Where the Wild Ladies Are

by Aoko Matsuda

  Not that Team Sarashina’s members are the only bright stars around here. Tsuyuko and Yoneko, the sales team’s highest performers, revered for their ability to make people listen to them against their will, also command a lot of respect in the company. That said, they are known to have gone a little bit far on occasion, and just between you and me, they cause Mr. Tei a bit of a headache.

  Often, when your eyes meet Tsuyuko’s and Yoneko’s, you find that the sweet that was in your hand a second ago is now in one of theirs, and so I make a policy of avoiding eye contact with them at all costs. Though there is a guy called Shigeru, who joined the company recently, who seems to be totally immune to their tricks. I’m not sure if it’s simply because he’s so out of it all the time or what. In any case, thanks to him, these days I often see Tsuyuko and Yoneko wearing somewhat frustrated expressions. I guess, in a way, Shigeru’s immunity is also a kind of a skill.

  Anyhow, I’ve strayed off topic a little, but what I was getting to was this: the main reasons that Team Sarashina are held up as the jewel in the company’s crown are, first, their exceptional teamwork and, second, the extreme precision and speed with which they go about their designated tasks.

  The projects that they have a hand in planning are always met with success. Each time they step up to the production line, they manage without fail to far surpass the standard run quantity, and, when they’re sent out on location, they are received rapturously. The word that crops up time and time again in feedback reports from their external postings is dependable.

  Team Sarashina is made up of ten members. Ms. Sarashina, the official team leader, is generally quite subdued, but is capable of complete transformation when the occasion demands. With her healthy doses of blusher, the ever-comical Ms. Iwahashi keeps team spirit lifted. Bastions of capability, Ms. Nogiku and Ms. Matsushima know how to get things done, while Ms. Tatsuta, Ms. Wakaba, Ms. Matsukaze, Ms. Tamazasa, and Ms. Tsuyushiba silently support them, and the group’s eldest member, Ms. Tagoto, keeps a sharp-eyed watch over all of them. They’re a wonderful team, and they wouldn’t be the same without any one of their members.

  However unexpected the situation they find themselves in, the Sarashinas always come across as calm and poised. I’m sure that nobody will disagree when I say that just the sight of the ten of them together, all wearing the same expression of perfect composure, is overwhelming enough to make a person surrender to them on the spot. Some companies we deal with still have their fair share of cocky types, or people going around sexually harassing others even though everyone knows that’s not cool anymore, but when Team Sarashina make their entrance, those sorts tend to shrivel up and start behaving. If they don’t, then Ms. Sarashina, who loathes injustice of any kind, will eventually lose it. I forgot to mention that Ms. Sarashina used to be something of a wild child, so she’s very capable in that regard.

  To this day, nobody has ever seen any of the Sarashinas in a state of panic.

  Once, when the Sarashinas were in the factory, a mixing vat exploded owing to an error in the quantities of chemicals used. Nobody in the team batted an eyelid, and nobody said a word. In no time at all, the mess was cleared up and the line reopened.

  The origin of the Sarashina team is a subject veiled in mystery. All kinds of theories are whispered among the other employees: some people think Ms. Tagoto was once the leader and that when she decided it was time for a new generation to take over, she recruited the other nine; others maintain that the present team have been there from its very inception. Nobody knows for sure. No one even knows when the team came into being. One day they were just there, doing all kinds of jobs at a mind-boggling pace. I’m sure it can’t just be me who’s intrigued by how they came to develop that incredible sense of unity.

  It’s not just in work matters that the Sarashinas are high achievers. Our company doesn’t have its own sports teams or anything like that—although employees are actively encouraged to have hobbies, and many people go to Thai lessons or yoga classes on their days off or on their way home—but when we receive news of an intercompany tournament of some kind, we never let the opportunity pass us by. The information always gets relayed to Team Sarashina right away, because in the realm of the tournament, they are truly on home turf. There, the Sarashinas really have the chance to show people what they’re made of.

  Because they are experts in the art of teamwork, they have a natural aptitude for team sports. They are particularly talented at volleyball, and have won every intercompany volleyball tournament so far. Their determination during the match is so formidable, it’s as if some kind of spectral energy is rising off them.

  Of course, in its sporting formulation, Team Sarashina is still composed entirely of female members, but even when faced with a rival team that is mixed or all male, they emerge victorious. Though they won’t say it explicitly, it’s clear that they simply love to win, and they seem particularly jubilant when they beat a men’s team. People still talk of the time when their rigid composure broke after thrashing a team of hulky men at basketball, and they beamed with joy. That was how people discovered that ten grinning Sarashinas actually make for quite an eerie spectacle. You just don’t know what they’re going to do.

  On that occasion, someone called Ms. Sarashina as she was headed into the changing room, and somehow summoned the courage to ask her why she liked winning so much.

  “We like showing people what we’re capable of,” she said calmly as she wiped away the sweat from her neck, and then she and the other Sarashinas filed into the changing room with supreme poise.

  As it happens, the most recent intercompany championship wasn’t a sports tournament, but a traditional Japanese dance competition. When I first heard about it, I assumed it would be a step too far even for Team Sarashina but they began to practice with astounding dedication right away, as if they’d been issued a challenge to which they were determined to rise. As soon as their work for the day had finished, they’d flock to the dancing school and rehearse for at least three hours. You couldn’t help but admire their extraordinary effort. Where did they get this drive?

  On the day of the competition, I set out excitedly for the hall where it was being held. Wielding skills I never knew she had, Ms. Nogiku danced a stunning solo, which was followed by a fan dance from Ms. Sarashina and Ms. Tagoto, who made quite the stellar duo. The other members, positioned around them onstage, sporting their usual composed expressions, joined in for the dazzling finale. When it was over, I applauded their accomplishments and their ethereal brilliance with all the gusto I had. I imagine there may be readers who think that because the Sarashinas have mastered Japanese dance, they’d be an asset for entertaining customers in a tatami room, geisha-style, but I am happy to report our company has never engaged in such brain-dead practices.

  Unfortunately, this time the Sarashinas had to suffer the indignity of second place (first place was snatched up by an invincible team who’d been dancing for more than a decade). With no perceptible change of expression, they filed out of sight into the changing room. I can only imagine that their attempts next year will be even more determined. If anything, the display renewed my resolve to follow their progress as a devoted fan.

  The picture below shows Team Sarashina standing with their customary composed expression in front of the shelf outside the company reception room, where a medley of trophies and certificates they’ve won are displayed.

  A Day Off

  I’m lying faceup on my bed right now. I did get up this morning—I ate breakfast and quickly vacuumed my apartment—but then I felt the urge to rest, and I’ve lain here since. I’m sprawled on top of my bedcover, a thin, Korean-made quilt that I bought online after falling in love with its pretty shade of violet-blue. The weather’s about to turn cold, and soon I’ll be needing a blanket at night. I’d better start looking for one. Then I’d better buy it.

  The eruption of children’s voices from the grade school next door must mean it’s lunchtime. Honestly, the time j
ust whizzes by. It’s my day off, Wednesday is ladies’ discount day at the cinema, and a part of me would like to go to see a movie, but the thought of leaving the house is so off-putting. It seems as though today is destined to be an off day. I’m not even properly dressed yet—I’m still lounging around in my Hanes blue sweatshirt. I wish the school would make me lunch too, in recognition of my living so close. It’s been such a long time since I ate those stews and curries and other less easily categorized dishes from those aluminum bowls, and I’d love to do it again. Those weird vinegary salads they used to give us along with pickles and other stuff. Truth is, I really can’t be bothered to make my own lunch, and I can’t be bothered to go out to eat either.

  Gum is sitting on my chest. That’s a pretty frequent occurrence, so I can’t recall the exact moment when she jumped up there, the toes of both her feet arranged in a neat little row. She’s perched in the exact spot where, if my chest were a bit more voluminous, travelers would start to feel concerned about the cleft in the terrain stretching out ahead of them. As it is, though, my chest seems to shrink with every passing year, so any visitors to the area would probably only feel disappointment at the lack of adventure on offer.

  Gum is staring fixedly in my direction, but it’s not like she wants anything in particular. She’s just staring. It’s only Gum who looks at me this way. When humans stare at other humans like this, it ends up taking on a certain significance, so we tend not to.

  A gurgling sound escapes from Gum’s throat. I like it when she’s sitting like this—it feels intimate somehow. Gum looks pretty relaxed, but of course she’s not putting her whole weight on me. If she did, I’m sure I’d be crushed to death instantly. As we gaze at each other in silence, Gum and I are thinking about totally different things. I’m thinking about Mr. Ōya.

  I haven’t known Mr. Ōya for very long. In fact, we had our first date just the other day. It’s still a bit early to tell, but I think he’s probably a really great guy. If someone were to ask me what makes him different from other people, I don’t think I could answer. I wonder if he actually is any different from other people. He and I both—we’re just humans, right? But no, something about him must be different. There must be something that sets him apart.

  I stroke Gum’s back and ponder exactly what is distinctive about Mr. Ōya. Gum narrows her round eyes. It seems she’s enjoying being stroked.

  The thing I like most about Mr. Ōya is how calm he is. I also like that his hands aren’t overly big or small, and I like the clothes he wears. There’s something about his presence I find reassuring. But what does that all mean? None of these qualities are particularly extraordinary, and they can’t explain the things I’m feeling.

  From outside the window, I can hear the loudspeakers announcing that it’s cleaning time at the school, and then a crackly nursery rhyme starts to play.

  Words like love and romance make no sense at all to me. It’s a terrifying thought that for such a long time, the continuation of the human race has relied on such ill-defined, potentially illusory concepts. If you ask me, it’s everything that has happened in the past that’s abnormal. The dwindling birth rate seems to me a total inevitability. It’s as if everyone’s finally woken up to the reality of our situation. When things get really bad, we can perish side by side. Rather than forcing people to have babies, better that we all just die together.

  “Right, Gum?” I scratch a spot on the right side of Gum’s chin. She cocks her head, entreating me to scratch the other side too, so I obey.

  I’m not very good with that half-pleasurable, half-sickening feeling you get when you’re about to fall for someone, or when you’re in the process of falling for someone little by little. I also suspect that I just like the feeling of having someone to obsess over, rather than actually liking him that much as a person. I’ve been guilty of the same thing in the past. Plus, just because you like someone doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a romantic kind of liking. Nothing in the various love and dating guides I’ve read has ever really struck a chord with me, and romantic movies and novels don’t either. I’ve just never been moved by stories of love and passion, so what I’m experiencing now makes even less sense. Are love and romance meant for me, or not? That’s what I’d like to know.

  I shut my eyes, and the warm light filtering through my Indian cotton curtains hits my eyelids. I can feel Gum’s breath on my chin. She breathes really hard through her nose. The force of it splits my bangs, parting the hair to either side of my forehead. It tickles.

  Gum and I grew up together. When she was a baby, Gum was absolutely tiny. I used to pick her up between my index finger and thumb and place her on my kidsize hand, and there she would wriggle around, working her way along its creases. It tickled so much that I couldn’t keep from laughing. Back then, I never once imagined she’d grow to this kind of size.

  I named her Gum because the cold dampness of her body and her sticky mucus most closely resembled a ball of chewed-up gum. In the very beginning, I used to call her Croaky—not very original, I know. But then I hit on Gum, which seemed just perfect to me, and Gum herself seemed to like it too. So that’s what I called her, all the time we were growing up together. I always looked out for Gum, as if I were her older sister.

  When I got to middle school, I started to realize what a valuable presence Gum was. Once, when my after-school club had dragged on for a long while and I was walking home in the dark, I saw a man dressed in black, hiding behind a utility pole. I was terrified, but I summoned Gum and she came to my aid right away. In university, too, Gum helped me deal with a senior guy who wouldn’t leave me alone.

  My friends were having similar experiences. Such things happened day in and day out, working their way into our lives as if they had every right to be there. Sitting around in the student canteen, eating my cheese katsu and listening to my friends talking about being groped on the train, I would desperately wish that everyone had a Gum of their own. Gum has protected me through everything.

  That’s why now Gum and I work to protect everyone else. We provide support for women facing problems with groping, stalking, harassment, and other kinds of abuse. It’s the perfect job for us. When women are on the move or coming home from work, I’ll either walk with them or watch over them from a distance. Sometimes, I’m on stakeout duty. It never takes too long for the men who like to cause trouble to show up. Then I summon Gum, and Gum and I glare at the men, and they flee. They scatter like little baby spiders. After years of being bosom buddies, Gum and I are now also a professional dream team.

  Sometimes we come across bullish types who aren’t shooed away quite so easily, but when Gum opens her mouth wide, revealing her long tongue, which could easily lasso a person or two, they lose their nerve immediately. Some experience a loss of consciousness. Some experience a loss of continence. With such pathetic opponents, there’s no need for Gum to really exert herself. Thinking about it, I’ve never seen Gum really exert herself. She just sits there, quietly, observing human society, with all that potential hidden away inside her huge body. Possibly, she’s just dumbstruck by the utter mess we’re all in.

  To be honest, there seems to be no end to these vile men incapable of controlling their sexual impulses. The demand for people in our line of work is incredibly high. Our company insists that we take two full days off a week, but even on such days I find myself thinking about all the poor women in trouble somewhere out there. That’s why recently I’ve been suggesting to our department head, Kuzuha, that we put on classes teaching people how to draw magic circles as a means of self-protection. Say what you want, but the people best prepared for dire situations common to this world are those who know how to draw magic circles.

  I guess if I’m totally honest, I’m getting a bit sick of staring down men with Gum. I’m think I’m just over it. What I’d like most of all is if Gum and I and whoever else could all just hang out together and smile and have a good time. I definitely don’t fancy the idea of having glaring mat
ches with Mr. Ōya. And when I think about all the things that have happened in my life up until now and that have happened to all other women, I know living in a state of total harmony just isn’t going to happen. That makes me sad. In fact, it makes me incredibly sad, and incredibly angry, makes me wilt right there on the spot—and that’s why I have no desire to leave my bedroom, where I can just loll around with Gum like this.

  Gum is still sat on my chest, staring at me. Maybe she’s hungry. I’m hungry too, Gum. The grade school next door has fallen silent again. I guess the afternoon lessons must have started already. The lime-green curtains sway gently from side to side. In Gum’s black eyes, I can see my reflection—the reflection of a woman who has lost faith in the idea of men.

  I pat Gum’s head with its straight, narrow nose, and Gum arches her brown back with its stylish black marking, revealing her eggshell-colored underbelly running from the base of her neck all the way down to her stomach. Her nose is slimy. Gum is pretty slimy all over, actually.

  I don’t know if she’s had a change of mood or if she couldn’t bear her hunger pangs anymore, but with as little perceptible reason as when she first climbed on me, Gum dismounts and disappears in the direction of the kitchen. I’m left lying on the bed, my sweatshirt now covered in sticky Gum slime. Keeping up with the washing is no joke when you live with an enormous toad.

  No longer buried by Gum’s large stomach, my smaller stomach growls loudly, as if crying out for joy at being liberated.

  I can see there’s nothing for it—I’m going to have to find something to eat. With a big groan, I hoist myself up from the bed.

  Having a Blast

  The idea of waiting three whole years for my hair to grow out is nuts. I can’t deny that when I’m scaring people, it’d help accentuate the mood somewhat if my hair was all long and disheveled, but with such a range of wigs and other options on offer these days, waiting all that time would just be dumb.