the house in anger after their arguments and got himself into God-knows what kind of trouble that landed him in the hospital in the end. That evening, Tatsu had caught her slipping into a stranger's car for the first time with his own eyes, after almost a year long of mocking jeers from his friends who heard rumors of his sister's self-degradation.
“Why do you sleep around with men twice your age and break up their families? What has gotten into you?”
I didn't ruin any family. Never, would I want to do that, Misa wanted to say, but her brother was on a rant. “I know you're paying for everything here, but I can work too! I don't want your dirty money!” he said. “My sister, a shofu ! My goodness! Is that what you want to tell Mother? What you've come to Tokyo to do? Would you like to tell grandpa this?” he said with reprehension, almost as if threatening to tell them himself if she didn't quit.
“I am not a... I am not!” Misa retorted. She despised that word, ‘ shoufu ’, or prostitute in English. She couldn't bring herself to say it. It gave her chills just to think about it.
“I saw you! With my own eyes!” he cried, “Don't you want to live a better life, instead of sulking around, doing God-knows-what with these people?” he asked.
No, fool! Don't you see, I am living a better life already? I have never lived a better life , Misa would like to say, but she knew better than to contradict. “Would you stop lecturing me?” In the end, that was all she had the guts to say to her little brother. And her imperturbable attitude had made Tatsu snap. The apartment door banged shut after him before Misa realized the severity of the situation.
It never had been her forte to think about consequences. To live life as it came had felt right, until that very moment.
Misa turned away from the row of concrete two-story apartment buildings to look at Tsukada, as the car hurried down the narrow streets of Setagaya.
For men like Tsukada, the pleasure of making love had been denied from him since the day his wife turned into just a woman that took care of the household. If Misa was fulfilling an occasional carnal desire that was the result of days, or even years of oppression, to Misa, that was not too much to ask for.
Tsukada squeezed her hand again as he slid into the parking spot in the street outside of his empty apartment. – The wife and the baby had gone to Spain on vacation with her parents. – The little squeeze was all he needed to do, really, to set Misa's heart racing. She would gladly give her all to a man that held her hand so tight as if his dear life depended on it anytime, with or without the fringe benefit.
“You're very excited. I haven't even started...” Tsukada slipped his fore and middle finger under Misa's underwear as soon as he carried her into his bedroom. The gloomy future of his marriage hit her every time she entered this room and saw the two separate beds, set apart by a dressing table, perhaps once upon a time were pushed tightly against each other's frame. Tsukada commented again at Misa's arousal. The sliminess and wetness had been sure signs of it. “Why can't Sonja feel that way for me?” he said, and plunged himself into Misa's soft neck. He nibbled it softly between his gums as he slithered his left hand up her T-shirt. The sound of Sonja's name had once again reminded Misa of Tsukada's story of how he had met his Spanish wife during Tsukada's college days. She remembered having extra admiration for Mr. Tsukada after she heard his recollections, despite the current state of their relationship. Who could be surprised if such a rare intercultural union did not bring about one or two marital issues?
Misa's T-shirt had slid further up her body as Tsukada made his way up. When Tsukada grabbed forcefully at her breasts, the shirt gave way. It scrunched around her upper chest, revealing two plump peaches of flesh, wrapped under a white lace bra. Misa wriggled to sit herself up on the bed. Despite her enjoyment, it was clearly going too fast, and with her business in mind, she thought that would make for an undesirable precedent. As she could not afford to ever start getting requests for fifteen minutes’ appointments, she asked for permission to freshen herself up. The train trip from central Tokyo at that hour had been a trying one. She pleaded, as she did before, and she further impressed the importance of the short bathroom break by dangling a piece of seductive garment in front of Tsukada. She walked, pelvis jutted back to highlight her curve, towards the bathroom. It worked every time.
“I'll light some candles,” Tsukada said, scrambling to his feet to take off the suit that he was too busy to take care off when they entered.
Candles – not artificial lights – another reason why Tsukada could make her his anytime he wanted. Only a romantic would think of that. So why didn't it work between him and his wife? The question hit Misa as she twirled around the bathroom doing nothing in particular while keeping an eye on the time on her watch. Five more minutes in here, she murmured to herself.
24. Turn Into Something
Andy whistled, as Smith and an unexpected Caucasian female with a healthy figure entered his apartment.
“So this must be, uh,” Andy said, his eyes peeled to the nook on Aileen's nose, for if he allowed himself to look anywhere else, he would not be able to take his eyes off. “Smith never told me your name, but you must be the lawyer.” He extended his hand to Aileen, who gladly shook it.
“Don't get any idea. I've already told Aileen you're dating Miss Newton,” Smith walked into the center of the living room and declared.
“I'm not dating Miss Newton,” Andy clarified. “As a matter of fact, we've never dated.”
“I also told her it's typical of you to deny it if anyone should ask.”
Aileen pulled her hand slowly out of Andy's unrelenting grip.
“Nice apartment, huh?” Smith said to Aileen as he looked left and right inconspicuously, pretending to show interest in Andy's decor in order to scan the interiors of all the rooms.
“Come sit down.” Andy guided Aileen to one of the white leather couches in the center of the living room whose tip-top condition never failed to impress Smith every time he visited. It baffled him immensely. Given the amount of frolicking that happened on this couch, the only way they could be clean was if every one of Andy's many female companions were also moonlighting as the cleaning ladies. While that thought came initially as a joke, Japanese were obsessed with hygiene, and the chance of that being true was probably higher than his mind could fathom, on second thought.
“This place is gorgeous!” Aileen complimented the owner. “But isn't it too big for just one person? Sorry, I have assumed, from what Smith told me on the way, that you must live here alone.”
The size of his apartment was five times that of Smith's and could easily be a family apartment for any Tokyians. Of course, they have different priorities in life. In fact, every younger man at Andy's age had different priorities than him – Smith thought proudly of his son who would never squander a dime on the unnecessary.
“Well, I like to have friends over,” Andy explained. In case Smith would say something inappropriate that revealed his true womanizing nature in the present company, he switched theme, “and I have always loved decorating! You can buy all sorts of amazing home designs here in Japan, and it would be such a waste if I don't have anywhere to put the pieces. What do you think of the living room? I was going for minimalism with a touch of naughtiness this season.” Triumphantly, he looked at the huge beige r
ug with a red square that laid under the couches and the TV set. Smith followed his glance and scanned the beige rug for strands of long black hair that might tell him something. Smith blamed the mixture of myopia and presbyopia when his search came up empty.
“I don't know about the decoration, but you've got your cleaning done right,” Smith said, scheming in the back of his mind how he could get to the topic of concern. “Did you clean the entire afternoon?”
“No, I have a team of professionals coming in here to clean them. Three times a week during the day. D' you want an introduction? They normally only do corporate apartments. My entire building was filled with corporate rentals. I don't know if they do company dormitory,” he said, earnest in his consideration to connect Smith to his janitorial service provider while underlining the fact that there was a seemingly wide gap in financial freedom between the two, with him being the bachelor of the two.
“Three times a week? That explains it,” Smith murmured to himself after hearing the extravagance. Seeing that Andy could go on forever on the topic of household triviality in the presence of female company, he decided to cut straight to the chase. “So how's Misa and her brother? The boy's doing all right?”
“He survived. Two broken ribs, a broken nose and five stitches on his forehead which somebody apparently cracked open with a beer bottle.” Andy recounted his injuries plainly, as if what happened to the boy was the most ordinary thing. He picked up the jug of mineral water sitting on the coffee table and offered to pour a glass for Smith, who declined.
“Who's that?” The details of the event seemed to have upset Aileen.
“My friend's...” both of the men spoke at the same time. Realizing it, Smith gave Andy the pleasure of explaining his acquaintance with Misa.