While waiting for James I had kept an eye on the foreigners crowding round the bar standing in loud groups, bottles of beer in hand. It was comforting somehow to see them like this and to be a part of it. As much as I loved this city I did miss that American blending of ethnicity, ancestry bleeding together like watercolors.
Americans often referred to themselves as ‘mutts’ as if this was a bad thing. God knows such individual blending was the closest humanity was ever getting to harmony across regional borders.
Right now I was still puzzling out gender preferences at A971 and whether the place was gay or straight in the P.M. hours. When James entered I watched to see if any male heads did not just turn but lingered. Hmmnn, mostly just cursory glances I noted.
“What are you drinking?” I asked taking his arm and pulling him to one of the high tables I had reserved through strategic placement of my pink Ralph Lauren cable knit cardigan and beloved, though somewhat battered, vintage Gucci briefcase.
“Um,” he looked vaguely towards the bar for inspiration. “Uh, let’s see Corona? Do they have Corona?”
“Stay here,” I said, I’ll get you one. “Oh and do me a favor look and see if any of the guys watch me walk to the bar.”
He gave me his by now familiar puzzled stare, poor Pasadena, but being a stand up guy said only, “Sure.”
The heels on my little brown suede Vamps accentuated my walk there and back.
Handing James his beer I said, “Anyone? No one?”
He laughed, “Most of them.”
“Okay now you walk over and ask for extra napkins.”
Smiling again he did as I asked.
“Okay, the place is straight,” I declared upon his return.
“Sacha, what are you talking about?”
“Wait, wait, let’s toast.” Bumping glass and bottle I said, “Thanks for being such a great guy and coming with me the other day.”
“You’re welcome, now, what was that about? “ He nudged his chin towards the bar and back.
“Trying to figure out if this is a gay or straight bar in the evening, ‘cause there are so many guys.”
He looked around, eyebrows raised, “You’re right. And?”
“I think it’s straight “
“Because they watched you walk by?”
“No, because they didn’t watch you. See if they were gay they could have just been coveting my dress and shoes which are, I am sure you will admit, very desirable.”
“As is the rest of the package.” He raised his bottle to me and I nodded in acknowledgment.
“If they watched YOU, well they were coveting your body, which is also very desirable.” I gave him a teasing smile.
“Speaking of coveting, there is something I have been meaning to ask you Sacha…”
“Sacha! Sweetie!” Margot had arrived turning heads and spilling drinks as she shouldered her way over to our spot. Much kissing ensued before and after I introduced James.
“Of course I remember you!” She told James grabbing a napkin to rub at the red lipstick smeared every so slightly on his cheek. “Sorry. There, now you are perfect again. Sacha has spoken of you as a totally stand together man”
“Stand up,” I interjected.
“Whatever,” she waved her hand, the one with the huge amethyst ring, in a dismissive gesture. “So tell me about yourself, wait I must have a drink first.” With singular purpose she moved to the front of the queue at the bar returning with a large glass of red wine and devastation in her wake. “Now tell me James from America, what are you doing here in Tokyo. And for godsake does anyone have a cigarette?”
Feeling the crowd could hardly stand a third Margot onslaught I said I would go in search of a smoke for her plus I wanted to order some food from the bar’s Tapas menu since I cannot drink on an empty stomach.
Standing at the bar waiting my turn I smiled at the man next to me. He looked like a Japanese telecom ad for a foreign executive: High cheekbones, broad forehead, brown hair thick and side-parted, arched brows, dark eyes, bespoke jacket and trousers of superfine cloth. I smiled a little wider but only because I recognized him as the very successful, very satisfied husband of an acquaintance of mine. Pleased with his beautiful children, beautiful wife, beautiful job and anything else you can attach ‘beautiful’ to but not pleased enough to stop smiling at a small blonde waiting for Tapas. I knew men like him, I’d had sex with men like him. In fact if you are at a certain income level it is difficult to avoid men like him in the Tokyo Ex-pat dating scene.
Not that I cared, my attitude towards them was usually the same — I had somewhat carnivorous tastes in the opposite sex. Meat or grass, it was up to them to decide on their metabolic composition and present it to me. A fact that upset Margot and even me, sometimes. Margot loved and lost but at least she loved. Even the CSI Las Vegas Forensic team would have been hard pressed to find my emotional center when it came to men these days. I had been 19 when I met my husband, not even thinking about serious love, sleeping with boys not men. How was I to know even after marriage there would never be anything serious about it?
Previous introductions to my psychotic overweight mother and other demented family members not withstanding, there was a time when we were very, very well off. Those pre-Eichler days of housekeeper, cook, gardener, country club and ladies who lunch and plan charity galas. My mother had, at one time, been one of those ladies and had raised me to believe I should give some of the time I spent tottering around in my Chanel pumps to charitable venues. I volunteered my not inconsiderable writing and editing skills for the Tokyo branch of a worldwide NGO helping refugees build schools and businesses in places I was very thankful not to be from. This man’s wife, Donna, headed the fund raising committee. We saw each other at the very elegant soirees termed ‘strategy meetings’. Standing around in my sling backs and Ashida Jun turquoise linen suit nibbling on satay and coconut shrimp, sipping Merlot and debating whether the Holy Brothers in the slums of Calcutta or the Sisters of Mercy orphanage in Nigeria should get the allotments they were begging for. It was always, always, terifyingly surreal.
Donna towered over me in brunette splendor, pale and tall, professionally thin. With four children squeezed out in quick succession she probably hadn’t swallowed food in years.
We always chatted in that polite pearly way society women cultivate layering like an oyster their real selves behind this frighteningly shiny exterior.
That night at the Westin I found Barbara in the ladies room on the Ballroom floor looking at her hands and crying. It was the night of the gala dinner and auction the organization hosted annually to raise funds. We weren’t true friends but I couldn’t walk away. Could you?
Pulling out the handkerchief crammed into the tiny back pocket of my quilted Chanel evening bag, I handed it to her, saying nothing. This one was another Celine but red with carriages prancing around it. ‘A lady should always carry a handkerchief,’ my mother had said, ‘you never know when you may have to dry tears or tie up wounds.’ This advice along with my sexy walk were two things I had always been grateful to my mother for.
Donna took it, saying without urging, “Bob, Bob looked at my hands and said ‘How can you let your hands get in that condition! You should take better care of yourself.’” She gave a little sob. “How could he say that to me? I have four children, Sacha, you know what it’s like.” She looked at me imploringly and I nodded, “I’m always washing their little hands or washing my own. I can’t help if they get a little red.”
Given the perfection of her outward form I could readily believe she spent a lot of time, washing her hands. Probably like 17 times in a row. Counting the number of times she scrubbed each knuckle – or something similarly compulsive.
She held her hands out to show me. I thought they looked beautiful, fingers long and tapered. I wished my skin looked like hers. I had a sprinkling of freckles on my hands and arms, a legacy from the red-headed half of the family.
“Why did he say that,” she gave a little sob. God knows what kind of level of perfection Bob demanded at home from a woman with nerves stretched tighter than a Bangkok Patpong Go-Go girl’s G-string.
“Don’t listen to Bob. Donna you look beautiful. Your hands are beautiful,” I told her earnestly. “You are a great mom. You work very hard for your kids and your husband to make them happy. They should think about making you happy sometimes and Bob is probably jealous because for once you are getting the attention for all your hard work rather than him.”
The woman had done an amazing job bringing together corporate sponsors for the charity auction, everyone was patting her on the back except the one person who mattered most – he was too busy slapping her on the wrist.
“Really?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with tears. “You think so?”
“Of course I do. You did a fantastic job.”
“That means a lot Sacha.”
I was taken aback asking, “Why do you say that?”
She sniffed pausing to dab at the edges of her nose trying not to smear anymore foundation, “You have a career, plus you do the newsletter and you always look so nice with your Chanel style suits and hair and sunglasses. Keiko says you’re like a little career Barbie. We all admire you, the other women and I.”
That was news to me. Though I wasn’t sure how I felt about the career Barbie analogy. Coming from these women though I guess it was an accolade.
And here was her husband Bob, giving me the eye. I upped the wattage on my smile as I stepped up to order, “You don’t have any cigarettes do you?”
He gave me a grin, reached into his jacket pocket with his left hand – ringless tonight – and pulled out a pack of Salem’s. Flicking one out I took it and tucked it behind my ear. He laughed at the gesture.
I gave my order to the bar man and turned back to Bob. “Any fire in those pockets?” I asked, cocking my head to one side and running a hand along his chest.
“Burning brightly,” he said low voiced.
.
“Sacha!” Margot shouted from the other side of the bar, “Get back over here!”
Turning away I said over my shoulder, “Good to know. I’ll be sure and tell Donna I saw you.” I waved. “Bye Bob.”
This is why, despite being very naughty, I did not think I was going to Hell. I did far too many good things for far too many people to be on God’s short list.
