A Woman's Nails Read Online Free PDF Page A

this way and that. You follow me?”
    “I think so.”
    “They don’t change the sea in any way. They don’t have much of an influence on the others around them. I mean, I suppose that from time to time they might bump into other flotsam, see? Or, what? Get tangled up in discarded bits of fishing net?”
    She eyes me warily.
    “I don’t want to be like that,” I tell her. “Not at all. No, I want to be like a tanker plowing its way along a river. Everything that is caught in its wake gets overturned and tossed about. Even people who don’t see the tanker go by still feel its impa ct and influence, good or bad.”
    “You want to be a sailor?” she asks.
    “A sailor! Nice one, hah! No, I don’t want to be a sailor.”
    “Oh, sorry.”
    “No problem.” I tell her of the megalomania, which fuels me, my interest in Japanese architecture and design, in the pop art here, particularly manga and anime , Japanese comics and animation. I talk about how I want to learn from it and use it in my own art and designs.
    “Peador, are you an otaku ?”
    “ Otaku ? No, I’m not a nerd. I’m a maniac. So, how about you, Mika? What’s your dream?”
    “I want to travel.”
    “Yeah? Where to?”
    “Everywhere. Europe, Africa, Asia . . . Mars.”
    “Mars?” I ask, not sure I heard her correctly.
    “Yes Mars,” she repeats.
    “Mars,” I ask aga in pointing toward the ceiling.
    “Yes, Mars,” she replies, pointing to the same point in the ceiling.
    “ Rotsa ruck!”
    Mika is attractive enough, speaks English well enough, and has a sense of humor that accommodates my nonsense. There is even something, which resembles chemistry between us, but I get the distinct impression that I’d have to join the Realian’s Cult just to get to first base.
     
    4
     
    I dash over to the Nishitetsu Grand Hotel where I’ve promised to meet a young woman named Kumiko.
     
    Of all the women I’ve set up “dates” with, it is this Kumiko I’ve been looking forward to meeting the most for the simple reason that we share similar tastes in music. Not saying it’s necessarily bad, but far too many Japanese women have their short attention spans captivated by flavor-of-the-month Japanese pop stars. They get all worked up over the one or two-hit wonders that are cranked out of production machines like burgers at Mickey Dees. I’m not into fast food, and am even less of a fan of fast art. This Kumiko, however, is different: she is gaga about British rock and what she calls “ guranji ”.
    I imagined Kumiko to be cool, pretty in her own way, but when I get a load of how she looks, a reassessment of my musical preferences is in order.
    Kumiko has thrown herself whole-heartedly into the grunge look: baggy, soiled pants with holes in the knees, sweatshirt in tatters, and a loose-fitting flannel shirt. When I arrive at the hotel I find her sitting in the most un-ladylike manner, slouched and legs spread apart with a practiced indifference to the world and an unforgivable contempt for the five-thousand-dollar Arne Jacobsen leather swan chairs she has planted her filthy arse in. I have the urge to race back to Mika and hop on the mother ship before it leaves for Mars.
    Kumiko introduces me to a pug-nosed, overweight and slovenly friend named Kazuko. Dressed in tattered fatigues, this Kazuko has been asked to join us because of her fluency in English. Normally, I would welcome tagalongs with “The more, the merrier!” but in this little piggy’s case, three’s a crowd .
    Before I can recover from the disappointment they lead me out of the hotel towards an entertainment district a few blocks away called Oyafukô-dôri. As we make our way there, Kumiko asks, in Japanese, if I’ve ever been there, but just as I’m going to reply, in Japanese, Kazuko butts in with a heavily accented translation, “Oyafukô, you know? Been to?”
    “I, I can’t say that I have.”
    Kazuko translates my reply for the benefit of Kumiko who lets out such an