KAWABATA: Don’t be ridiculous. She’d see me and—
WOMAN: But you forget, sir—our girls won’t see anything.
KAWABATA: I suppose you have some way of guaranteeing this. I suppose it’s never happened that some girl has opened her eyes—
WOMAN: No. Never.
(Kawabata is having a particularly difficult time with a tile
.
)
KAWABATA: Look at this.
(He holds out his hand, laughs)
Shaking. Would you mind putting some more wood in the furnace?
WOMAN: Of course.
(She rises to do so as she talks)
I know what girl I would pick for you. She is half Japanese, half Caucasian. She has the most delicate hair—brown in one light, black in another. As she sleeps, she wriggles her left foot, like a cat, against the mattress, as if to draw out even the last bits of warmth.
(Woman returns to the table, sits. As she does, Kawabata removes a tile and causes the tower to fall.)
KAWABATA: Ai! You shook it.
WOMAN: No.
(During the next section, Woman gets up, goes to the cabinet, removes a small jar filled with clear liquid and a tiny cup. She pours the liquid into the cup.)
KAWABATA: Maybe an accident, but still—
WOMAN: I assure you.
KAWABATA:—when you sat down.
WOMAN: I was perfectly still.
KAWABATA: No, you shook the table.
WOMAN: I didn’t touch it.
KAWABATA: Just a bit.
WOMAN: Really.
KAWABATA: But at the crucial moment.
WOMAN: Please, sir.
KAWABATA: Just as it was about to give.
WOMAN: Thank you for playing.
KAWABATA: It wasn’t fair.
WOMAN: Please—
KAWABATA: It was my first time.
WOMAN:—take this cup.
KAWABATA: What?
WOMAN: Here.
KAWABATA: What is this?
WOMAN: To help you sleep.
KAWABATA: Sleep?
WOMAN: To assure you a restful evening—in there.
(Pause)
If you wish to, you may now go in. You’re my guest. If you still have questions after tonight, I’ll try to answer some—
KAWABATA: I can just—
WOMAN:—on your next visit.
KAWABATA:—go in?
WOMAN: Welcome. Your name?
KAWABATA: My name?
WOMAN: We keep names of all our guests.
KAWABATA: But I don’t see why . . .
WOMAN: Our guests are our friends. Sometimes we like to let our friends know if we have something special. Don’t worry, it is confidential.
KAWABATA: Kawabata.
(He drinks from the cup)
WOMAN: May I help you undress, Mr. Kawabata?
KAWABATA: Oh, yes. Thank you.
(They go behind the screen.)
I can just . . . go in?
WOMAN: Yes. On the right, second door.
(Pause)
She’s a very pretty girl.
KAWABATA: Second door.
WOMAN: On the right. She’s asleep, waiting for you.
(She gives him a key. Pause.)
KAWABATA: I’m really only curious.
WOMAN: I know. That’s why you should go in.
KAWABATA: What if . . . something happens?
WOMAN: Something?
KAWABATA: What if she wakes up?
WOMAN: Even if you were to try your utmost—you could cut off her arms and she wouldn’t wake up ’til morning. Don’t worry.
(They come out from behind the screen. He wears a light robe.)
Sleep well, Mr. Kawabata. A boy will wake you and bring you tea in the morning.
KAWABATA: Uh—thank you.
WOMAN: Listen.
KAWABATA: Listen?
WOMAN: To the waves. And the wind.
(Silence
.
)
Good night, Mr. Kawabata.
(He walks through the door; she closes it. She moves to the table, begins cleaning up the tiles, as lights fade to black.)
It is the following evening. In the darkness, we see a flame. Then, the lights come up. Woman sits at the desk. Kawabata is burning his record from yesterday; he tosses it into the stove.
KAWABATA: I’m not a teacher, madame. I’m a writer.
WOMAN: Oh. A writer?
KAWABATA: Have you read my novels, short stories?
WOMAN: Have you ever been published in this?
(She holds up a magazine)
KAWABATA:
Shifuno Tomo?
Trash.
WOMAN: Then I haven’t read you.
KAWABATA: I don’t write about beauty tips
or
American movie stars.
WOMAN: So you’re going to write a report on us.
KAWABATA: I’m not a reporter. I write stories, novels. For some time now, I’ve been thinking about old men. How it must—
WOMAN: If you wish to write your report, Mr. Kawabata, you must realize the consequences of your actions. You understand, don’t you, that we can’t let the outside know we’re here. That would mean the end of the house.
KAWABATA: And that should worry me?
WOMAN: Does it? Didn’t you sleep well?
KAWABATA: Hardly. I was afraid to touch the covers and disturb her. I studied the walls until I fell asleep, watched the colors change in the dark.
WOMAN: I see.
KAWABATA: But what I’ve learned about the state to which men come—to think they return—night after night—for that.
WOMAN: Then why have
you
returned?
KAWABATA: Me?
WOMAN: Why didn’t you just write your report and destroy the house?
KAWABATA: Story. I wanted…to burn that.
WOMAN: Is that all?
KAWABATA: Yes. That’s all.
(He chuckles)
I certainly have no desire to repeat last night’s experience. It’s been so many years since I’ve had to share a bed. No room to stretch.
WOMAN: Well, then, go.
KAWABATA: What?
WOMAN: If you’ve done what you’ve come for, then you must want to leave.
KAWABATA: Yes. I will. But first, I thought I might talk . . . to you.
WOMAN: What about? You’ve burned your record, you’re no longer a guest, you plan to write your report without concern for the house, my girls, or myself.
KAWABATA: Yourself?
WOMAN: Our relationship is hardly suited to polite conversation.
KAWABATA: You will be all right.
WOMAN: “All right”? How can you be so insensitive? You talk like a man who lives in other men’s beds.
KAWABATA: You are very defiant, madame. Defiance is admirable in a woman. Defiance in a man is nothing more than a trained response, since we always expect to get our way. But a woman’s defiance is her own.
WOMAN: Mr. Kawabata, you must not write this report.
KAWABATA: What if I do?
WOMAN: Then my life is over.
KAWABATA: Don’t be melodramatic.
WOMAN: Please. Don’t talk of things you know nothing about. I can tell you. Only one other time—twenty years ago—have I ever misjudged a guest. He came back the next evening, as you have tonight, and informed me he was . . . with the authorities. Then he left. I didn’t know what to do. First, I tried to imagine all the awful things that could happen, hoping that by picturing them, I would prevent them from taking place, since real life never happens like we envision it will. Finally, after an hour of this, I decided to sleep. As I lay in bed, I began to wonder, what else could I do? Where else could I go? I saw myself being carried up to Mount Obasute. My girls were carrying me up. “You’re old now, Mama!” they cried. “We’ll join your bones when we ourselves become old!” They left me in a cave and danced a
bon-odori
down the mountain, singing “Tokyo Ondo” as they went.
(She sings a little of it)
I thought, “Look at them dancing. That’s why I’m here and they’re leaving me. Anyone who can dance down the mountain is free to go.” And the next thing I knew, I was dancing a
bon-odori
right up there, on my bed—the springs making the sounds young people make in beds. And I danced down the hall to a telephone and began looking for a new house for my girls.
(Pause)
That was twenty years ago. Look at me today. I can’t even raise a foot for three seconds, let alone dance. I’m old, and I have no savings, no money, no skills. This time, Mr. Kawabata, I would have to stay on Mount Obasute.
KAWABATA: Look, madame, even if I wrote this story, it’s possible that your house won’t be affected.
WOMAN: Why? Don’t people read them?
KAWABATA: Of course. But people will likely think it’s all from my head. You haven’t read my stories. Like what you said to me—“Listen to the waves,” you said.
WOMAN: Yes, they often help men sleep.
KAWABATA: In one of my novels, the boy always makes love to the woman while listening to the waves. The critics would probably laugh—“Old Kawabata and waves. Can’t he think of anything new?”
WOMAN: And if the authorities—some of whom already suspect our existence—if they read your story, that won’t make them certain?
(Pause)
What is that story to you?
KAWABATA: I want to write this story. I can do it, I know. I haven’t written a story in . . . in . . .
WOMAN: That’s just one story to you. This is my life.
KAWABATA: Better if you were rid of it.
WOMAN: Then you must change the facts—
KAWABATA: You made a mistake, madame.
WOMAN:—to confuse the authorities.
KAWABATA: You chose not to cooperate with me yesterday.
WOMAN: But even that—
KAWABATA: You thought I was like the rest of them.
WOMAN: No, you mustn’t write this report!
KAWABATA: You misjudged me. Now you see I’m different.
WOMAN: Yes, you are a reporter.
KAWABATA: You should have just told me about the house.
WOMAN: Mr. Kawabata—
KAWABATA: But you assumed—
WOMAN:—think of the girls.
KAWABATA: The girls?
WOMAN: The money they receive here.
KAWABATA: You shame them.
WOMAN: They are from poor families.
KAWABATA: They would be better off—
WOMAN: They come of their own will.
KAWABATA:—doing—working at . . . any other job.
WOMAN: And the old men.
KAWABATA: Don’t tell me that.
WOMAN: We care about them. Look at this.
KAWABATA: At what?
WOMAN: At what you’ll destroy.
KAWABATA: You humiliate them. Their despair—it’s so great.
WOMAN: What do you know?
KAWABATA: Your girls—are they all still virgins?
WOMAN: Was yours?
KAWABATA: Yes. Do you see the depth of the old men’s despair?
WOMAN: How do you know?
KAWABATA: That they can’t even find the manhood to—
WOMAN: Mr. Kawabata, how do you know she was still a virgin?
KAWABATA: Don’t worry. I didn’t . . . molest her. I walked into the room. I didn’t believe she was going to be naked. I knew you’d told me, but I thought, no, you couldn’t go that far, it would be unfair to give men exactly what they want. But she was lying on her back, the blanket leaving bare two white shoulders and her neck. I couldn’t see clearly yet, so I ran my fingers from one shoulder, across her neck, to the other shoulder. Nothing blocked my finger’s path—nothing, no straps, only taut, smooth skin. I still couldn’t believe it, so I placed my index finger at the base of her throat and moved down, under the blanket, farther and farther down—one unbroken line—all the way. When I knew, I pulled my hand away. She moaned and turned away from me. I looked at my finger, placed it at the top of her spine and followed the hard bumps all the way down. I looked at my finger again, tasted it. Then I placed it against the back of her knee, under her nostrils, behind her ear, in the hair under her arm. And every place my finger touched, it pressed. And everywhere it pressed, her skin resisted with the same soft strength, and I thought, “This…is youth.” I lay down and buried my nose against her scalp, my nose rubbing up and down as her foot rubbed against the sheets. When I woke up, it was just past dawn. The room was bright. That’s when I tried to assault her—yes, it’s true, I
tried
. But I’m an honorable man, so don’t worry for her. If I had known she was a virgin, I would never have even thought of it to begin with.