Something Strange Across the River Read Online Free Page B

nice.”
    “Have you been here a long time?”
    “About a year, maybe a little longer?”
    “But you’re not new to the area, are you? Were you a geisha or something?”
    I wasn’t sure if she couldn’t hear me over the sound of the bubbling water or if she had simply feigned a sudden auditory impairment, but she said nothing, just sat down in front of the mirror, still undressed. She pulled her hair up and began powdering her shoulders.
    “Where’d you come from? You can’t just keep that secret.”
    “I know… but it wasn’t Tokyo.”
    “The suburbs?”
    “No, much further…”
    “China?”
    “I was in Utsunomiya. All my kimonos are from thereabouts too. I’d rather not talk about it.” She stood up and pulled on a robe that had been hanging on a hook. The under-sash was lined with thin red stripes and finished with a large knot in the front, which was just large enough to give balance to her nearly oversized chignon with its silver threads. She appeared to me just as a courtesan from a previous age. She sat down beside me and fiddled with her robe until it was just right before opening a package of cigarettes.
    “We’re already here, so the amount doesn’t matter. But do see to it that you show your appreciation, just to keep up appearances.” She passed me a lit cigarette.
    I couldn’t claim total ignorance of the area’s reputation. “50 sen for the tea, isn’t it?”
    “Naturally. I’d say that’s about standard,” she said with a smile. She moved her hand closer to mine.
    “Well, let’s decide on a time. About an hour?”
    “It just doesn’t seem right. I’m terribly sorry about all this—really I am.”
    “Well, in exchange…” I said and took her hand. I pulled her close to me and whispered in her ear.
    “I don’t know about that!” she glared at me, eyes blazing, and slapped my shoulder. “Dummy.”
    Readers of Tamenaga Shunsui will be familiar with the author’s tendency to break from his narrative to apologize on behalf of himself or his characters. So when a young girl, hopelessly in love for the first time, forgets her shame and throws herself at the man she loves, the author interjects on her behalf and warns the reader not to think her a harlot or flippant. Indeed, he says, the simple girl, when deeply in love, can move with the allure and seduction of a geisha. Furthermore, the world-weary professional woman, well known in the ways of love, can, upon an encounter with a childhood friend, squirm and blush like a fresh faced virgin.
    Anyone with sufficient experience in such matters can attest to the truth of his statements, and I would not be one to declare his observations deficient.
    Taking a cue from Shunsui, I will elaborate further here, perhaps more than necessary. The reader may note my description of this woman, and the overly familiar way she behaved upon meeting me in the street. The reader might find this odd, even suspicious. But I would beg the reader keep in mind one thing: I have simply stated exactly what happened when we met, with absolutely no elaboration on my behalf. I have no unscrupulous intentions. There may even be a reader or two who smirks to themselves upon reading my account of what occurred just after the sudden downpour on that day. However, due to my desire to give proper and true consideration to the preceding events, I would not wish to build castles in the air for my enjoyment. But what happened that night, just as the sun went down, was so traditional, so conventional, that truthfully I can find nothing of interest to say about it.
    In truth, the reason I began to write this very text you hold in your hands was to see if I could find the interest in the action.
    The brothel women in that town must have numbered near eight hundred, but probably only one in ten had their hair tied up in elaborate chignons. Most of them dress up in an imitation of traditional Japanese style, some of them affect the air of a western dancer. This woman,