“I don’t know if that helped, since it was written backwards.”
Masaomi lifted his head and looked straight into Misao’s eyes. A tremor ran through his face and, as if he had been holding his breath, his shoulders shook slightly.
Misao imagined what a strange face he must be making right then.
Under normal circumstances, Misao was in perfect control of his expression. He would know it as surely as if he had checked in a mirror.
But right now, he had no idea what he looked like.
He had never felt so unstable before.
“About the...”
He looked earnestly at Masaomi, then looked everywhere but at him. Misao heard his own faint voice float out of him, like a paper balloon blown in the breeze.
“Your handkerchief... could I have it?”
“What?”
Masaomi appeared taken aback. Misao was shocked himself at what he had just said.
He covered his mouth with his hand at this unbelievable request.
Masaomi was just about to say something when the wavering light of a hand lantern shone on the screen door.
“That’s the owner making his rounds.”
There was a noise in the hall. It was Kazushi’s voice. Instinctively, Misao readied himself to stand at a moment’s notice. Across from him, Masaomi slowly turned his head, like a rusty tin man, to the shadows cast by the man’s lantern on the screen.
“I’m sorry, I’m not dressed yet,” Masaomi called through the door. His voice was more businesslike than Misao had heard it all night. “Could you please wait a moment?”
“Would you like some help?”
Masaomi refused Kazushi’s offer. “No need, thank you.”
“Let me,” Misao offered quietly. Masaomi nodded and stood up. Misao stood as well, to help. Due to the urgency of the situation, Misao’s heart pounded so erratically he was afraid it might simply stop, which would be no help at all. But gradually, it calmed.
The man pulled off his robe and Misao drew his shirt over his broad back. When he pulled his arms through the sleeves of his flocked coat, Masaomi looked over his shoulder at Misao.
“Thank you.”
Misao was adjusting the collar of his coat when he said it and, for some reason he didn’t quite understand, it touched him. He shook his head silently. His feelings were in strange disarray once again.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Masaomi opened the door.
Kazushi had set the lantern on the floor and kneeled beside the door to wait. He looked up and noticed Misao standing behind Masaomi. His mouth opened and he stared stupidly.
“Is something the matter?” Masaomi asked.
“Uh—no, sir. Please follow me.”
Kazushi picked up the lantern and led Masaomi down the hall, and Misao followed behind them.
When they reached the first floor, he slipped out the gate.
A two-passenger rickshaw was waiting in the street. A small lantern hung from its side. The owner of the introductory tea house stood in the light, waiting for his customer.
Masaomi turned back to Misao. Misao was surprised by his sudden change in direction and he fell back a step. But Masaomi’s steps were much larger and he closed the distance, gently taking one of Misao’s hands. The feeling of his skin as he covered Misao’s hand with his own made Misao’s breath catch.
“Thank you for all your help,” he whispered, catching Misao’s eye. Then he silently pulled his hands away and walked unerringly back to the cart. The owner sat beside him and ordered the driver to take them away, and they set off at a quick pace.
“Guess I was wrong about you and him,” Kazushi teased, holding his lantern aloft. Misao didn’t answer. He dropped his gaze to his hands.
The handkerchief was folded in quarters, then folded in half in the middle. There was a ten yen note tucked inside. Misao felt a leaden weight sink into his heart.
This was much too large an amount to be called a simple tip, and when Kazushi stole a glance at it, he let out a low whistle.
“What did you do?”
One corner of Kazushi’s mouth twisted up, and for some reason Misao found that extremely offensive.
“It wasn’t like that,” he answered glumly, and walked back through the gate. He went toward the owner’s room in the back. There was a fixed distance to reach the end of this job. He slipped his right hand into his sleeve and gathered the many bills that he kept there. It was everything he had earned from the customers that night. There must be eight yen in all. He wasn’t including the ten yen from Masaomi.
He went into the room.
The owner had carelessly put his bed next to the hearth. He only woke up when Misao stood next to his pillow. He lifted his head, which was going white, disagreeably.
“Who’s there?” he demanded imperiously. But when he saw it was Misao, his mood changed.
“Oh, it’s you, Misao. You were working late tonight. How did you do?”
Misao knelt down silently and sat beside him. He laid each of the bills he’d received on the edge of the bed. The owner picked them up and counted them.
“You’ve got eight yen! Well done.”
He raised his eyebrows, impressed.
“How much is left?” Misao choked out.
The owner quirked a corner of his mouth and sighed. “Don’t be so stubborn. I’ve been here my whole life.”
The owner stroked Misao’s cheek with a sticky hand, and Misao slapped it away harshly.
“I’m not joking.”
The owner’s throat shook with his amusement. He was obviously a pervert to derive such joy from that treatment.
“All right, all right. You really are good.”
He gazed at Misao, as if lost in a dream, and said the same thing he said every time Misao came to him.
“Your face, your eyes—every day you’re more and more in the flower of your youth.”
The owner reached out again, forgetting his lesson already, but Misao avoided him and stood up.
“I’m tired of this. I don’t need you to tell me over and over how much I look like whatever. Thanks for your time,” Misao exploded, then headed out of the room. The owner called out to stop him, still in his bed.
“You’ve been holding on to that thing the whole time you’ve been in here. What is it? A handkerchief?”
The owner peered at Misao’s left hand with great interest.
Misao left the room without answering.