by Matsuda Aoko
‘Heavens, it was hot out there,’ my aunt said, flapping her collar to let in the air. ‘I’ve worked up a hell of a thirst. You don’t have anything to drink, do you?’ Through my aunt’s synthetic sheer jumper with its cheap purple and gold sequins sewn into the shape of a tiger, I could see her greying vest. Her eyes followed me as I went to open the refrigerator.
‘Goodness, even your fridge is tiny! I don’t know how you can fit anything in there,’ she sniggered.
‘I’ve only got perry,’ I said.
‘Perry? What’s that, then? Is it like sherry? Haven’t you got any wine?’
My aunt took the drink I held out to her.
‘What a measly little bottle! This won’t go very far,’ she said as she took a big sip. Then she opened her mouth wide and smiled in satisfaction. ‘Ooh, it isn’t bad, is it?’
My aunt stayed with me for dinner and watched the film through to the end.
She didn’t show much interest in the storyline, her eyes roaming inquisitively around the room, but during the scene where Michelle Williams’s character and another woman showered in the nude, her mouth fell open.
‘You know, that’s something I’ve always thought was strange! The hair on foreign women’s arms and legs is so pale you can barely see it, but their hair down there is as dark as ours.’
‘Right,’ I agreed. She did have a point.
‘I once heard that the colour of people’s hair down there is the same as the colour of their eyebrows, but that can’t be true, can it? I suppose that’s the place that needs the most protection, so the body puts all its power into making the hair there as strong and dark as it can.’
‘Yeah, who knows.’
‘Come on, there’s no use getting all embarrassed! I want to hear your real opinions about hair!’
Ignoring my aunt and the open palm she was striking on the table, I shovelled some Caesar salad into my mouth.
—
When the credits began rolling and I stopped the DVD, my aunt rested an arm on the table, and leaned in conspiratorially towards me, as if she had been waiting all night for this moment.
‘I think it’s about time we got down to business,’ she said. ‘Tell me, young lady. What were you doing today?’
‘Huh?’ I stared in confusion at my aunt’s face, which was etched with deep lines.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t understand me. What do you think you’re up to, eh? I know you’ve been deliberately weakening the power of your hair.’
‘The power of my hair?’
‘I was so concerned I came rushing straight over. And what do I find? Everything’s all swish and swanky. It’s horrible. And what’s with all this pink tat you’ve got strewn around the place? It sticks out like a sore thumb in this room, you know.’
My aunt held up the pink cushion she’d been leaning on between her thumb and forefinger, as if handling something unspeakably repulsive.
‘Pink maximises your romantic potential!’ I cried. My aunt had succeeded in striking a nerve. I clenched my fists tight to hide my fuchsia-painted nails.
‘What’s the point of talking about “romantic potential” when you go around with a face like you’re sucking on a lemon?’ my aunt said.
We glared at each other.
‘Are you trying to pretend you’re happy with your life? Is that it? You think I don’t know all about that boyfriend who dumped you? Or that you only opened the door back there because you thought it might be him outside? Well, guess what? You landed me instead! Your old aunt sees e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g, you know. Which is more than can be said for you! You didn’t even notice he was two-timing you, all that time. What a sorry state of affairs! You must be totally and utterly stupid.’
My aunt bulldozed on, tearing off the lid of my Pandora’s box like someone charging into a clearance sale, or ripping the wrapping paper off a present without a scrap of delicacy. My vision clouded, and I felt the blood in my body drain right down to my toes.
‘So, what’s your plan, then? You’ve suddenly decided to start visiting these beauty salons, wasting your money on new clothes and make-up and all the rest so you can become beautiful and then have your revenge? Pah! You’re far too easy to figure out. How utterly pathetic!’ With this last jab, she shot me a grin.
This was too much. I got to my feet to launch my counter-attack. My aunt cocked her head, ready to take me on.
‘You think it’s okay just to barge into people’s houses and say whatever the hell you want, do you?’ I said. ‘I only held back when you first came in because I was trying not to hurt your feelings, but I don’t see why I should bother! You certainly don’t seem to care about hurting mine.
‘I mean, you’re dead, right? You died a year ago. Hanged yourself. Shigeru found you when he came home from university. He was in terrible shock for a long time – still is, in fact. You shouldn’t underestimate the kind of trauma you inflicted on him. And now you come around here, to see me? If you’re going to appear as a ghost, if you can appear as a ghost, then it’s Shigeru you should be visiting!’
Seeing that I’d run out of steam, my aunt scrunched up her nose, then waved her hands in a way that evoked total nonchalance.
‘There’s no need to worry about Shigeru. He’s got his head screwed on straight, that one – even if he still insists on visiting my grave each month. If he’s got that kind of energy, he’d be better off putting it into getting a girlfriend or two, I say. But he’s a soppy fool, that kid. He always brings some food I used to like and leaves it there for me. It’s enough to bring a tear to your eye. Come to think of it, could you do me a favour next time you see him and pass on a message from me? Tell him he doesn’t need to come so often.’
‘How on earth am I supposed to say something like that to him?’
Feeling totally worn out all of a sudden, I fell back into my chair. From there, I summoned up the courage to ask her something I’d never been able to ask her before.
‘Why did you do it, Auntie?’
Of course, I thought as I formed the words, it stood to reason that I hadn’t been able to ask her – she’d been dead.
My aunt suddenly adopted a wheedling tone as she smiled, ‘Hey, you don’t have anything sweet, do you?’
Reluctantly, I made some tea and brought out a packet of fine vanilla biscuits I’d been saving for a special occasion. Only after she’d tasted them and found them to her liking did my aunt begin answering the question.
‘I just got sick and tired of it all, really, of being what they used to call a “kept woman”. This is Shigeru’s father I’m talking about, of course, as I’m sure you know. We met when we were in our early twenties and fell head over heels in love, but he was already engaged, and so things just sort of went on like that, for thirty-odd years. Still, I was happy, all things considered. And then one day, out of the blue, he announced that he thought it was about time we ended it. He’d bought me my own flat and my own bar, and of course he intended to keep supporting me for a while, but he’d decided it was about time to call it a day between us. Can you believe that? And his tone of voice when he told me this, like he was this generous, good man… I can’t tell you how livid I was.’
My aunt’s memories seemed to grow clearer as she talked, until it felt like she was describing something that had happened just yesterday. The fresher it all became, the angrier she got.
‘So I did myself in. I didn’t really think through what I was doing, and, boy, did I regret it afterward. But at that time, I believed it would cause him the most damage. How wrong I was! I was stupid.’
She stared into the distance. It was as if she was groping around in the depths of her memory, trying to isolate the precise moment where she had strayed off course – the part that she longed to do again, better.
Studying her face, I tried to remember what she’d looked like when she’d worke
d at the bar. It hadn’t been a particularly classy place, and she hadn’t worn a kimono, but she was always properly made up, always attentive to her clothes and her appearance. Even when she hadn’t got it quite right, she was never without a thick coat of bright red lipstick, and she’d never given off the sad air of the discount store that she exuded now.
As I watched her, she turned to me suddenly, an expression of intense alertness on her face.
‘Hey, you remember the time we went to watch the kabuki with your mum?’
The unexpected line of questioning startled me.
‘I think you must have been still in primary school. I’ll never forget those gorgeous bento boxes we ate during the interval! But that’s by the by. Remember the play we saw then? The Maid of Dōjō Temple.’
‘The maid of what?’
‘You know, the story where a woman is betrayed by the man that she loves, so she turns into a snake and climbs onto the temple where he lives and just dances and dances. You loved it at the time. Have you really forgotten? Pah! A heart of stone, you’ve got.’
As my aunt jeered at me, I began scanning through the contents of my head, and soon enough a figure floated up in my imagination, accompanied by the beat of drums and the reedy strains of the bamboo flute. The figure was swaying, gliding, tilting, spinning round and round, never still for a second.
Back then, I hadn’t been able to make out a word of what the kabuki actors said. Being just a child, I had trouble believing it was really Japanese they were speaking. In the first item of the programme, middle-aged men came onto the stage one at a time, their faces painted white, talking at length in a language I couldn’t understand. Some would go offstage when they were done, while others would stay on. I was bored silly, my bottom ached, and when the play finally finished, I felt nothing but relief.
During the interval, as they rolled the rubber bands off their bento boxes, my mother and aunt discussed how good or how sexy this or that actor or scene had been. I tried to explain how it felt not to comprehend any of the dialogue, but neither of them took me seriously. ‘What are you on about,’ they said, ‘they’re speaking your language! Just listen carefully and you’ll be fine!’ As the curtains went up for the next item in the programme, I comforted myself that if things got really bad, I could always slip out midway and take refuge in the foyer. At the back of the stage, I saw a group of men playing shamisen and drums and singing things I didn’t understand, and just as my heart began to sink, a woman in a kimono – though really it was a man in a kimono, dressed as a woman – slipped out onto the stage and began to dance. That was Kiyohime.
Kiyohime was extraordinary. At first, her dance was a delicate, ladylike affair, but gradually her movements grew more and more powerful. There was something weird, almost other-worldly about that dance, and she went on dancing non-stop, like a mad thing, for about an hour. Kiyohime wore several kimonos on top of one other, which her assistants whipped off with perfect timing so that, as she danced, she twirled from one beautiful kimono to another, and the objects she held in her hands were magically transformed too. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before, and I leaned forward in my seat to watch her precise movements as closely as I could. In the final scene of the play, Kiyohime used her power to possess the enormous temple bell, and as she stood brave and magnificent on top of it, her silver kimono sparkled.
After the play had ended, I was in a daze. I found my aunt peering at me with curiosity. ‘Here,’ she had said, pressing a dorayaki into my small palm. ‘Did you see that silver kimono Kiyohime wore at the end? The glittery one?’
I nodded.
‘Snake scales,’ she’d nodded back.
—
‘Kiyohime was wonderful, wasn’t she?’ my aunt said now. ‘So persistent, so dynamic.’
She rested her chin on her hands theatrically, and continued, all dreamy-eyed, ‘I should’ve done the same thing, you know. I should’ve stuck in there, like she did, become a snake, done whatever it took. Thirty years we were together! I don’t know what I was thinking, trying to act cool and composed when I’d just been dumped. Playing the grown-up, then going home and hanging myself. I mean, really! It was pathetic. I’d have been far better off placing a deadly curse on him. I’d have had every right, too. It was what he deserved. For all his show of so-called chivalry, he just did whatever the hell he wanted. There’s nothing less sexy than that.’
With that, my aunt took a big bite of a biscuit and munched noisily as she went on, ‘So that’s why I’m developing a special trick.’
‘A special trick?’
‘I reckon it’s still not too late. I’ve spent this past year learning how to appear like this.’
‘Wait, this is a skill you learned?’
‘You bet! All the fruit of my own labours.’
‘Well, it’s quite a trick!’
‘Don’t be silly! This is nothing. There’s no punch to it. I know you thought the same, when I first turned up at the door. You wondered why, if I was a ghost, I was showing up at the door like a regular visitor. I want a special skill that’s truly awesome. Something terrifying enough to scar him for life.’
‘Huh.’ Not knowing what I was supposed to say, I stuffed a biscuit into my mouth. It was very delicious, but I felt like the taste was a bit too delicate in some way, the perfume of vanilla too faint. I wondered now if I’d actually eaten the dorayaki that my aunt had given me in the theatre all those years ago, its sponge patties oozing with sweet bean jam.
‘Anyway, I’m sure you understand what I’m getting at, don’t you? You can’t let the power of your hair slip away from you. You think you have to spruce yourself up after being dumped by that two-timing idiot – that’s why you started going to that hair removal place. Can’t you see that it’s pointless? Your hair is the only wild thing you have left – the one precious crop of wildness remaining to you. I want you to think long and hard about what you could do with it. Rather than getting all sore because you got dumped by some worthless scumbag, I want you to fight, like Kiyohime did. Your hair is your power!’
I hadn’t failed to register how grating and how batty each and every one of my aunt’s statements was, and as I reflected, I recalled that she’d had these kinds of tendencies before she’d died, too. In fact, I began remembering all sorts of things about her – how she’d started banging on about ‘the force of nature’ all of a sudden, producing huge batches of handmade soap, and hennaing her hair a dirty reddish shade. She’d been an interesting person, I thought. Why did she have to die? Now, for the first time, I felt like I understood where she was coming from. I even felt grateful towards her for choosing to visit me over Shigeru, despite the black cloud that had, quite understandably, been hanging over him since her death.
‘But Kiyohime turns into a snake, right? Snakes don’t have any hair at all,’ I joked.
‘That’s not what I’m saying.’ My aunt seemed totally bored by my pedantry. ‘Did you know that in some performances of The Maid of Dōjō Temple, they have two dancing maids?’ She shot me a great sassy smile, as if she was once again wearing the bright red lipstick of bygone days. Then, her expression suddenly serious, she took my slender hands in hers, pink nails and all.
‘Let’s become monsters together,’ she said, looking straight into my eyes.
—
‘When my special trick is ready, I’ll make sure you’re the first to see it before I try it out for real.’
Those had been my aunt’s parting words as she left – through the door. But you’re a ghost, was the thought that had run through my head.
I tried speaking it out loud now in the bathhouse.
‘But you’re a ghost!’
The damp, dense steam pervading the bathing area masked my softly spoken words.
Yet my aunt had been nothing like how I imagined ghosts to be. Compared to me – a comatose coward who had sp
ent two months cramming her head with all kinds of strange affirmations so as to pretend she was doing fine when really she was anything but – my aunt was spilling over with life.
Vigorously lathering my skin with the organic soap I’d brought with me, I remembered my aunt’s words. She wanted me to ‘think long and hard’ about what I could do with my hair. What on earth did that mean? It was just hair, for goodness’ sake.
But when I thought it through more deeply, I realised I didn’t think about it as ‘just hair’ after all. Hair was a problem that I carried around with me constantly. However much I shaved or plucked, it would always grow back again. It was like some everlasting exercise regime. And it wasn’t just me, either – all women were prisoners of their body hair. An image of all those women in the waiting room of the laser treatment clinic came floating back to me. It was the same here, in the public bathhouse. The ladies’ bath was heaving with women of all ages, many of them sliding razors over their arms or legs as they washed themselves. Bits of black hair swathed in foam went sailing down the plugholes.
I suppose I should explain at this point that my bathroom boiler mysteriously stopped working the night of my aunt’s visit, which was why I found myself in a public bathhouse. Perhaps it was the shock of her appearance that did it. I found the whole occurrence difficult to wrap my head around – a broken boiler, in the twenty-first century! In fact, the idea of having a twenty-first century bath that relied on an old-fashioned balanced-flue boiler for its hot water was pretty insane as it was. That night, after my aunt had left, I’d stood there stark naked, flicking the lever over and over to try and get it to start, but the only response I got was a sad, muffled click that echoed across the bathroom walls. When I finally gave up and called the manufacturers, they informed me coolly that the earliest repair appointment they could give me would be in two days’ time. Two days’ time! The twenty-first century certainly wasn’t like this in the films I watched or the manga I’d read when I was younger. A twenty-first century where balanced-flue boilers and public baths still existed seemed like some kind of a con.
