In Praise of Shadows
As Mizuki had said, she had a separate entrance to her apartment.
We went up to the second floor by way of a stairway next to the carport.
I imagined that Mr Okamura was downstairs sleeping off that evening’s drunkenness—it was after two in the morning—while his niece was busy robbing a poor gaijin of his peace of mind.
Once again I followed her to a door, with a foreboding that my willpower wasn’t going to last much longer.
She invited me into her loft, for that’s what it was—a clear space with no partitions except for a wide paper screen separating the futon from the rest of the room. Gentle indirect light radiating from floor level at different points in the room made the place look like a contemporary dance studio.
“This used to be my uncle’s atelier,” Mizuki told me, “but since my aunt died he’s stopped sculpting and works only as many hours as he has to.
He spends the rest of his time in that bar in Gion.
I think he’s got something going with the owner.
If not, I don’t know why he’s always hanging out there. ”
“Maybe he just wants to sing a song from time to time.” I couldn’t imagine any kind of romance with that dry, unfriendly woman. Indeed, I’d never seen them having a single conversation while I was there.
“When I arrived here three months ago, I moved stuff up from the cellar to make this apartment the way I wanted it.”
“It’s very nice.” I took a step toward the screen, imagining she had a sitting room on the other side.
“No, sit on my bed,” she ordered. “Get comfortable. I’m desperate for a shower.”
Before I could protest, she disappeared behind the paper partition.
I was very far from comfortable in this situation, but good manners prevented me from moving to the other part of the loft, where I hadn’t been invited. Mizuki might have undressed by now and could be walking naked between that part of the flat and the bathroom.
My prim and proper mind could only think of two options: leave immediately and wander round the area looking for a taxi, or do what she’d asked.
I took the latter option, though I couldn’t imagine how things would turn out if they continued along the way they now seemed to be going.
Exasperated with myself and my hang-ups, I sat on one side of the bed facing the screen or room divider—whatever it was—through which one bright light filtered from the other side.
My eyes wandered to the only piece of furniture I could see: a bedside table with a CD player and a book on it. Always curious about books, I couldn’t resist picking it up.
It was the English-language edition of a classic that I’d been meaning to read for ages—Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows, which was first published in Japanese in 1933.
I’d read somewhere that in Japanese aesthetics, as well as an emphasis on imperfection, the organic and the ephemeral, shadow is regarded as a basic element in the architecture of places.
While in the West we prize what is bright, polished and symmetrical, the Japanese are fascinated by everything that is asymmetrical and veiled in shadow.
I heard the shower being turned on somewhere on the other side of the loft. Befuddled by alcohol and the late hour, and further thrown off-balance by my pleasure in finding that book, my mind wandered to the body that just then was being caressed by warm water.
With butterflies in my stomach, I took refuge in the words of Tanizaki.