Untangling My Chopsticks (27 page)

everal friends decided to visit that spring, including John, who planned to arrive at the height of cherry blossom season. In anticipation of his trip, I began to search for an elegant ryokan where we might stay, since I was still living with Tomiko and Yasu. The famous traditional Japanese inns, like Tawara-ya, host to such luminaries as Marlon Brando, Alfred Hitchcock, and Jean-Paul Sartre, and the two-hundred-year-old Kinmata, known for its sublime restaurant kaiseki meals, were considerably beyond our budget. So my focus switched to more modest options.

That was until an American friend named Betsy called to ask if I wanted to join her on a three-day modeling assignment in Osaka. I had met Betsy shortly after I arrived, having looked her up at the suggestion of a good friend who had gone to college with her. Betsy had been studying fabric design in Kyoto for the
past two years and occasionally took on modeling jobs to earn some money, since she had the requisite blond hair, slim figure, and wholesome American smile desired in Japanese print and television ads.

“All they told me is that they needed two Americans to model eyeglasses for this new store,” said Betsy.

“Model what?”

“Eyeglasses,” she replied, giggling. “It's for the store's grand opening. Do you want to do it?”

I paused. It certainly sounded intriguing—modeling, being with Betsy, and getting paid generously to do so. “Why not,” I said, laughing.

Which is how Betsy and I found ourselves early one Saturday morning riding the fast-train to Osaka dressed like New Yorkers. We had been told to “wear something nice” so had agreed that we would both show up in black skirts, sweaters, tights, and heels.

Our boss for the two-day assignment was a gentleman named Mr. Morimata. He told us he would meet us at the station and drive us to the store.

“Elizabeth Green-san?” inquired a small Japanese man in a teal business suit as we stepped off the train.

“Pleased to meet you,” answered Betsy in Japanese. She bent into a deep bow, then introduced me to Mr. Morimata, who after more bows and handshakes led us out of the station to his silver Mercedes idling alongside the curb.

Almost two hours later, Mr. Morimata pulled up to the corner entrance of a busy pedestrian mall. “Your Yeux,” he said proudly, pointing to the sliver of storefront sandwiched between a camera shop and a French bakery. Men and women in navy, white, and red uniforms were tying clusters of red and white bal
loons to the store's sign and lugging flower arrangements into the showroom.

Just as Mr. Morimata stepped out of his car, a fleet of staff members bounded over. “Herro!—Mice to meet you!—Wer-come!—Herro!—Good Moaning!” They fluttered about Betsy and me as if we were movie stars. We returned their greetings with smiles and bows and then headed into the store.

Glass and chrome shelves lined the sky-blue walls of the shop, sporting hundreds of different eyeglasses. Some of the pricey designer frames lay arranged like the petals of a flower under waist-high, plastic, bubble-topped display cases.

Mr. Morimata breezed over with a young man sporting an oversize pair of elaborate gold frames.

“The Americans,” Mr. Morimata announced, gesturing to Betsy and me. We introduced ourselves. The assistant bowed, pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose as he lifted his head.

“Mr. Watabe will help you get ready, okay?” We nodded as Mr. Morimata excused himself.

“Follow me,” said Mr. Watabe, briskly walking toward the back of the store. “What time is the grand opening?” I asked, scooting along behind him.

“Twelve,” he responded over his shoulder. I glanced at my watch. It read almost 11:15. We would have plenty of time to get made up before the show, no doubt scheduled for the noon lunch rush.

Suddenly, Mr. Watabe stopped. “These are for you,” he said, pointing to a clothes rack. Suspended from the metal pole were two dresses made of rough green cotton the color of surgical scrubs. Next to them hung two frilly white starched pinafores. I looked bug-eyed at Betsy. She pressed her lips together to suppress a laugh.

“These won't do?” I gestured at our skirts and then looked up at Mr. Watabe. He shook his head. “But we were—”

He cut me short. “Girl's room upstairs.” He pointed to the staircase. “Come down when ready. But soon.” He tapped his watch. We nodded, then lifted the garments off the rack and mounted the stairs, struggling to stifle our hilarity.

But it was impossible, particularly when we put on the dresses. Mine barely scraped over my rib cage. When I finally managed to yank it down, what was supposed to be the waist hung at my sternum.

“I think my dress is too small,” I squeaked. Betsy looked at me in mock horror. I noticed her dress hung loose.

“Here, let me try to zip it,” she said, giggling. After considerable tugging, there was a shrill
zzzzuuuuuup,
and suddenly the rough fabric pulled taut across my chest. I took a few quick breaths and rolled my shoulders, hoping to stretch the material. It didn't budge. The Peter Pan collar cut into my neck, while the bands around the puffed sleeves clamped around my upper arms like blood pressure cuffs.

Well, at least we'll get to wear cool glasses, I thought, tying Betsy's pinafore sash into a big bow. After brushing our hair and dabbing on lip-gloss we headed downstairs with Betsy looking “cute” and me feeling like a big fat Alice in Wonderland.

The curious thing about our baby doll outfits was that many Japanese men found them alluring. It was Betsy who clued me in on the sexual psyche of the Japanese male, or at least a good number of them.

Apparently, many Japanese men have a “thing” for young girls. They find their virginal innocence erotic. And Japanese women know it. They dress up like little misses, in knee socks, short skirts, and bow-covered sweaters and shoes.

Nowadays, Japanese men are getting the real thing, a Japanese female friend explained. “Originally it was high school students, but now businessmen are dating girls in junior high school,” she said with concern. When I asked her what these young women got out of the deal, she paused.

“I think these girls feel flattered and grown up when they go out with these businessmen. The men probably have lots of money and take them to fancy places. But, you know,” she said, shaking her head, “it is sad and kind of sick because I don't think these girls really understand what's going on.”

The practice goes by the name
enjo kousai
(paid dating). The men tend to be middle-aged, lonely, and often unhappily married and pay extravagant sums (often several hundred dollars) to teenage girls to go out with them. The girls think that being young is a marketable novelty that can buy them the designer clothes they could never ordinarily afford. In their minds, they are working to obtain these purchases, albeit by selling their sexuality.

A more discreet way for some of these Japanese men to live out such fantasies is to buy certain comic books collectively called
manga.
On my train rides from Osaka back to Kyoto after a night of teaching, I would often see businessmen flipping through manga as thick as telephone books, showing rape scenes, samurai slicing off women's breasts with their swords, and teens in sexually compromised positions.

Vending machines offer another way for men to fulfill their desires. In strategic areas of Tokyo, for example, machines sell used schoolgirl uniforms, often accompanied by a picture of the student. It is said they also dispense soiled underpants.

So, I suppose, wearing baby doll scrubs was the “Your Yeux” way of luring men into the store. As for modeling glasses, that never happened. Instead, Mr. Watabe handed us trays of juice and
coffee and told us to curtsy and pass them around. We handed in our pinafores late Sunday afternoon.

That evening on the train ride back to Kyoto, Betsy made an announcement.

“I'm going to get married,” she confided, beaming. I could only imagine it was to the Japanese man she had been dating. Yet it seemed they hardly knew one another, let alone spoke the same language.

“Is it Toshi?” I asked, tentatively.

“Yes, and the reason I'm telling you now is because I'm leaving my apartment the first week of April. I thought you might want it.”

I gasped, then congratulated her on her exciting news. I even gave her a hug, right there on the train. As for the apartment, I could not believe my good fortune. I had seen the six-tatami studio the previous autumn when she had invited me over for brunch. The tan stucco apartment building lay nestled on a small lane not far from Shirakawa-dori, a shady tree-lined street in an area northeast of the city called Sakyo-ku. I fell in love with the neighborhood the first time I saw it because it reminded me of Paris. It wasn't so much the architecture that gave Sakyo-ku its European air, but the gray brick sidewalks that flanked Shirakawa-dori and the strip of sycamore trees running down the median.

The second-floor studio was flooded with sunshine. It had an adorable Tinkerbell-size kitchen and a cozy adjoining room with a waist-high cupboard embellished with bamboo leaves built into the wall that held Betsy's clothes and futon during the day. One window looked out over the leafy treetops, while the other lay hidden behind a beautiful cedar wood and ivory paper screen.

Living in an authentic Japanese apartment had been a dream since college. Tomiko and Yasu had generously hosted me for al
most five months. I knew English Fun World was expanding and they could use another classroom.

So without even hesitating, I told Betsy I would take it. She and I agreed she would introduce me to her landlady, an older Japanese woman, to whom I would bring a gift of imported English biscuits to sweeten the relationship. I would pay the woman the equivalent of a month's rent in “key money,” which I would not get back. On April 9 the apartment would be mine.

The timing could not have been better. John was arriving the following week.

17.

ohn carried two red roses all the way from New York to Osaka and handed them to me the moment he walked out of baggage claim. They were limp but had survived the twenty-two-hour trip. We hugged in a noisy crowded reception area, then wheeled his bags to the airport curb to catch the number eight bus to Kyoto.

There was a polite distance between us at first—the kind of emotional wound licking that comes from being apart from someone you care for deeply. We had known each other for seven years, having met the second day of freshman week in college. John was one of the brightest and most sensitive people I had ever encountered, yet it would take five years before we even kissed.

Our friendship began with a talk about medicine. His father was a surgeon and I was thinking of becoming a doctor. Over
time, our relationship deepened as we swatted squash balls, shared life philosophies, and treated each other to dinners out. John was the first person with whom I ever ate duck.

Yet, despite his gorgeous hands, huge smile, and warm Italian nature, I was scared of him. Anyone called “Garlic Thunder,” a nickname his roommates gave him because he loved to consume large amounts of oily, garlic-laced food, would have to wait for my affections. And wait he did—through freshman year and sophomore year, plus the year I spent in France, junior year, and finally senior year.