Hotel Iris

by Yoko Ogawa

  The translator was wearing a wool suit and the same tie as before. Tiny pearls decorated his cuff links and the matching tiepin.

  “I’ve never eaten in a real restaurant,” I told him. “Much less such a fancy one.”

  “There’s nothing to be nervous about. Just order whatever you like.”

  “Do you go often?”

  “No, not really. Only when my nephew comes to visit.”

  “You have a nephew?”

  “He’s the son of my late wife’s younger sister. He’s a few years older than you.” I was surprised to learn that he had a family, but the words “late wife” struck me most.

  “The wall is completely exposed today,” he said. Then he pointed out at the sea. Its color was most beautiful at this time of year, the pale blue at the shore deepening gradually out in the open water, set off by the occasional flash of white from a sail or the wake of a ship. The sun bathed the seawall right to its base, glistening on the crust of shells and seaweed, still damp from the retreating tide. I followed his gaze out to sea, finding no place for a “late wife” in a scene like this.

  At the restaurant, the doorman smiled and bowed politely, and we were just about to enter when someone spoke up behind us.

  “Well, this is a nice surprise!” The voice was familiar. “How are you? I never got a chance to thank you for the other night.” The tone was high and sweet, but there was a subtle note of confrontation. The translator put his arm around my shoulders and tried to pass inside without acknowledging the woman. “Now don’t pretend you don’t remember me,” she said, winking significantly at a second woman who had come up with her. “That’s too cruel.”

  Their faces were round and without makeup; their ratty hair was tied up in back. They wore very short skirts, and their feet were bare. I realized that the one who had spoken was the woman who had been at the Iris that night.

  “You’re a very funny man,” she cackled. “Acting all proper. You were happy enough that night with your tongue up my ass!” People passing in the street turned to look, and the customers in the windows of the restaurant stared at us. The smile had faded from the doorman’s face. I turned away and clung to the translator’s arm.

  He sighed so softly that no one else could hear. Then he looked straight ahead as if he hadn’t heard her, slipped his arm behind my back, and pushed through the glass door.

  “So you’re on to little girls now?” she called after us, refusing to give up. “What are you planning to do with her? Young lady! You’d better watch out!” I tried to press deeper into his chest to shut out her voice.

  The maître d’ greeted us just inside the door. He seemed confused by the women who had practically followed us into the restaurant, but he tried to observe the usual formalities. The translator gave his name. Outside the window, the woman yelled one last insult and stalked away. But her presence lingered around us like a mist.

  The maître d’ took a long time studying the leather-bound reservations book. His eyes ran from the top of the page to the bottom and back to the top again, and from time to time he stole a glance in our direction. I was feeling more and more uneasy, and I suddenly felt too poorly dressed for the restaurant. I hid my little purse behind my back.

  At last the man looked up. “I’m terribly sorry,” he began cautiously. “We have no reservation in that name.”

  “But you must be mistaken,” the translator protested. “Could you check again?”

  “But I have checked.”

  “I called five days ago: party of two, July eighth at twelve thirty, a table with a view of the sea.”

  “I’m afraid there must have been some sort of misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding?”

  “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “But we’re here now. You must be able to do something.”

  “Unfortunately, we’re completely booked.”

  A drop of sweat appeared on the translator’s forehead and traced a line down his temple. His lips were dry, and the hand on my back was cold. The maître d’ bowed, but his expression seemed more annoyed than apologetic.

  “I want you to get the person who takes your reservations, and we’ll clear this up. You can’t just pretend I never called. I remember the voice, and every word that was said, down to the last syllable. I want to talk to the person who answers the phone. Or would you rather just show me that book? What would you do if I found my name there in the column for twelve thirty?”

  A man who seemed to be the manager appeared from the back with one of the waiters. Every eye in the restaurant was watching us now. I was frightened more than ever before, and I froze, feeling that something awful would happen if I moved any part of my body.

  “How can I help you?” the new man said.

  “You can stop insulting us!” the translator shouted. His hand shot out from behind my back and grabbed the reservations book, throwing it violently to the floor. We all stood staring down at the book. The translator was gasping, his empty hand dangling at his side. He seemed to be trying to expel something—not so much his anger as some deep distress. It was as if a tiny crack had opened somewhere in him and was growing, tearing him to pieces. If he had simply been angry, I might have found a way to calm him, but I had no idea how to put him back together once he came apart.

  “Please!” I said at last. “We don’t have to eat here. Who cares whether there was a reservation or not? Let’s go. Please don’t make it worse.” I clung to him, tears in my eyes. I thought about the sound of the translator’s voice as he’d said “Stop insulting us!” It was the voice that had overwhelmed me that night at the Iris. A blade of clear light cutting through the confusion.

  I was confused and afraid, and yet somewhere deep inside I was praying that voice would someday give me an order, too.

  We had been turned away, and though the color of the sea and the brilliance of the sun hadn’t changed, there was no way to regain the excitement we’d felt before the restaurant. It was as though we had suddenly fallen into a cold, dark cave.

  “I’m sorry,” the translator said. He seemed to have recovered quickly from the embarrassment. The sweat on his brow had dried, and his arm was once again wrapped around my back.

  “You mustn’t apologize,” I said. But my tears would not stop. The woman’s insults, the way we had been treated at the restaurant, the sudden change that had come over the translator—and the discovery of my secret desire—were all too much for me.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that. I had no idea we’d run into her.”

  “Please don’t apologize.”

  “Then at least let me wipe away these tears,” he said, taking a perfectly pressed handkerchief from his pocket and touching it to my cheek.

  “It was just an unfortunate mishap, and that’s not why I’m crying.” His scent on the handkerchief made me cry all the harder.

  No one had said a word as we left the restaurant. The patrons had cast only quick looks of contempt our way, then returned to their meals and conversations as though nothing had happened. The maître d’ retrieved the reservations book from the floor and wiped its cover. The doorman held the door open for us as we left.

  We walked until the restaurant was out of sight and then sat on the concrete breakwater, waiting for my tears to subside. The sky was cloudless and the sun burned bright. A breeze tugged at the hem of my dress. From time to time, the translator peered sheepishly under the brim of my hat. He patted my back and refolded his handkerchief and brushed the sand from my shoes to pass the time.

  A beach ball sailed over the breakwater and rolled at our feet. A small boy, his face smeared with ice cream, was eyeing us dubiously. Some young people in wet suits left a damp trail as they made their way down the street, and the horn of the excursion boat sounded as it pulled away from the wharf.

  “What would you like to do now?” the translator said. I took a deep breath and waited for the last tears to dry.

  “I’m hungry,” I confessed.
Before the restaurant, I’d been too unsettled to eat, but now, after all that had happened, I found myself famished.

  “Of course you are! It’s past one o’clock. We’ll find something delicious—there are plenty of other restaurants. So, tell me, what would you like?”

  “That,” I said, pointing at the shabby pizza stand directly in front of me.

  “But there are much better places. I know a very good restaurant right near here.”

  “No, this is fine,” I said, my finger still pointing at the stand. I had an overwhelming desire to eat greasy pizza, to stuff myself to bursting, and this seemed like the right place for the two of us.

  We stood at one end of the counter, eating pizza and sipping Cokes. The translator nibbled the end of his slice, his head cocked to the side in deep thought. When the least bit of grease touched his hand, he wiped it with a paper napkin, which he would then ball up and toss in the ashtray. From time to time he looked up as if about to say something, but he would take another sip of cola instead. I ate slice after slice in silence, my toes throbbing in my secondhand shoes.

  The wooden counter, sticky with oil and tomato sauce and Tabasco, was even more scratched and worn down than the front desk at the Iris. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the shadows under the awning, and a surly waiter shuffled among the rickety tables. Tiny roaches skittered over the condiments.

  Melted cheese stuck to my teeth, and the mushrooms burned my mouth. The lipstick I had applied so carefully that morning was completely gone.

  F O U R

  We stepped ashore from the excursion boat and walked along the coast road, away from the tourists headed for the diving shop. At the very end was a small cove, on the shore of which stood the translator’s house.

  It was a modest structure with a green roof. The lawn was neatly trimmed and the deck freshly painted. White lace curtains hung in the windows, but here and there were signs of decay on the house. The walls and doors and window frames were deeply scarred from long years in the salt air. Concrete stairs encrusted with shells led up to the front door.

  “Watch your step,” he said, taking my hand as I climbed them. The pain in my toes, forced into the leather shoes, was almost unbearable. But it was not real pain.

  “What a beautiful room,” I said as I sat down on the couch. But I didn’t mean it. The moment I had walked through the door, something had oppressed me.

  “Thank you,” he said, apparently genuinely pleased. The gloomy expression he had worn since the restaurant faded at last, and he smiled pleasantly, perhaps considering when to give his first order.

  The room served as both parlor and office. One wall was covered with bookshelves. Through a door, I could see a smaller room with a dresser and a bed. The kitchen was also visible through a sliding door that had been left open. The utensils and appliances were old but neat and clean.

  There were no decorations to be seen, no pictures or vases or art on the walls. Only things that could be put to use. But the translator had brought to the house a rigid sense of order unlike anything I’d seen before. The spines of the books on the shelves were perfectly aligned, the gas heater was polished to a bright shine, and every wrinkle had been smoothed from the cover on the bed. The room was stuffy, not cozy, and it made me feel I should return the cushion I had propped on my knees to its original place on the couch.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he asked, hurrying off to the kitchen. When he reappeared, the teapot, cups, kettle, and creamer were arranged on a tray with the same care as the room itself.

  I watched as he warmed the cups, measured the tea, and filled the pot with boiling water. Then he covered the pot and waited. He added milk to each cup, uncovered the pot, and held it high above the cups to pour. The long stream of tea frothed into the milk. Removing the lid from the sugar bowl, he finished his little ritual by giving the cup a half-turn in my direction.

  This was the first time I noticed the exquisite movement of his fingers. They were not particularly strong—almost delicate, in fact—spotted with moles and freckles; the fingernails were dark. But when they began to move, they bewitched anything they touched, casting a spell that demanded submission.

  I took a sip of tea and looked out the window. A scuba-diving boat cut across the inlet. The town was obscured behind the sparkling waves. A small brown bird flitted down to the deck for a moment and then flew away.

  Then I noticed his desk—old and plain, with the tools of his trade neatly arranged on top: five sharp pencils, two well-worn dictionaries, a paperweight, a magnifying glass, a letter opener, various thick books. One notebook lay open, and the writing on the page was as precise as the arrangement on the desk. The tiny characters had been copied out perfectly, with no changes or corrections.

  “Is this the novel about Marie?” I asked. I reached out for the book, but he stopped my hand. Perhaps he didn’t want me to touch his things, or perhaps he simply wanted to touch me.

  “That’s right,” he said.

  It was the first time I’d seen Russian writing.

  “Russian is interesting to look at, even if you don’t understand it,” I said.

  “And why is that?”

  “It’s like a code meant for keeping romantic secrets.” He was still holding my hand. “What is Marie up to these days?” I asked.

  “She has finally met the riding master. They are embracing in a corner of the stable. He has his riding crop in his hand. A horse whinnies softly, shaking its halter. Straw rustles at their feet. A ray of sunlight cuts through the darkness, and then they …” He drew me close and pressed his mouth to mine. I could feel the warmth of his lips and the rough parching of old age. It was a quiet kiss. Even the sound of the waves outside had stopped, and the silence seemed to draw us in.

  His desire grew bit by bit. His hands wandered from my shoulders to my hips, lingering at each bone and rib along the way. I didn’t know how to respond—I could only obey him.

  I didn’t know whether the things the translator did to my body were normal, nor how to find out. But I suspected they were special, different from the pictures I would imagine at the front desk of the Iris when the secret night noises drifted down from the rooms.

  Then, at last, he said it.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  It was the first order he gave me, and I trembled at the thought that this voice was now speaking only to me. I shook my head, not to refuse but to hide the trembling. “Take everything off,” he said. Desire and impatience stirred under his calm expression. He had been as timid as usual all day—until we reached the island, where his rule over me began.

  “No,” I said, crossing the room and trying to open the door. The teacups he had set out for us rattled.

  “Do you want to leave?” I had not noticed him move, but he was standing in front of the door when I reached it. He took hold of my wrist. “There’s half an hour until the next boat.” Pain slowly quivered through my wrist as his fingertips dug into the skin. I found it hard to believe that a small man of his age could be so strong. But I knew he was going to hold me here, that I could not leave this place.

  “Let me go,” I said. The words that came out of my mouth were the opposite of what I wanted, but I knew that resisting would make his orders even more forceful. He tried to drag me back to the center of the room, but he pulled so violently on my arm that we both fell. I caught a glimpse of the leg of the couch, a stray slipper, the sea through a gap in the curtains.

  “I’ll show you how,” he said. Pressing my face to the floor, he ripped open my dress. There was a tearing sound, as if he had slit my back with a knife, and I tried to curl into a ball. But he refused to let me move, not a finger, not an eyelid.

  He was still terribly angry, and, in his own way, he was using my body to take revenge on that woman and the maître d’. My ear was flattened, my breasts crushed, my mouth forced half open. The pile of the carpet had a bitter taste. My whole body should have hurt, but I didn’t feel anything.
Somehow, my nerves had become hopelessly tangled, so that pain became vaguely pleasurable as it rippled over my skin.

  He tore off my dress and threw it aside—a ball of yellow crumpled in the corner. Then in quick succession, my slip and stockings and bra were stripped away. He seemed to know exactly what to unfasten, where to pull. His arms and legs and fingers moved skillfully and relentlessly over me. When he finally slipped my panties down to my ankles, I let out a cry. It was then that I realized I was no more than a helpless lump of flesh.

  I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, but I could only moan. He forced my head deeper into the carpet. I caught sight of the Russian books in the bookcase—and my ugly reflection in the glass front.

  I was certain he would be disappointed by my underdeveloped breasts, my sweaty pubic patch, by the stubble under my arms and the ugly color of my private parts. How could he admire the hideous shape of my body when he tied me up? Wouldn’t he have preferred the woman outside the restaurant, even with her insults?

  He produced a strange piece of cord from somewhere and began to tie me up. It was thicker and stronger and more flexible than the plastic twine they use at the post office, and it had a slightly medicinal smell, like the science labs at school. Or perhaps it smelled like my grandfather before he died, like the tube that had drained the yellow fluid from his stomach.

  The cord dug into my flesh, holding me fast. The translator was remarkably skillful, quick and sure.

  I looked at my reflection in the glass front of the bookcase. My wrists were bound behind my back. The cord crushed my breasts, but the nipples were sensitive and pink and wanting to be caressed. The cord ran down between my thighs and around my knees, spreading me wide open, and if I made any effort to close my legs, it dug deeper into the soft place between them. Light fell in this crease, this pleat of skin that had been hidden in the dark until now.

  Then he lay on top of me. He moved very slowly, as if to make his pleasure last as long as possible—and to be absolutely sure the cords did not come loose. His lips ran over my neck and ears, and then pressed against mine. It was not quite a kiss, not like the one he had given me a few minutes earlier. Our mouths met, and saliva, tinged with the flavor of cheese from the pizza, dripped into me. He played with my breasts. They were swollen and sensitive from the cords.