Lacrimo Crystallinus

I lay awake. The typical comforts of home—the falling water and dancing candlelight—are not a consolation at all. Tonight, not even Bao’s soft, measured breathing can ease me into sleep. Every curve of her form is pressed to me, warm and reassuring and in such a profound way… succor. Through the thin mesh of her lavender nightgown, I can feel the deep breath that expands her chest. My arm is not tingling, not wishing to be readjusted, even though it has been draped over her waist and settled (by her own hand) between her breasts. Though I recognize the significance of this moment and all others like it, I simply cannot bring myself to feel the warmth of relief or pleasure that I know I should. I am not at ease even though the world around me gives me every reason to be.

Staring at the wall past my sleeping lover, I try halfheartedly to find patterns in the brick. I did that often enough when I lay beside Carrie Ann, after having returned from a bout of touring and eventually made it back home to try and relive our dead or dying past. Ever did I stare into a space that bore little or no meaning to me, trying to derive a meaning, to give a voice to the words I wished so desperately both to say and hear. Only after our inadequate lovemaking and breach of intimacy did I open up my mind to the possibility that there was nothing left to squander while at the same time, nothing left to mend. But I am not lying beside Carrie Ann tonight, and the situation is different.

When a pattern fails to arise, I find something else to stare at, anything to keep my mind off the things that matter. I should know by now that that never works.

Like I told Bao, before a few nights ago, I hadn’t spoken a word to my parents directly in years. I had no reason to. We were never close, and even now, I doubt that the possibility exists. Momoe is far more patient and understanding of their devotion and austerity than I have ever been, but even she does not have a close relationship with our parents. The only child to have that is Tetuso, who is like neither Momo nor I. Their opinions, even that of our younger brother, matter less to me than they should, but they still are somewhat important. I want my parents to be proud of my accomplishments, but all they seem to see are my mistakes.

I brush a lock of hair away from Bao’s naked shoulder. Her skin, the shade of her favorite Chai tea or hazelnut coffee laden heavily with sugar and cream, glows sweetly as any such treat in the light of the candles surrounding our bed.

Everyone believes that I am perfect. My fans believe I can do anything (except, perhaps, dance) and those who know me personally seem to have an idea that my mistakes are trivial ones, or that the fault belongs completely to others. Though I tell them otherwise, it weighs on me. Theirs is an impossible standard to meet. Even Bao seems to exude an inferiority complex that makes me feel overbearing. In my heart, I know that I do not intentionally give off such a vibe, nor have I ever entertained their heaps of praise, and that my public mistakes are seen as endearing by my fans, but that does not blunt the edge—the need to meet the unspoken standard. Nor does it change what mistakes I have already made.

Like Jae Minh and Carrie Ann. The two worst mistakes I have made and the only ones of their kind that I will ever make (and my parents’ favorite to bring up). The very thought of the two women makes me numb with remembered pain and places the taste of ash in my mouth. [i[It was nearly enough to call off women altogether, I think halfheartedly. Looking at Bao, I am pleased that I did no such thing. In fact, I find myself regretting that other women must come between Bao and myself.

Silken skin kisses my fingertips. For a moment, I think that she is awake, but she only makes a soft sound of relaxed sleep. Her fingers curl around mine and she presses my palm to her chest. If I had never met Carrie Ann or Jae Minh, would this moment still have existed? Would I still have pursued this strange, only borderline-acceptable romance?

Closing my eyes and releasing a slight sigh, I force away the faces of my ex-wives, the thin, almost surreal memory of their touch tingling along my body in each woman’s favorite place. I slide away from Bao, dressing in loose-fitting flannel pants. Mei, who is curled up in Bao’s arms, lifts her face to stare at me, as if admonishing me for waking her. I quietly slip upstairs and get a glass of water. As I stand in the kitchen and drink it, I hear footsteps down the hall. Momo’s from the lightness.

“Couldn’t sleep, Sato-kun?” she calls, her voice muddled with sleep. She steps softly into the kitchen, her hair chaotic and her eyes ringed with dark circles. I realize suddenly that I have not seen her like this before… never anything other than immaculate. I nod. “Me either.”

I say nothing, but the silence is betrayal enough of my emotion. I run a fingertip along the rim of the glass, unmoved even by the low, melancholy note that reverberates out of the glass and through the silent kitchen. The noiseless moment stretches until it seems too thin and about to burst when, finally, she speaks.

“What’s on your mind?” she prompts, though her voice is more gentle than curious, her face made younger by the light of the pale moon.

For a moment, I consider brushing off her concern, but the moment passes. She is my sister and has always supported me. “Our parents.”

She nods. “You took her to see them, didn’t you?” she says knowingly. She always knows. “What happened to upset you? Did they dislike her?”

“Hardly.” I down the rest of the glass. “Surprisingly, they were calm regarding her age. They did not approve, but I would be a fool to expect that.”

“Then where did it go wrong?”

I meet her gaze, feeling resentment and bitterness filling my eyes. “Mother brought up Carrie Ann and Jae Minh.”

Momo shakes her head and sighs. “They happened, little brother, but they are no longer here to torment you. Why does the memory bother you so?”

“It isn’t the memory, Momo,” I say, trying with difficulty to keep my tone level. This conversation has happened many times before. “It is the fact that that is all Mother and Father see when they see me—my failed marriages. My breaking of their religion. That is not what I am.” I pause, tasting the bitterness that permeated into my voice. Then I let out a breath. “Their view of me is skewed, to put it kindly… and it has always been that way. I am the problem child, the ill one. That’s all I’ll ever be to them.”

“Look around you, Satoru. That isn’t all you are to them.” Her eyes and voice are firm and confident. “They are proud of you. They may not shower you in praise, but were they the sort to do such things? They fear that if they were, it would get to your head and make you arrogant. Everyone thinks you’re perfect. To them, it’s only a matter of time before you hear something so often that you begin to believe it yourself.”

I open my mouth to protest, but she stops me. “I know, little brother. You’ve no need to tell me.”

“Their judgment plagues me and seeing them again only renewed that feeling.” I force myself to inhale and remain calm. “And I know it makes Bao uncomfortable.”

“They won’t always judge you, Sato-kun. When they see this work out, their lecturing will stop.”

“What do you mean?”

“They believed that you and Bao had a new relationship. Since the incident, they learned that that is not the case.”

“And you think that will change anything? If anything, they will be more disappointed.”

Momo smiles. “They aren’t. But they’ll be happier when they find out that this is long-term… and more real than the others.”

“What?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t play stupid, Satoru!” She winks. “When I was cleaning the other day, I saw that black box. I know that’s not a promise ring, you baka!” I blush and turn away a little, pretending to be busy with something on my waistband. “That’s so cute; you’re blushing like a schoolboy.”

“Don’t be cruel, oneechan. I’m going to bed,” I say, more to escape her lighthearted teasing than to actually get sleep.

******************************************************************************************

Click. Click. Cl-cl-click. The sound of nails tapping against the kotatsu begins to slur together into an ugly, almost drunken beat. I try not to look annoyed, but I do not even attempt a smile. More out of habit than any real desire to be courteous, I brewed tea and the porcelain teapot now sits between us, a steady wisp of steam exiting the small spout like a heaven-bound ribbon. Neither of us has touched our tea, although my visitor has been in the process of removing her gloves and winding and unwinding her scarf for several moments now. I merely watch her, not offering help, even superficial help. Although she is thoroughly American, even she understands that my current behavior is indicative of disrespect and lack of hospitality. She has not spoken since she pushed past me and frightened my little Belle.

“Thank you for allowing me to come inside,” she says in her rich alto voice, so different from Bao’s own silken mezzo-soprano. Where Bao’s voice resembles silk, her voice is like velvet. Both are feminine and soft, but in separate ways. I stare at the woman before me and say nothing. She has changed since the last time I spoke to her. She has aged somehow, though she is not so different. Her makeup appears darker and more severe than before, with heavier eyeliner and mascara layered so thickly that it has caused her eyelashes to clump together unnaturally. Her hair that was once cut to her shoulders and curled in voluminous ringlets is now long and straight at the top with thick waves around her apple-shaped face. She is not ugly, but what I saw in her before no longer moves me. She is beautiful, but her beauty is only in sensuality, and I am not stirred by such baseness now. She is simply a woman of my past.

“I did not have much choice, as I recall.”

“Yes, well,” she says, swallowing despite her attempted brave front, “I apologize for that. It’s just that I haven’t heard from you in a long time. Since that day, in fact… since… since…” She seems unable to continue. I do not help her along. She clears her throat and blushes despite the fact that we are past such crumbling falsities. “Is she…?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. She looks about almost guiltily. “She is at school right now.”

“School,” Katherine repeats lamely, as if she has never heard of it. I nod, despite the amusement I get from that last thought.

“Why are you here, Katherine?” I ask, disrupting her flow of thoughts. She looks small and desolate in her giant coat. It is only autumn, hardly cold enough for such a thick coat or gloves.

“I came to discuss ‘us’.”

“There is no ‘us’,” I say tonelessly, taking a sip of tea. “I thought I made that clear to you.”

She squares her shoulders, fighting to keep control of her expression. “If it is because of your newfound ‘commitment’, don’t waste your breath. I know how much your word means.”

I smile, almost tempted to laugh, at her childishness.

“As much as you may be enamored with her, and possibly with the idea of being a monogamous man of your word, I know what you like. I know you, Satoru, and I know that you cannot be satisfied tied down to someone as home-y and boring as that girl.”

“You presume too much,” I say calmly despite my desire to strike her. I allow her a moment to let my words sink in. “Now, if you’ve nothing more to discuss, I will show you to the door.”

Her lips press together tightly. “I also wish to discuss your career.”

I settle into the cushion, more at ease with this topic, but still wary of her choice in words.

“I assume you have not written any music since the last album. Even if that is not the case, I suggest a tour in Europe. People there, especially in Paris, have demanded you. A tour this year would be popular.” Her eyes grow darker. “And as I am your manager, there are certain… conditions… that must be met.”

“Please, enlighten me,” I say, weighing her expression and words both. “I was not aware of a change in conditions.”

“As you know, conditions are subject to change when a contract is up,” she says, smiling innocently enough. “Your contract expired last month.”

Suddenly, the front door opens and I call out a welcome. There is a soft response, surely Momo's, however, she does not come into the room. Nor do I hear her moving upstairs. I excuse myself from Katherine only long enough to go downstairs and see Momo.

I am surprised to see Bao. I try to keep my face neutral. "Bao, I thought you had class today."

She explains that her professor was not there, and that she came home early. I nod. She must know for certain that something is amiss. "Is something the matter?"

"No, no," I assure her, "It's just that I have some company upstairs at the moment." My voice sounds level, but I know it must be suspicious. "You are welcome to join us if you like," I say, willing her to say no with every fiber of my being.

Luckily, she declines. I nod solemnly and tread upstairs, hoping she does not eavesdrop. Katherine is waiting, her hands folded and face neutral. I sit down again and resume the conversation from earlier.

“I am aware. Explain the conditions of the new contract.”

“As always, I expect a liberty from each live and on each item of merchandise sold for my part in procuring concert venues and helping to advertise for your live performances. There are certain…. personal obligations… that must be met, as well. Under this contract, I will decide on your hairdresser, your costumes, and I will manage your finances throughout the tour.” She pauses. “And there is a certain degree of protocol you must follow in order to keep from incurring penalties on your profits.”

“Give me an example of this protocol and ‘personal obligation’.”

“If I were to suffer personal distress from working with you, well it might reflect poorly on you, Satoru,” she says with a smile.

“Unfortunate,” I agree, sipping the rest of my tea. “However, I do not believe that will be a problem, as I have already found several competent managers. Perhaps I will review it soon, but as of now, I have no desire to make a decision regarding your contract.”

“That is unfortunate. If anyone were to find out about an affair… that may also ruin your reputation. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

I set the cup on the kotatsu and hold her gaze, feeling a trickle of hatred coursing through me. I cannot bring myself to speak because it is so strong a loathing. She reaches into her briefcase and slides a document and pen onto the table, the text facing me.

“Sign here and here after reading the contract,” she says, her voice carrying more than a hint of triumph. “Please mail it to me before January first.” She gathers her things, winding that long, rope-colored scarf around her neck. I stare at it for a moment, willing it to become a rope, but it does not. “Good day, Satoru.”