Maki Kashimada: Touring the Land of the Dead: Two Novellas

I shook my head, taken aback by her question.

“It’s okay. I understand. You don’t like me, because I’m always letting these men change who I am.”

“It isn’t you I don’t like. It’s all this stuff that happens between men and women.”

“I hate it too, to be honest.” She lit a fresh cigarette. “You know, sometimes I get jealous of Meiko and Moeko. Like when they fight with each other. Or their idealistic view of men and all that. I’m just completely disillusioned with it all.”

But you’ll still keep falling in love, I thought. Yōko was made up of a lot of parts, parts that couldn’t be explained through logic or reason.

My sisters all picked out their favorite colors. For Meiko, it was pink, for Moeko, brown, and for Yōko, it was a clear gloss.

Moeko and Yōko took out a pair of small brushes and began to enthusiastically apply the makeup to their lips. The three of them all jostled with one another over a small hand mirror. It was like watching them pour their burning passions into a single point, a small point of lipstick. It was like the flowers fighting among themselves at Nezu Shrine, back when S had first appeared in town. They were all staring deeply into the mirror, as if each of them was spellbound with desire for themselves.

There was nothing unusual about that. My sisters did want themselves, desperately. But they knew that they would never be able to grasp what they saw in that image.

Meiko, Moeko, and Yōko scrambled over the colors, trying first one, then the next, glancing back into the mirror with each freshly applied coat. It was as if the three of them were staring into a stained-glass window filled with the faces of saints, as if they didn’t really care which of them they saw staring back.

“Meiko,” I called out.

“Sorry, I’m a bit busy right now,” she said without even glancing my way.

“Why don’t you go watch some TV?” Even Moeko wasn’t paying attention to me.

When I turned to Yōko, she didn’t even respond.

I approached Mom. “This is so boring!”

“Truly,” she sighed. “Those three really do go crazy about their makeup,” she said, sounding strangely happy about it.

The weather forecast was showing on the TV. “We can look forward to blue skies today, not a cloud in sight,” the announcer said decisively. The woman’s voice seemed to pierce the cloudless sky, to tear into my eardrums. The sound left me feeling like I was listening to a soprano singing an aria, to the cruel, enthusiastic cries of women.

“We’re done.”

Moeko appeared by my side, Meiko and Yōko tagging along behind her.

“What do you think?” she asked. She no doubt wanted to hear which of them I thought was the most beautiful.

Neither Meiko nor Yōko said anything to challenge that. They wanted to know too. All three of them wanted to hear what I thought.

“Moeko’s color is a bit plain,” Meiko said. “But then your sense of fashion has always been like that.”

“How rude,” Moeko replied angrily. “ Yours is too gaudy. Why don’t you try picking something more suitable for your age, for once?”

“Come on, you two. Stop criticizing each other all the time,” Yōko said.

“You’re a nasty one, Moeko. Give me back that suede miniskirt I let you have last winter.”

“I thought you gave it to me. You know, seeing as it’s too gaudy for you these days,” Moeko responded defiantly.

“But I bought it at that secondhand store the first time I went to Paris. I’ve been meaning to save it, as a memento. Give it back.”

“A memento? Don’t be stupid. Besides, miniskirts don’t suit you anymore, not at your age.”

“What did you say?”

The two of them started scuffling with one another right in the middle of the living room.

Meiko had worn that miniskirt all the time when she had been a bit younger, matching it with a pair of long boots. The outfit had really suited her. But then she had decided to hand it down. And when Moeko had gotten her hands on it, she had gone looking for the exact same pair of boots too, wearing them all over the place as if trying to show her elder sister up.

I remember Yōko and Mom saying to each other that she shouldn’t do that sort of thing, that it wasn’t very nice to Meiko.

“This always happens with you two. That’s why I don’t use any of your things—not your makeup, not your clothes. I don’t care how poor I am, I’ll buy whatever I want myself,” Yōko declared.

“Anyway,” Moeko said. “Let’s get Nanako to decide who’s the most beautiful.”

The three of them finally fell silent.

“You’re all pretty, all three of you. So stop fighting.” It was obvious what my answer would be, but still they insisted on asking me that mean-spirited question.

“You’re such a flirt,” Moeko teased.

“Really, you three,” Mom sighed. “Can’t you go even one day without fighting?”

“Maybe not,” Yōko said. “Maybe we can’t live without fighting. I mean, it’s fun.”

“Nanako,” Moeko said, hugging me from behind, kissing my cheek. Did she leave a trace of her lipstick there? I found myself glancing down at my feet.

“Not fair, Moeko,” Meiko said, kissing me on the forehead.

“Me too,” Yōko added, kissing the back of my hand.

I felt suddenly embarrassed. I could hardly sit still. My cheeks were starting to burn. I wanted to run away somewhere and hide, but there was nowhere to go. That was how I felt. Why? I wondered. A feast—my three sisters and me. Even though it should have been me who had been longing for this moment for so long. Even though this should have been the realization of that sacred dream that I had thought would never come true. My sisters, on some kind of whim, had ended up carrying out this sacred ceremony. My sisters, calculating, forceful, impure, and yet also beautiful.

I wouldn’t be able to withstand their malicious kisses. I was sure of it.

Moeko hugged me from behind, her arms holding me tight. “Hey, Nanako. Why don’t you try putting some on as well?”

“No,” I answered. “I’m not interested.”

“Just a bit of gloss won’t hurt, right?” Meiko said. “Hey, Yōko. Why don’t you help her out?”

“Good idea,” Yōko said, taking some gloss onto a brush.

Meiko and Moeko held me down. Yōko started to paint the gloss on my lips. They felt sticky. But what my sisters were doing to me was almost like the kind of sensual doctor–patient games that young kids play. My chest felt like it might explode.

“Take a look, Nanako,” Moeko said, passing me the hand mirror. “See how beautiful you are?”

I looked timidly into my reflection, but there was no change.

Once the three of them had gone back to their rooms, I took another look in the hand mirror. I picked up a tissue, thinking to wipe away the gloss—but before I could raise it to my lips, I hesitated. These lips. They were Yōko’s lips. And I realized then that the reason why she doesn’t leave any lipstick on her cigarettes was because she only wears gloss.

I was fascinated by those lips. I touched them gently with my finger. They were moist with the gloss, and surprisingly comfortable. I would probably never forget this moment, I thought. I had learned today that I was just like Yōko. Soon, I would become a woman, like her, filled with contradiction and stubbornness.

I stared into the mirror. I looked a lot like her after all. From here on out, I would almost certainly take on the features of my other sisters too. This town, its face comprised of both glitzy Yamanote and earthy Shitamachi, was exactly the same as the pure yet dissolute faces of us sisters. And those faces, those two parts, would never be lost. Not even in the arms of some good-for-nothing man who might one day show up from somewhere far away.