I was very far from comfortable in this situation, but good manners prevented me from moving to the other part of the loft, where I hadn’t been invited. Mizuki might have undressed by now and could be walking naked between that part of the flat and the bathroom.
My prim and proper mind could only think of two options: leave immediately and wander round the area looking for a taxi, or do what she’d asked.
I took the latter option, though I couldn’t imagine how things would turn out if they continued along the way they now seemed to be going.
Exasperated with myself and my hang-ups, I sat on one side of the bed facing the screen or room divider—whatever it was—through which one bright light filtered from the other side.
My eyes wandered to the only piece of furniture I could see: a bedside table with a CD player and a book on it. Always curious about books, I couldn’t resist picking it up.
It was the English-language edition of a classic that I’d been meaning to read for ages—Tanizaki’sIn Praise of Shadows, which was first published in Japanese in 1933.
I’d read somewhere that in Japanese aesthetics, as well as an emphasis on imperfection, the organic and the ephemeral, shadow is regarded as a basic element in the architecture of places.
While in the West we prize what is bright, polished and symmetrical, the Japanese are fascinated by everything that is asymmetrical and veiled in shadow.
I heard the shower being turned on somewhere on the other side of the loft. Befuddled by alcohol and the late hour, and further thrown off-balance by my pleasure in finding that book, my mind wandered to the body that just then was being caressed by warm water.
With butterflies in my stomach, I took refuge in the words of Tanizaki.
What Little Life Remains
I found myself seduced by Tanizaki’s thoughts on the beauty of metals darkened by time. Japan’s much-revered novelist was surprised by the fact that Westerners set their tables with shiny cutlery. The Japanese consider that such glossiness is very bad taste. When it comes to using kettles, or silver goblets and flasks, they prefer a time-dulled surface, showing that the object has lived and that it has a story to tell.
Someone once said that a teapot has delicate feelings, because of the people and conversations that have surrounded it. And now I was starting to discover the beauty of time-worn things myself.
Was my soul more beautiful now that it was tarnished after I had been jilted by Gabriela? The extraordinary situation I had found myself in: sitting on the bed of a modern geisha—or geiko—might suggest it was.
Of course time takes the shine off everything, but I’d never stopped to think that this dulling of luster could be seen as beauty. Then I was reminded of something I’d heard about the résumés of some Americans aspiring to an executive position. In Europe people only cite their achievements, but if an American economist goes broke when setting up a business, he includes it among his feats.
What for some people is an embarrassment, for others is an experience that is more valuable than any degree or successful undertaking. A person who has been at the bottom of the well once will take care not to fall in again.
The shower had been turned off, and I was a bundle of nerves. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I hunched overIn Praise of Shadowslike a monk trying to ward off the world’s temptations:
[ . . .] Our forebears, compelled to dwell in dimly lit rooms, gradually found a certain beauty within the darkness itself—and, in time, learned to shape shadow in service of beauty.
Thus, the charm of a Japanese room lies entirely in the subtle interplay of shade: deep shadows set against faint ones, and nothing more. To Western eyes, such rooms appear austere—they are merely pale walls stripped of decoration. Their astonishment is natural, yet it reveals an inability to grasp the quiet mystery that shadows hold.
Tanizaki then explained that indirect lighting is essential for creating beauty inside a Japanese home. The walls are expressly painted in pale, neutral colors to embrace the light he describes as faint and frail.
A fragment from the book made me forget my apprehension for a moment:
We take quiet pleasure in watching the faint glimmer of dying light linger on a darkened wall, as if living out what little life remains. The sight never wearies us—for to our eyes, this gentle radiance and these soft shadows surpass any ornament in beauty.
All at once I realized that it was no accident that I had found this book. It had been placed there deliberately and it was understood that I would read it before experiencing what was about to happen.
Through the paper screen I saw the silhouette of Mizuki dressed in a kimono. The shadow was clear enough for me to see that she’d untied her hair, which now cascaded down her back.
“Could you put on the first track of the CD?” she asked from the other side.
My body was totally tense, but I managed to lift the cover of the CD player to check that there was a CD inside. There was. It was Ryuichi Sakamoto’sBTTB, and the track she wanted was called “Energy Flow.”
When the music began, the tenuous light on my side went out, and the spotlight behind the screen became stronger.
What I saw next took my breath away.
The Shadow Dance
A motionless figure stood behind the screen then slowly began to turn, arms stretched out. Dancing to the gentle rhythms of “Energy Flow,” Mizuki, now stripped of her kimono, appeared to be naked.
