I saw her fake eyelashes and curled hair tips moving. Her bracelets made a dry sound against each other. Her tongue was long and soft and seemed to wrap itself around me. Just as I was about to come, she suddenly moved away and began slowly to undress me. She took off my jacket, my tie, my pants, my shirt, my underwear, and made me lie down on the bed. Her own clothes she kept on, though. She sat on the bed, took my hand, and brought it under her dress. She was not wearing panties. My hand felt the warmth of her vagina. It was deep, warm, and very wet. My fingers were all but sucked inside.
Wont Noboru Wataya be here any minute? I asked. Weren't you expecting to see him here?
Instead of answering, Creta Kano touched my forehead. You don't have to think, Mr. Okada. Well take care of all that. Leave everything to us.
To us? I asked, but there was no reply.
Then Creta Kano mounted me and used her hand to slip me inside her. Once she had me deep inside, she began a slow rotation of her hips. As she moved, the edges of the pale-blue dress caressed my naked stomach and thighs. With the skirts of the dress spread out around her, Creta Kano, riding atop me, looked like a soft, gigantic mushroom that had silently poked its face up through the dead leaves on the ground and opened under the sheltering wings of night. Her vagina felt warm and at the same time cold. It tried to envelop me, to draw me in, and at the same time to press me out. My erection grew larger and harder. I felt I was about to burst wide open. It was the strangest sensation, something that went beyond simple sexual pleasure. It felt as if something inside her, something special inside her, were slowly working its way through my organ into me.
With her eyes closed and her chin lifted slightly, Creta Kano rocked quietly forward and back as if she were dreaming. I could see her chest rising and falling with each breath beneath the dress. A few hairs had come loose and hung over her forehead. I imagined myself floating alone in the middle of a vast sea. I closed my eyes and listened, expecting to hear the sound of little waves hitting my face. My body was bathed in lukewarm ocean water. I sensed the gradual flow of the tide. It was carrying me away. I decided to do as Creta Kano had said and not think about anything. I closed my eyes, let the strength go out of my limbs, and gave myself up to the current.
All of a sudden, I noticed that the room had gone dark. I tried to look around, but I could hardly see a thing. The wall lamps had all been extinguished. There was only the faint silhouette of Creta Kano's blue dress rocking on top of me. Just forget, she said, but it was not Creta Kano's voice. Forget about everything. You're asleep. You're dreaming. You're lying in nice, warm mud. We all come out of the warm mud, and we all go back to it.
It was the voice of the woman on the telephone. The mysterious woman on the phone was now mounted atop me and joining her body with mine. She, too, wore Kumiko's dress. She and Creta Kano had traded places without my being aware of it. I tried to speak. I did not know what I was hoping to say, but at least I tried to speak. I was too confused, though, and my voice would not work. All I could expel from my mouth was a hot blast of air. I opened my eyes wide and tried to see the face of the woman mounted on top of me, but the room was too dark.
The woman said nothing more. Instead, she began to move her hips in an even more erotically stimulating way. Her soft flesh, itself almost an independent organism, enveloped my erection with a gentle pulling motion. From behind her I heard-or thought I heard-the sound of a knob being turned. A white flash went through the darkness. The ice bucket on the table might have shone momentarily in the light from the corridor. Or the flash might have been the glint of a sharp blade. But I couldn't think anymore. There was only one thing I could do: I came.
I washed myself off in the shower and laundered my semen-stained underwear by hand. Terrific, I thought. Why did I have to be having wet dreams at such a difficult time in my life?
Once again I put on fresh clothing, and once again I sat on the veranda, looking at the garden. Splashes of sunlight danced on everything, filtered through thick green leaves. Several days of rain had promoted the powerful growth of bright-green weeds here and there, giving the garden a subtle shading of ruin and stagnation.
Creta Kano again. Two wet dreams in a short interval, and both times it had been Creta Kano. Never once had I thought of sleeping with her. The desire had not even flashed through my mind. And yet both times I had been in that room, joining my body with hers. What could possibly be the reason for this? And who was that telephone woman who had taken her place? She knew me, and I supposedly knew her. I went through the various sexual partners I had had in life, but none of them was the telephone woman. Still, there was something about her that seemed familiar. And that was what annoyed me so.
Some kind of memory was trying to find its way out. I could feel it in there, bumping around. All I needed was a little hint. If I pulled that one tiny thread, then everything would come unraveled. The mystery was waiting for me to solve it. But the one slim thread was something I couldn't find.
I gave up trying to think. Forget everything. You're asleep. You're dreaming. You're lying in nice, warm mud. We all come out of the warm mud, and we all go back to it.
Six o'clock came, and still no phone call. Only May Kasahara showed up. All she wanted, she said, was a sip of beer. I took a cold can from the refrigerator and split it with her. I was hungry, so I put some ham and lettuce between two slices of bread and ate that. When she saw me eating, May said she would like the same. I made her a sandwich too. We ate in silence and drank our beer. I kept looking up at the wall clock.
Don't you have a TV in this house? No TV, I said. She gave the edge of her lip a little bite. I kinda figured that. Don't you like TV? I don't dislike it. I get along fine without it. May Kasahara let that sink in for a while. How many years have you been married, Mr.
Wind-Up Bird? Six years, I said. And you did without TV for six years? Uh-huh. At first we didn't have the money to buy one. Then we got used to living without it. Its nice and quiet that way. The two of you must have been happy. What makes you think so? She wrinkled up her face. Well, I couldn't live a day without television. Because you're unhappy? May Kasahara did not reply to that. But now Kumiko is gone. You must not be so happy anymore, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. I nodded and sipped my beer. That's about the size of it, I said. That was about the size of it. She put a cigarette between her lips and, in a practiced motion, struck a match to light it.
Now, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, she said, I want you to tell me the absolute truth: Do you think I'm ugly? I put my beer glass down and took another look at May Kasahara's face. All this time while talking with her, I had been vaguely thinking of other things. She was wearing an oversize black tank top, which gave a clear view of the girlish swell of her breasts.
You're not the least bit ugly, I said. That's for sure. Why do you ask? My boyfriend always used to tell me how ugly I was, that I didn't have any boobs. The boy who wrecked the bike? Yeah, him. I watched May Kasahara slowly exhaling her cigarette smoke. Boys that age will say things like that. They don't know how to express exactly what they feel, so they say and do the exact opposite. They hurt people that way, for no reason at all, and they hurt themselves too. Anyhow, you're not the least bit ugly. I think you're very cute. No flattery intended.
May Kasahara mulled that one over for a while. She dropped ashes into the empty beer can. Is Mrs. Wind-Up Bird pretty?
Hmm, thats hard for me to say. Some would say she is, and some would say not. Its a matter of taste.
I see, she said. She tapped on her glass as if bored. Whats your biker boyfriend doing? I asked. Doesn't he come to see you anymore? No, he doesn't, said May Kasahara, laying a finger on the scar by her left eye. I'll never see him again, thats for sure. Two hundred percent sure. Id bet my left little toe on it. But Id rather not talk about that right now. Some things, you know, if you say them, it makes them not true? You know what I mean, Mr. Wind-Up Bird?