better come in here quickly,” she said. She moved out of the way, and Yuka slipped into her kitchen.
Yuka kept the materials for their weekly lesson in a heavy folder fastened with an elastic band. She sat at the kitchen table and began unpacking the folder in preparation for the lesson. Meta sat across from her and examined Yuka’s face to more closely assess her injury. Her left cheek was only slightly discoloured, but it had ballooned to two or three times its regular size, pushing the straight hair back away from the side of her face. There was a trace of blood visible in the left corner ofher mouth. Though she’d just applied fresh lipstick, little creases in her lips held unmistakable traces of both fresh and dried blood.
“I’m not sure my pronunciation,” Yuka said. She put a textbook called
Side by Side
on the table and ran her fingers over the swollen flesh of her face.
Meta shook her head. “We’re not having a lesson,” she said.
Yuka looked at her with astonishment. Meta thought she could see a tracing of broken blood vessels between Yuka’s left eye and her temple. “I’m sorry to be late,” Yuka said.
“It’s not because you’re late.”
“Why, then?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Meta said. “You think I want to teach a lesson to someone who’s pronouncing through a swollen mouth?”
“I’m sorry,” Yuka said.
Meta bit her own lip.
“I put ice on it at the hospital. And the … nandaro …” she pointed at her distended cheek.
“Swelling,” Meta said.
“Swelling got smaller,” Yuka said.
“You went to the hospital,” Meta said.
“Of course,” Yuka said. Meta’s breathing quickened.
“What did he do to you?” she said. “Tell me what he did to you. What did the doctor say?”
Yuka pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. She flattened her hands and pushed them under the elasticized waist of her skirt. She grasped the hem of her blouse and lifted it to reveal the bandages: They began just above her waist. As she moved her blouse higher, Meta saw that the bandages went so high Yuka had not been able to put her bra back on. Yuka pulledthe blouse over her head to reveal two dark nipples, breasts so small they were almost non-existent. On the left side, the bandages half-covered one breast, squeezing it up at an odd angle.
Around the torso, the bandages covered the bruises. But her left shoulder and upper arm were a dark violet-red, and on the strip of flesh between the bottom of the bandages and the top of her skirt there were signs of bruises to come, only now beginning to form beneath the skin.
Meta felt her insides wrench. She jerked Yuka’s blouse from her and threw it back in her face. “Put that back on!” she shouted. “Put it on, now!” Yuka struggled painfully to get the blouse back on. Her arms were stiff and it hurt her to put them above her head. Meta held the hem of the blouse for her, and together they tucked it back into the skirt. Meta put a hand on Yuka’s right shoulder, where she knew there was no bruise. “Sit down, Yuka,” she said. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
They’d been through this several times before, but the violence had never been so extreme. And this time it had happened in public. Yuka and her boyfriend had been having coffee in a Kohikan near Ginza Station when he’d flown into a blind rage, pounding and kicking her repeatedly. More than once the owner of the shop had been in the midst of phoning the police, when she’d begged him herself not to. She’d blacked out several times and did not know how she’d got to the hospital. Meta asked about the other people in the coffee shop. What had they done? Hadn’t they tried to intervene? But Yuka had no recollection of anyone else in the shop.
Meta listened to the story with tears in her eyes. She nodded and held out a hand to touch Yuka’s. But when Yuka had finished,Meta felt a terrible contradiction in herself. What her friend was going through
Yuka kept the materials for their weekly lesson in a heavy folder fastened with an elastic band. She sat at the kitchen table and began unpacking the folder in preparation for the lesson. Meta sat across from her and examined Yuka’s face to more closely assess her injury. Her left cheek was only slightly discoloured, but it had ballooned to two or three times its regular size, pushing the straight hair back away from the side of her face. There was a trace of blood visible in the left corner ofher mouth. Though she’d just applied fresh lipstick, little creases in her lips held unmistakable traces of both fresh and dried blood.
“I’m not sure my pronunciation,” Yuka said. She put a textbook called
Side by Side
on the table and ran her fingers over the swollen flesh of her face.
Meta shook her head. “We’re not having a lesson,” she said.
Yuka looked at her with astonishment. Meta thought she could see a tracing of broken blood vessels between Yuka’s left eye and her temple. “I’m sorry to be late,” Yuka said.
“It’s not because you’re late.”
“Why, then?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Meta said. “You think I want to teach a lesson to someone who’s pronouncing through a swollen mouth?”
“I’m sorry,” Yuka said.
Meta bit her own lip.
“I put ice on it at the hospital. And the … nandaro …” she pointed at her distended cheek.
“Swelling,” Meta said.
“Swelling got smaller,” Yuka said.
“You went to the hospital,” Meta said.
“Of course,” Yuka said. Meta’s breathing quickened.
“What did he do to you?” she said. “Tell me what he did to you. What did the doctor say?”
Yuka pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. She flattened her hands and pushed them under the elasticized waist of her skirt. She grasped the hem of her blouse and lifted it to reveal the bandages: They began just above her waist. As she moved her blouse higher, Meta saw that the bandages went so high Yuka had not been able to put her bra back on. Yuka pulledthe blouse over her head to reveal two dark nipples, breasts so small they were almost non-existent. On the left side, the bandages half-covered one breast, squeezing it up at an odd angle.
Around the torso, the bandages covered the bruises. But her left shoulder and upper arm were a dark violet-red, and on the strip of flesh between the bottom of the bandages and the top of her skirt there were signs of bruises to come, only now beginning to form beneath the skin.
Meta felt her insides wrench. She jerked Yuka’s blouse from her and threw it back in her face. “Put that back on!” she shouted. “Put it on, now!” Yuka struggled painfully to get the blouse back on. Her arms were stiff and it hurt her to put them above her head. Meta held the hem of the blouse for her, and together they tucked it back into the skirt. Meta put a hand on Yuka’s right shoulder, where she knew there was no bruise. “Sit down, Yuka,” she said. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
They’d been through this several times before, but the violence had never been so extreme. And this time it had happened in public. Yuka and her boyfriend had been having coffee in a Kohikan near Ginza Station when he’d flown into a blind rage, pounding and kicking her repeatedly. More than once the owner of the shop had been in the midst of phoning the police, when she’d begged him herself not to. She’d blacked out several times and did not know how she’d got to the hospital. Meta asked about the other people in the coffee shop. What had they done? Hadn’t they tried to intervene? But Yuka had no recollection of anyone else in the shop.
Meta listened to the story with tears in her eyes. She nodded and held out a hand to touch Yuka’s. But when Yuka had finished,Meta felt a terrible contradiction in herself. What her friend was going through
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