The Bad Girl (26 page)

"Come, let's go, I'm going to take you to the Shinto temples, the

nicest ones in Tokyo. In all of them there are animals roaming free,

horses, roosters, doves. They're considered sacred, reincarnations.

And tomorrow, the Zen Buddhist temples, with their gardens of sand

and rocks that the monks rake and rearrange every day. They're

beautiful too."

It was a day of intense activity, getting on and off buses, the

aerodynamic subway, sometimes taxis. I entered and left temples,

pagodas, and an enormous museum that had copies of Permian

ceramics because—as a placard indicated—the institution, respectful

of the prohibitions in Peru against taking objects from the

archaeological patrimony out of the country, did not exhibit original

pieces. But I don't think I paid much attention to what I was seeing,

because my five senses were concentrated on Kuriko, who held my

hand almost all the time and was unusually affectionate toward me.

She joked, and flirted, and laughed freely, eyes shining, each time

she whispered in my ear, "Now some more cheap, sentimental

things, good boy," and I did as she asked. In midafternoon we sat at

an isolated table in the cafeteria of the Museum of Anthropology to

have a sandwich. She took off her checkered hat and smoothed her

hair. She wore it very short and displayed her entire graceful neck

with its hint of a little green snake of a vein.

"Anybody who doesn't know you would say you're in love with

me, bad girl. I don't think you've ever been this affectionate since I

first met you in Miraflores, when you were Chilean."

"I'm probably in love with you and don't know it yet," she said,

passing her hand over my hair and bringing her face close so I could

see how ironic and insolent her eyes were. "What would you do if I

told you I am, and that we can live together?"

"I'd have a heart attack and die right here. Are you, Kuriko?"

"I'm happy because we can see each other every day you're in

Tokyo. I was worried about that, how I'd manage to see you every

day. That's why I dared tell Fukuda. And you see how well it turned

out."

"The magnanimous gangster gave you permission to show your

compatriot the charms of Tokyo. I hate your damn Yakuza boss. I

would have preferred not to meet him, never to see him. Tonight I'll

go through hell watching you with him. Can I ask you a favor? Don't

touch him, don't kiss him in front of me."

Kuriko burst into laughter and covered my mouth with her hand.

"Be quiet, fool, he'd never do those things, not with me, not with

anybody. No Japanese would. There's such a big difference here

between what you do in public and in private that what seems

natural to us they find shocking. He isn't like you. Fukuda treats me

like his employee. At times, like his whore. But, what's true is true,

you've always treated me like a princess."

"Now you're the one saying cheap, sentimental things."

I took her face between my hands and kissed her.

"And you shouldn't have told me that this Japanese treats you

like his whore," I whispered in her ear. "Don't you see it's like

skinning me alive?"

"I didn't tell you. Let's forget it, wipe it away."

Fukuda lived in a district far from the center of Tokyo, a

residential area where very modern buildings of six or eight stories

alternated with traditional houses that had tile roofs and tiny

gardens and seemed about to be flattened by their tall neighbors. He

had an apartment on the sixth floor of a building with a uniformed

doorman who accompanied me to the elevator. This opened into the

interior of the house, and after a small, bare reception room, there

was a spacious dining room that had a large picture window through

which you could see an infinite blanket of twinkling lights under a

starless sky. The living room was soberly furnished, with blue

ceramic plates on the walls, Polynesian sculptures on shelves, and

carved ivory objects on a long, low table. Mitsuko and Salomon were

already there, holding glasses of champagne. The bad girl was

wearing a long, mustard-colored dress that left her shoulders bare,

and a gold chain around her neck. She was made-up for a party and

her hair was gathered in two knots. The hairstyle, which I hadn't

seen her wear before, accentuated her Oriental appearance. She

could be taken for Japanese, now more than ever. She kissed me on

the cheek and said to Mr. Fukuda in Spanish, "This is Ricardo

Somocurcio, the friend I told you about."

Mr. Fukuda made the well-known Japanese bow of greeting. And

in fairly comprehensible Spanish, his greeting as he extended his

hand was this: "The Yakuza boss welcomes you."

The witticism left me totally disconcerted, not only because I

wasn't expecting it—I didn't imagine that Kuriko could have told

him what I'd said about him—but because Mr. Fukuda joked (was he

joking?) without smiling, with the same inexpressive, neutral,

parchment-like face he maintained all night. A face that looked like

a mask. When I stammered, "Ah, you speak Spanish," he shook his

head and from then on spoke only a very hesitant, awkward English

on the few occasions he did speak. He handed me a glass of

champagne and indicated a seat next to Kuriko.

He was a short man, even smaller than Salomon Toledano,

almost skeletal, so that compared to the svelte, slim bad girl, he

seemed delicate. I had formed so different an idea of him that I had

the impression he was an impostor. He wore round, dark glasses

with wire frames that he didn't remove all night, which increased

the discomfort he produced in me because I couldn't tell if his

eyes—I imagined them as cold and belligerent—were observing me

or not. He had gray hair plastered against his skull, perhaps

pomaded, and combed back in the style of Argentine tango singers of

the 1950s. He wore a dark suit and tie, which gave him a certain

funereal air, and he could remain motionless and silent for a long

time, his small hands resting on his knees, as if he were petrified.

But perhaps his most pronounced physical trait was a lipless mouth

that barely moved when he spoke, like a ventriloquist's. I felt so

tense and uncomfortable that, uncharacteristically—I never could

drink much because alcohol went to my head very quickly—that

night I drank to excess. When Mr. Fukuda stood to indicate it was

time for us to leave, I'd had three glasses of champagne and my head

was beginning to spin. And, somewhat removed from the

conversation being held almost exclusively by the Dragoman as he

spoke of the regional variants in Japanese he had begun to

distinguish, I asked myself in stupefaction: "What does this

insignificant old man have that makes the bad girl talk about him

the way she does?" What did he say to her, what did he do to her, to

make her say he's her vice, her sickness, that she's possessed by

him, that he can do what he wants with her? Since I didn't find the

answer, I felt more jealousy, more fury, more contempt for myself,

and I cursed myself for having done something as stupid as coming

to Japan. And yet, a second later, looking at her out of the corner of

my eye, I told myself that only once before, at the dance at the Opera

in Paris, had she looked as desirable as she did tonight.

Two taxis were waiting at the entrance to the building. I went

alone with Kuriko, because that was indicated with a single gesture

of command by Mr. Fukuda, who climbed into the other cab with

the Dragoman and Mitsuko. As soon as we drove away, I felt the bad

girl grasp my hand and move it to her legs so I would touch her.

"Isn't he supposed to be jealous?" I said, pointing at the other

taxi ahead of us. "Why does he let you ride alone with me?"

She pretended not to understand.

"Don't make that face, silly," she said. "Don't you love me

anymore?"

"I hate you," I said. "I've never been as jealous as I am now. Can

that dwarf, that abortion of a man, be the great love of your life?"

"Stop talking nonsense and kiss me instead."

She threw her arms around my neck, offered me her mouth, and

I felt the tip of her tongue become entangled with mine. She let me

give her long kisses, and she responded with joy.

"I love you, damn you, I love you, I want you," I implored in her

ear. "Come away with me, Japanese girl, come, I swear we'll be

happy."

"Careful, we're almost there," she said. She moved away from

me, took a tissue from her bag, and touched up her lips. "Wipe your

mouth, my lipstick smeared a little."

The theater-restaurant was a music hall with a gigantic stage,

large and small tables arranged along a ramp that opened like a fan,

and immense chandeliers that shed a powerful light on the

enormous room. The table reserved by Fukuda was fairly close to

the stage and had a magnificent sight line. The show began almost

immediately after we arrived. It recalled the great Broadway hits,

with numbers that were sometimes parodic, sometimes mimetic,

the footwork and figures performed by a large group of dancers.

There were also acts by clowns, magicians, and contortionists, and

songs in English and Japanese. The emcee seemed to know almost

as many languages as the Dragoman, though, according to Salomon,

he spoke them all badly.

This time too Mr. Fukuda, with commanding gestures, decided

our places. Again he sat me next to Kuriko. As soon as the lights

went down—the table was lit by bulbs half hidden among the floral

arrangements—I felt the bad girl's foot on mine. I looked at her and,

with the most natural air in the world, she was talking to Mitsuko in

a Japanese that, to judge by the efforts Mitsuko made to understand

her, must have been as approximate as her French and English. She

looked very attractive in this semidarkness, with her burnished hair,

pale skin, rounded shoulders, long neck, shining honey-colored eyes,

well-defined lips. She took off her shoe so I could feel the sole of her

foot, which was on mine for almost the entire meal, moving at times

to rub my ankle and remind me she was there, aware of what she

was doing, defying her lord and master. He, hieratic, watched the

show or conversed with the Dragoman, barely moving his mouth.

Only once, I believe, did he turn to me to ask in English how things

were going in Peru and if I knew people in the Japanese colony

there, which, apparently, was fairly large. I told him I hadn't been in

Peru for many years and didn't know much about what was going on

in the country where I was born. And had never known any

Japanese Peruvians, though there certainly were many of them,

since Peru had been the second country in the world, after Brazil, to

open its borders to Japanese immigration at the end of the

nineteenth century.

Supper had already been ordered and the dishes, nicely presented

and very bland miniatures of vegetables, shellfish, and meat, came

in endless succession. I hardly tasted them, just enough to be polite.

On the other hand, I drank several tiny porcelain cups in which the

gangster served us the warm, syrupy sake. I felt dizzy before the first

part of the show was over. But, at least, my initial uneasiness had

disappeared. When the lights went on, to my surprise the bad girl's

bare foot was still there, touching me. I thought: "She knows I'm

suffering horrible jealousy and she's trying to make amends." That

was it: each time I turned to look at her, trying not to betray what I

was feeling, I told myself that I had never seen her look so beautiful

or desirable. For example, her ear was a miracle of minimalist

architecture with its gentle curves and the slight bend in the upper

part of the lobe.

At one point there was a minor incident between Salomon and

Mitsuko, though I don't know how it began. Suddenly she stood and

left without saying goodbye to anyone or giving any explanation. The

Dragoman jumped up and followed her.

"What happened?" I asked Mr. Fukuda, but he sat looking at me,

immutable, not saying anything.

"She doesn't like to be touched or kissed in public," said Kuriko.

"Your friend has wandering hands. Mitsuko will leave him soon. She

told me so."

"Salomon will die if she leaves him. He loves Mitsuko like a

mooning calf. Head over heels in love."

The bad girl laughed, her mouth open, her full lips very red now

with makeup.

"In love like a mooning calf! Head over heels in love!" she

repeated. "I haven't heard those laughable things for ages. Do they

still say them in Peru, or are there other Peruvianisms for being in

love?"

And passing from Spanish to Japanese, she began to explain to

Fukuda what those expressions meant. He listened to her, rigid and

inscrutable. From time to time, like an articulated puppet, he would

pick up his glass, raise it to his mouth without looking at it, take a

sip, and return it to the table. Unexpectedly, a short while later the

Dragoman and Mitsuko came back. They had made peace, for they