Chapter 17: 17. Before Her Husband Returns

Jiro breathed a sigh of relief as he ducked out of the sun and into the market shade. The market was built into a shopping arcade: a shared-roof structure lined with small shops selling tea, drinks, snacks, meat, and all sorts of everyday goods. Now he just needed to find a fish seller before he died of heat stroke. His shirt was a V of sweat from his shoulders to his navel.

Jiro walked past a few shops and stopped, clutching his head. He was weak, his vision blurry. It felt like ages since that bottle of lemonade. He took a few more steps and stumbled, catching himself against a patch of wall. The wall was cold.

Ahhh, that feels good. He pressed his face to the surface and let the icy coolness seep into his body. A few droplets of water rolled down. He licked them off hungrily, tasting the wetness.

“You okay friend?”

A big burly man was leaning over him, his body almost the size of a sumo wrestler. Jiro blinked and looked around. He was lying in front of a tofu shop, with his face pressed to one of the burly man’s open-air refrigerators.

“Sorry …” mumbled Jiro, sneaking in one last lick of condensation.

The man disappeared and returned with a bottle of water. “Here drink this and please stop licking my merchandise.”

Jiro sat with his back to the fridge and downed the whole bottle. The man watched him with an amused expression. “Thanks,” Jiro said, when he was done. “Can I ask you a question?”

The man cocked his head.

“Do you know where I can find a fish seller? Or someone who knows about the fishermen and their boats?”

“I know where you can find a psychiatrist.”

“Very funny. But this is important …” Jiro gripped the refrigerator and pulled himself up. He could feel the other afternoon shoppers shooting him weird looks. Somebody clucked their tongue.

The man shrugged. “I know nothing about fish, only tofu. But you might want to ask Tae.”

“Tae?”

The man nodded to a battered shop several spots over, next to a café selling green tea desserts. There was a glass case in front, and a few dried fish hung down from the shop ceiling. “Tae knows most of the men around here.” The fat man raised an eyebrow and winked. “If you know what I mean.”

Jiro wiped the sweat from his brow and walked slowly to the fish stall. The lights were off inside. In the dark, he saw a woman in an apron leaning over a table with her back turned. On the table lay a large silvery fish of some kind: probably tuna. The woman was slim and tall, a full head taller than Jiro. Her bushy hair, held back with a baseball cap worn backward, was the color of white corn. In one hand she held a giant cleaver.

The woman lifted the cleaver over her head. Under her apron, she had on a sports bra, and Jiro could see the sinewy muscles of her back tense up. Whack! The cleaver fell, not in an arc but straight down, cleanly severing the tuna’s head.

“Are you Tae?”

“What’s it to you?” the woman said without looking. She pulled out a different knife, this one long and thin. She slit the stomach of the fish, pulled out the guts with her bare hands, and tossed the guts into a bucket on the floor. She then flicked the heel of her knife and sent an eyeball flying past Jiro’s head.

“Uh … Could I speak to you for a moment?”

The woman stuck the knife head-first into the cutting board. “Look,” she said, turning to him. “I’m a little busy—”

She stopped. Her eyes flickered up and down his body. “You’re younger than you sound.” She wet her lips. The furrows in her brow faded, and her frown pulled up into a smile. She had long lashes and lines of red eyeshadow ran under her eye, giving her the sultry look of a woman plotting something. “Yup, I’m Tae,” she said, wiping the blood and guts on her apron. “What do you want?”

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“I, um … I’m looking for the Captain of a ship.”

“A ship?”

“The Hinomaru.”

For an instant Tae’s eyes narrowed. But it was only an instant: then they were back to normal. And unlike the other locals, the light did not go out of them. “So you’re looking for Ken.”

“Ken?”

“That’s his name, Ken.” Tae washed her hands in a bucket of water and stripped off her apron. Her stomach and back, Jiro noticed, were covered in scars. The scars ran all the way down from her shoulder to her waist. The sports bra hid little. Below she was dressed more modestly: boots and work pants worn high on her waist, almost up to the belly button. She was sweating almost as much as Jiro was. Sweat ran down her neck in great rivulets, slipping into the gap between her breasts, leaving a wet stain on the fabric of her bra. “It’s hot, isn’t it?” she said, more to herself than anyone.

“I went to port to look for him, but …”

“Oh you won’t find him there.” Tae wiped off her body with a rag, giving Jiro a glimpse of smooth armpits. Then she tossed aside the rag and rubbed her armpit with a hand. She sniffed her hand. Then she licked it, with a flick of her tongue. Jiro could smell the sweat and heat coming off her from across the glass case. “Ken hasn’t gone fishing in ages.”

“He hasn’t?”

“Yea, he used to be a regular supplier of mine. But lately I hear he’s run into hard times. Got himself injured. He’s probably at home watching TV. Jerking off …” The woman gave him a look. “That’s what men without women or work do, right? Jerk off?”

Jiro ignored Tae’s comment. “You know where he lives? Can you tell me the address?”

“Even better. I’ll draw you a map …” Tae looked around. The entire shop was covered with ice and water. Here and there were plastic bins filled with bits of fish and fish guts.

“Tell you what,” Tae said. “Why don’t you come to my place? I live right across the street. I’ll draw you the map and give you something to eat too.” She looked Jiro up and down. Licked her lips again. “And I could use a bite to eat myself.”

Jiro hesitated. He was hungry. In fact, he had had nothing to eat all day but a bit of old rice and a square of burnt omelet. Ever since the bathhouse chef had quit, Kaori had been handling cooking. Jiro’s stomach wriggled at the thought of it. Despite all her strengths, Kaori was a terrible cook.

“Sure, I can do that.” He really did need that map.

Jiro waited for Tae to close shop. When she came out, she had taken off her baseball cap. Her white corn hair was now tied up in a high ponytail. She’s kind of hot, thought Jiro. In an intimidating sort of way.

Jiro followed Tae through the market. As they passed various shops, other owners called out and waved to Tae. She nodded back. There was something mesmerizing about how Tae walked. It was a slow, languid gait, somewhere between a gangster and a supermodel. Even through her loose-fitting work pants, Jiro could see her muscular ass shift up and down with every step.

They turned a corner into a back alley. And that was when he noticed. Tae’s pants, worn high above her waist, had slid down while she walked. Something long and thin was peeking out from above Tae’s sacrum before disappearing down the waistline of her pants. Something long, thin, dark gray, and covered with (Jiro squinted) something almost like fur …

“Here it is.” Jiro quickly pretended to be looking at his shoes. They had stopped in front of a rusted door, part of a block of apartments. The whole thing was run down, and the apartment’s corrugated iron roof looked like it could crumble at any moment. “Just let me find my keys,” Tae said. She glanced up at Jiro with a sly look. “My husband isn’t home right now. So please feel free to ... enjoy yourself.” 

Jiro swallowed. Was it his imagination, or had her eyes just turned red?

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