Where the Wild Ladies Are
Page 1
Praise for Where the Wild Ladies Are
One of BBC Culture’s Best Books of the Year
“Where the Wild Ladies Are immediately became one of my favorite story collections. The ghosts have got the numbers on us, as Matsuda knows, and it’s a joy to see the living and the dead by the light of her radiant imagination. At once playful, joyful, and radically subversive.”
—KAREN RUSSELL, author of Orange World and Other Stories
“Aoko Matsuda’s feverish mashups of the civilized and the wild, the mythological and the modern, are daringly strange and hauntingly funny. Her stories burrow into a subterranean place in the psyche where dreams, fairy tales, and ghost stories mingle in a raucous, beguiling party that I wished I never had to leave.”
—ALEXANDRA KLEEMAN, author of Intimations
“Aoko Matsuda’s delightful ghosts have all the characteristics of people you know: they could be your dear friends, judgmental relatives, casually encountered busybodies who seem to have too much time on their hands. As you progress through the stories in Where the Wild Ladies Are, Matsuda ties together strands and characters so that the book as a whole feels even richer and deeper than you first thought.”
—KELLY LINK, author of Get in Trouble
“In these absorbing stories, Matsuda animates ancient tales with a humor and resonance that will be thrilling to the modern reader. But she goes beyond even that; she suffuses them with heart, making them her very own. For fans of fabulist fiction, this is as good as it gets.”
—AMELIA GRAY, author of Gutshot
“In death, Matsuda’s wild ladies are able to doff society’s shit to get up to mirthful hi-jinks. Hanging the grotesque next to the quotidian, fun next to fable, this is a book of startling beauty and insight. You will want to read these stories again and again.”
—MARIE-HELENE BERTINO, author of Parakeet
“Matsuda’s Where the Wild Ladies Are is a collection of interconnected, slightly spooky feminist retellings of Japanese folktales . . . Matsuda punctures the folktale serenity and brings us into the now through references to the cruelties of global capitalism and western cultural hegemony.”
—JULIA IRION MARTINS, Full Stop
“[Matsuda] has a light but lasting touch . . . A delightful, daring collection.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“These ghosts are not the monstrous, vengeful spirits of the original stories; they are real people with agency and personalities, finally freed from the restraints placed on living women. Funny, beautiful, surreal and relatable, this is a phenomenal book.”
—The Guardian
“In this enjoyable and enigmatic collection of short stories, Aoko Matsuda retells traditional Japanese ghost stories with a contemporary, feminist slant. The many female ghosts that crop up so often in old Japanese tales appear in many guises here—as forceful saleswomen, or a cynical aunt lecturing her niece about slavishly following fads. They’re smart and formally inventive: one story is a self-help column, while a series of stories revolve around the strange goings on at Mr Tei’s incense factory. Beauty, jealousy and women’s place in Japanese society are all explored in stories which are funny, strange and intriguing.”
—Tatler
“Taking a collection of traditional Japanese ghost stories and crafting them into often humorous yet painfully relevant tales is a move of pure genius by Aoko Matsuda. Taking place in a contemporary setting, with a decidedly feminist bend, Where the Wild Ladies Are takes classic Japanese ghost stories—which make up some of the best in the world—and rewrites them to make them relevant to the current gender climate of modern-day Japan. Witty, biting, and poignant, Matsuda’s collection is a pleasantly haunting surprise.”
—JESSICA ESA, Metropolis
“This was an amazing read. A troupe of women are sent in from another world in order to help relieve the angst of the people in this world.”
—HIROKO KITAMURA, Hon no zasshi sha
“Turning one’s back on despair and instead channeling all one’s energy into living as one’s true self is what gives one the strength to take on spectral form. This is a call to power to live with sufficient conviction to become ghosts.”
—AKIKO OHTAKE, Asahi Shimbun
“An enjoyable and satisfying read, coming out of a sense of discomfort and unease around gender inequality. This is a short story collection where classic works from rakugo and kabuki are developed in the author’s unique style.”
—ASAYO TAKII, Nami
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2016 by Aoko Matsuda
Translation copyright © 2020 by Polly Barton
All rights reserved
First Soft Skull edition: 2020
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Matsuda, Aoko, 1979– author. | Barton, Polly (Translator), translator.
Title: Where the wild ladies are / Aoko Matsuda ; translated from the Japanese by Polly Barton.
Other titles: Obachantachi no iru tokoro. English
Description: First Soft Skull edition. | New York : Soft Skull Press, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020017381 | ISBN 9781593766900 (paperback) | ISBN 9781593766917 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Matsuda, Aoko, 1979– —Translations into English.
Classification: LCC PL873.A86 O3313 2020 | DDC 895.63/6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020017381
Cover design & Soft Skull art direction by salu.io
Book design by Wah-Ming Chang
Published by Soft Skull Press
1140 Broadway, Suite 704
New York, NY 10001
www.softskull.com
Printed in the United States of America
13579108642
Contents
Note
Smartening Up
The Peony Lanterns
My Superpower
Quite a Catch
The Jealous Type
Where the Wild Ladies Are
Loved One
A Fox’s Life
What She Can Do
Enoki
Silently Burning
A New Recruit
Team Sarashina
A Day Off
Having a Blast
The Missing One
On High
Inspiration for the Stories
Translator’s Acknowledgments
Note
The stories in this collection draw inspiration from traditional Japanese ghost and yōkai tales, many of which have been immortalized as kabuki or rakugo performances. A complete list of references and brief outlines of the original works can be found on page 255.
Smartening Up
I am a beautiful woman.
I am a beautiful, intelligent woman.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy
woman.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy,
caring woman. I am—
“Okay, that’s the right side done. I’ll start on the left now.” From just beside my ear, the beautician’s voice cut through the affirmations with which I was busy filling up every inch of my headspace.
“Sure, thanks,” I responded automatically.
The woman adjusted the towel draped over my chest, then moved to stand on my left. She pressed some buttons on the machine, and it beeped twice—beep, beep. Thinking it wouldn’t do to stare too intently, I directed my eyes up at the ceiling. Soon enough, I began to feel a faint, tingling pain traversing my arm. This level of pain I was totally fine with. The machine beeped again—beep, beep.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy,
caring woman with a fantastic dress
sense.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy,
caring woman with a fantastic dress
sense and unique taste in furniture
and accessories.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy,
caring woman with a fantastic dress
sense and unique taste in furniture
and accessories, and I’m a superb
cook to boot.
In time with the rhythmic beep-beeping of the machine, I went on adding to my list of qualifications. Like a line of cans moving down a factory conveyor belt, my future assets flowed past me in a steady stream, offering the promise of a new me.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy,
caring woman with a fantastic dress
sense and unique taste in furniture
and accessories, and I’m a superb
cook to boot, who sometimes rustles
up delicious cakes and sweets in no
time at all.
Beep, beep. Beep, beep.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy,
caring woman with a fantastic
dress sense and unique taste in
furniture and accessories, and
I’m a superb cook to boot, who
sometimes rustles up delicious
cakes and sweets in no time at
all, and everybody loves me the
moment they meet me.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy,
caring woman with a fantastic dress
sense and unique taste in furniture
and accessories, and I’m a superb
cook to boot, who sometimes rustles
up delicious cakes and sweets in
no time at all, and everybody loves
me the moment they meet me, and
my skin is so soft and smooth that
people just want to reach out and
touch it.
I am—
“Right, you’re all done! I’m going to cool it off for you, so don’t move just yet.”
The beautician’s slightly dated makeup was immaculately applied, her beige-slicked lips thin as an archer’s bow. She parted them now to smile broadly at me. A saying that I’d read or heard somewhere came back to me: “You can change your destiny simply by lifting the corners of your mouth. Good fortune comes spilling out of every smile.” The beautician had perfect teeth, I thought, and this set my eyes wandering, processing every detail of the open-plan hair-removal clinic: her uniform so white it was almost blue, the potted plant in the corner of the room, the melancholy sound of a music box churning out synthesized versions of popular songs. Then it occurred to me that the towel laid out beneath my head was cruelly crushing the perm I’d had done at the hairdresser’s just three days ago. Lifting my head slightly, I slipped a hand underneath to check the extent of the damage. The flattened spread of warm, limp hair felt as frail as a baby’s.
The department store by the station was still open when I came out of the clinic, so I went in and browsed the new range of colors in the cosmetics section, splurged on a selection of Dean & DeLuca deli items for my dinner along with a baguette from the artisan bakery, then got on the train, half-intoxicated by this version of myself. From my earphones came the sweet voice of a Western singer. I couldn’t understand the lyrics at all, but I assumed she must have been singing a love song. On the album cover that popped up on my screen, the singer’s long tresses glistened like those of a fairy princess. Why hadn’t I been born blond? I wondered to myself. Examining my reflection in the window of the train, I reached a hand up to touch my jet-black hair. In my next life, I decided, I would be blond. Then I would meet a gorgeous man with blond hair to match mine, and we would fall in love, and talk in English. In that incarnation, I would be surrounded with beautiful things, all day, every day. My life would be full of the sorts of things that brought instant contentment, and my heart would sing just to look at them. I would own so many wonderful things, I wouldn’t know what to do with them, and then I would truly be happy.
I walked down the street with a spring in my step, practically skipping. On my way I passed the supermarket that by now would have started to reduce its prices before closing; next to it, the shop run by a wrinkly old couple selling Japanese sweets, its shutters already half down; then a mess of ripped posters for some yard sale that was happening or had already happened; and the barber’s where I had never seen a single customer, only the owner who sat reading his newspaper by the window. Those things had no part to play in my world.
Back home in my one-bedroom apartment on the first floor of a three-story block, I’d just managed to arrange the selection of deli foods on my Scandinavian dining table, and press PLAY on the romantic comedy I’d chosen starring Michelle Williams, when the doorbell rang.
Life is full of dangers for a woman living by herself. I crept to the door silently so I could pretend I wasn’t home if necessary. I peered through the peephole, but could see nobody.
The doorbell rang again. Who could it be? A pushy door-to-door salesman, somebody soliciting for some organization, a burglar, a rapist, a pair of rapists, a whole gang of armed rapists . . . and then another possibility occurred to me, appending itself to the terrifying list of options, and I found myself opening the door without having meant to. My aunt was standing outside.
“Auntie! What are you doing here?”
“Goodness gracious, what’s happened to you? You look dreadful.”
Examining my face with narrowed eyes, my aunt kicked off her cheap outlet-shop sandals so that they landed right on top of my Fabio Rusconi heels and Repetto ballerina pumps neatly arranged in the entrance.
“What a poky little doorway you’ve got!” she squawked before clumping through into my apartment. “Your posture’s a disgrace, too . . . But that’s nothing new, I suppose. Come on, come on, stand up straight, that’s it.”
She tapped my spine with the back of her hand and I straightened up, staring in disbelief at the ugly scratches on the heels of the shoes she’d deposited in my doorway.
“Your hall’s tiny too!” she exclaimed. “You’re just like your mother! She had awful posture ever since she could walk. Born miserable, that one was. I was always pulling back her shoulders for her, but as soon as I let go she’d be straight back to slumping again. A person’s character expresses itself in their body, you know. Oh heavens, look at all this!”
Without a moment’s hesitation, my aunt sat down at my perfectly laid dinner table. The elegant minimalist chair, which matched the table, groaned as it accommodated a body significantly heavier than that of its usual sitter. I remained standing, staring incredulously at the finger-sized puncture that had appeared in the roast vegetable terrine. The film kept playing. The hair on Michelle Williams’s arms shone beautifully in the sunlight, and I felt a wave of jealousy toward all the blond women in the world who had never had to give depilation a thought.
“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 sweater with its cheap purple and gold sequins sewn into the shape of a tiger, I could see her graying undershirt. 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 story line, 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 color of people’s hair down there is the same as the color 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 shoveled 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 toward 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 rubbish you’ve got strewn around the place?”
My aunt held up between her thumb and forefinger the pink cushion she’d been leaning on, as if handling something unspeakably repulsive.
“Pink maximizes your romantic potential!” I cried. My aunt had succeeded in striking a nerve. I clenched my fists tight to hide my fuchsia-painted nails.