Encounter at the Shonan
Written by Dennis Marshall

(4,590 words)

Your everlastin' summer, you can see it fadin' fast,
So you grab a piece of somethin' that you think is gonna last
Well, you wouldn't even know a diamond if you held it in your hand
The things you think are precious I can't understand

Reelin’ in the Years - steely dan

The train was fast - asleek people carrier. I stared out the window watching the nightstreak by in a blaze of psychedelic lights as we approached Hayama Station. I felt good. I had enjoyed six sets of fast-paced handballat a small Kinugasa gym with Sato-san this evening. After the sparring, we rinsed off in ice cold water, two women attendants cleanse dour flushed bodies with giant soap filled sponges. Then we stepped into a 105 degree bath with the attendants bringing us iced Kerinbeers. Sato-san and I just soaked and sucked up the beer… silently. As usual, I could only handle about ten minutes of the heat, getting outbefore my cardiovascular system collapsed. I welcomed the tablecovered in soft terry cloth and the strong professional hands of Sumi-san, my favorite masseuse, her scented oils and liniments. Sato-san would be right behind me, and then he would go home to his wife and family.

The gym was a short walk from my house and studio. I no longer felt a stranger in the small Japanese of Kinugasa between Yokosuka andTokyo. As a gaijin, I knew I would never be completely accepted by the Japanese as one them, but I had become accepted as a resident. Especially after Sato-san had asked me to study and painting his own studio. Sato-san was admired and successful, his family had lived here for generations. He had finally opened the door for me and I gladly stepped through it. That was three years ago.

***

The train station was crowded even at a late hour. It was amazing - Hayama was a beach town and the station was not even on the main line, but it was still a sea ofh umanity, coming and going like the tides of Sagami-wan Bay. Thenight was cool and comfortable and I was glad I had slipped on a casual sport coat over a Polo shirt with khaki pants. Most of the men on thestreet were still in suit and tie… edicts of their company no doubt.

I was a frequent visitor to Hayama and its narrow main street that paralleled the bay. I really loved the quaintness, the colorful neonsigns vying for attention… all in Kanji of course. The village boosted a small marina with pleasure and work boats nearly equal. Most of the shops displayed their wares in windows and outside. Restaurants had imitation plates of food that looked so real you could almost taste the flavors and smell the scents. It was a Saturday night and the street was packed with strollers, old and young. The gayety was infectious, everyone polite, smiling and casually laughing, the women hiding their smiles with a covered hand. The dress was still predominately kimono for many of the women, but western clothes were more and more popular, especially among the younger girls. They looked good too, in mini skirts and tank tops - thirty years of diet and good medication had put inches and curves on the newer generation of Japanese men and women.

I stopped at a ramen shop for a bowl of spicy noodles. It was just a little shotgun room not ten feet wide, all plastic and Formica, but mostof the stools were full of people slurping and pushing noodles into their mouths with wood chopsticks. I found an empty stool and waited for the counterman to set a steaming bowl of noodles in front of me. I finished the bowl in minutes, dropped some yen on the counter and stepped back into the pulsing street. I was ready for what I came for… quality jazz.

The Shonan Beach Jazz Club was one of those rare treats jazz lovers discover only a few times in a lifetime. I had been lucky. I became a teen in Southern California in the mid-fifties. West Coast jazz had come into its own - it had become a trendsetter. Guys like Gerry Mulligan, ChetBaker, Stan Getz, Cal Tjader, and dozens more were playing up and downthe coast in towns like Laguna, Sunset, Hermosa, Balboa, Malibu and of course San Francisco's North Beach. The radio was full of this new 'Progressive Jazz'. Sleepy Stein's jazz club in Long Beach broadcast live and so did The Green Door and Rendezvous. Howard Rumsey's Lighthouse was a Mecca. When I was nineteen, I was in New York City and got inside Charley 'Bird' Parker's Birdland before the doors were closed for the last time. I wandered down to Greenwich Village and stopped in some nameless club where a young woman with a golden voice enchanted her audience… she cut her first album later that year, called My Name is Barbra.

Soothing sounds of a quartet led by a mellow saxophone drifted from the club as I opened the thick wood door to the Shonan. I smiled, appreciating the heavystrength of the solid mahogany. The Japanese understood and covetedwood - wood was a blessing from the spirits.

Tasaki-san was just inside at the reception desk. He, as always, was dressed in a dark suit, dark shirt and tie - he looked more like a gangster than the club's manager. He recognized me immediately, bowing more than a slight bow as I approached him.

"Konbanwa, Scott-san. I am most happy to see you."Tasaki-san extended his hand with a warm smile.

I returned the bow and took his hand with a moderate test of strength -the Japanese do not pump hands as a challenge. "Tasaki-san, my friend… I am pleased to see you too. The club's not crowdedtonight." I was glancing around the dark, cavernous room - the lighting subtle and blue.

"It is still early, Scott-san."

I glanced at my watch…ten thirty-five. I gave Tasaki-san a nod and made my way to the bar. The quartet was doing a little bluesy piece -jazz blues, Chicago style. The Shonan had been a fixture on the beach for the past ten years and was well worn and comfortable. Darkwood paneling covered the walls, with a low ceiling painted black with dozens of recessed small blue lights that kept the main room subdued.The bar was heavy and fitted with dark red leather edging. Amber lightpanels bathed it in a glow. The low stage was lighted with soft spots. The club was carpeted in dark maroon, except for a small dance floor.
I found a soft leather high-backed stool near the end of the bar closest to the stage and took a moment to peruse the room. I recognized several people, and a couple waiters. But what really caught my attention was a lady sitting alone at one of the tables. It took about a New York second to see that she was a real class act --thirties, smart dark suit, crème silk blouse, moderate heels, and satin black hair. The lighting was too dark to be sure, but I took her as amix of Japanese and what I would guess to be African-American -Black. It didn't matter what her blood line was, she was stunning and I knew I was staring through the dusky light. I had the feeling she knew I was staring.

Johnnie Tanaka set rum and coke in a thick Manhattan glass in front of me. One good thing about being a gaijin -- everyone noticed you when you came in the place. Johnnie had been behind the bar for years and I had met him the first time I came in. "Thanks Johnnie." I said as I picked up the glass. Then I pointed to the quartet, "This new group sounds damn good - different style. What do you think?"

Johnnie nodded his head, a half bow. "They have been playing the clubs in Shinjyuku for a couple of years." Johnnie's English was nearly perfect but he still had that mincing delivery.

"Honto? I never saw them before." I pointed at my drink… "Tab me Johnnie."

"You got it Scott-san."

Johnnie was moving off when I called him back. "Who's the lady?" I indicated with a glance.

"Never saw her before - she daughter of blackman. Have lot of problem here in Japan." Johnnie went to take care of another customer. I knew what he was saying. The Japanese still do not take the mixing of the races lightly.

I may have acted a bit impulsively, but I picked up my drink and slowly made my way to the woman's table. She appeared to be totally absorbed in the music. Still, I sensed she was aware of my presence."Gomen'nasai…do you speak English?" I asked softly.

She turned her head, raising her dark eyes to study me - seconds passed, long ones. "Yes… of course. Possibly better than you. Hai?" I saw a tiny smile, maybe a mischievous grin on her full lips. God, this woman was beautiful.

"Are you expecting someone?"

Unblinking, she looked and made eye contact - another long moment passed. "No, I am quite alone… you may join me."

I slipped into the chair next to her. "I am Scott Martin, and I live in Kinugasa, not far from here."

"Hello Scott-san. I am Shamiko Shimimoto, which is a name of my mother's ancestors."

"Shamiko-san… a beautiful name which fits well with a beautiful woman."

The quartet ended their piece and began a rendition of the Beatle's Norwegian Wood, a haunting melody. "I have never seen you here before. Do you like jazz?"

"I was raised with American jazz." Shamiko took a sip of her drink.

I forced myself to relax. I did not want to seem anxious. Shamiko had consented to me joining her, but she wasn't about to recite her life's story. I leaned back, took a long swallow of my drink and let the music take control.

The set was nearly over. I signaled a waiter and held up two fingers - he hurried off to the bar.

"Thank you," she said, a purring sound. I thought her voice tantalizing and sensual.

"For what?"

Shamiko lifted her glass to her lips and drained it, tinkling the ice remains. "For my new drink, I am ready for another." I felt her shift in her chair, toward me. "So… you live in Kinugasa… and you are a painter. Are you happy living here?" There was that mischievous look again.

She was warming. "Yes… I have a good life and am comfortable… wait…how did you know I paint?"

"Do you think you could live on the Peninsula without people knowing who you are and what you do?" She laughed and tossed her head, her raven hair moving like the mane of an animal. "Of course I know you paint and your work sells very well."

The waiter arrived with the drinks and quickly left. I studied Shamiko's face. Her features were more pronounced than the normal soft and flatter face of most Japanese women. Her eyes were almond shaped with lids that were colored with a sepia tone… I could see the eyes of an Eritrean princess. She had high cheek bones and a strong chin. Her lips were supple, she wore a pale peach lipstick, and her skin was a flawless carmel. The club's blue lights cast intriguing shadows across her face - she was definitely one of a kind.

She watched me while I made my survey, then our eyes met and held. "Do you find me attractive?" But before I could answer, she excused herself, indicating she needed to use the ladies room. I half stood as she left the table. I realized she was tall - maybe five six and her legs were long and straight with good calves. Her skirt was cut close to her buttocks.I felt my loins flex.

I drained my drink and walked quickly up to the bar for a refill. Johnnie saw me coming and began pouring a new one. He squeezed a lemon wedge into the glass and set it front of me. Johnnie was discreet. I picked up my drink and returned to the table. I had afleeting thought that Shamiko would not come back. I scanned the hall leading to the restrooms. At that moment, she came into view - shewalked straight toward me, her hips swinging like a model on a catwalk. She had removed her jacket, carrying it over her arm with her purse. I could see her breasts moving freely under the clinging silk of her blouse. I knew and she knew that every man close by was watching her. My pulse quickened and I wondered what she would be like in bed and just as quickly, I knew I wanted to paint her. I envisioned her nude, kneeling on a small pillow, arranging a vase of chrysanthemums at a black lacquered chow table. Her radiant hair would be swept up, held in place with ivory sticks, she would be wearing a single gold waist chain.

She slid effortlessly onto her chair. She gave me a wink.

"Do you know what I am thinking?" I asked.

Shamiko's eyes flashed and she pouted coyly. "Certainly." She reached for her drink, but stopped. "Would you order me a fresh drink? Oh, I think the music will start again in a moment."

It was infuriating. I wanted to query her on what she thought I was thinking, but I knew I would seem pushy, without patience, a quality all Japanese felt westerners lacked. Why didn't she simply tell me what it was she knew I was thinking? Why was I upset? Breathe easy my man, I commanded to myself. Get back in control. The band startedup with Green Dolphin Street. The club had been filling up and the waiters were busy. I excused myself to go to the bar once more.

When I returned, Shamiko thanked me for her drink, then she said, "Come sit close Scott-san, I have something to tell you."

I did as she asked and felt my thigh make contact with her own. I inhaled her aroma and the distinct scent of her hair. She placed her hand on my shoulder, kneading the flesh softly, her hand working its wayto the back of my neck - methodically.

"I saw you study my face earlier, and just moments ago as I walked to you, you studied my body… I could feel you looking through my clothes. It is simple… you are an artist and you want to paint me, as I knew you would. Still, I am flattered Scott-san. So you see, I am not a witch… I do not have a crystal ball.

I reached out and took her free hand, running my finger tips over the skin. It was light as a feather, soft and slender - hands that had never been abused. " Shamiko… you said that you knew I would want to paint you. You must have had that thought before we met. I am wondering if our meeting was by chance or design?"

She laughed easily. "Well… is it not obvious?"

I felt her hand pull my head toward her own. Our faces were inches away, then she kissed my lips... so delicately, I could hardly feel the contact. I wanted to pull her to me, feel her flesh, but I knew that even in the darkened club, there were many eyes watching us.

Without thinking, I whispered in her ear, "Would you like to see my studio… and my house?" Then I thought, Jesus… what if she says no? But this was not to be… I heard her voice, sweet and sexy at the samemoment.

"We can go now, if you like, Scott-san."

Tasaki-san called a taxi. Shamiko and I were mostly reflective for the twenty-minute ride, although she did sit close and rest her head on my shoulder. I felt myself alternately thicken and soften as I considered what I imagined to come. There was a slight mist, wetting the roadways and other surfaces, the lights of cars and homes reflecting and shimmering. The night seemed ghostly. I gave the driver my practiced directions; he then remained mute.

My house was typical Japanese. Wood construction, mostly cedar and pine. A large ginkong at the entrance for removing and storing shoes. Then a step-up to tatami floor mats throughout the house,except for the kitchen and bath. Many of the rooms could be opened upor closed down with the use of sliding wood frame screens covered in rice paper. My studio was actually a large covered porch overlooking a wonderful fenced backyard rock garden, with carefully tended potted plants and a small pond. It was quiet and spiritually comforting.The house itself sat behind several others than faced a narrow road. I had to walk a short path to my doorstep, which was lighted at night with lights hidden in rocks and crevices.

I paid the driver and took Shamiko by the hand, leading her slowly along the dim path. As we entered the house, I switched on a table lamp in the ginkong. The house was simple and spartan. I had several low and medium tables with floral arrangements. A large mahogany chow table surrounded by oversized cushions occupied the main room with an elaborate Hi-fi system along one wall. My collection of swords and early eighteen-century calligraphy and Kabuki masks covered the other wall. A full shoji screen closed off the sleeping room where a thick quilted futon lay in the center. Two low tables stood along either side with a long table at the head of the futon. One wall was a large closet. I had a small radio, a clock and a flat porcelain bowl that I kept my pocket things in.

In one other room, I had a carved desk, cabinets, bookshelves and a western style easy chair and reading lamp. The kitchen was small and efficient with a tiny two-chair table where I sometimes had my breakfast and coffee. There was another chow table and cushions at the end of the porch, and I had strung a woven hammock as well.

Shamiko was very impressed with the house. "It is perfect, as I only imagined, Scott-san. Please, now I must excuse myself. May I use your bathroom?" Her voice was pliant and lyrical… promising, I thought.

"Yes… let me show you the way." I opened the screen leading to my sleeping room. I could see Shamiko take in the thick futon as I pointed to the bath area. The bathroom was simple of design. The toilet was seperated from the deep tub and shower which opened to the garden. A sliding exterior door could be moved into place during the winter months. "Don't be long," I said, immediately feeling like a schoolboy.

She turned to look at me. "Patience, Scott-san. Good things come to those who know patience." She shamed me with her finger, teasingly.

Patience, she had suggested. I had learned that time for Japanese was not the issue it was for most foreigners. Historically, Asians look back at centuries and knew that all things must be considered thoroughly. I had seen the Oji-san, who tended the garden, watch a flower for what seemed like hours. He would spend an entire day arranging the gravel just so, and snip tenaciously at a bonsai. I then would look to see what he had done and see nothing. He would say that I had not yet learned to see.

I went to the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator, taking out a bottle of Chardonnay and a fresh pear. I cut the pear into four slices,removing the core, then placed them on a polished lacquer plate. I poured two small glasses of the wine. I took the wine and pear pieces to the living room and set them on the table. I turned on the Hi-fi, starting a tape of The lonious Monk cut at The Village Gate, and set the volume low. I removed my coat, sat down and waited… patiently.

I looked up as the screen door slid open. Shamiko stepped through, leaving the screen adjar to the sleeping room. She had found one of my knee length silk robes. It was the color of green sea glass and hungloosely over her body. She had belted it, but the folds finished below her breasts… I could see the naked skin between them. I knew her tobe nude beneath the robe.

"Oh… treats, how wonderful." She sounded delighted. She sat down,snuggling next to me, picking up a slice of pear and offering me a bite. Then she took the rest of the slice and slipped it into her mouth, making a humming sound as she chewed. "Perfect," she declared, then sipped her wine.

"It's my turn," I said. "I'll be back soon."

"I am well cared for…" Shamiko indicated the wine and pear slices. "You are most thoughtful, Scott-san. She rewarded me with a bright smile and a shake of her black mane. Her whole body moved fluidly beneath the silk.

I used the toilet and stepped into the shower to rinse, the hot water refreshing. As I toweled off, I could hear The lonious squeezing prolonged, sweet bars from his keyboard. I slipped on a robe, stepping from the bath. I was just beginning to pull up the tie when Shamiko spoke. "There is no need."

The room was dark except for an amber light that struggled to penetrate the rice paper of the shoji screen. Shamiko was on the futon, her lowerbody under a thick quilt. She was sitting up against a large pillow. Her torso was slim and firm, her breasts full and slightly heavy,especially for a Japanese woman. She was cast in deep shadows accentuating her features and bone structure. She was absolutely still and seemed to be carved from some exotic wood. Then she pulled the quilt aside, exposing her naked thigh. I shrugged from the robe and my erection was instantaneous.

Shamiko laughed again. "I wonder Scott-san… will you have patience now?"

I am at my best in the late morning to early afternoon. The sun is high and filters its yellow rays through the leaves and branches of the ancient citrus and cherry trees that guard my yard.

I rose early, prepared a canvas, set out, and arranged my paints, brushes and knives in anticipation of what I hoped would come topass. I expected that Shamiko would be hungry, and I then prepared a breakfast of poached eggs, toast and jam. I had already brewed coffee, transferring it to a thermos.

Shamiko padded barefoot up behind me, pressing her chest to my back. I drank in her presence. "Good morning," I said.

"Ohayogosaimasu," she whispered into my neck. Her voice sounded like honey dripping from a sliver spoon.

I turned to embrace her. Her robe fell open and I pulled my own free, pulling her close. I began to harden. Shamiko pushed away, and laughed. "You are learning patience Scott, but now you must not be greedy. Come, let's enjoy your breakfast… it smells wonderful."

We sat at the small table with three pink carnations in a bamboo vase. The weather had turned warm and the sky was clear and milky blue. I poured coffee and served Shamiko her food. She ate with an appetite and I was pleased. We chatted casually about our pasts… I learned that Shamiko held a degree in business from the University in Tokyo. After breakfast I could wait no longer and asked if she was willing to pose for me. She smiled gaily and said, "That is why I am here, Scott-san. Now, give me a moment to prepare myself."

I tidied the kitchen and took a glass of fresh orange juice to my porch studio. I pulled on a pair of shorts and shirt, busying myself with preparations. I found myself thinking back to other woman I had brought to this house, made love to and painted their portraits. Instinctively, I knew this woman was unlike the rest. I had never been good at long-term relationships, but something inside me was making me realize a loneliness that I had not been overtly aware of.

Shamiko walked out onto the porch. She was nude. Her body was both voluptuous and fragile. She was exquisite, a wonder to see and to paint, but there was more to Shamiko; there was an intellect and asagacity just below the surface of her mind. She was a woman of strength and assurance. I kissed her cheek, then asked her to sit on a cushioned straight-back chair I used for portraits, and for nearly an hour I made feverish sketches, until I had her look at my command. I let my eyes roam her body, the curves and angles, the softness and imprint of bone… I could be with this woman I told myself. I put down my paper and pencils and went to her. This time I would not be denied. She was as hungry for me as I for her.

I began the painting at mid-day. I had decided on oils… they were so much more forgiving and I wanted the painting to be perfect. She knelt at the chow table as I had imagined, arranging imaginary flowers. We took frequent breaks and talked, learning more about each other. I worked for four hours that first day.

A week passed. We were comfortable with our four-hour schedule. I had gone out and picked up some clothes and toiletries for Shamiko, and she was content to live at the house. She would walk to the local market during the late afternoon and we would cook dinner, make love and sleep.

I lost track of time until the painting was complete. It was one of the best I had ever done… it was if I had been truly inspired. I put down my tools and stood back. I looked up at Shamiko… dark shadow shade invaded the light. “I am finished,” I said quietly. Shamiko nodded and came to my side. She stood still for several minutes... I could hear her breathing rhythmically. Finally, she spoke. "It is as if I am alive on the canvas… I shall never die."

I was incredibly happy and sad as well. "I could paint you a hundred times." I cried out. "Stay with me forever, Shamiko. Become my wife." I took her into my arms.

Shamiko looked up at my face… what? Something in her face. A frown… only for a second. "Do you love me Scott?"

What was she saying… do you love me? The concept raced through my mind and psyche. A moment passed. "Yes, Shamiko. I do love you.I love everything about you. Do you believe me?”

She smiled, but it was a melancholy smile. She took me by the hand and led me to our bed. The afternoon sun had gone behind a line of purple clouds over Sagami-wan. The room had turned murky with deep shadows, and was strangely cool. We undressed and slipped beneath the warming quilt, clinging to each other; our bodies melding and becoming one as I entered her. I pushed deep. It was if I wanted to find my way inside of her whole body. She raised her legs and opened herself to receive me. When I could not penetrate her body any further, I grasped her as tight as I could, kissing her mouth, trying to find another way into her most inner sanctum. Now I began to thrust… slowly at first, then faster and faster. I wanted to conquer her; I wanted her to feel my power... my mind was whirling... I lost my thoughts and could only concentrate on pouring my soul into hers…

I became aware of a feeble gray light seeping into the room. I felt cold and pulled the quilt close to my body… I reached for Shamiko's warm flesh. I slowly became conscious that I was in the bed alone. She must be making coffee… I returned to my slumber.

I awoke fully. The futon was still empty of Shamiko. The house was strangely still… the only sound was of birds greeting the morning. My guts tightened. Something was terribly wrong.

Suddenly, I knew. On the low table beside the futon were the clothes I had bought, carefully folded. The door to the closet was slightly ajar… her clothes she had worn that first night were gone.

I wandered from room to room, like a zombie, looking for something…someone… Shamiko. Silent tears streamed down my face… cold on my skin. At last I came to the porch and the painting draped with a white sheet. I pulled back the cloth. There she was… beautiful… alive and smiling… tossing her radiant hair… laughing.

It was then that I found the note…

Scott-san…

Our passion was like a single blossom in a field of snow
A bud that bloomed to a precious flower
So fragile and short of life
I must leave before the first petal withers
While our love is still perfect…

Shamiko