sat down. When the waiter asked if they’d like an aperitif, she ordered a Campari and orange in an appealingly girlish voice and looked at Aoyama as if to ask if she wasn’t making a faux pas. He winked at her reassuringly and ordered the carpaccio, a speciality of the house, and another starter consisting of three types of pasta. He chose Florentine T-bone steak for the main course, and a bottle of 1989 Barbaresco.
The aperitifs arrived, and Yamasaki Asami took a sip of her Campari.
‘I think it’s because of ballet,’ she said. For a moment Aoyama had no idea what she was talking about. ‘You mentioned that I don’t seem scarred by the abuse. I was really glad to hear you say that, and I think it’s true, but it made me wonder: why is it that I don’t still carry the scars? I thought about it when we were in the taxi but couldn’t really come up with a good answer. And then, when we came in here, it’s such a fantastic place . . .’
She paused and smiled. It was a perfect smile, Aoyama thought. Who wouldn’t be enchanted by this smile?
‘I guess my attention span isn’t all it might be,’ she said, ‘but maybe that’s one reason I don’t get too depressed about things. When we sat down here, and I saw this tablecloth, and these candlesticks and napkins, and especially the beautiful designs on this glass – these grapes and the little birds and these musical instruments, the curving lines . . . Do you think they’re all handmade? The designs are different at each table.’
‘I wonder. Maybe they are engraved by hand.’
‘I’m sure of it. They’re so warm and intimate . . . Anyway, as I was looking at all these things, forgetting all about my question, the answer popped into my mind: ballet.’
‘So you’re saying that ballet helped you heal the scars?’
‘Yes. I was in the fourth grade, and we were living in that small apartment in Suginami. Just down the street was a little ballet school, run by an elderly woman and her daughter. The lessons were cheap, and my mother suggested I give it a try. Apparently I have the right build for ballet – at least, that’s what I was told – and after a year the teacher, the elderly one, told me I should switch to a bigger school. She wrote a letter of introduction for me, and I ended up getting a scholarship to a place in Minami-Aoyama, one of the biggest ballet studios in Japan.’
She looked down at the tablecloth, and Aoyama waited for her to continue.
‘I don’t know how to express this very well,’ she said, ‘but when you work up a sweat dancing, it’s as if all the bad things, all the bad thoughts, pour out of you. You can almost see them evaporating. You know the big mirrors they have in dance studios? When I’d watch myself in the mirror after mastering a new pas , a new step, I’d feel, well, purified. To see that I was able to some extent to become one with something beautiful, with this graceful image I had in my head, was . . . Well, I can’t explain it. But it helped me forget my troubles, and I think that’s how I managed to overcome it all.’
The sommelier uncorked the Barbaresco, freeing its distinctive bouquet, and poured some into Aoyama’s glass. As he took a sip and rolled it over his tongue, he had to make an effort to stifle the tears. He nodded, and the sommelier retreated. A waiter placed the carpaccio on the table before them, and when they were left alone again, all Aoyama could manage to say was, ‘I see.’
A moment later he added: ‘You’re amazing.’
They clinked their glasses in a toast.
‘You really do understand, don’t you?’ she said. ‘That makes me so happy. I put everything I had into ballet, for so long, but there was no one I could really talk to. And after I hurt my hip . . . It’s not that I don’t have friends, or many opportunities to meet people, but there was no one really to comfort me. In
The aperitifs arrived, and Yamasaki Asami took a sip of her Campari.
‘I think it’s because of ballet,’ she said. For a moment Aoyama had no idea what she was talking about. ‘You mentioned that I don’t seem scarred by the abuse. I was really glad to hear you say that, and I think it’s true, but it made me wonder: why is it that I don’t still carry the scars? I thought about it when we were in the taxi but couldn’t really come up with a good answer. And then, when we came in here, it’s such a fantastic place . . .’
She paused and smiled. It was a perfect smile, Aoyama thought. Who wouldn’t be enchanted by this smile?
‘I guess my attention span isn’t all it might be,’ she said, ‘but maybe that’s one reason I don’t get too depressed about things. When we sat down here, and I saw this tablecloth, and these candlesticks and napkins, and especially the beautiful designs on this glass – these grapes and the little birds and these musical instruments, the curving lines . . . Do you think they’re all handmade? The designs are different at each table.’
‘I wonder. Maybe they are engraved by hand.’
‘I’m sure of it. They’re so warm and intimate . . . Anyway, as I was looking at all these things, forgetting all about my question, the answer popped into my mind: ballet.’
‘So you’re saying that ballet helped you heal the scars?’
‘Yes. I was in the fourth grade, and we were living in that small apartment in Suginami. Just down the street was a little ballet school, run by an elderly woman and her daughter. The lessons were cheap, and my mother suggested I give it a try. Apparently I have the right build for ballet – at least, that’s what I was told – and after a year the teacher, the elderly one, told me I should switch to a bigger school. She wrote a letter of introduction for me, and I ended up getting a scholarship to a place in Minami-Aoyama, one of the biggest ballet studios in Japan.’
She looked down at the tablecloth, and Aoyama waited for her to continue.
‘I don’t know how to express this very well,’ she said, ‘but when you work up a sweat dancing, it’s as if all the bad things, all the bad thoughts, pour out of you. You can almost see them evaporating. You know the big mirrors they have in dance studios? When I’d watch myself in the mirror after mastering a new pas , a new step, I’d feel, well, purified. To see that I was able to some extent to become one with something beautiful, with this graceful image I had in my head, was . . . Well, I can’t explain it. But it helped me forget my troubles, and I think that’s how I managed to overcome it all.’
The sommelier uncorked the Barbaresco, freeing its distinctive bouquet, and poured some into Aoyama’s glass. As he took a sip and rolled it over his tongue, he had to make an effort to stifle the tears. He nodded, and the sommelier retreated. A waiter placed the carpaccio on the table before them, and when they were left alone again, all Aoyama could manage to say was, ‘I see.’
A moment later he added: ‘You’re amazing.’
They clinked their glasses in a toast.
‘You really do understand, don’t you?’ she said. ‘That makes me so happy. I put everything I had into ballet, for so long, but there was no one I could really talk to. And after I hurt my hip . . . It’s not that I don’t have friends, or many opportunities to meet people, but there was no one really to comfort me. In
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