Otoko’s mind.
The first time she saw Keiko she was reminded of those beautiful youths.
Again Otoko recalled it, sitting there on the balcony of Ofusa’s tea house. Probably the young Kabuki actors were more feminine, more seductive, than the boyish Keiko of their first meeting. As usual, it occurred to her that she herself had made that girl into the young woman she was today. “Keiko,” she said, “do you remember when you first called on me?”
“Must you bring that up again?”
“I felt as if a young sorceress had appeared.”
Keiko took Otoko’s hand, lifted it to her mouth and, glancing up at her, nibbled on the little finger. Then she whispered: “It was a hazy spring evening, and you seemed to float in the pale bluish haze that hung over the garden.”
Those had been Otoko’s words. Otoko had told her that in the evening haze she looked all the more like a young sorceress. Keiko had not forgotten.
Once again the remembered words had been spoken. Keiko knew very well that they tormented Otoko, made her blame herself and regret her attachment, and yet gave that attachment an even more uncanny power over her.
Paper lamps stood at each corner of the tea housebalcony next to Ofusa’s, where three geisha, two of them young girls, were entertaining a single guest. The guest was a plump, balding, youngish man who kept glancing out at the river and nodding indifferently as the girls tried to make conversation. Was he waiting for the night or for a companion? The lanterns were already lit, but hardly seemed necessary in the early dusk.
The two balconies were almost within touching distance. Like the others jutting out over the narrow stream along the walled west bank of the Kamo, they were not only roofless but without blinds. You could see all the way down to the farthest balcony. The row of open balconies gave the feeling of the coolness of a river bank.
Unconcerned by the lack of privacy, Keiko bit down hard on Otoko’s little finger. The pain darted through her, but Otoko did not flinch. Keiko’s tongue played with the tip of the finger. Then she let it fall from her mouth, and said: “You took a bath, so it’s not the least bit salty.”
The wide view of the Kamo River and the hills beyond the city soothed Otoko’s anger, and as her feelings calmed she began to think that she was to blame even for the Keiko that went to stay overnight with Oki.
Keiko had just graduated from high school when she first came to Otoko’s studio. She said she had seen her pictures at a show in Tokyo and photographs of her in a magazine, and had fallen in love with her.
That year one of Otoko’s paintings had won a prize at a Kyoto exhibition and, partly because of its subject, had become well known.
It was a painting of two young geisha playing scissors-paper-and-stone,based on a trick photograph of around 1880. The photograph showed a double image of the famous Gion geisha Okayo: the girl on the right, the fingers of both hands outstretched, was almost full face; and the other, fists clenched, was turned slightly aside. Otoko liked the composition of the hands and the contrasting postures and facial expressions of the two geisha. The girl with fingers outstretched held her thumb extended and her fingers curved back. Otoko liked the identical costumes, too (though it was impossible to tell their colors from the photograph), and the old-fashioned, large-patterned design that ran from shoulder to hem. There was also a square wooden brazier between the two figures, along with an iron kettle and a sake bottle, but because they would have cluttered the picture Otoko omitted them.
Her own painting showed the same young geisha, doubled, playing scissors-paper-and-stone. She wanted to give an uneasy feeling that the one girl was two, the two one, or perhaps neither one nor two. Even the dated trick photograph had something of that feeling. To avoid ending up with a merely clever notion, Otoko took great pains over the
The first time she saw Keiko she was reminded of those beautiful youths.
Again Otoko recalled it, sitting there on the balcony of Ofusa’s tea house. Probably the young Kabuki actors were more feminine, more seductive, than the boyish Keiko of their first meeting. As usual, it occurred to her that she herself had made that girl into the young woman she was today. “Keiko,” she said, “do you remember when you first called on me?”
“Must you bring that up again?”
“I felt as if a young sorceress had appeared.”
Keiko took Otoko’s hand, lifted it to her mouth and, glancing up at her, nibbled on the little finger. Then she whispered: “It was a hazy spring evening, and you seemed to float in the pale bluish haze that hung over the garden.”
Those had been Otoko’s words. Otoko had told her that in the evening haze she looked all the more like a young sorceress. Keiko had not forgotten.
Once again the remembered words had been spoken. Keiko knew very well that they tormented Otoko, made her blame herself and regret her attachment, and yet gave that attachment an even more uncanny power over her.
Paper lamps stood at each corner of the tea housebalcony next to Ofusa’s, where three geisha, two of them young girls, were entertaining a single guest. The guest was a plump, balding, youngish man who kept glancing out at the river and nodding indifferently as the girls tried to make conversation. Was he waiting for the night or for a companion? The lanterns were already lit, but hardly seemed necessary in the early dusk.
The two balconies were almost within touching distance. Like the others jutting out over the narrow stream along the walled west bank of the Kamo, they were not only roofless but without blinds. You could see all the way down to the farthest balcony. The row of open balconies gave the feeling of the coolness of a river bank.
Unconcerned by the lack of privacy, Keiko bit down hard on Otoko’s little finger. The pain darted through her, but Otoko did not flinch. Keiko’s tongue played with the tip of the finger. Then she let it fall from her mouth, and said: “You took a bath, so it’s not the least bit salty.”
The wide view of the Kamo River and the hills beyond the city soothed Otoko’s anger, and as her feelings calmed she began to think that she was to blame even for the Keiko that went to stay overnight with Oki.
Keiko had just graduated from high school when she first came to Otoko’s studio. She said she had seen her pictures at a show in Tokyo and photographs of her in a magazine, and had fallen in love with her.
That year one of Otoko’s paintings had won a prize at a Kyoto exhibition and, partly because of its subject, had become well known.
It was a painting of two young geisha playing scissors-paper-and-stone,based on a trick photograph of around 1880. The photograph showed a double image of the famous Gion geisha Okayo: the girl on the right, the fingers of both hands outstretched, was almost full face; and the other, fists clenched, was turned slightly aside. Otoko liked the composition of the hands and the contrasting postures and facial expressions of the two geisha. The girl with fingers outstretched held her thumb extended and her fingers curved back. Otoko liked the identical costumes, too (though it was impossible to tell their colors from the photograph), and the old-fashioned, large-patterned design that ran from shoulder to hem. There was also a square wooden brazier between the two figures, along with an iron kettle and a sake bottle, but because they would have cluttered the picture Otoko omitted them.
Her own painting showed the same young geisha, doubled, playing scissors-paper-and-stone. She wanted to give an uneasy feeling that the one girl was two, the two one, or perhaps neither one nor two. Even the dated trick photograph had something of that feeling. To avoid ending up with a merely clever notion, Otoko took great pains over the
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