“THAT THING is gonna make you go blind and stupid. Why don’t you read a book?”
“Shhh,” May said, and kept her eyes glued to Sam’s Game Boy. Manny sighed and continued to wipe down the counter. It was late afternoon, business was slow and he longed for conversation. May hadn’t said an intelligible word in over an hour, just an occasional grunt as she struggled to beat the machine. He’d never played the game and couldn’t imagine the fascination. He was getting bored watching.
He tried again. “Don’t you have any homework?”
“It’s Saturday. I don’t have homework on Saturdays. It’s bad enough I have to go to school half a day.”
Manny missed his daughters and was feeling paternal. “What did you learn this morning?”
May groaned and switched off the Game Boy. “We didn’t learn anything. Saturday is mostly sports. I’m in the soccer club. We kicked the ball around for a couple of hours and went home. I bet your daughters don’t have to go to school on Saturdays.”
“School’s good. The more you study, the more you learn.”
May snickered. “Really?”
“Well, uhh...”
“Pathetic,” she muttered, switching the game back on with decisive, conversation-ending click.
Manny picked up a newspaper and studiously ignored her.
Sam walked into the coffee shop with Kiyomi right on his heels.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” May yelled. “You’re supposed to be at juku.” Juku was cram school. Some of May’s classmates attended willingly. More were forced to go by parents hoping it would help them when they took their high school entrance exams. May had never set foot in a juku and if she had anything to say about it, never would.
Kiyomi set her book bag on the counter and plunked herself down next to May. “I didn’t go, it’s too boring. I went shopping instead.”
May grabbed her bag. “Buy anything good?”
“A submarine game. I got two of them so we can hook my Game Boy to Sam’s.”
“It isn’t one of those shooting kind, is it? You always beat me at those.”
Kiyomi was already plugging the two machines together. “Don’t be so picky. It’s fun, you’ll see. It’s got good noises.”
May had switched to Japanese and the girls were speaking too fast for Manny to keep up. He looked to Sam for help.
“Don’t worry, you’re not missing a thing. Just little girl talk.”
“I heard that,” May muttered, but submarine warfare had captured her attention and she didn’t look up from the screen.
Sam finished his beer. “If you need me I’ll be up on the second floor introducing myself to our tenants.”
The fours bars faced the shrine across the street. An outside staircase provided exclusive access and kept drunks from bothering the residents on the upper floors. The name of each bar was written in blue neon script over heavy wooden doors.
It was five p.m. and two hours before opening. A small sign on each door announced that the bar was currently being cleaned in preparation for the evening. The first was named Chieko, presumably after the owner. The door was propped open with a dustbin and Sam peered inside.
It was very dark, the only illumination a weak afternoon light slanting through the doorway. He stepped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust. The room seemed deserted. To the right, a long bar disappeared into the gloom. To the left, low couches and tables hulked in shadow.
A whiff of perfume drifted by and something moved in front of a low table. He should have identified himself at this point, it would have been the expected thing to do. But the compelling rustle of lace over nylon shut his mouth. He took a silent step forward, like a big cat. He saw a woman’s face, just a glimpse as she turned away, her eyes sliding over his.
Sam knew he’d been seen. The woman moved in front of a low table. She had her back to him and a dust rag in her hand. He took another secret step and stopped just two yards away. Her dress was red knit and very tight. She hummed a soft tune and bent over to wipe the table. She pushed up her sleeves to work. Her arms were thin and pale, her hair tied back in a long thick braid.
Sam hesitated. An alarm jangled but it sounded far away, not nearly as close as the woman. His vision tunneled as she leaned farther over the table and her hips began to sway.
The darkness, the perfume and the hint of a panty-line triggered an exquisite loss of free will. Cars honked their horns; a cook in the Chinese restaurant screeched out an order. Music and voices from the bar next door muffled the sound of Sam slumping onto the couch.
He thought of escape routes, awkward and improbable. I’m sitting in this seat, one of many, because this is a bar and that is what people do. That my nose is less twelve inches from her ass is just a coincidence.
The woman wore sheer black stockings with red butterflies embroidered on the ankles. She was tall, her legs mythically long. Her dress slithered over her body, stretching tight as she wiped the table.
She shifted her feet, straddling Sam’s Nikes with velvet high heels. Sleek nylon babbled and whispered as her shiny thighs brushed and rubbed. She straightened and flipped the dust rag over. He leaned back as she reached down to massage her instep. She turned her head and he could see her face in profile and shadow.
Her eyes were wide, dark and dreamy. They never approached Sam but rested quietly in the doorway and the fading triangle of light. She sighed and returned her attention to the table.
Sam’s knees sought to caress her spread legs. She opened her stance, staying just out of range. Her head almost touched the table as she inspected her reflection in the warm wood.
Ever so slowly, the red dress began to work its way up her hips. The hem was a handspan from his face. The exertion of her efforts pulled it higher still.
Sam forgot to breathe. Lives have passed more slowly—from cradle to grave—the dress crept up. The texture and pattern of the stockings changed near the top. Dark thick lace, mysterious and arabesque, led him higher.
He encouraged the hem of her dress with the tip of a finger and it slipped up without further help. Above milk-blue garters, her thighs were tender and white, luminous in the darkness of the bar.
Sam groaned softly.
Her panties were transparent black and decorative—garnish—loose enough to slide aside. She touched her nose to the table and squeezed the rag tight. He leaned forward. A single stroke, front to back, a long slow lick. She gasped, a high jubilant bell.
Sam fell back on the couch. His vision was steamy, aqueous, like a sheet of heat on the street. She turned and walked away, shimmering, sliding her skirt back in place.
Before he could escape or follow, before he could think, she was back with a tray and a bottle of beer.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, “I didn’t see you come in. I was in the back cleaning.” She held up the dust rag as evidence and alibi. “Have you been waiting long?”
Something was caught in Sam’s throat; his erection was twisted in his jeans. It hurt. He groaned and finally managed to croak. “OK. That’s OK.”
She smiled and introduced herself, speaking quite formally. The sign over the door was correct—her name was Chieko and she was the owner. She sat with grace and complete propriety on the opposite couch.
Sam took a few deep breaths. He did his best to remember where he was—Japan—and cooperate. Nothing had happened, he’d just walked in the door. He began to introduce himself, trying to speak casually, still greatly excited by the illusion she was weaving.
“I know who you are,” Chieko said, pouring his beer. “Your sister showed me your picture. I’m very sorry about your mother.”
It was ten minutes before Sam could adequately understand what she was saying and respond coherently. Chieko remained perfectly composed, and if she laughed at all, it was only during his most confused moments, and then only with her eyes.
At last, he was able to ask a question of his own. Business was just fine, she answered, and then apologized for any disturbance the karaoke music might have caused.
Sam shook his head. “Maybe I’ve still got jet lag or something but I haven’t heard a thing. How late do you usually stay open?”
“I try to have everybody out of here by five. Sometimes the singing can get pretty awful.”
She fetched two more beers. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Please.”
“Anyway, if it gets too loud just call and I’ll turn it down.”
Chieko crossed her legs and tugged at her skirt to keep it from rising too high. His eyes were enticed, they lapped at her knees and thighs. He checked his watch to cover up. It was nearly six and he had three more bars to visit. If he didn’t get out of there soon...
She lit a cigarette. Pinpoints of ash fell through the smoke and settled on a deep shelf of red knit. She looked down and one-by-one flicked the ash off her breasts with a long pink nail.
“You can speak English, can’t you?” she asked.
“Sure, of course. How come?”
She smiled, her hands now safely at her sides. “I’ve always wanted to learn but I’ve never had the time.”
“It’s not so bad. It just takes time.”
“I know. Your sister has taught me a little but I’m too stupid.”
Sam assured Chieko that she wasn’t stupid, told her he was positive she was extremely bright and clever. She stretched and grinned as she listened.
Listening to himself, Sam was grinning, too. The compliments were wild, they waltzed out of his mouth shamelessly. He forgave himself, it was all quite beyond his control.
Chieko was enjoying herself. She liked Sam. At least he wasn’t pretending his bullshit was sincere. It looked like he might burst out laughing. She beat him to it. Their laughter dispelled much of the darkness in the room.
“Maybe you could teach me a few words someday when you’re not busy?” she asked, relaxing back on the couch, her legs flowing loose and slightly naughty.
“I think I could probably find the time. Is there anything special you’re having trouble with?”
She shrugged. “I can hardly speak at all. Everything’s difficult but I’ve learned a few verbs.”
“Which ones?”
Shy to speak in English but game, Chieko scrunched up her eyes in concentration. “I know verbs like READ and WRITE and, uhh, DRINK and SPEAK.”
“Your accent’s pretty good,” Sam encouraged. “Any more?”
She slid forward and leaned across the table. “And I know LICK and SUCK.”
Sam nodded like a teacher, approving but requiring more. “Well, that sounds good to me, Chieko. I think you’ve made a lot of progress with your verbs.”
She refilled their glasses. “Thank you Sam-san, but verbs are easy. What I’m really having trouble with are adjectives. There’s so many.”
“Yeah, adjectives can be tough,” he agreed, moving forward to meet her in the middle of the table, their lips inches apart. “Which ones did you have in mind?”
“Nagai,” she said, placing her hand on his knee.
“LONG,” Sam translated.
“Futoi.”
“THICK,” he said.
Chieko traced her finger up his thigh. “Katai.”
“HARD.”
She squeezed and whispered, “Sugoku katai.”
“VERY, VERY HARD.”
