The shadow dancer raised her arms and tipped her head back to gaze at the ceiling. A long, fine cascade of hair was visible on the screen.
The figure raised one leg and held it in the air, then slowly turned her body, casting pale shadows all around.
Enthralled by the spectacle, all my senses surrendered to the modern geiko’s shadow dance. I now understood what Stendhal syndrome was all about.
When the track finished, the lights in the loft went out. I remained where I was, sitting on the bed without a clue about what would happen next.
I heard the dancer’s barefoot steps coming toward me very slowly in the darkness. Suddenly, she was next to me, her voice whispering in my ear, although I couldn’t see her.
“Do you want me to call a taxi? You must be very tired.”
I accepted gratefully, although part of me didn’t want to leave.
The soft lights on the side of the loft where I was sitting came on. Mizuki, now calling the taxi on her phone, was wearing her kimono again.
I remembered her words at the barbecue place, before we’d gone to the bar with the sad songs. She’d claimed that tonight I’d be happy because she was happy. What did she mean? That the culmination of her desire was that shadow dance?
Surprising me again, Mizuki slipped between the sheets and took off her kimono. With her face sunk into the pillow and her eyes closed, she said, “Watch the screen on my phone. When it lights up and vibrates twice the taxi will be at the door. Will you turn out the lights when you leave? The switch is next to the door.”
Thirty seconds later, her breathing was deep and even. She’d fallen into a peaceful sleep.
I sat in silence beside her. In her slumbers, she didn’t care whether I was there or not. Her black hair spread over the pillow like a strange creature with a thousand silken tentacles.
I took a strand and gently ran two fingers along it. It was even finer and more delightful to touch than it looked. I wondered if her skin still felt cold.
The phone on her bedside table lit up and vibrated twice.
It was lucky that the taxi had arrived in time to put an end to these thoughts. I’d watched a naked shadow while it danced and had been allowed to watch a geiko sleeping. Those two intimate gifts would be enough to nourish my imagination for the rest of my life.
Thinking about it, I needed no more than that.
I drew the sheet over her uncovered arm, turned out the light and went downstairs.
The taxi driver was waiting at the gate with the light inside the car turned on. He was calmly reading a book. As I approached, I felt deep admiration for Japan’s silently elegant people.
Existential Angst
After a night of fretful dreams in which Mizuki appeared in turn as an ill-mannered, suicide-prone girl immersing herself in Ainu culture; a femme fatale; and a dancing shadow, I got out of bed with a bad migraine.
I picked at some fish and rice for breakfast, after which I went to the onsen with one of Titus’s books. Tipping a bucket of water over my head as I washed myself, I told myself that he would be very disappointed to learn that I hadn’t managed to find any new material for his study.
I’d been in Japan for ten days and had made no progress with the subject of wabi-sabi, apart from my visit to the three wise monkeys and reading Tanizaki. I didn’t even know why myryokanwas called The Blue Frogs. Where on earth were those impossible frogs?
I immersed myself in the bath, grunting like a sumo wrestler. When I sat on the underwater ledge, the pain of the migraine began to spread from my head to the rest of my body.
Alone in the onsen at that late hour of the morning, I imagined that the other guests in the ryokan must be busy doing business deals or leaving offerings in one of the city’s 1,600 temples. I hadn’t seen a single temple yet—which, combined with the little research I’d done, made me feel totally useless.
The best thing I could do would be to return to Barcelona as soon as possible. I could help Titus write the book and prepare my courses for the coming academic year.
But when I thought about going back to my old routine, I was swamped by a feeling of bitterness. In Kyoto, at least, I was having unforgettable adventures. To begin with, I’d discovered a karaoke bar for the lonely and had spent that incredible evening with Mizuki.
Nevertheless, I knew that, like Gabriela’s sojourn in Paris, this was just a detour from my everyday life. I would have to leave soon—partly because I’d almost reached my credit-card limit. In four days’ time my Japan Rail Pass would expire. If I didn’t want to pay a fortune to travel to Narita on the bullet train, I’d have to get back to the airport before then.
Caught up in this jumble of practical and existential thoughts, I picked up the wabi-sabi book. But I found no comfort there. It only made me see that other people much less fortunate than myself were able to enjoy things that I, a completely free man, was denying myself.
How often had I spent a day in the open air these last years? My peaceful walk in Nikko had been my first contact with the countryside in ages. Not to mention other pleasures in life, which brought on moral dilemmas typical of someone who self-sabotages just so he can go on feeling sorry for himself.
Wasn’t I a bachelor whose only responsibility was to have the best time I possibly could in one of the world’s loveliest cities? What was the problem?
