Still, Okubo's remark bothered him. Had someone in the green room overheard him saying something he shouldn't have?
6
The feel of the floor under his feet abruptly changed as he went from the green room to the lobby. The hallway to the green room was concrete covered with linoleum: hard and cold. The lobby floor, meanwhile, was covered with a lush carpet.
Tomorrow, opening night, this lobby would be full of audience members. Toyama crossed it and started to climb the spiral staircase to the sound booth. As he did so he heard hushed voices in conversation somewhere. A man's voice, and a woman's—both lowered, as if afraid of being overheard. Toyama halted halfway up the stairs and turned around.
Toyama saw two people standing in a corner by the recessed doors leading into the seating area. A tall man and a slender woman, facing each other. Toyama peered closely at them, with the unmistakable sense that he was watching something he shouldn't. He moved into a position from which they couldn't see him and held his breath.
The man was facing in Toyama's direction but he was half hidden by the wall, so Toyama could only see his face intermittently; the woman's back was turned to him. Toyama saw at once that the man was Shigemori, the director. And though he couldn't see her face, from her clothing and the outlines of her body Toyama knew who the woman was, as well.
"Sadako..." Without realizing it he let slip the name of the woman he loved.
Shigemori had his hands on her shoulders, shaking her gently, and now and then he'd lean close and whisper something into her ear. He certainly didn't appear to be speaking to her as just another actress—the way he drew close to her suggested he wasn't simply giving her point-ers on her performance.
Toyama tried—the effort was great, but necessary—
to make sure that what he was seeing meant what he thought it did; he was seething. Shigemori was using his position as head of the troupe to hit on a young actress.
Toyama found this unforgivable. He could understand it, and he knew that in the theater world it was even toler-ated; inexperienced he may have been, but he comprehended that much.
The real question was how Sadako would react.
Given her position he knew she couldn't reject Shigemori too forcefully, but he hoped she had enough skill to evade him gently, without injuring his feelings. He knew how hard it would be, but he yearned for her to show him how adroitly she could act here. If she didn't, Toyama would have a hard time trusting the words of love they'd exchanged.
Their relationship was not a physical one, but Sadako had said, "I love you," and Toyama had never doubted it.
Toyama had declared his feelings first. It had been the previous year, during rehearsals for the fall production. The opportunity had presented itself unexpectedly.
The production was a musical involving several dance numbers, and the troupe had invited a pair of professional dancers, both women, to join them as guests.
The dancers' schedules were so tight that they often had to miss rehearsal, so Sadako had been drafted as a standin. Standin was as far as it went, though: she never got to appear onstage.
Toyama had never even imagined Sadako in a dance scene, so when he saw her dancing up close, he was amazed. From the day they'd both taken the troupe's entrance exam she'd stood out; she'd been the object of Toyama's longing attentions ever since then. Even so, he had no way of knowing that her talents included dancing. The first time he saw her move in that provocative way, it further inflamed his passion for her.
But Sadako didn't seem confident in her dancing.
Often he would see her hang her head in thought after carrying out some instruction of the choreographer's.
Sadako's dancing certainly worked for Toyama, but it didn't seem to satisfy Sadako herself.
Once, during a break, Toyama went to the bathroom.
He ran into Sadako next to the communal sink, and he took the opportunity to praise her dancing. "You're pretty good," he said. But she seemed to think he was being sarcastic, and she fixed him with a powerful glare.
"You don't have to use that kind of tone. I'll practice—I'll get better, and then I'll show you."
No doubt the older actresses had been needling her about her dance skills. As a result, she was unable to hear the sincerity in his praise, and so she'd excused herself as an amateur and gotten surly about it to boot.
She turned on her heel to leave. Toyama hurried after her. "I didn't mean it like that at all!"
He placed a hand on her shoulder, but she shook him off, saying, "Look, even I know I'm not any good, okay?"
"Well, I think you are. Please believe me. I'm not being sarcastic or anything: I really think you're good. I was just trying to boost your confidence a little..."
"You're lying."
"I'm not! Look, I'm not the kind of guy to beat around the bush like that. If I thought you were a bad dancer, I'd tell you, honestly."
They stared at each other. Toyama tried to make his pure intentions felt in his gaze.
Maybe it worked. She didn't look entirely convinced, but she managed an awkward smile, nodded, and whispered, "Okay. Thanks."
That was the first time he'd felt a real emotional connection with Sadako.
From then on he tried to give her advice whenever he could, both in secret and openly. If he noticed something while watching her practice, he'd tell her, purely as an objective bystander. He was tireless in his efforts to help her improve as an actress.
Toyama was the kind of guy girls liked, and as Sadako saw the feelings he had for her, she began to open up toward him. She stood out, and as a result she was always having to put up with backbiting and slander from older members of the troupe, vicious rumors and the like. With all that, she was understandably grateful for Toyama's affection.
The interns took turns cleaning the rehearsal space in pairs. One day in September Toyama was paired with Sadako, and they happened to show up at the same time.
It was early afternoon, and the space was deserted except for the two of them; they still had well over an hour to themselves before rehearsal was to start.
They saw to the cleaning, including the bathroom, and then Toyama sat down at the piano in the corner of the rehearsal space. It was a broken-down old upright, and several of its strings were out of tune. He contrived to avoid those notes as he set about playing Sadako a few tunes of his own devising.
Sadako stood beside him listening in silence at first, but then she sat down on the bench and let her fingers wander over the keyboard. Not quite a duet, but she did manage to follow along.
She'd never had formal lessons, she told him, but there was one tune she'd learned to play well enough just by watching. It was a mournful melody. Toyama had heard it before, but he couldn't remember what it was called. He stood up as if pushed off the bench; now it was his turn to listen from behind while Sadako played.
Her left hand played the chords with some hesitation, while her right picked out the melody. Her playing wasn't very good, but there was something about it that tugged at Toyama. Not only did she have what it took to shine as an actress, but now it seemed she had a flair for music as well.
He was unable to resist the urge when it came over him. He stared at the white nape of her neck, covered by her long hair; he watched as she lifted her right hand to brush away her bangs and then lowered it again to the keys with a supple movement. Everything about her, everything she did, mingled girlishness and womanli-ness, and he found it inexpressibly attractive.
Toyama had overheard more than one older member of the troupe describe Sadako as "that creepy girl." The only way Toyama could make sense of it was to figure that Sadako's preternatural beauty struck them—particularly the women—as eerie.
There was no resisting the strength of his feelings toward her, so he gave himself over to them. He hadn't planned on making a pass at her. It was just that his love could no longer be contained.
He moved quite naturally. "Sadako," he said, and embraced her from be
hind, intending to bring his face close to hers as she gazed down at the keys. But it was as if she had eyes in the back of her head. Sensing his movements, she stood up and caught him in a full-on embrace. He'd been apprehensive, of course, about how he'd be received, afraid of rejection and all the awkwardness and humiliation it would bring. He hadn't dared hope for this kind of acceptance. He'd miscalculated—but in the best possible way.
Toyama was twenty-three, and he'd known his share of women, but never had he experienced greater pleasure than he knew in that hug there in front of the piano. They stood there for a time, cheek-to-cheek, and then they pulled back gently so their lips could find each other. Anyone who happened to be present would have seen something fresh and pure, not lascivious, in their embrace.
Between kisses, they had whispered to each other:
"I've loved you since the moment we first met,"
Toyama had told her.
And Sadako had responded in kind. "I love you,"
she'd said.
So what was the meaning of what he saw now?
Toyama stamped his feet on the spiral staircase and gnashed his teeth. He wanted to rush in and pull Shigemori off her. Every time their faces disappeared into the corner he was tormented by a vision of them kissing. But Shigemori, forty-seven this year, was in the prime of his career as an impresario and playwright—a respected name in the theater world. If Toyama made the wrong move things could go badly not just for him but for Sadako as well. He felt as if his chest were being ripped open, but he told himself he'd just have to endure it for now.
As he grew used to the sight of them and began to calm down a bit, Toyama noticed something strange about Shigemori's expression. He always had an intensity in his gaze when he watched Sadako rehearse, but now he looked like a man possessed. "Possessed": that was the only word for it. He was no longer himself. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bloodshot, his breathing ragged. From time to time he pressed a hand to his chest.
Watching all this, Toyama started to hope again. It began to appear that Shigemori was making a pass at her, but that Sadako was subtly deflecting his advances. Perhaps she wasn't making herself a liar after all.
Just then, however, she did something unbelievable.
Toyama saw her lean out from the shelter of the corner and press her lips to Shigemori's.
Shigemori pulled back, as if startled, and stared at her wide-eyed. It seemed that Sadako had done something Shigemori had neither expected nor desired.
Toyama knew that his own expression of astonishment must match Shigemori's. His own eyes were wide as he watched Sadako from behind.
But she didn't stop there. She pulled back a little, and then reached her left hand out toward Shigemori's crotch while Shigemori watched in surprise. She brought her palm up next to where his testicles must be and pretended to cup them from beneath. Then she actually squeezed them two or three times, as if playing with rubber balls.
Shigemori pulled back, his face clouded over with confusion; he grimaced, as if about to burst into tears...
Shigemori began to collapse—fainting? He staggered and leaned back against the wall, chest heaving, one hand pressed to his chest and the other rubbing his neck.
What's going on?
Just a moment ago Toyama had hated Shigemori, but now he found himself sympathizing with the man.
Right about now they were both equally confused. Neither could assign meaning to Sadako's actions. Why had she suddenly kissed Shigemori? Why had she cradled his testicles in her hand? She had to mean something by it.
Sadako stepped away from the wall, leaving Shigemori there in his altered physical state, and suddenly turned toward Toyama. It was as if she'd known he was there all along. About twenty yards separated them, and he was mostly hidden behind the railing of the staircase, but still she looked straight at him, as if the eyes in the back of her head had already located him. It reminded him of how she'd reacted when he'd tried to embrace her that day when she was playing the piano. The way she'd moved, then and now, was amazing—intuition didn't begin to cover it.
Sadako met Toyama's gaze and flashed him a victo-rious wink.
You know what's going on, don't you? said her look.
But he didn't.
Sadako disappeared into the hallway leading to the green room, leaving confusion in her wake.
In contrast to Sadako's resolute, purposeful gaze, Shigemori appeared to be seeing nothing, his hollow gaze still turned toward the ceiling. He hadn't noticed Toyama in front of him. Sadako had disappeared speed-ily, leaving him sluggish, bereft of his usually scintillat-ing wits.
At length he seemed to come around. He pushed open the door and staggered into the theater. He was a tall, slender man, but at the moment his limbs looked leaden.
Both Sadako and Shigemori having left his field of vision, Toyama went into the sound booth.
His tapes were all ready. The curtain could go up any time, and he'd have no problems.
Finally Shigemori's voice came over the intercom.
"Okay, everyone. We're about to start the second act."
His voice quavered enough to be noticeable even to someone who hadn't just witnessed what Toyama had.
7
The curtain had gone up on the dress rehearsal's second act, but Toyama couldn't concentrate on his job. The scene he'd just seen kept flickering before his mind's eye, making him careless about checking for stray sounds on the tape. Jealousy, rage, and shock welled up from the depths of his heart and turned into a rushing current that threatened to engulf him.
For six months now, he'd considered his and Sadako's relationship to be that of lovers. When nobody was watching they'd hold and kiss each other, but that and honeyed words marked the extent of their relationship: no matter how he sought it, nothing more was forthcoming. Still, he was satisfied with what they had.
He decided that it must be her youth—she was only eighteen—that kept things from developing physically.
He found her innocence pleasing, in a way. She was a virgin. Of that he'd never had a doubt.
The only thing that nagged at him was Sadako's extreme caution that nobody else find out about their relationship. It seemed a bit excessive to Toyama.
When they were alone, her attitude proclaimed that she truly loved him. But when they were with other members of the troupe, she treated him with particular coldness, so that he was wracked with anxiety. For his part, he always looked on her as someone special to him, no matter where they were. But not her: when people were around, she treated him like just another face in the crowd.
His fondest wish was for her to sit by him, even in the presence of their colleagues, and simply look at him.
He was tired of being ignored in front of the others: it only made him watch her more closely, only increased his desire to elude the others so he could hold and kiss her.
He could understand her not wanting to be gossiped about, but still, he wished things would change. When he told her this, however, she always gave him the same answer.
I don't want to let everybody know how close we are. What we have is our little secret, and I want you to keep it that way. Okay? You can't tell anybody about us. Promise me—if you don't, I'll lose you.
Her explanation never convinced him. Why did things have to be kept so secret? What he'd witnessed her doing with Shigemori just now suggested a possible reason.
Everybody who joined the troupe did so because they wanted to make it as an actor or actress. Sadako radiated that desire even more strongly than most, and with her it was mingled with something in her gaze that challenged society in ways that normal people couldn't quite fathom. It verged on hostility. Sometimes Toyama saw a coldness and contempt for the world in her eyes that made him flinch.
The world doesn't hate you as much as you think it does.
He tried again and again to tell her that, but she never listened. She'd just scold him for being naive, saying if he went through life like that, they'd get him—at
times like that she acted like a much older woman.
He wondered what there was in her past to make her that way, and sometimes he even tried to ask, non-chalantly. But she always evaded his questions, and so he was never able to grasp the true nature of her near-enmity toward society.
The only way for Sadako to triumph over the world was to become a famous actress. It was the one thing an eighteen-year-old girl could do that would command universal admiration in one fell swoop. He was sure she knew that.
Which led Toyama to a deduction. Becoming a star meant grabbing every chance that presented itself. What could she do right here, right now? The answer was plain. She could cozy up to Shigemori, who held absolute power over the troupe, in hopes of getting a part. That had to be how she'd gotten such an important role in the current production. It was, after all, a major coup for an intern who'd only been with the troupe for a year.
But how? Toyama didn't want to think about that.
The image of the two of them in the corner kept returning to his thoughts, tormenting him.
He thought he knew now why she'd wanted to keep her relationship with him so secret. It was quite clear. If it became common knowledge in the troupe that she and Toyama were lovers, word of it would naturally reach Shigemori. Certainly Shigemori would not be pleased to learn she had a boyfriend, and that would lessen her chances of ingratiating herself with him.
Am I just being toyed with? By this nineteen-year-old woman-child? This sylph?
Toyama hung his head—still wearing his headphones. For a moment, his eyes left the stage.
The stage manager's voice crackled over the intercom. "Hey, Toyama, you forgot the ring!"
He looked up. He'd missed his timing. Hurriedly he pressed the play button and the sound of a ringing telephone issued forth. It was late, so the actor onstage had been forced to ad lib; now he waited for it to ring twice before picking up the receiver. As he did so, Toyama stopped the tape.
Disaster had been averted, but all the same the stage manager berated him. "Idiot! Are you even watching the stage?"