‘You didn’t bring anything,’ he says, stepping inside with his bag.
She stops him in the doorway and kisses him. It’s a serious kiss and he’s not sure why it should be solemn. He’d prefer to celebrate.
‘It’s dry,’ he says.
‘Dry?’
‘These places can be damp,’ he says cheerfully, looking over her shoulder into the brown lounge. Hitomi’s friend is a Kiwi, he sees. The few books are English language dating from pre-1943 and post-1985. Mainly there are board games and video cassettes. He finds that the fridge and hot water are on. She watches him do his round and drop his bag in the bedroom with the queen-size bed.
‘I put something in your bag,’ she says.
He finds his hair-clippers. There is an extension cord in the laundry and she cuts his hair outside in a sheltered corner. It’s the first time they’ve been out in the light of day together. She wears her blue sunglasses, gumboots and a plastic cooking apron for the occasion. She laughs often as she dabs very cautiously at his hair with the clippers, and intersperses her laughter with apologies. ‘Oh, no … sorry … I hope you’ll be able to forgive me … whoops.’ He finds her laughter to be very Japanese in this regard.
‘We’d better wait until dark for the beach,’ he says.
‘The haircut’s not that bad!’
He laughs.
‘Have you had a good day, sir?’ she says in English.
He turns around. She’s pretending to look at a mirror in front of them.
‘Good, thanks. I ran away with my Japanese girlfriend.’
She resumes cutting his hair with microscopic movements. ‘Is she really your girlfriend?’
‘Yes, she just doesn’t know it yet.’
‘Oh … she must be crazy.’
‘That’s what I like about her.’
She puts the clippers on the ground and walks quickly away, clomping in the big gumboots. The clippers keep buzzing as he wonders what to do. He runs his hand over his head. It’s very uneven.
Chapter 21:
Someone’s crazy
She’s standing over the sink watching the tap run. The gumboots, apron and blue sunglasses are gone.
‘Hitomi.’ He can see she’s trembling. ‘Look at me.’ He means his half-shaved head, a winning card, surely. As she turns he smiles.
‘Don’t call me crazy.’
‘I won’t.’ Raising his hands he moves toward her.
‘You did though, just now.’
‘You said it first. I thought we were joking. You know, the invisible hairdressing salon.’
‘Uh.’ She scoots away from him to the lounge area on the other side of the kitchen bench and fixes him with a blank expression. He sits down on a bench stool. She continues to stand. ‘You imagine your life is perfect,’ she says, ‘that you do everything exactly as you should. You think—’
He cuts her off. ‘No. Things are very bad for me now.’ He’s tempted to suggest she is crazy. His car is right there, through the sliding door.
‘That’s the reason you want to see me.’
‘Of course. Shelter in a storm.’
‘Shelter? I don’t think you mean that. You’re saying that just to make amends.’
‘You think my life’s some kind of paradise? Don’t you listen when I speak to you? My niece has been murdered. My brother is in prison, about to be charged with his wife’s murder. I lost my job. My team has drowned at fucking sea. Maybe you are crazy—’
She blinks. ‘You’re so calm and collected. It’s as if all those things were minor inconveniences. You’re going to Auckland to buy a dog! As if that will fix everything.’
‘What?’
‘You told me you’re going to buy a dog in Auckland.’
Nuts. Obviously. As he stands to leave, he remembers. ‘That’s an English idiom!’ In English he says: ‘I’m going to see a man about a dog means I have some business to attend to.’
‘What?’
‘I did say that. It’s just a weird expression.’
‘You don’t have to go to Auckland?’
‘Yes, for business. I haven’t had the chance to tell you.’
‘You don’t tell me anything because you think I’m crazy!’ In a moment she’s out the door and running for the pines. In broad daylight.
He takes the clippers to the bathroom and finishes the haircut inside five minutes. It’s time to cut down to essentials, he realises, as his hair falls way. He needs to go to Auckland and speak to Noble Dawn immediately. Any delay will only make matters worse.
He’s putting his pack in the car when a man appears at the end of the driveway, a small man with shaggy, curly hair and a sharp nose. He wears shorts and boots; a few wood shavings cling to his jersey. His eyes gleam at Chris’s late-model car.
‘Gidday, mate.’
‘Hey, how’s it going?’
‘I’m Ritchie. Thought I’d say gidday. I’m just over the road at number 3. Staying long?’
Chris shakes his hand and introduces himself. ‘I have to go back to Wellington for a bit.’
‘You just got here, mate.’
‘I know, mate. The annoying thing is that I just have to do one thing. Then I’ll be straight back.’
‘I guess the missus is a bit pissed off about that, mate. Saw her marching off.’ He giggles.
‘Yeah, she’s pretty stressed. Needs some peace and quiet, mate.’
‘Well, this is a good spot for that.’
‘Yeah, peace and quiet, no one bothering her. That’s what she needs.’
‘Good stuff.’
‘All right, Ritchie. I’ll be off.’
‘Drive safely.’
As soon as Ritchie disappears into his house Chris follows the trail Hitomi took into the pines. His footsteps are muffled and wind in the branches roars above him in deathly stillness. The roaring is the sea, he realises. At the top of the rise he sees it, a dull grey expanse collapsing on the long sandy beach. He scans the dark trunks around him, the beds of orange and brown needles, looking for a flash of blond. Nothing. But someone or something has been down the dune, leaving wide and shallow circular tracks. He steps onto the sand and sinks. After a few steps he looks back. His tracks are the same. He runs. The sand is heavy and in his haste to find her and save her he stumbles. He checks himself, lets his breathing settle. The wide and sandy beach is deserted in both directions. No harm will come to her here. It’s only sand, sea, and a few gulls under a lead sky. His strange anxiety abates. ‘Crazy bitch,’ he mutters and follows the odd tracks at a sedate pace. Sensibly, they veer back toward the pines. He sees her sitting on a bone-smooth log in the shadowy eave of the trees. She doesn’t wave and neither does he. Staring ahead, she frowns with her mouth as he sits on the log next to her.
‘You did a good job with the clippers.’
‘I’ve been cutting my own hair for years.’
‘It felt very intimate for me to cut your hair. I know you were bored.’
‘I’ve had a lot of haircuts, I suppose.’
‘Huh.’ She stands and walks into the pines.
‘Hitomi, wait.’
Over her shoulder she calls, ‘I know what you think of me.’
He follows. ‘No. Listen to me. Stop. We need to talk.’
‘You’ll tell me I’m not crazy while thinking I’m getting crazier by the minute.’
‘Wait.’ He takes her by the arm and she flinches as if expecting a blow. He’s surprised. Gently, he says, ‘Hitomi, the neighbour saw you run into the pines. He thinks you’re my wife.’
Expressionless, she says, ‘That’s funny.’
‘I need to pick you up in the car somewhere and sneak you back to the house.’
‘No. I can sneak back through the trees.’
‘All right.’ He releases her.
‘You can go now.’
‘All right.’
‘Travel safely.’ Her attempted smile is a brief grimace.
‘How long will you stay?’
‘Until I can arrange a lift. There’s a phone in the house, right?’
‘The neighbour is nosy. Keep the door locked and the curtains drawn.’
‘I hope the dog in Auckland is nice.’
‘I’m afraid he isn’t.’
She blinks for more information.
‘He had my niece murdered, and probably my brother’s wife.’
‘A Kiwi?’
‘No.’
She looks down and nods. ‘Good luck. Please remember me with affection.’
Suddenly emotional, he strides away, certain he’ll never see her again. But by the time he’s retraced his steps to the house he has changed his mind. Unlike the pines, stuck in one place and roaring their heads off, he is an agent capable of choice and making change. He drives to the shop and buys a box of food and supplies for her. His generosity pleases him, makes him feel good. It’s right. This is who I am, he thinks.
When he returns, the door is wide open. It exasperates him that she should be so reckless, particularly after he warned her. He dumps the box of supplies in the kitchen and calls her name. Silence. His heart begins to bang. And then he sees that the bathroom door is closed and hears the beat of the shower. It feels like a lucky reprieve. He knocks and cracks open the door.
She’s bald. Her face, made alarmingly expressive, widens in horror.
‘What the—’
‘Get out!’ she shrieks.
He stands in shock outside the door. The water shuts off and he hears her sobbing. In the lounge he opens the bottle of wine he bought for her and sits at the table. He’s on to his second glass when she appears, bewigged and meek. Although dressed warmly in her jacket and jeans, she looks cold.
She speaks in English. ‘Did I appear miserable to you?’
‘What happened?’
She looks down. ‘Huh.’
‘Glass of wine?’
‘No, I’m allergic to alcohol. You know that.’
He hadn’t known that, but remains silent.
‘I think I’m crazy, yeah?’
‘Why?’
‘I … you’ll be angry. Sorry. I apologise in advance at what I’m about to tell you. I was fired. I lied to you. I was fired for inappropriate behaviour. With a man. Not you, huh. That’s all I want to say. You can go now.’
‘I bought you some food. I’ll come back in a few days to check if you’re here.’
She blinks at him. Tears tangle in her eyelashes. In Japanese: ‘This is why I’m so sensitive about questions of sanity. I keep doing things I know I shouldn’t. I know full well the danger and irrationality of my actions, and the consequences of doing them.’ She gestures to the door he closed. ‘I left it open knowing I shouldn’t. Would a rational person do that?’
‘Did you want the neighbour to come in?’
‘I made a wish that you’d come back.’ She shrugs and a rueful smile flashes across her face.
‘It worked.’
‘Yes.’
‘Who shaved your head?’
‘It’s a ritual humiliation.’ She blushes beneath her wig but is angry as well. ‘It’s a ceremony performed in front of a group of people who were required to leave Japan. Some of them, most of them, for stupid little reasons, really. We’re called Settlers, right.’ She finds his eyes. ‘You know.’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you always known?’
‘Yes.’
She blushes deeply again. Then she’s on his lap. So light. Unexpectedly, she buries her face into his neck. The sudden gesture of trust and surrender unnerves him a little.
‘I love you,’ she says.
‘I think I must love you, too.’
She kisses him passionately on the mouth. Immediately excited, he carries her to the bedroom, kissing her all the way. As soon as he’s torn off her clothes he laps her clit greedily and a thought comes to mind that he tries to repress regarding the clippers and her bush. He can’t fight it. I want to shave her pussy and fuck her all day. She’s pushing his head down, moaning, when he decides to go for it. He pulls on his trousers and T-shirt.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Back in a minute.’
Her response when he returns from the car with the clippers in hand surprises him. She spreads her legs, arches her back and twists one of her thick, tubular nipples. He fumbles with the plug as he pushes it into the socket. The buzz draws a groan from her. He puts the vibrating thing on the bed and strips. She’s very wet.
‘Just preparing you for your haircut, madam,’ he says, while finger-fucking her. ‘Have you had a good day?’
‘Yes. I, uh … ’ She groans.
Her bush comes away thrillingly easily.
‘Careful,’ she tells him.
He works slowly. ‘A little wider, madam. Beautiful. Hasn’t the weather been mild? Is this okay?’ he asks, resting the vibrating body of the clippers on her.
‘Mmmm.’ She bites her lip and pushes them away. ‘I want you now,’ she tells him.
He looks down and watches his cock pistoning in her naked pussy. She utters a guttural cry, unlike any sound she’s made before, and he comes a few seconds later. The clippers buzz away as they lie together panting.
‘Looks good,’ he says, standing up to admire his handiwork.
‘Like a little girl.’
‘Not from here.’
She runs an experimental hand over it. ‘Feels weird.’
While she’s in the bathroom he digs the moisturiser out of his bag. What was supposed to be a quick, practical skincare procedure turns into a long and very localised massage. Although exhausted, he’s fascinated by the smooth and silky sensation. Her pussy’s been transformed, opened like a flower, and is all petals under his circling fingers. She rolls onto her stomach. ‘Fuck me.’ Under his nose the wig is annoying, a cold curtain of nylon, but he has no desire to remove it. He pulls her up onto all fours. Her head hangs between the peaks of her wide shoulders. The image of her shaved head flashes through his mind, the amplified expression of horror drawn on her face as if in heavy black lines. The dark stubbled skull. Cancer, death camps, impending death. Witches were shaved. A keening wail escapes from her, punctuated with each thrust. Beautiful women in league with the Devil. Recklessly fucking him. He sees her naked on a broomstick, sliding up and down it in front of a half-circle of mechanics in some little garage in Petone or Lower Hutt. It’s an act against death, against life-numbing respectability. He fucks away the remains of the Kiwi Auto Parts manager, or whoever it was, who didn’t fuck her like this: with her face down in the pillow, wailing, with her shaved pussy up in the air.
His body feels stretched and pummelled, as it does after a physical game well won. Fulfilled, at peace, he brings her tea and microwaved dumplings in bed. She sips and nibbles whereas he wolfs his dumplings down on his way back to the bedroom. His eyes droop as soon as he climbs into bed. He hears a window open, the snap of her lighter. Then she’s snuggling close. He speaks into the back of her wig.
‘What did you do wrong in Japan?’
‘A silly little thing.’
Rolling away from her is the only way of communicating his displeasure he can manage.
‘I thought the society here might be freer. I was wrong.’
It’s a true enough sounding claim, he thinks, and falls asleep.
Chapter 22:
Hunger and anger
It’s gloomy when he wakes. She’s asleep, turned away. An item-by-item procession of the food he bought for her floats through his mind, along with associated cooking times. On the other hand there are takeaways. Yes, he thinks, better not to eat all her food and then leave. After a shower he finds her still asleep. It’s dark. He writes a note and self-consciously adds two Xs. The blue-black air outside is cold and enervating. A steady breeze sounds in the pines; the sea is loud and tasteable. It strikes him as a good time to stretch his legs before the long drive to Auckland later, but his hunger is disrupting his peace of mind. It’s rare for him to b
e so hungry, to experience the discomfort many people deal with regularly: thought-destroying, ease-annihilating hunger. He checks the door has locked behind him. The kitchen light is only dimly visible through the heavy curtains in the lounge. She’s secure.
He’s salivating at the smell of fish and chips filling the car as he pulls up at the bach. The glazed figure of his brother gleams in the headlights in its spot under the apple tree. ‘Don’t worry, bro,’ he tells it. ‘After I eat, I’m going. I’ll let Noble Dawn know that—’ Out of the corner of his eye he sees something large disappear into the pines. He leaps out of the car and sees the tops of a couple of young trees shiver. They’re only fifty metres away but pursuit would be hopeless without a torch. Ritchie. He’s probably standing there panting, looking at him now, the nosy little prick. Chris is about to sprint for the pines, if only to work off his rising fury, when he sees the lights on at Ritchie’s house, where Ritchie, he knows, is not home. He decides to ask Ritchie’s wife what he was doing in their backyard. First, he takes the fish and chips from the car. Hitomi opens the door and welcomes him with a smile of unusual warmth, a beautiful smile. She’s wrapped in a towel and is still wet from a shower. It erases any doubt in his mind as to what has happened: Ritchie’s been looking in the bathroom window.
‘Be right back. Close the door.’
You pervy little bastard, he thinks as he marches across the road. At the letterbox he pauses, thinking Ritchie may flush himself from hiding rather than have the issue taken inside his house. He waits for a while, scanning the pines, and becomes aware of the sound of trickling water, the hollow rattle that occurs when a sink is drained or a shower used. He walks up a few steps and looks up the side of the house: a narrow path overhung with bush. A light is on, a top window cracked open; the fragile breath of steam passes into darkness. The vantage point, should he wish to look in the bathroom window, is on top of the retaining wall.
He knocks loudly on the back door, only two windows down from the shower. Water continues to run in the drain. He knocks again. The water continues. What he wants, before he dies of hunger, is to ascertain whether it’s Ritchie in the shower. If it is, he can go and eat. Quickly, he heaves himself up onto the wall and crawls along it through brushing pungent ferns and ponga. It’s a woman’s face, lulled near unconsciousness; her eyes are closed, her dark wet hair slicked back. He’s about to let himself down off the wall when he hears footsteps. After a moment’s deliberation he sits back deep in the ferns. It’s not Ritchie but a large bearded man of about fifty, swinging a chilly bin. Under his bush shirt is a pronounced beer gut. He seems to test the door. It’s unlocked and he lets himself in. Chris jumps down off the wall, brushes the soil off his pants and jacket, and knocks. The shower continues. He knocks again.
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