One night I was late coming home. Karl had dropped me off in the back streets, afraid he’d be spotted if he stopped the car in front of our apartment building. I trudged home alone in the darkness. When I got to our apartment, I opened the door and went straight to my room. It was already after ten but the apartment was pitch-black, which I found very strange. When I peered in the kitchen, I saw no evidence of any meal. Not a day had gone by that Mother didn’t make some kind of Japanese food. Thinking it odd, I went to her room and peeked in through the door. I could see Mother in the dim light. She looked like she was sleeping, so I quietly pulled the door closed without calling out to her.
Thirty minutes later when my father returned, I was in the bath, scrubbing myself clean from my evening with Karl. There was a fierce knocking on the bathroom door. Karl and I had been found out! That was the first thought that shot through my head. But that wasn’t it. Father had come to tell me that Mother looked strange. He was terribly upset. As I ran to the bedroom, I already knew in my heart that Mother was dead.
When we lived in Japan, Mother had never once allied herself with my sister against our father’s bad moods. But once we got to Switzerland, she thought only of my sister. I despised my mother’s spinelessness. I hated her negligence.
This is what happened once. I invited a number of my classmates over to our apartment to hang out. My mother refused to leave the kitchen.
“I’d like to introduce you,” I pleaded, as I pulled her out by the hand. But she shook me off and turned her back on me.
“Just tell them I’m the maid. I don’t look like you, and trying to explain will be a hassle.”
A hassle. That was Mother’s favorite word. Trying to learn German was a hassle. Doing something new was a hassle. My mother remained so unaccustomed to Bern that she easily got turned around whenever she ventured out into the city. It was not long, therefore, until her personality began to undergo some kind of collapse. But I still do not understand what drove her to want to die. By then she was in such a desperate state that even a tiny event would have been enough to push her over the edge. Was it the steamed rice that she didn’t prepare well the other day? The high cost of natt, fermented soybeans? Or was it my father’s Turkish mistress? Perhaps my affair with Karl? I really didn’t care. By then my curiosity about my own mother had already dwindled.
But this much is certain. Both Father and Karl experienced a brief moment of relief with Mother’s death. And then they each began to worry that perhaps it was knowledge of their crime that led her to her suicide. They had to live out the rest of their lives in a battle with their own feelings of guilt.
That wasn’t the case for me. What her death brought me was a clear understanding of the consequences of adult selfishness. It wasn’t my fault that my mother and father had produced such a beautiful child, such a miracle as myself. And yet I was the one who was forced to shoulder the burden. I’d had just about enough of it. I certainly did not want to get saddled with the responsibility for my mother’s death. So when my father brought his Turkish mistress into the apartment, I was relieved because it gave me an excuse to demand that I be allowed to return to Japan. I didn’t care if I didn’t see my elder sister. She hated me anyway. Besides, Johnson had finished his business in Hong Kong and he was waiting for me. Why couldn’t I stay with him? I was no longer a virgin, and I wanted to see what sex would be like with Johnson. I wanted it so badly I could hardly stand it.
• 3 •
For a nymphomaniac like myself, I suppose there could be no job more suitable than prostitution; it is my God-given destiny. No matter how violent a man might be, or how ugly, at the moment we’re in the act I cannot help but love him. And what’s more I’ll grant his every wish, no matter how shameful. In fact, the more twisted my partner is, the more attracted I will be to him, because my ability to meet my lover’s demands is the one way I can feel alive.
That is my virtue. It is also my biggest flaw. I can’t deny a man. I’m like a vagina incarnate—female essence embodied. If I ever were to deny a man, I would stop being me.
I have tried to imagine any number of times what might, in the end, ruin me. Will I collapse of heart failure? Will I suffer an agonizing illness? Will a man kill me? It had to be one of the three. I’m not saying I’m not afraid. But because I can’t quit, I suppose I’m the one responsible for destroying myself.
When I finally came to this realization, I decided from then on to keep a journal. It’s neither a diary nor a list of appointments but a record just for me. Not one page that I’ve written here is fiction. I don’t even know how to write fiction—it’s beyond my creative abilities. I don’t know who’ll read my record, but I think I’ll leave it open on my desk with a note attached that reads For Johnson. He’s the only one who has a key to my apartment.
Johnson comes to my apartment four or five times a month. He’s the only man I will see for free. And he’s the only man with whom I’ve had a long-standing relationship. If someone were to ask me if I loved Johnson, I could easily answer yes. Or just as easily no. In fact, I myself don’t know. What is certain is that Johnson somehow sustains me. It is perhaps a longing for a father figure? Maybe. Johnson is unable to stop loving me, so in a way he is like a father. My own father, of course, did not love me. Or at least his love for me was thwarted.
I remember when I asked my father to let me return to Japan. It was late one night about a week after Mother had died. I could hear the water dripping from the kitchen faucet, drop after drop. I don’t know if the faucet started leaking right around the time Mother died or whether it had always leaked and she just made certain to twist the knob tightly whenever she turned it off. But it seemed all of a sudden that the faucet was always dripping. It terrified me—as if Mother were trying to tell us, I’m still here. No matter how many times I called, I couldn’t get a plumber to come out to fix it. They were all too busy. Each time a drop of water hit the sink, both my father and I would turn and look toward the kitchen.
“Do you want to return to Japan because of me?” My father asked me this without looking me in the eye. It was clear he felt a bit guilty for having brought home his Turkish girlfriend, Ursula—don’t ask me why she had a German-sounding name! But on the other hand, he was angry with me for reporting him to the police.
I called the police solely out of anger. My mother was lying there dead in her casket, and my father had to drag his pregnant girlfriend into Mother’s home. I questioned his callousness, but I never once doubted his innocence. My father wasn’t strong enough to dirty his hands with such a crime. He didn’t possess a desire great enough to commit murder. So it came as no surprise that he stood on the sidelines and watched while my mother slowly collapsed. And when he could bear it no longer, he ran away. When the woman to whom he escaped got pregnant, he had no choice but to accept this burden. My father was a coward.
“It’s got less to do with you than with me,” I told him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” My father looked at me in confusion. His pale-blue eyes were drained of life.
“I don’t want to be here.”
“Because Ursula is here?” My father lowered his voice. Ursula was sleeping in the guest bedroom. Any kind of tension could bring on a miscarriage, and we were ordered to keep her quiet. Ursula had come by herself from Bremen on a work visa, and my father didn’t have the kind of money it would take to hospitalize her for a long period.
“It’s not because of Ursula.”
Ursula was even more frightened by Mother’s death than Father was, and she was suffering for it. She believed it was her fault that Mother committed suicide. She was just seventeen. Whenever I spoke to her, I sensed her childlike honesty and simplicity. I was not angry at Ursula. All I had to do was tell her that she had nothing to do with my mother’s death and she was beside herself with joy. My father sighed with relief when he heard my answer. But he still couldn’t look me in the eye.
“That’s good. I was afraid yo
u’d think my guilt was too great to forgive.”
Well, he wasn’t the only one with great guilt. Between Karl’s infidelity and my mother’s death, I grew up quickly.
“It’s not a question of forgiveness. It’s just that I want to return to Japan.”
“Why?”
It wasn’t only because I wanted to see Johnson again. I had loved Mother. And now that she was gone, why stay in Switzerland.
“With Mother dead there’s really no reason for me to be here.”
“I see. So, you’ve decided to live as a Japanese, then?” my father mumbled, with no attempt to hide his hurt. “You may have a hard time of it with your Western looks.”
“Maybe. But I am Japanese.”
At that point my fate was as good as sealed. I would live as a Japanese in that country thick with humidity. I would be pointed at by children shouting “Gaijin! Gaijin!” And behind my back the girls would whisper “Halves may be pretty now, but they show their age faster than we do.” And the high school boys would torment me. I knew all that. And that is why I needed to build a protective wall around myself as thick as the one my sister had made. Since I couldn’t construct one myself, I decided I’d use Johnson for that purpose.
“Where will you go? Will you live with your grandpa?”
My sister had already laid claim to our grandfather. And once she’d gotten her hands on something she would never let it go to anyone else. She’d bar the door with both arms before letting me set foot in the world they shared.
“I’ve asked Johnson to let me stay at his place.”
“The American?” My father made an ugly face. “It’s not a bad plan, but it’ll cost.”
“He said I didn’t need to pay for room and board. So may I? Please?”
My father did not nod in consent.
“You let my sister stay in Japan!”
My father shrugged in resignation. “She never warmed to me.”
That’s because the two of them were too much alike. My father and I sat there silently. The leaky faucet broke through the quiet, drip after drip. My father shouted, as if unable to bear the dripping any longer, “All right, then! You can go back.”
“And now you can live happily here with Ursula.”
I hadn’t really intended to end our conversation with those words, but a sad expression swept over my father’s face.
The next day I skipped school and called Johnson at his office. I hadn’t told him yet that I’d gotten my father’s permission. Johnson was delighted to have gotten a call from me.
“Yuriko! How nice to hear from you. When I was transferred back to Tokyo, I thought I’d be able to see you. But we must have just missed each other. I was disappointed to learn that you’d moved to Switzerland. How is everybody?”
“My mother committed suicide and my father is living with his mistress. I really want to go back to Japan, but I have nowhere to stay. I would rather die than live with my sister. I just don’t know what to do.”
I wasn’t trying to play on his sympathy. I was trying to seduce him. A mere girl of fifteen seducing a man of thirty! Johnson caught his breath and then came up with a plan.
“If that’s the case, why don’t you stay here—with us? It’ll be like it was at the cabin. You’ll be the little girl seeking refuge from your older sister’s bullying. You can stay as long as you like.”
Heaving a deep sigh of relief, I asked about Masami. If they had a child now, it would be hard for them to keep me as well.
“But what will Masami say?”
“She’ll be thrilled. I promise. Masami is crazy about our cute little Yuriko. But what will you do about school?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Well, then, I’ll ask Masami to look into it. Yuriko, come live with us!”
Johnson’s whispered entreaties were that of a man responding to a seduction. I leaned back on the sofa in relief. Overcome with the strange sensation that someone was watching me, I looked up to see Ursula staring at me. She winked. From the tone of my voice on the telephone, Ursula guessed what I was up to. I nodded and smiled. I’m just like you. From now on, I too will live relying on a man’s favor. With a faint smile on her face, Ursula disappeared nimbly into the bedroom. From that day forward the faucet in the kitchen ceased to drip. I suspect Ursula had begun twisting it tightly. When my father wasn’t around, Ursula walked with a spring in her step. I could hardly believe she needed to rest.
In the afternoon of the day before I was scheduled to leave Switzerland, Karl came sneaking around, knowing that my father would be at the factory. He pressed his lips against mine in a long kiss, right there in my room with my teddy bears and dolls.
“I’m sad I won’t be able to see you anymore, Yuriko. Won’t you stay? For me?” Karl’s eyes were burning—and also calm. There could be little doubt that my departure and my mother’s death freed him from any regret or guilt he may have felt.
“I’m sad too. But there’s nothing else I can do.”
“Can we do it now? One more time?” Karl began to unfasten his belt buckle.
“Ursula’s here!” I told him.
“It’s okay. We’ll do it so she can’t hear.” Karl swept all the stuffed animals onto the floor and then pressed me down upon the narrow bed. I was unable to move under his weight. And then I heard a knock.
“Yuriko? It’s Ursula.”
Without waiting for Karl to jump up and straighten out his clothes, I reached out and flung the door open wide. Ursula smiled knowingly. Karl smoothed his tousled hair back with his hands and stood up, busying himself looking out the window as if he’d been standing there all along. Across the street was Karl’s hosiery factory.
“What is it, Ursula?”
“Yuriko, if you’re not going to take your teddy bears with you, I was wondering if I could have them.”
“I don’t care. Take whatever you want.”
“Thanks!”
Ursula snatched up the koala and the teddy that had been tossed on the floor and looked over suspiciously at Karl.
“What’s up, boss?” she asked.
“Oh, just came to say good-bye to Yuriko.”
Ursula winked at me, as if to say, Yeah, right. Ursula was my accomplice. As soon as she left, Karl pulled an envelope out of the back pocket of his jeans with an air of resignation. When I opened the envelope, I found the nude pictures of me along with some money.
“Pretty, aren’t they? I thought they might serve as a souvenir. And the money’s a farewell gift.”
“Thanks. Karl, where have you hidden your copies of these pictures?”
“I’ve got them glued to the back of the desk in the factory.” Karl looked so earnest when he said this. And then he added, “I’m going to save my money and come to Japan.”
But Karl never came to Japan once. And I hardly ever think of him these days. My first man—he was also my first customer. I still have the photos. I’m staring at the camera, posed like Goya’s Naked Maja with a face that looks nearly frozen, spread across the sheets with skin so white it’s translucent. My forehead is wide, my lips pouty. And in the pupils of my wide-open eyes is something I no longer possess: a fear of men and a longing. I seem to project an uneasiness over the fate that has befallen me. I am no longer afraid, desirous, or uneasy.
I sit in front of the mirror putting on my makeup. The face reflected there is that of a woman who has aged at terrific speed ever since passing thirty-five: me. The lines around my eyes and mouth can no longer be concealed, no matter how many layers of foundation I apply. And the round dumpiness of my body looks exactly like that of my father’s mother. The older I get, the more I am aware of the Western blood coursing through my body.
In the beginning I was a model; then for a long time I worked at a club that hired only beautiful foreigners. Some would say I was a high-priced call girl. From there I moved to an expensive club, the kind no mere salary man would think to enter. But as I began wearing dresses with deeply plunging n
ecklines, I myself plunged into cheaper and cheaper establishments. Now I have no choice but to work clubs that cater to men who have a fetish for “married women” and the more mature hostess. Moreover, now I have to struggle just to sell myself for cheap. I used to find my worth just knowing a man desired me, but not now; not only has my income shrunk but I realize that I have to search farther and wider for a reason to explain my existence in this world. While peering into my mirror, I stare at my eyes, which have lost their contours, and draw a thick line with my eyeliner pencil. I do this to create my vibrant professional face.
• 4 •
My sister had said she’d call again in the evening. I wanted to get out before she called. I wanted to avoid hearing her depressing voice. What the hell is she doing? I wondered. Drifting from one lousy job to another, searching for the perfect one—as if such a job exists in the first place. Or maybe, just maybe it does—in the form of prostitution! I laugh to myself as I stare into the mirror. If you can do it, be my guest. It’s a job in which the finer points are as good as grasping emptiness. I’ve been a prostitute since I was fifteen years old. I can’t live without men, yet men are my greatest enemies. I’ve been ruined by men. I’m a woman who has destroyed her female self. When my big sister was fifteen years old, she was just an ordinary junior high school student, studying herself silly.
Suddenly I’m struck by an idea. What if she’s still a virgin? The younger sister’s a whore, the older one a virgin. That’s just too much. But now I’m curious. I dial her number.
“Hello? Who is it? Hello? Is that you, Yuriko? Come on, who is it?”
She picked up the minute the phone rang.
“Hello! Hello!” My sister is desperate to find out who is calling; her phone must never ring. Her solitude reverberates through the receiver. I let the telephone drop and convulse with laughter, my sister’s voice still echoing at the other end. I can’t decide if she’s a virgin or a lesbian!