Note
The stories in this collection draw inspiration from traditional Japanese ghost and yōkai tales, many of which have been immortalized as kabuki or rakugo performances. A complete list of references and brief outlines of the original works can be found on page 255.
Smartening Up
I am a beautiful woman.
I am a beautiful, intelligent woman.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy
woman.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy,
caring woman. I am—
“Okay, that’s the right side done. I’ll start on the left now.” From just beside my ear, the beautician’s voice cut through the affirmations with which I was busy filling up every inch of my headspace.
“Sure, thanks,” I responded automatically.
The woman adjusted the towel draped over my chest, then moved to stand on my left. She pressed some buttons on the machine, and it beeped twice—beep, beep. Thinking it wouldn’t do to stare too intently, I directed my eyes up at the ceiling. Soon enough, I began to feel a faint, tingling pain traversing my arm. This level of pain I was totally fine with. The machine beeped again—beep, beep.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy,
caring woman with a fantastic dress
sense.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy,
caring woman with a fantastic dress
sense and unique taste in furniture
and accessories.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy,
caring woman with a fantastic dress
sense and unique taste in furniture
and accessories, and I’m a superb
cook to boot.
In time with the rhythmic beep-beeping of the machine, I went on adding to my list of qualifications. Like a line of cans moving down a factory conveyor belt, my future assets flowed past me in a steady stream, offering the promise of a new me.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy,
caring woman with a fantastic dress
sense and unique taste in furniture
and accessories, and I’m a superb
cook to boot, who sometimes rustles
up delicious cakes and sweets in no
time at all.
Beep, beep. Beep, beep.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy,
caring woman with a fantastic
dress sense and unique taste in
furniture and accessories, and
I’m a superb cook to boot, who
sometimes rustles up delicious
cakes and sweets in no time at
all, and everybody loves me the
moment they meet me.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
I am a beautiful, intelligent, sexy,
caring woman with a fantastic dress
sense and unique taste in furniture
and accessories, and I’m a superb
cook to boot, who sometimes rustles
up delicious cakes and sweets in
no time at all, and everybody loves
me the moment they meet me, and
my skin is so soft and smooth that
people just want to reach out and
touch it.
I am—
“Right, you’re all done! I’m going to cool it off for you, so don’t move just yet.”
The beautician’s slightly dated makeup was immaculately applied, her beige-slicked lips thin as an archer’s bow. She parted them now to smile broadly at me. A saying that I’d read or heard somewhere came back to me: “You can change your destiny simply by lifting the corners of your mouth. Good fortune comes spilling out of every smile.” The beautician had perfect teeth, I thought, and this set my eyes wandering, processing every detail of the open-plan hair-removal clinic: her uniform so white it was almost blue, the potted plant in the corner of the room, the melancholy sound of a music box churning out synthesized versions of popular songs. Then it occurred to me that the towel laid out beneath my head was cruelly crushing the perm I’d had done at the hairdresser’s just three days ago. Lifting my head slightly, I slipped a hand underneath to check the extent of the damage. The flattened spread of warm, limp hair felt as frail as a baby’s.
The department store by the station was still open when I came out of the clinic, so I went in and browsed the new range of colors in the cosmetics section, splurged on a selection of Dean & DeLuca deli items for my dinner along with a baguette from the artisan bakery, then got on the train, half-intoxicated by this version of myself. From my earphones came the sweet voice of a Western singer. I couldn’t understand the lyrics at all, but I assumed she must have been singing a love song. On the album cover that popped up on my screen, the singer’s long tresses glistened like those of a fairy princess. Why hadn’t I been born blond? I wondered to myself. Examining my reflection in the window of the train, I reached a hand up to touch my jet-black hair. In my next life, I decided, I would be blond. Then I would meet a gorgeous man with blond hair to match mine, and we would fall in love, and talk in English. In that incarnation, I would be surrounded with beautiful things, all day, every day. My life would be full of the sorts of things that brought instant contentment, and my heart would sing just to look at them. I would own so many wonderful things, I wouldn’t know what to do with them, and then I would truly be happy.
I walked down the street with a spring in my step, practically skipping. On my way I passed the supermarket that by now would have started to reduce its prices before closing; next to it, the shop run by a wrinkly old couple selling Japanese sweets, its shutters already half down; then a mess of ripped posters for some yard sale that was happening or had already happened; and the barber’s where I had never seen a single customer, only the owner who sat reading his newspaper by the window. Those things had no part to play in my world.
Back home in my one-bedroom apartment on the first floor of a three-story block, I’d just managed to arrange the selection of deli foods on my Scandinavian dining table, and press PLAY on the romantic comedy I’d chosen starring Michelle Williams, when the doorbell rang.
Life is full of dangers for a woman living by herself. I crept to the door silently so I could pretend I wasn’t home if necessary. I peered through the peephole, but could see nobody.
The doorbell rang again. Who could it be? A pushy door-to-door salesman, somebody soliciting for some organization, a burglar, a rapist, a pair of rapists, a whole gang of armed rapists . . . and then another possibility occurred to me, appending itself to the terrifying list of options, and I found myself opening the door without having meant to. My aunt was standing outside.
“Auntie! What are you doing here?”
“Goodness gracious, what’s happened to you? You look dreadful.”
Examining my face with narrowed eyes, my aunt kicked off her cheap outlet-shop sandals so that they landed right on top of my Fabio Rusconi heels and Repetto ballerina pumps neatly arranged in the entrance.
“What a poky little doorway you’ve got!” she squawked before clumping through into my apartment. “Your posture’s a disgrace, too . . . But that’s nothing new, I suppose. Come on, come on, stand up straight, that’s it.”
She tapped my spine with the back of her hand and I straightened up, staring in disbelief at the ugly scratches on the heels of the shoes she’d deposited in my doorway.
“Your hall’s tiny too!” she exclaimed. “You’re just like your mother! She had awful posture ever since she could walk. Born miserable, that one was. I was always pulling back her shoulders for her, but as soon as I let go she’d be straight back to slumping again. A person’s character expresses itself in their body, you know. Oh heavens, look at all this!”