He pulled up his shorts, zipped his trousers. The body was still a boxing champion's but it was failing him. That was why he was in the dangerous-sounding business that he was.
- I'm going to get out, as soon as I can put a bit more away.
He was going to go straight and wash his hands (feet, in Japan) of it all, but I wondered if he could get out that easily. I recalled a recent newspaper report of a case in Kamata where a young thug was beaten to death with boards, inside a circle of former friends, for trying to quit.
- No, I've got influence. I've got this guy. He'll protect me. I'll wait a bit longer and then I'll get out.
- Well, be careful of your big toenails, I said.
Then, later, big business really took charge of Japan. There were many mergers, many takeovers, and the present giants of industry appeared. These became household names throughout the world.
The underworld too shaped up. Smaller gangs were eliminated. There was a massive amalgamation as money was poured into the organization. The present giants of the underworld put the profession back on its economic feet, and the yakuza wore white shirts and ties and had name cards with Ginza office addresses. Peanuts and lemons were forgotten, as outfits now with respectable names ending with Ltd., or Inc., or K.K. expanded their market to include other really profitable companies.
It was almost eight years before I saw Kubo again. But one summer afternoon he appeared. At first I did not recognize him. He had a moustache, his hair was cut short. Also, he had no left hand.
- Yes, he said, smiling his apologetic smile: It's been a long time. No, no. I didn't want anything. It's just that we hadn't met. And you were interested in me once.
A lot had happened. He'd got married, for example. Nice girl. And he'd found a new job. A salesman, kind of. And he would have had a kid too but there'd been a miscarriage. Here was his card. He produced it. No Ginza address for him. He lived in the industrial north.
Looking down at himself as though at a stranger, he said: You know, you're the only person I'm still in touch with who knew me as I was back then. Back when I was a champion. Maybe you're the only one who remembers. Imagine that.
And he shook his head, good-naturedly overwhelmed by fate. His body seemed smaller now, turned in on itself, and his hand lay in his lap.
- Oh, that? No, no, no—it isn't what you think. I had this construction job and I didn't get my hand away from the pile driver in time. Really. That's the truth.
And he picked up his drink with his right hand and smiled. The smile alone had not changed.
- It's good now. Oh, it's hard sometimes but at least I don't have anyone following me around any more. There was a period there when it was sort of bad.
And then nothing more for another five years until, one day, the telephone rang. It was a woman. She sounded worried and apologetic. We hadn't met but... she'd been going through a few of his things and had found my name card, and she thought she would just call and find out, and really, she was very sorry, but could I tell her where Kunio Kubo was? This was his wife, you see. Had I seen him or heard from him in the last year or so? Could I help her?
Minoru Sakai
In school, out of pocket, Minoru answered the advertisement. You too can make enough to live a modern life, it said. Easy hours. Tips. And, said the smooth young man who interviewed him, if you work it right, perks.
Minoru was to present himself every evening at the Empire Club. There he was to assist until his trial period was over and he became one of the regulars, like Hiroshi and Saburo and Ichiro.
Assisting meant running out to buy a pack of Kents for the company president's wife, or peeling an expensive papaya in the tiny kitchen, or sitting with the others at one of the tables, looking bright and laughing at the jokes.
But assistance extended only so far. Minoru had taken pity on a widow sitting lonely in the corner. No sooner had he asked her to dance than Ichiro was onto him, furious, pulling him off to the kitchen where he hissed that one trick more like that and he was out on his ear, that she was his, he was warming her up and that if Minoru thought he could just come in and make off like that he had another think coming. Acting like that and him only a helper!
From then on Minoru no longer took pity. He admired rings and hairstyles, exclaimed over polaroids of fat children, sat with impatient guests while the regular was elsewhere occupied; and, at the end, brought in the large bill on its doilied tray.
The regulars got most of the money. They were popular. Minoru looked at the slick and vacuous Ichiro and wondered why. Because, he was informed, when new customers appeared they always asked who was popular. Told that Ichiro was, they asked for him. Consequently, he became all the more so.
As for the helpers, they got the tips, the thousand-yen notes left behind on the table or roguishly stuffed into their breast pocket by the departing guest. It was not much. Minoru began to wonder how he could make enough to lead a proper modern life on such leavings as these.
But he lasted. He needed the money, these tiny tips. So he sat at the corners of tables, laughing when he judged it appropriate, avoiding the fingers of a certain Mrs. Watanabé every Thursday. Soon the right patron would appear. Soon he too would be popular.
In the afternoon, instead of going to classes, he was told to scout. This was what the others did. This was how Ichiro had got his start.
One was supposed to loiter in Shibuya or Ginza and pick out someone likely. One began by saying: I was drawn to you. I know I shouldn't ask, but you do seem to be a woman who would understand. Though I'm only a student, and I've everything to learn, I wonder if you'd care to have some tea with me.
This direct approach was not often successful, but all the boys were convinced that an initial, dishonest display of honesty was best. Women often accepted adventure only if it was offered with modesty and complete untruth.
Coffee and cakes were the first and final things for which the youngsters paid. The next step was to say: Interesting place I work in part-time. A kind of snack bar we students help to run.
And then the executive's wife, the widow, the older, unmarried woman sometimes actually appeared. If not discouraged by the bill, she was considered hooked. She was also considered the patron of the young man who had done the initial legwork. For a good deal more she might avail herself of further services. These, boasted Ichiro, led from cuff links and three-piece London suits all the way to Porsches.
Ichiro was something of an expert. He had three patrons—Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays—and he was so skillful they had never once collided. He enjoyed talking about the business after hours, leaning forward, hands folded, imparting his knowledge to the trainees.
- You got to go slow, you see. You got to gauge your clientele. With some it's you who's got to be seduced. With others, though, you have to pant and press. Others still you got to rape. Why? Because that's what the customer wants.
- What if you rape someone you ought to be seduced by? asked Minoru, who thought he might be able to be seduced but was certain he could never rape.
Ichiro tapped his smooth forehead: Inspiration! It's all up here. Either you have it or you don't. That's business, boy.
He held up a manicured hand, then looked at Minoru: Now you, you haven't got it. Never will. Probably fall in love. Probably give it away free.
Minoru nodded. He probably would. Then, thinking, he asked: But what about love? I've never been in love but I hear it's common. It's what men and women feel together and after that comes the sex.
Ichiro appeared scandalized. Look, he said sternly: This is business. We're a company here like any other. We do our job, we stick together, we push the product.
Then he softened, smiled, shot a cuff, and said: But it's an art too, you know. It's serious. And slow, that's the secret. Dedicated, like a craftsman. And done with class. Lots of little things a person like you would never think of. A little stroking here, a little licking there.
Minoru shook his head in wonder. He had neve
r thought of things like that.
- You get them where you want, and then you keep them there, kind of hovering. It's like a game but serious. They're paying all this dough. You just got to make certain they keep on paying.
Saburo smiled, scratched his head: I'd come, he said, and laughed.
In practice, these outside excursions brought in few patrons. Mostly the customers were bar hostesses or the mamas who ran the bars. Weary of being nightly pawed, they came themselves to paw. There was one who wore a wig and had sharp canines from whom the boys used to hide, crowding into the tiny kitchen and leaving Hiroshi to cope.
Most of the time, however, the customers were well behaved. And most of those from other bars, Minoru noticed, seemed much more interested in each other than in the boys. Except that the interest was not friendly. What's that older person having at that table over there? Oh, fruit? Apples, oranges? Well, boy, you bring us some real fruit. Yes, kiwi, papaya, mango.
- So what? said Ichiro: So long as they have a good time and keep coming back. And if Madame Kazu wants to drag you into the toilet, then you get dragged into the toilet.
Madame Kazu was the one with the sharp teeth.
After hours the boys would gather around Ichiro and talk about hidden assets. Saburo exposed a pair of cuff links, with the comment: Sapphires, she said. Glass, if you ask me.
Snickers, giggles from the others. Then Hiroshi scuffed a gleaming pump: Cordovan, all the way from Spain, she said. More likely horse, all the way from Gumma.
More chuckles, then Ichiro removed a diamond from his finger and peered at it suspiciously: South African yellow, she said. More like piss yellow, if you ask me.
Everyone laughed hard at this because the joke was Ichiro's. Then Minoru, emboldened, looked at the ring on his finger: Silver, she said, ha-ha—more like tin, if you ask me!
No one laughed and Ichiro turned in sudden fury: Where did you get that ring? Which one gave it to you? Listen, boy, if you get into my territory you are dead. Come on. Which one?
And Minoru had to admit that he had found it in front of Isetan Department Store, and everyone laughed immoderately.
Night after night Minoru watched the other boys as they chattered away, turning their heads, waving their hands. This, he thought, is the way the bar hostesses on TV behave when they are alone together. They are always talking about the patrons and their presents.
Maybe men and women are not, after all, that different, he thought. He looked about him, at Hiroshi in his velvet jacket, his close-cut perm. Maybe it was only what they had learned, been taught, men and women, that made them different. Maybe when they did the same work—host or hostess—they became the same again.
He turned this novel thought over in his head as he watched. The buzzer sounded. Customers? As late as this? At once the boys went into action. Ichiro swirled to face the mirror. Hiroshi emptied ashtrays and trotted to the kitchen. Saburo straightened the chairs and smoothed the doilies.
Then, with a quick, housewifely glance around, Ichiro tested his smile before unlocking the door and swinging it open with practiced grace. Minoru straightened his tie, smiled, stood slightly awkward, for he had already learned that innocence, real or seeming, attracts.
He never did finish school, and his mother in the provinces is pleased with the well-paying job he has though she doesn't know what it is. The widow and, after that, the bored wife of a Yamaha executive helped him open his own place. It is very expensive, very popular.
He recently put in a series of ads for new helpers. You too can live a modern life, they said. Easy hours, tips, perks. And, after hours, he gathers these fresh, young, unformed faces about him and imparts the secrets of the craft as handed down to him.
Oharu Kitano
- Oh, no, she was saying: It spoils the line if you wear panties, so we never do. Me, I simply wear a koshimaki under this.
She indicated her kimono, a green so dark it was almost black, her sash a pale tan secured with lilac-colored braided cord.
- What color is your o-koshimaki? I asked politely, referring to the single sarong-like sheath around her torso, next to her skin.
- Red, she answered, then, explaining: It's traditional. But nowadays the younger entertainers wear anything they like, even white—if you can imagine.
An entertainer, that was how Oharu referred to herself. Not a geisha, though she could probably sing, play the samisen, dance; not a waitress, certainly, though she poured saké and helped with the serving. We were at a table in an elegant Akasaka ryotei. It was grand—one entertainer for each guest.
Oharu was older than the rest of them and very handsome. Also very intelligent, I thought. The other girls were laughing and carrying on, covering their giggling mouths with their hands, but she and I were having an interesting conversation.
- I took a bath with Toshiro Mifuné once, I volunteered: He wore BVDs under his armor.
- How interesting, said Oharu: And how anachronistic of him.
Back then, it appeared, samurai wore nothing under their kimono and only a pair of linen shorts under their armor.
- But what about the fundoshi? I wanted to know, referring to the traditional loincloth.
Well, the fundoshi with tie strings only came in during early Meiji, designed for the new army, for hygenic reasons, she understood. And the old rokkushaku not only would have bunched terribly but was far too plebeian. Only porters and runners and fishermen wore it.
- Then the aristocracy wore nothing under their clothes? I asked, pleased to be talking to someone so well informed.
- So it would seem, said Oharu, half smiling: And convenient too it must have been. Court ladies back then still wore those Heian-style layered kimono. You know, with twelve layers. Can you imagine what a bother underwear would be if you wanted to go to the toilet?...
And she gracefully pantomimed the raising of all these kimono skirts and indicated the ease of simply squatting.
How, I wondered, had she come to know so much about this subject? Of course, entertainers traditionally knew what to talk about to amuse or interest the guest. She could probably have spoken equally well on the stock market or the current baseball season.
- Yes, I said: I can see how it would help.
- Particularly with a job like mine where you have to drink all evening, she said with a smile.
The other girls were growing rowdy now, slapping playfully at the men, laughing loudly, accusing them of only thinking about that.
And here Oharu and I were having this serious and absorbing conversation about underwear in Japanese history or the lack of it. I was enjoying myself and so was she. There were no laborious innuendos, no flirtation, no coyness. We were simply two adults talking about a subject not much mentioned.
- Did you ever hear why? she asked, pouring me another cup of saké.
- Why the lack of underwear?
- No, why it's now so common, whether it ruins the line or not.
- Drafts? I wondered, thinking of winter.
She smiled: A little discomfort has never discouraged a fashion. No, much worse.
Then she leaned forward, still smiling, and told me about the notorious event of 1937 that had introduced panties into Japan.
There was a fire in the Shirokiya Department Store in Nihombashi and a number of the kimonoed salesgirls had fled to the roof. The fire raged, out of all control, and the only escape was by leaping into the safety nets held out by the firemen far below. The trapped girls, however, refused to jump. All were in kimono. These would certainly open dur ing the fall and the fact that they were wearing nothing under them would become apparent. They would be exposed to the public gaze, and all chose death before dishonor.
- At least that's the story, Oharu concluded: And as a result women all over the country began wearing Western-style panties.
I spoke unthinkingly: What would you do if this place caught fire? Expose yourself?
She looked at me, a long level gaze, as though she were seeing me
for the first time. It was the look of someone who has mistaken you for someone else and is now politely retreating. The half-smile faded.
Then it curved into brilliance as she leaned forward, slapped my knee, laughed and, in a high voice I was hearing for the first time, said: Why, you silly. We're on the ground floor. If I jumped it would only be into the carp pool!
Confronting me now was the typical would-be geisha who laughed loudly at every sally and would soon be showing the cunning way she could peel a tangerine.
- Foreign women sometimes go around without anything underneath, I said, desperately trying to recover that grave lady who until now had been sitting opposite me. It means, I said recklessly, that they're making a statement.
- Oh, yada, she cried, impersonating someone much younger than herself: You awful man. Etchi!
This last is the Japanese pronunciation of the English h and refers to the word hentai, which in the dictionary means "perverted" but in its milder, abbreviated form means only "naughty," with certain overtones. It is also shouted out, as it was here, with laughter or a roguish expression.
I looked at her, hurt.
Had I done something so awful, to be punished like this? Yes, I had.
She had perhaps wanted to step out of her usual role, had wanted to just talk about something, to stop being girlish. She had perhaps thought I was intelligent enough to understand. And I had shown her that I wasn't. Having indicated what I expected of her, she complied. And so the free discourse of two grown-ups, a conversation with no ulterior purpose, an exchange of information, no matter how arcane, all this came to a full stop and we were back where I apparently thought we were supposed to be.
And now she was picking up the saké bottle and holding it out with a simpering smile, saying: We're going to have to drink just lots to catch up with those folks down there.
- I don't want to catch up with them.
- Oh, yada!
And that grave, possessed, playful woman who knew how to talk about all sorts of things with detached intelligence—her name was Oharu, family name Kitano, information I later got from the mistress of the ryotei—never appeared again.
Japanese Portraits: Pictures of Different People Page 9
