“…Ah.” Belatedly, Akemi realized the young man meant he preferred liquor over women, and her face went red with anger. Her womanly pride must have felt hurt, with her advances having failed and her own insult turned against her. She stormed away, stomping loudly.
“Don’t tease my girls too much, if you could. And sorry for the bother,” the manager said.
“It was no bother at all.” The young man took another sip from his glass. His expression didn’t shift much, but the manager thought he could understand what he felt. The same feelings ran through him as well.
“She’s a good girl, that Akemi-chan. Good enough to have men falling for her,” the manager said.
“But not to make men fall for her?”
“No. Sadly, that’s not in style these days.”
The Dove District was also known as the Red-Light District of the Après. “Après” was derived from the French word après-guerre, meaning post-war. The word was originally used to refer to shifting trends in literature and art, but after the Second World War, it came to describe the youths in Japan who acted unbound by traditional thought and morality.
As a new, burgeoning red-light district, many of the Dove’s sex workers were young women who started the trade after the war. Unlike the pleasure districts rich with history like Yoshiwara, it was home to few ladies of the night who knew the proper art of taking customers. Many men still flocked to the Dove District anyway, taken with the more amateur, and perhaps genuine, service its women provided.
None could say whether this change was for better or worse, but it was a bit sad to see. The pleasure districts of old were full of dreams and women worthy of dreaming with. Men would visit, knowing full well it was all a lie but still eager to “fall for” the women. The sex workers of the Dove District sold their young bodies but not dreams. Fleeting dreams of love were simply out of style these days.
“How dull,” the young man said.
“Isn’t it also dull to pay money for a dream?”
“There’s something to be appreciated in maintaining the facade.”
“Ah, like with Shibaraku? My, how youthful you are.”
The men who visited the red-light districts knew the dreams offered there were not real. But the same could be said for Shibaraku, one of Kabuki theater’s Eighteen Great Plays, in which Kamakura Gongoro Kagemasa appeared just as some characters were about to be beheaded. The hero arrived in the nick of time and struck a fierce pose. It was expected, and it was the whole point. It would be silly to watch the play and complain that it was unrealistic. Similarly, it was tactless to ridicule those who bought and sold fleeting dreams of love.
“Still, you could’ve acted at least a little flustered for poor Akemi. Girls care about what men think of them, you know?” the manager said. The young man’s response to her advances was no different than saying there was nothing alluring about her. Of course, the one out of line had been her. The manager wasn’t faulting the young man for anything, just teasing him for his excessive stoicism.
“I used to know this one streetwalker,” the young man began with a nostalgic smile. The ice block in his glass, blurred by the amber liquid, cracked sharply. “She was a woman who could read people’s hearts like nothing. I think of her as the way a lady of the night is supposed to be. I can’t help but have high standards because of her.”
“An old flame?”
“Sorry to disappoint, but no. Nothing of the sort.” With those words, the young man downed the last of his drink and placed the glass on the counter. “Thanks for the drink. I certainly enjoyed myself.”
“Glad to hear it. I enjoyed having you as well. Now if you’d just spend a night with one of my girls, then you’d be the perfect customer.” The manager looked appraisingly into the eyes of the young man, who didn’t flinch one bit.
“I can do nothing about that.”
“Don’t any my girls catch your fancy?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just more interested in you than them.”
“Why, I’m flattered. My tastes lie elsewhere, though.”
“What a coincidence. Mine do as well.”
Hidden underneath their frivolous words, they probed one another. The young man’s statement about being interested in the manager was likely true. However, he wasn’t interested in him sexually—it was because he suspected this milk hall was close to the hidden truth of the Dove District. He didn’t come out and directly say so, though. Perhaps he thought it would be pointless, or perhaps he had other reasons to refrain.
“Are you sure you want to leave so soon? I was under the impression you had some questions to ask.”
“My questions are a bit too heavy to pair with this liquor. I’ll ask them when I feel ready for answers.”
He truly was an old-fashioned young man. Enjoying his personality, the manager stifled some laughter.
“Oh, one more thing before I go. I’d have used Moonlight Mask as an example instead of Shibaraku.” The young man seemed to enjoy the rapport between the two of them as well. The manager frowned, uncertain what he was getting at. The young man triumphantly continued, “Kamakura Gongoro is a bit of an antiquated character. Don’t you think something from this era would make more sense?”
Taken aback, the manager’s eyes widened. As if he had hoped for that exact reaction, the young man made a slight smile of victory.