A Woman's Nails Read online

  Graduating from beer, Reina and I moved onto cocktails, and with each drink moved closer towards each other. Where we had been sitting across a small table from each other at first, we were now side-by-side, legs touching, hands waiting to be held.

  There had been chemistry between us from the beginning, a strong affinity that would have brought us together sooner or later. Alcohol merely provided the catalyst.

  It was well past two when we left Umie, and the subway had long stopped running. Looking back, it had probably been Reina's intention all along to have sex with me that night, but as decorticated of confidence as I was, I couldn’t take anything for granted. When Reina asked if she could spend the night at my place until the subway resumed service in the morning, I didn't run excitedly through an inventory of the delightfully decadent possibilities; I merely considered myself fortunate that one of the better nights I'd had in a damned long time didn't need to end yet. I took Reina's hand and we walked, chatting and laughing all the back to my apartment. It was the same route that had, only a few nights earlier, witnessed a very different Peador.

  At my apartment, Reina asked if there was something she could change into.

  There were, of course, the cotton shorts and tank top that Mie had left, among other things, neatly folded in a sacristy of sorts at the back of my top drawer. It seemed a sacrilege to disturb them and awaken the memories resting with them, so I gave her an oversized T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, instead.

  After changing, Reina lay next to me on the futon, nuzzling into my chest. I put my arm around her slim body, and kissed her broad forehead, her nose, her lips. There was a familiarity in our caresses and kisses, as if we'd been sleeping together for years. And yet, it still came as surprise when she said: “You can have sex with me, if you want.”

  Never before had sex been solicited to me so dispassionately by someone. I didn't quite know what to say. Yes, I wanted to have sex. An erection you could crack walnuts with was testament to that. But much more than the sex Reina was offering, I just wanted to forget Mie.

  Before I could reply, Reina was already raising her arms above her head and whispering “Banzai!” so that I could remove the T-shirt. She slipped the boxer shorts over her bottom and down her slim legs to her ankles, where she kicked them off, and lay completely naked, stripped even of her modesty, next to me. As the rising sun began to fill my apartment with golden warmth and the chirping of birds filtered through the morning's silence, she undressed me.

  Reina spent most of the Golden Week holiday with me, either at my empty little apartment or hers, having sex--when she liked--two or three times in the evening, once or twice in the morning, occasionally in the afternoon. She would then go on to spend the following weeks, first wondering and later fretting over, what meaning there was in my penis poking in and out of her vagina. A lot happened during those weeks; still, something more important did not. Two weeks into the relationship, I was just as ambivalent about falling in love with the woman as I had been in having sex with her the first time.

  “You can love me, if you want,” she would eventually tell me, offering her heart as matter-of-factly as she had first offered up her slim, naked body. Before I could reply, Reina was already raising the bar, whispering, “Peador, aishiteru.” I love you.

  We'd spend our mornings lying on my futon or in her bed, having slow, lazy sex until it was time to get ready for work. Once in the office, we would hide our complicity, try to keep our minds from returning to thoughts about what we had been doing in the shower only hours earlier.

  She'd worry that our hair smelled of the same shampoo, our bodies of the same soap. I'd grow increasingly concerned about Yumi and the boss sensing the overly familiar way in which Reina and I spoke to one another or how she would sometimes gaze longingly at me. During a weekend camp with students, Reina and I stole away in the evening to fuck in a bamboo thicket where her ecstatic screams startled, wildlife and our co-worker, Yumi, alike. The following morning at breakfast, Yumi mentioned hearing the screams and being too terrified to leave the room.

  “I think someone was being raped,” she said with a gravity that caused Reina and me to burst out laughing. “What on earth could be so funny about being raped?” she asked.

  “It was probably just some cats in heat,” Reina replied. “I wouldn't give it another thought.”

  At work, I would sit at my desk, my mind full with the images of the last twenty-four hours. I would see Reina lying below me, wide-eyed with wonder and excitement as I ejaculated onto her breasts. She would play with it, finger it and massage her nipples with it. I would be distracted from my work when I would remember her kneeling before me in the shower, flashing me that charming, slightly crooked, smile of hers before taking me into her mouth and sucking me off. After swallowing, she would say, “You love this, don't you?” I'd nod, too lightheaded to reply.

  I did love it. I really did. Trouble was, my heart wasn't into it nearly as enthusiastically as my balls were. I was still missing Mie more than ever.

  Reina would eventually come to ask for and eventually demand the contents of my heart, expecting a sentimental treasure to be hidden behind my reticence. She had taken the silence for bashfulness, but, the truth be told, there wasn't anything there. I was bankrupt in that regard. You could no more extract blood from a stone than a warm emotion from my cold heart. I liked Reina, I truly did, but I couldn't bring myself to love her no matter how many times she endeared herself to my cock. I was enjoying the time I spent with her, the bed we were sharing and the sex we were having. And, though I had come to depend upon her for companionship and warmth, I just couldn't bring myself to love her.

  “If you're just having sex with me, I want you to stop it,” she says angrily, shoving me away. She turns and faces the wall.

  It's not that I'm “just having sex” with Reina, but during the last three weeks I've never once made love to her. Not even once.

  I kiss her gently on the back, put my arm around her and hold her closer to me.

  “But, if you want something more . . .”

  I do want something more. The problem is that Reina will never be able to provide it. So, the next morning I let her go.

  In the following weeks, I wonder if I've made a mistake breaking up with Reina. Here is an attractive woman, ravishingly sexy, and intelligent. Men are literally tripping over each other trying to woo her with the best they have to offer. Of all the men she could have been with, Reina gave herself, body and soul, to me even though she had found me at my worst—drunk and dejected and broke. But, as much as I came to rely upon Reina to distract me from my loneliness, I know I had little choice but release her from a relationship that would only disappoint her so long as my heart remained on the sideline.

  We still talk frankly about the things on our mind, and continue to share the occasional dinner together after work, but an uncomfortable tension has started to grow between us. Humor and small acts of kindness are no longer the palliative they once were.

  2

  One morning on my way to work I see a beautiful, stylishly dressed woman with an infant in her arms leaving one of the luxury condominium buildings that tower like monoliths over my third-class apartment. She descends the short flight of marble steps, and walks towards a Mercedes Benz station wagon parked out front, its hazard lights on. She opens the back door and places her child carefully into a baby seat, then, as I am passing, she opens the driver's side and gets in.

  Judging by her face and the clothes she's wearing, she can't be much older than myself, yet she looks so much more mature, so much more complete as a human being than me. Married with an infant child, living in one of the pricier buildings in this affluent neighborhood, and driving a luxury car. How I must seem by comparison--broke as always, living alone in a dump, in dire need of a new wardrobe, and the only transportation I possess are the worn-out loafers I'm wearing and a rusty bicycle I liberated from a train station one shamelessly drunk night.

&nbs
p; The woman radiates a satisfaction in life, reminding me how quickly the content I was enjoying only weeks ago has already grown flat. My thoughts return predictably like a pendulum falling back towards the center to Mie, to the pregnancy and relationship she ended. How old would the baby be now if she had carried it to term? Two, three, four months old? Would it have been a boy or a girl? I'm afraid of falling into that yawning gap between all that could have been and the little that actually is.

  One Saturday evening in late May, Reina, Yumi and I, along with another American, Mike, go out for dinner at an izakaya that is having a special on nama biiru, only five yen a beer. Five yen! I feel as if I've died and gone straight to heaven.

  Despite my indifference, Yumi is still in love with me and has grown impatient in recent weeks. Her infatuation was amusing at first, but has started to wear on Reina's nerves, all the more so now that we are no longer fucking each other’s brains out. As a result, Reina has in turn been breaking my balls, pleading on a daily basis for me to do something to make Yumi stop hounding her for advice on how to woo me.

  And if that isn't enough melodrama for you, Mike is in love with Reina and not the least bit inclined to conceal his feelings. His interest in Reina was like a festering wound we all would have preferred to be bandaged, kept out of sight.

  Mike is a head taller than me, and several years older. Yet watching how he behaves around Reina—petting her hand with the tips of his long, hairy fingers, and flattering her in his deep, voice with trite romanticism—strikes me as comical and childish. It's depressing to realize how inexperienced he is when it comes to women. It wouldn't surprise me if I were to learn that at thirty-three years of age, he is still a virgin.

  While the girls are in the restroom, Mike says, “Yu-chan likes you.”

  This “cherry boy” speaks knowingly as if he has written the book on women.

  “Yes, well, it's no state secret,” I reply.

  “She's a nice girl.”

  If you think so, why don't you date her?

  It kills me how generous people can be with compliments when they don't have to actually milk the beat up cow their trying to off load.

  “Yes, she is,” I say, but so the fuck what?

  “Are you interested in her?” Mike asks.

  I nearly laugh. “No, I'm afraid I'm a little too preoccupied with myself at the moment to even think about dating someone.”

  “Ah, that's too bad,” he says, pursing his lips in a show of genuine disappointment. “You two would make a nice couple.”

  Where is he getting this crap?

  “Too bad for her,” I correct.

  I finish my beer, and ordered another. Waste not, want not.

  Mike, by the way, doesn't drink. He's a Seventh Day Adventist or something. No alcohol, no tobacco, no drugs, no pork, no shellfish, no caffeine, no sex before marriage, no fun. The man is a wet blanket.

  “So, what about you? I take it you're interested in Reina?” I say.

  “Yeah. There's something about her. She's not like other Japanese girls,” he says, his eyes glazing over dreamily. “She's feisty, speaks her mind, you know. She's not afraid to get her hands dirty. So blue collar and down to earth. What's not to like about her?”

  A broad, contented smile spreads across his homely face.

  I suppose another person might have been jealous of the way Mike was holding Reina’s hand earlier. But then, I knew Reina wasn't interested in him. Still, I couldn't tell whether she was just being polite, or trying to provoke a response from me. She'll be disappointed if that's the case; it wouldn't bother me in the least if Mike took Reina home and the two of them had wild sex till dawn. But then, knowing that Mike's incapable of giving in to such passion without succumbing to an intense guilt trip afterwards, nullifies any threat he might otherwise pose.

  That said, I'm not quite sure whether I want to leave the playing field altogether. Reina was a good lay, and it was precisely her insatiability in the sack (which matched my tendency for priapism) that was helping me keep my mind off the very things I want to forget. Even though I didn't particularly miss sleeping with her, the absence of anyone in my life at the moment has made me reevaluate the relationship Reina and I had and start second-guessing my decision to prematurely end it.

  So, I say to Mike, “Don't tell Reina that I mentioned this, but, uh, her boyfriend recently left her and now she seems, well, confused about a lot of things.”

  There is some truth to what I’m telling Mike. Reina’s boyfriend of several years did leave her, which is why so little effort was involved in getting into her pants.

  “I hear he left her hoping she'd follow him to Tokyo,” I say.

  I guess nothing was ever meant to happen between Reina and myself, but after drinking too much and talking too much she probably came to realize that, like me, she too had her own vulnerabilities and loneliness. When you place two people like us together, they’ll burn and burn and burn.

  On the morning after we first slept together, Reina confessed that she could fall in love with me. I kissed her on the lips and on her forehead, then spoke gentle words, conveying similar feelings.

  The words had been uttered by reflex. Nevertheless, she held me ever tighter and confessed that she was falling for me.

  I held on tightly. I wish I could have told Reina the same, but the words were not to be found anywhere within me. I liked her and enjoyed the sex we'd just had. I was fond of her company and I respected her, but I was nowhere near love.

  Not even in the ballpark.

  It was as if she were sinking, hand raised and praying I would grab onto it and rescue her, but I didn't. In the end I would watch her sink alone, because I was the one who wanted to be rescued.

  “Reina is special,” I tell Mike as the girls emerge from the restroom. “Word of advice: Walk. Don't run.”

  After dinner, the four of us part ways. Yumi heads for the train station to catch the last train, and Mike walks away after giving Reina a tight, inviting hug. Reina and I make our way for the subway station.

  On the train, we sit close together, shoulders touching. When my stop comes, the door opens with a hydraulic hiss. I ask whether I can spend the night at her place. Reina gives a subtle nod. The bell rings, the doors close, and the train jerks and creaks forward. I offer my hand. It's been weeks since I've done so. She takes it with both hands then rests her head on my shoulder. When I kiss the top of her head, she raises her face and kisses me on the lips.

  We walk hand in hand from the station to her apartment not speaking a word.

  The apartment is a mess as always, books and magazines on the floor, clothing piled on the table and chairs, open bags of recyclables in the kitchen. Cleanliness is not one of Reina’s virtues. To make matters worse everything, including my bowl of rice the next morning, is covered with her cat's gray hairs. It’s a miracle the cat isn’t bald.

  Her bathroom, too, where we've often had sex in the morning is a horror story as always. Black mold has crept malignantly from the base of the walls upward towards and across the ceiling to the vent in the center from where it looks intent upon mounting a moldy raid on the world outside.

  Reina pours me a beer then sits down beside me on the living room floor and begins massaging my shoulders. I take an awkward sip from the beer and wonder what Mike is up to, whether he's gone home or is drinking orange juice at The Big Apple. I wonder what he thinks of this night, if he feels as if he's made any progress along the meandering path that leads to Reina’s heart. Despite all the men who adore Reina and want to be with her, I am the one she is with, the one she is massaging, the one she is undressing, the one whose dick she is now sucking.

  “The next time you spend the night,” she tells me, “I want you to bring condoms.”

  We have unprotected sex not once, but several times throughout the night. I sink so deeply inside her and fuck her so hard that she eventually bleeds. Still, she continues to move her hips above me, back arched, her round breasts fl
ushed and protruding, nails digging into my chest, breaking the skin.

  “Don't you love this?” she says as she comes and comes and comes.

  When hints of dawn begin to break through the kitchen window, she falls asleep in my arms. Dust and cat hairs are airborne in the warm light. After a while, I manage to fall asleep myself. I dream of talking Mie out of her marriage with Tetsu. It is so vivid, so believable that when I wake I am disappointed to find Reina asleep besides me.

  Reina and I continue to sleep with each other for another month out of mutual loneliness and convenience. Though she must know the day will come when we no longer share a bed, she continues all the same to search my heart and thoughts for something that just isn't there.

  9

  MIE

  1

  A few minutes after nine on Thursday morning the students start to trickle in and the lobby soon echoes with their excited clucking. For many of them, I've been told, my lesson is the high point of their week, an unsettling thought if ever there was one.

  Babysitting is provided, so many of the young housewives come with their children. Sleeping infants are strapped tightly like papooses to their mothers' backs. The more bashful of the toddlers fret unless their mothers carry them in their arms, while the naughtier children bolt in with the subtlety of thunder and stir up a perfect storm of mischief.

  Although the kids—obvious benefactors of grandparental largesse—are dolled up in pricey outfits, wearing vivid t-shirts with kôan-like[5] sayings, such as “happiness is eating a potato”, the mothers are dowdy, frightfully so. Many of them are the “good wives” of bureaucrats or professors from the prestigious national university, meaning their husbands, like the samurai of the past, have all the status one could hope for, but none of the income. Though only in their mid-thirties, they look and act much older. Their limited experience in society, however, has them carry on like Catholic high school girls. The good kind, that is.