3:AM Magazine

By Hillary Raphael.

The magnetic pull of temporary spaces. Love hotels. Ambassadors’ residences. Public lavatories. Saunas. The pristine girls’ dorm room waiting to be defiled. Sometimes the public parks, but not so much because it ruined the effect to be offered money. “Can you please tell Satomi that Arcangela is here? Thanks.” So Satomi is my shiatsu masseuse—the person who reattaches my body to my mind, illuminates the ki superhighways like radioactive veins in my limbs, erases my mind of everything but blinding pain lasers. She’s expensive, but worth it. Tonight, I waited until her last patient was bundled up in his tweed overcoat, limping sensuously away through the night, and I followed her home. I would’ve guessed, if pressed, that she would live in a sparsely furnished, white-walled box, a low-rent no-frills warren of blank rooms where a woman meditates, maybe masturbates, under eerie blue light, to the accompaniment of electronic beep music. But reality has stranger plans than does my meager imagination. She stealthily let herself into a well-proportioned carriage house that was furnished with lavishly upholstered settees, ornate curlicue gilt-framed photos, and cozy rustic artisanal crock pots. I loved penetrating her anonymity that way, stripping her of the lab coat demeanor she so carefully cultivated at the clinic. I’d seen enough, didn’t need to pocket a paperweight or carve my name into a dusty tabletop. I could scarcely remember my own name. In Tokyo, I’m disturbingly good at forgetting myself; I take the foreign-ness too literally, too deep into my mouth like a communion; my eyes scan the spindly text-rows everywhere like they were bar codes of products for my consumption; I stare into the eyes of strangers with a menacing deliberation, especially on the metro, where the drunken-ness is palpable, sexual; you are either drunk or should be.

I hightailed it away from Satomi’s posh princess fantasy to the public garden, where trees were illuminated like skyscrapers are in other cities, with a civic pride, like a pedagogical firm hand for the unruly gaze that wants to wander up skirts instead. A bespectacled man in hi-end farmer’s togs offered me a sip from a beautiful hip flask. It looked to be of steel and stingray skin, glossy and erect, challenging. He volunteered that he spoke Dutch. I just stared blankly; most of the men here like that; it isn’t stupid here to be mute; no, on the contrary, it’s intelligent; it’s choosing against the relentless pleasantries. He offered me a peek through military-grade night vision goggles, but nothing was going on, just raccoonish creatures in the foliage. We danced for a moment, but I was hungry. I listlessly invited him to join me, but he was waiting for someone or something, so I went on alone.

A steaming noodle stall draped in refugee tents. Surprisingly savory and expensive. The five other stools held cognoscenti; they taught me about what we slurped. It had anti-aging properties, digestive benefits; it would jumpstart potency. I liked it. It was tangy, filling; one’s stomach embraced it, but I couldn’t comprehend the ingredients. We six were caught in a loop—I hadn’t the vocabulary and all their definitions were tautological. I would’ve had to already know the word of the main ingredient to understand the secondary ones. They were derivatives of it.

Once the sun rose, I was in utero, steeping myself in a wooden tub of surprising dimensions. The smell of a tiny citrus fruit dominated.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hillary Raphael holds an MFA in Fiction from Hunter College in New York City where she won the MFA Thesis Prize for her novel, I love Lord Buddha (Creation Books). She is also known for a non-fiction book about the Japanese butoh dance movement, Outcast Samurai Dancer, a collaboration with Japanese culture expert Donald Richie. Her novel Backpacker: New York, Seoul, Phnom Penh, Sapporo, Hong Kong, Vancouver, Mexico City, Maputo, Tokyo, Mon Amour is out now. Read her 3:AM interview and contribute to her backpacker sex project, tokyomonamour.com.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Saturday, December 8th, 2007.