by Isis, Justin
I did not tell you that you were beautiful. Instead I took your hand and drew you down to the bed. You made no resistance.
My thoughts on first loving you — really loving you — are more or less indescribable. It was painful for both of us, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. When it was over you were bleeding, and I wiped you off with a tissue. Still I couldn’t leave you alone. Enraptured with your cheeks, your knees, your shoulders, I wanted to kiss every part of you. Your bare arms had the thinness of a young girl’s; as I focused on them I thought of you as some fantastical being or angel. I had never imagined a joy like this could be possible.
We lay together for what must have been hours, although it felt much shorter. We spoke at times, but mostly I held you in silence. At some point you got up and checked the time on your phone. Someone would be home soon, you said. I rose from the bed and put on my clothes. Still naked, you saw me to the door.
From then on I tried to see you every day, although I was often disappointed. I thought of you constantly, afraid you would vanish. Still, I did not at first think in terms of love, which seemed a feeble word for what I had experienced with you. But I am not a great imaginer, and I have no other way to describe it. I only knew that I wanted to follow you into some other world. Does this sound naive? Between us we had dreamed you — a dream you originated, but one I am convinced you could not have finished alone. You needed someone to encompass you, to reflect you in their eyes and hold your gaze as you walked towards them. For all my faults, I am warmer than a mirror.
This period coincided with Makiko’s rising success. Flushed with new money, she would buy me and my father presents, and I did my best to take advantage of her generosity. When the bookstore closed and I lost my job, I asked her for a large loan. I was working on a business plan, I told her. Surely she of all people understood the need for initiative, of striking out on one’s own?
With my sister’s money we were able to complete your transformation, and you became what you had always been on the inside, a beautiful young girl. I took you shopping in Shibuya and Machida, bought you handbags, hair extensions, any piece of jewellery that caught your eye. Now you had boots, dresses, fashionable winter coats. You lost all trace of shyness and walked at my side in public with the same grace you had shown me in your room.
We went to restaurants, stayed in hotels, had picnics in Yoyogi Park. Sometimes we wandered the streets at random — I can remember one Sunday afternoon with you, walking between Asagaya and Ogikubo, when some combination of breeze and clouds and sunlight affected me strongly. As I walked with your hand in mine, I felt completely at peace: the entire span of my life seemed to have passed in a few moments, and now it all seemed weightless and unreal, departing from memory as quickly as the fragments of an unpleasant dream. To have endured childhood, and one’s teens and twenties, and then to realize how little it all meant — for this I owe you everything.
I want to recall one night in particular, which seems both representative of our time together and perhaps the culmination of it. It was not long after that first day in your room. You wanted to go dancing, and so we arranged to meet at your station in the evening. I stood waiting by the ticket gate, checking the time incessantly, overcome with nervous excitement. You had changed your hair, and when you arrived I noticed you without at first recognizing you, so that you seemed as distant and inaccessible as any other figure in the crowd. But then you smiled and walked towards me, and in that moment of recognition our shared world established itself again.
The brief train ride remains fixed in my mind. It could not have been more than fifteen minutes, but while it lasted I became intensely conscious of each passing moment. You were seated next to me, so that I was able to examine your reflection in the window across from us. Your long silver-blonde hair fell around your shoulders. You were wearing heels and a black sleeveless dress, its silk surface broken by a silver pendant I had bought you. That day you had gone to a nail salon in Omotesando, and now your hands were beautiful jewelled claws, ornamental and useless, the hands of an empress: each inch-long silver nail encrusted with plastic gems and tiny pink roses. As always you sat with your back perfectly straight.
I was so focused on your reflection that I did not at first notice a wasp had flown into the train and was now buzzing around your head in wide, lazy circles. In a gesture of complete passivity you allowed this insect to drift closer and closer until it landed and began crawling across your face. Afraid that it would sting, I could do nothing but watch as it traced a course up your cheek, towards the bridge of your nose. As I watched it climb that great summit I felt an unbearable jealousy. Again I imagine myself in the wasp’s place, and in my memory your face appears as a voluptuous garden of flesh, the line of your lips and the curve of your jaw the features of some enormous living landscape. Your nose slopes gently, complementing the raised ground of your cheekbones, and your irises float like lilies on the white pools of your eyes, each lash a thick black reed. I imagine myself wandering for hours in this warm and fragrant garden, perhaps lying down at last and entering a dreamless sleep.
My primary memory of our trip from the station to the club is of a smell: the smell of the streets, the smell of cigarette smoke, sewage flowing under Shibuya, vomited alcohol running into the gutters; the smell of lion-haired host boys, of artificial girls with metallic mannequin faces and Cecil McBee bags... this smell brings that night back to me, the smell of giddy sickness and new love, which you know are one and the same. When the light changed we crossed the intersection and walked up the hill hand in hand. You bought a carton of milk from Lawson and drank it in between drags from your cigarette, the burning tip creeping towards the shimmering wetness of your mouth, its white glaze of milk and lip gloss. I gripped your hand and the points of your nails pressed into my palm.
When we arrived a crowd had gathered outside. As we took our place in line I observed those present, and I am certain none of them shared your style and poise. Many of them turned to stare as you passed, and I could sense their barely-veiled jealousy. In the line you stood up straight with your shoulders held back, keeping your gaze focused on the club entrance in front of you. As even your barest movement commanded attention, you were careful never to move more than necessary.
After waiting in line for half an hour we at last passed through the doors. The club consisted of three levels, and at least fifty bodies were crowded together on the first. The smoky darkness of the interior, broken by the strobing displays of the LED system, gave you the appearance of an apparition. Hard, focused beams of green light radiated from the projector horizontal with the floor, while other projectors overhead pinned kaleidoscopic flowers to your hair and dress. You wandered onto the floor and took up a central position, not dancing as such, only nodding your head to the beat. I stood a few feet away, drink in hand, content to watch. Soon the beat subsumed the conversations around me, and I felt visually deafened as well, my impression of your face fading into a general haze of light and color.
We had been on the floor for around an hour when I excused myself to go to the bathroom. When I returned I found you standing by the bar, talking to a man in a black blazer and white shirt, its collar unbuttoned. His features were fine and unlined, and he looked to be in his early thirties at the latest, although I couldn’t see his eyes, which were hidden by a pair of blue mirrored sunglasses.
—Your friend? he said as I approached.
I smiled and introduced myself.
—She’s very beautiful, he said.
—Yes.
—Has she considered modelling?
—No, but she’s interested in that sort of thing.
The man removed his sunglasses and gave me an almost conspiratorial look.
—She has a very special quality. With her height and body she’d do well.
I accepted this compliment as if it referred to me; this was how intensely I felt our connection. The man gave us each one of his cards and returned to his ta
ble, where a large group was seated. Over the course of the night several other people introduced themselves to us and — perhaps out of your usual reticence, perhaps out of a new imperious detachment — you let me speak for both of us. I did not specify our relationship, leaving those interested to infer it for themselves.
We left the club some time in the early morning and made our way to a manga cafe. Once inside our cubicle I turned off the lamp and seated you on my lap. In this cramped cell I pulled you close and let the darkness concentrate the feel of your body and the sour-sweet taste of your sweat, your flesh smelling faintly of coconut oil. Though I couldn’t see you clearly I felt my other senses sharpening, so that each impression — each touch, each breath and subtle movement — carried a heightened intensity. I moved inside you and felt sick with happiness, as if I had gorged myself on raw sugar. If these emotions form a spectrum, then my happiness in its excess slanted towards revulsion, although I knew that just beyond it was an even more concentrated joy, a nameless state of intimate contact with the impossible.
I can recall a thousand other impressions from that night and those that followed, and I am certain these recollections could fill the length of a book. But something in me resists transcribing them. Some memories are most evocative in their undefined state, and to record them would risk turning them into a mere catalogue. That, and I know you have little patience for reading. So I will try to be brief, although not only for your sake, since I find what follows unbearably painful.
One day you contacted me early in the morning and requested an immediate meeting. Your message contained nothing untoward, but for some reason I felt uneasy. Perhaps it was the hour — our meetings had never been regular, but this was the first time you had sent me such a direct appeal so early in the morning. Still, I rushed to meet you at one of our usual cafes. When you walked in I barely recognized you. You were dressed in your school clothes, and you looked to have been beaten: your lip was bleeding, there was a gash above your eyebrow, and your eyes were puffy. When I asked what had happened you didn’t answer.
—I need your help, you said.
—What is it?
—I got this girl pregnant.
I laughed, but you stared at me with an uncharacteristic gravity.
—She’s taken the test and everything and it says she’s pregnant.
I stared at you, not certain how to react. I saw no reason for you to lie, but what you had said seemed too unlikely to believe. Still, there was nothing for me to do but take you at your word.
—What do you want me to do? I asked.
—I was wondering if I could borrow some money so we can go to the doctor...
—Who is this girl?
—Just a girl.
We remained in the coffee shop for another half hour, but I could get nothing more from you. I still don’t know what happened, since you refused to tell me anything. Didn’t you think of me at all? I went home saddened by your lack of trust, and, if I am honest, jealous of the unnamed girl.
In spite of my jealousy I immediately set out to help you. I consulted with Makiko and presented the problem to her in the abstract — did she, among her large circle of acquaintances, happen to know any doctors? Any who specialized in certain procedures? Which options were cheapest? Before long I was put in touch with a Dr. Sugimoto, and an appointment was made. I met you and the girl on Friday of that week, and we took a taxi to the clinic in Nishi-Azabu. I sat between you and the girl in the back seat, you looking anxious, the girl — Yuka or Yuko, I can’t remember her name — looking bored, impatient. Her manner was one of active uninterest; apart from a brief greeting she did not thank me for my help or otherwise acknowledge my presence. Overall she seemed beneath your dignity.
The procedure did not take as long as I expected. When it was over we went to McDonald’s, and I bought us all ice cream sundaes. I remember the girl’s look of absorption as she shovelled ice cream into her mouth, oblivious to anyone around her. You must have been surprised to find a mother caring so little for her unborn child, tossing it away like a piece of garbage. Remember that in this world those like you and me, those who can love, are rare. If you’re ever short of confidence, know that most people will let themselves be used if you only enforce your will. But it’s never worth doing; no one is worth using. The boredom sets in very quickly.
This incident affected me deeply, although I have never felt anything like a parental instinct. Rather I feared losing you, and I feared for your safety. With no job I could always be with you, but school and your home life still occupied most of your time — along with your other activities, which remained a mystery. I had been content with the frequency of our meetings, but now I decided that, in order to prevent any further accidents, I would have to take on the role of your guardian angel. I began taking the same trains as you to make sure you arrived at school and left it safely. For the most part I kept my distance, but on the few occasions when I suspected something was wrong and made my presence known, you reacted with such coldness that I could hardly believe you were the same person I had grown to love. When I explained that I was only looking out for you, you became even more unresponsive. This secrecy, I decided, was the result of fear — perhaps you were in some kind of danger and didn’t want me involved?
I became adept at concealment, so that I could observe you without disturbing your routine. I saw you meeting friends you hadn’t told me about, saw you entering places I had never guessed you knew. I learned something of your secret life, but only enough to increase my fear. I wanted to intervene countless times, but somehow I held myself back. Imagine the loneliness of these nights spent outside clubs and warehouses, nights in the corners of trains, watching you from a distance. My only wish was to walk at your side, but I could not even speak a single word; to protect you I was forced into the role of a stranger. Our meetings continued, but it was difficult to hide my anxiety, and I sensed you becoming colder. Perhaps if I spoke my fears openly, I reasoned, you would entrust me with yours in return; but whenever I brought them up you insisted nothing was wrong.
It was only a week ago that I followed you to Shibuya and watched you standing outside the station, dressed in clothes we had bought together — golden wrist bracelets, a black strapless top and Cocolulu jeans. Before long a man in a charcoal-grey suit and blue mirrored sunglasses passed through the turnstiles and greeted you. You linked hands and walked up the hill, towards the love hotels. I followed you as far as the entrance to a place called the Black Cat, where I paused on the verge of confronting you. Finally something — cowardice or restraint, I don’t know — overcame me, and I watched you disappear inside.
I spent the rest of the day alone in a cafe overlooking the station. It was there that I remembered where I had seen the man before. I returned home and went through my things until, in a corner of my desk, I came upon the business card I had received at the club. It identified him as Satoshi Ito, a graphic artist and photographer. The card gave Mr. Ito’s phone number and business address.
I have in front of me now a folder of the photographs I took of you. The first are primitive shots of you posing on the bed in stages of undress; there is one of you waking after falling asleep in your makeup, another of you wriggling into a new skirt, smiling as you notice the camera. You were not afraid then to be photographed unposed. Towards the end are more composed shots, ones where I paid attention to lighting — practice pictures for the magazines. In these you are always aware of the camera, staring at it directly or else averting your eyes with mock coyness. The progression of these photographs parallels your development; in the earlier photographs you look relaxed and playful, but as the technical quality of the images improves, your expression becomes serious, even grave. This is in contrast to the models you admire, who always appear smiling and natural even in routine shots. For them, self-embodiment is never a matter of transcendence, because they are able to take themselves for granted to an extent you never could. The closer you came to them, the
more you envied their entitlement and, I suspect, the more you feared appearing unnatural. What I had taken for inherent grace must have been the culmination of supreme effort, but even as you approached the realization of your ideal you longed for a sublime passivity the very opposite of effort; in short, you aspired to become a mannequin.
Now let me suggest that it is I who am the mannequin. I existed first as my mother’s accessory, and then as my sister’s shadow, and occasionally — when he could be bothered — as my father’s son. I had neither chosen nor desired these roles, but the roles moved me about and made it seem as if I were alive. When you came upon this mannequin you enchanted it, brought it to life like the famous Italian puppet or one of those living dolls you see in films. Like them I have no innate drive, no intrinsic self; I can do nothing but follow my creator. I know that I can never love a man or a woman — only you. Everyone else on Earth seems lifeless: women strike me as unbearably affected, and men artless bores, their facile confidence unmerited. I have no use for the default loves, the default emotions of this world. All my true feelings spring from you, and your well-being is inseparable from my own. I mention this because I must now come to my confession. I have chosen to confess not out of guilt — I know I acted justly — but because I want you to realize that I had your best interests at heart. I am certain that, in time, you will come to understand.
There is no need to describe how I found Ito’s home address, which was not as difficult as you might imagine. I went there yesterday at noon, when I was certain he would be out. My intuition was correct, as I was greeted at the door by his wife, an appealing and well-dressed woman around my age. I wouldn’t be surprised if she graduated from a prestigious university; certainly her appearance and demeanor, even when caught off guard in her home, carried an impression of refinement. I introduced myself as a private investigator who had come to discuss an important matter concerning her husband. She showed me into the apartment — spacious and elegantly furnished, its walls bearing framed black and white photographs, mostly urban landscape shots — and I sat down at the living room table, a minimalist construction of thinly-cut glass edged with steel.