by JH Fletcher
‘Very smooth,’ she said, this Asian, western woman.
After dinner they walked on the golf course. It was cold, the stars glittered frostily, and Craig thought that he had come to a magical place to be with this woman who had already become so important in his life.
They parted outside her bedroom door. Once again she shook his hand. The impression of her hand in his — smooth and cool, so much in keeping with the rest of her — lingered, but not for long. He got into bed and was at once asleep, neither thinking nor dreaming of her or anything.
In the morning he woke to a pattern of early morning sunlight upon the wall and to the realisation that the image was with him still: the cream-smooth hand within his own, the slender fingers epitomising everything about her that attracted him so powerfully.
He knocked on her door, quietly, wanting to let her know he was there, but not to disturb her if she were still asleep. No reply. He tried again, a little louder. Still nothing. He turned the handle of the door. Locked.
He went down to the reception.
‘Miss Fukuda asked me to say she has gone for a walk.’ The desk clerk’s shuttered eyes gave no hint of what he thought about a man who had brought so beautiful a woman to the Cameron Highlands only to sleep in a separate room. Something in his manner sneered, nonetheless.
‘Thank you,’ said Craig, hating him. He walked out into the sunny morning. The dew lay heavily on the golf course. A half mile away, a bridge of white planks spanned a narrow stream that crossed the fairway. He strolled towards it, seeing a distant figure heading his way. It was too far to tell whether it was man or woman, yet he knew what his eyes could not yet see, that Yukiko was walking towards him in the cool and sun-bright morning.
‘How did you sleep?’
‘So well.’ She laughed. ‘I never woke once.’
‘But got up early.’
‘Looking for worms.’
He did not understand. ‘Worms?’
‘What early birds are supposed to look for.’
‘Are you a bird?’ He felt deliriously happy, talking nonsense with this woman whose mind was as quick as her steeply-slanted eyes.
‘Isn’t that what you call women?’
‘Only young ones.’
‘I am too old,’ she said with mock-sadness. ‘Too old to be a bird.’
He studied her, smiling. She was wearing a white, peaked cap, a plain white top, turquoise linen shorts moulded closely to her thighs. At least she has the legs for them, he thought. He had read somewhere that Asian women were supposed to have rotten legs; if that were true, Yukiko was as exceptional in that department as in everything else. The shorts, ankle socks and white runners, the ivory smoothness of her legs with the barest hint of calf, made her look no more than fifteen. He was very pleased that she was older than that. Good arse, too, he thought. We may sleep in separate rooms, but I am still man enough to make judgments in that department. Whatever the reception clerk may think.
‘You’ll have to settle for being a turkey,’ he told her. And took her hand. She made no attempt to stop him but swung their arms gaily as they walked back together to the hotel.
Not much, but a start. They had breakfast, drove the car up the winding road to the summit. Below them, rain-forested hills extended to the horizon, the bottle-green foliage brightened here and there by flowering creepers the colour of flame. They took photographs of each other, laughing for the camera and because they were happy, got back to the hotel in time for lunch.
‘Three square meals a day?’ Craig complained. ‘I’ll be fat as Flossie, I keep this up.’
‘A man should eat,’ she told him. ‘It makes him strong.’
Why should you care if I’m strong or not? But kept his mouth shut.
That afternoon she talked him into having a go on the golf course. Mostly he missed the ball altogether; when he did connect, it went every way but the one he wanted.
‘Right mug,’ he told her. ‘I warned you.’
‘I’m not much better.’
Good enough to beat him every hole, all the same.
That night he kissed her outside the door. She permitted it, no dramas, but did not kiss him back. Made a change from Melanie, who was no doubt having a high old time back in Adelaide.
Still, he thought, we’re getting there. Alone in his room, getting ready for bed, he wondered whether getting there was really what he wanted. This was not a woman like Melanie, willing to have a ball with any bloke who came along and think no more about it. If Yukiko allowed him into her bed, it would be because she had made a commitment. He wasn’t sure he was ready to think about anything like that.
All or nothing, he thought. Perhaps it’s as well we’re in separate rooms, after all.
The days passed. They walked in the forest, climbed a seemingly endless series of steps cut into the hillside until they reached the summit of one of the forested peaks, were alarmed by a cloud of bees that seemed to threaten them most ominously as they came back down again. They ate, they drank, they talked.
Yukiko persuaded Craig to have another go on the golf course; he was less bad than the first time, but that was all you could say for it.
The week that had stretched before them so invitingly was almost gone; in the morning they would pack their bags and drive back down the switchback road on the first stage of their journey to Singapore. And afterwards? Craig did not know. What did he want to happen? What did she? He didn’t know that, either, could read neither his own feelings or hers.
They had been happy during their time in this beautiful place, but a few days’ holiday didn’t mean much. He didn’t see how a more permanent arrangement would be feasible. His life was based in South Australia, hers in Singapore. If the bank transferred her, it would be to New York or London or Tokyo, most certainly not to Adelaide.
Another thought, treacherous but pertinent, struck him. In an Asian setting she was at home not only to herself, but to him. It might not be so in Australia. There were many Asians in Adelaide, yet he found it hard to picture her there; it was not her place.
Face it, he told himself as he went down to join her for a drink before their final dinner. There’s no future for either of us. It’s been a lovely, lovely week, but it’s over. Write it off to experience and get on with our lives. Apart.
Yukiko in a long dress of a dark, silky material that shone in the light, but with a doleful face. He was impatient with her for not concealing feelings that he shared. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’ If she did not want to talk about it, that was fine with him. ‘What shall we drink?’
A brilliant, brittle smile. ‘Champagne.’
The more fool me for asking. But ordered a bottle.
‘French,’ he said.
‘What else?’ A brilliant, brittle laugh. ‘They tried to manufacture it in Japan once. They brought in the grapes, they had the right equipment, they hired experts from Europe. They were going to call it Oriental Splendour.’
‘What happened?’
‘Apparently it was awful. There are some things,’ she said sadly, ‘that do not export.’ Which might have been a message, or not.
Either way, Craig was not going to let it spoil their last evening. They went into dinner, they finished the champagne and ordered another bottle, they ate their way through the menu, finished off with a couple of Remy Martins apiece. All the time they laughed and joked and had a fine time together and, if they were walking sideways when they eventually left the dining room, neither they nor anyone else seemed to care.
Outside the hotel they stared up at the sky. There was a half moon, so the stars were not as splendid as they had been the night they arrived, but there was comfort in the thought that, visible or not, they were still there in their millions. Washed with silver light, the golf course stretched into the distance; all around them, the dark silhouette of the hills was etched against the sky.
He looked down at her. ‘Shall we walk?’
‘After all th
at champagne? I’m not sure I can.’ But managed, after a fashion.
They lurched across the narrow bridge that spanned the stream; they stood and listened to the water as it flowed between the stones.
‘Are there fish?’
He had no idea and didn’t care. He looked at the moonlight glittering on the water and was very conscious of her standing beside him, of the pressure of her body against his. He turned and kissed her and, for the first time, she kissed him back, lips open beneath his, and her arms went around his neck. After a minute he raised his hand and, very tentatively, moulded her breast through the silky dress.
‘Don’t!’ But she did not move from beneath his hand.
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not.’
It was a game, no more than that. You did certain things, you fenced with words, you got somewhere or you did not. The worst thing that could happen was a slap in the face; he did not think she would do that. Of course, she might say no and mean it, in which case he would certainly stop, but she might not. Only one way to find out. He slipped his hand into the neck of her dress. He felt her stiffen and kissed her again, quickly, while he caressed her. Touching her breast made her seem unbelievably precious and vulnerable; he knew he was moving onto dangerous ground, but did not stop, his hand stroking and stroking, trying and failing to express through the contact of his skin on hers the way he felt, the urgent need he had to protect her.
The only thing she needs protection from around here is you.
Yet he did not feel there was anything shameful or hypocritical in what he was doing; on the contrary, it was the only way he knew to express the feelings that were welling up increasingly in him.
Yukiko took her lips from his. Eyes shut, she leant against him, her breath coming quick in her throat. Then she lifted her own hand to the one with which he was moulding her breast and pressed it against her, gently at first, then with all her force. She opened her eyes and stared up at him while still she held his hand against her breast.
‘What are we going to do?’
His laugh had a catch in it. ‘Now, or later?’
‘I think one depends upon the other.’
And took his hand in hers and drew it away from her. Time to be serious.
‘What do you want us to do?’ They were sober, now. They crossed the bridge and began to walk slowly along the silver path of the deserted fairway.
‘I don’t see how it’s going to work.’ She looked up at him. The moonlight emphasised her cheekbones, kindled silver glints in her eyes. ‘And I don’t know what you want.’
It was what he had told himself, yet now a sudden surge of feeling, out of nowhere, impelled his tongue. Before he knew what he was going to say, he had already said it. ‘I don’t see how it’s going to work, either,’ he told her savagely, ‘but one thing I do know.’
‘What is that?’
‘I am going to find a way to make it work, if it’s possible.’
And on again they walked, arms around each other’s waists. Neither spoke, but listened to the language of their bodies as they pressed against each other, the silence taut with the urgent desire to make things come right, the frustration of not knowing how to go about it.
‘There’s only one way,’ Craig said. ‘We must force it.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘At the moment there’s no commitment. All the time we’re worrying about the things that divide us. Different countries, different backgrounds, different lives. The fact that you work in Singapore and I’m four thousand miles away in Adelaide.’
‘Those things are important.’
‘Then we should forget all about it, chuck it in the too-hard basket. Is that what you want? Because I don’t.’
Silence, then, for a few minutes. Even the language of their leaning bodies was still. At length Yukiko said something so softly that he could only just hear it.
‘No, that is not what I want. But the things you mentioned … They are facts; we can’t just ignore them.’
‘That’s exactly what we must do. Or put them on one side, if what we feel for each other is important enough. We have to be sure; if it’s the problems that come first, there’s no hope for us, no future. But if it’s the future that counts — our future — the problems aren’t important. We just have to live with them and sort them out the best we can. It’s the price we have to pay. No-one said love was easy, or without a price. The question is: are you willing to pay it? Am I?’
And was still. Stride by slow stride, in silence.
‘You said something about commitment. What did you mean?’
‘We’ve had a week, now. Long enough to learn quite a lot about each other. We know things our friends will never know. We’ve tantalised each other by being together, yet not together, by going so far, yet not far enough. All we’ve done is talk —’ With every step his voice had been growing more belligerent. Now he stopped, putting his hands on her shoulders and turning her so that they stood facing each other in the moon’s serene light. ‘Words are not enough.’
She looked at him searchingly. For a long time she did not speak. When finally she did so, her words were once again so soft that he had difficulty hearing them. ‘I have never done it,’ she said.
‘We need to offer ourselves to each other,’ he told her. ‘Or the problems will ruin us.’
She smiled at him ruefully, the woman in her assessing and forgiving the man in him. ‘And, if we make this offer, you think the problems will somehow disappear?’
‘At least we shall have made it clear to each other and to ourselves where we stand. That we and the future are more important than the problems. Maybe then we can start to sort them out.’
Still she looked searchingly at him. The air trembled between them. Craig waited in silence for the affirmation or dissent that would decide what was to happen next. Until Yukiko sighed and placed her hand lightly on his arm. ‘Let’s go back.’
Their feet made no sound amid the pool of moonlight that surrounded them. From the windows of the hotel light spilled, gaudily. They went in. There were voices and laughter from the bar, but they ignored them. They walked up the stairs. They stood before her door. And looked at each other.
Again the silent appraisal, while Craig waited, subservient to her decision. Without a word, Yukiko turned. She unlocked the door and opened it. She took him by the hand.
‘Come …’
There was light, downpouring from the fixture in the ceiling. There was stillness: of resolve, commitment; the very air itself and the moment were encapsulated, so that forever they would remember it as the time when they came out of solitude into the light of another being’s presence.
Their flesh, white and ivory, bathed within the pool of light created by electricity as, earlier, their feet had bathed in the pool created by the moon. Now, finally, was the time.
Craig thought, It is not a question of virginity. That exists only in the losing of it, its significance only in its non-being. What we have here is the fragile awareness and sharing that is the public affirmation of love. Public, because afterwards there can no longer be solitude or even privacy between us; affirmation, because the act is a statement of what we have otherwise been unable to express; love, because from sacrifice and longing and sharing, putting on the veil of modesty even as the body is itself unveiled, comes the commitment and emotion that people call by that name.
They lay side by side, fingers entwined, unmoving. Craig sensed rather than heard the flutter of Yukiko’s breath, the beating of her heart, the steady upsurge of feeling that woke her finally to passion. With a low cry, she turned compulsively to him, her arms clutching not merely his body but the whole entity of strength and gentleness, of feeling and integrity, understanding and empathy, that she was here to celebrate. While he, holding her wand-smooth body against his own, cradling her to his heart, felt desire and so much more than desire: the longing to hold, join, protect, express the perfection that he knew mi
ght be visualised, most gloriously, but never captured. And that was good, too, because to capture perfection would be to destroy it.
He touched her: with his eyes and breath, lips and tongue and fingers, embracing her so that they became one with each other and themselves.
Holding her, feeling the rapid beating of her heart, the light ripple of her breath upon his throat, his mouth full of the taste and joy of her, he was happier than he had ever been. None of the things that had been troubling him mattered, neither the country she was from nor the country where she lived. He felt no more anxiety or fear, only delight that they were truly together at last.
‘My darling,’ he said.
‘What did you say?’ Yukiko, her body touching him in every place, sounded very far away.
‘I said my darling, my dearest, my love —’
‘Hush.’ The cool fingers he loved were against his mouth. ‘Don’t say it.’
‘Don’t you want me to tell you I love you?’
‘I want it. But I want you to prove it in other ways than with words.’ And suddenly, out of all the passion and distance and tenderness, she laughed. ‘You said it. Remember? Words are not enough?’
Indeed he had said it, and joined her in laughing at himself. ‘I was very pompous.’
‘Not at all pompous. What you said was true and it moved me very much. But now I want to be moved by things other than words. As you promised.’ Again the mischievous laugh. ‘Unless you’re telling me that it was only talk, that you are incapable of keeping your word.’
He was shaken by tenderness that she was able to laugh both at him and herself at such a moment. Not only tenderness; he felt huge, aching for her.
He smiled down at her. ‘Incapable? That’s fighting talk, woman.’
‘A woman, certainly. But am I your woman?’
‘Do you want to be?’
‘All this,’ she said, ‘is happening only because I want it. That is what makes it important.’
‘And it is important? Truly?’
Again the mocking, tender laugh. ‘It is important and, yes, I am your woman and I think, as a lover, you make a good talker.’
