large white towel. She sits on the edge of the bed and calls her sister, but there’s no answer, so she leaves a message. There’s been a bit of a mix-up, she says. Give me a call. Then hangs up, double-quick. Thinks, Well, that should put a little heat under her.
She unpacks and has a little tour of the room, checking out all the furniture and fittings. Everything really is quite old. She goes over to the door, quietly opens it and looks up and down the corridor. Creeps over to the bathroom. Has another glance at the massive bath and ancient lavatory. Then goes tiptoeing down the corridor, to the next door along.
All the time she tells herself, If someone suddenly appears I’ll just pretend I was looking for the bathroom. I’m Japanese. I haven’t a clue.
She stops by the door – and listens. Has another look back down the corridor. Then leans forward and puts her eye right up to the keyhole.
She can see the bed, and a set of drawers beyond it, but not much more. Maybe the window is further round to the right. And yet there’s something about the light. The quality of the light in there feels much warmer. Is that possible? That the light in one room can be that much warmer than the one next door?
She gets to her feet and wraps her palm around the handle. So sorry, she says to herself. I thought this was the bathroom. Turns the handle … so, so slowly … all the way … and pushes. Is almost relieved to find the door is locked. Then half-convinces herself there really is some noise, off down the stairs. Someone coming. And scurries back to the safety of her own room.
She climbs under the duvet, to warm herself up, but within a minute she’s thinking, This isn’t working. My temperature’s dropped below some critical point. So she kicks back the sheets, picks out some dry clothes and heads to the bathroom.
She sits on the lavatory seat, watching the water come chug, chug, chugging into the worn enamel. I should take some pics, she thinks. Of the linoleum, all creased and cracked in the corner. The pipes under the sink, rusty at the junctions. The timber rotting beneath the paint in the window frame.
She checks the lock before undoing her towel, jams her trainers under the door for extra security and steps into the bath. The water must be half a metre deep. She thinks, Perhaps the English don’t actually use so much water? But if not, why have such super-deep baths?
She sits with the water up around her ribs for a moment. Then takes a breath, lies back and lets all that hot, hot water come rolling over her shoulders. And she is gone.
The last few years when Yuki lies back in the bath she always thinks of her mother. Her aching-deep, motherly love. Maybe it goes right back to her mother bathing her, when she was a baby. Maybe it’s the same with everyone. When she was nine or ten Yuki would let the weight of her body drag her right down until she was flat out and her head went under, and she could feel her hair gently floating all around. Then she would count – to thirty … forty … fifty. To see how long she could stay down there. The trick, she worked out, is to try and relax – especially around the shoulders. To try and keep at bay the quite reasonable fear that you’ve just taken your very last breath. You tell yourself, Just try and stick it out for another few seconds. And you let a few bubbles of air out through your mouth. Then again, Just another second or two. Until it really is too, too much, you feel you’re about to burst or pass out and know that you absolutely must get some air back inside you, before the blackness moves on in. And you come up in a great burst of water. Panting, frantic. But, at the same time, exhilarated and feeling very good indeed.
Yukiko still occasionally does a little bathtime breath-holding. Enjoys that underwater feeling – of being both distant and ever so close. She’s a great admirer of the Japanese freedivers Ryuzo Shinomiya and Shun Oshima.Men who can
She unpacks and has a little tour of the room, checking out all the furniture and fittings. Everything really is quite old. She goes over to the door, quietly opens it and looks up and down the corridor. Creeps over to the bathroom. Has another glance at the massive bath and ancient lavatory. Then goes tiptoeing down the corridor, to the next door along.
All the time she tells herself, If someone suddenly appears I’ll just pretend I was looking for the bathroom. I’m Japanese. I haven’t a clue.
She stops by the door – and listens. Has another look back down the corridor. Then leans forward and puts her eye right up to the keyhole.
She can see the bed, and a set of drawers beyond it, but not much more. Maybe the window is further round to the right. And yet there’s something about the light. The quality of the light in there feels much warmer. Is that possible? That the light in one room can be that much warmer than the one next door?
She gets to her feet and wraps her palm around the handle. So sorry, she says to herself. I thought this was the bathroom. Turns the handle … so, so slowly … all the way … and pushes. Is almost relieved to find the door is locked. Then half-convinces herself there really is some noise, off down the stairs. Someone coming. And scurries back to the safety of her own room.
She climbs under the duvet, to warm herself up, but within a minute she’s thinking, This isn’t working. My temperature’s dropped below some critical point. So she kicks back the sheets, picks out some dry clothes and heads to the bathroom.
She sits on the lavatory seat, watching the water come chug, chug, chugging into the worn enamel. I should take some pics, she thinks. Of the linoleum, all creased and cracked in the corner. The pipes under the sink, rusty at the junctions. The timber rotting beneath the paint in the window frame.
She checks the lock before undoing her towel, jams her trainers under the door for extra security and steps into the bath. The water must be half a metre deep. She thinks, Perhaps the English don’t actually use so much water? But if not, why have such super-deep baths?
She sits with the water up around her ribs for a moment. Then takes a breath, lies back and lets all that hot, hot water come rolling over her shoulders. And she is gone.
The last few years when Yuki lies back in the bath she always thinks of her mother. Her aching-deep, motherly love. Maybe it goes right back to her mother bathing her, when she was a baby. Maybe it’s the same with everyone. When she was nine or ten Yuki would let the weight of her body drag her right down until she was flat out and her head went under, and she could feel her hair gently floating all around. Then she would count – to thirty … forty … fifty. To see how long she could stay down there. The trick, she worked out, is to try and relax – especially around the shoulders. To try and keep at bay the quite reasonable fear that you’ve just taken your very last breath. You tell yourself, Just try and stick it out for another few seconds. And you let a few bubbles of air out through your mouth. Then again, Just another second or two. Until it really is too, too much, you feel you’re about to burst or pass out and know that you absolutely must get some air back inside you, before the blackness moves on in. And you come up in a great burst of water. Panting, frantic. But, at the same time, exhilarated and feeling very good indeed.
Yukiko still occasionally does a little bathtime breath-holding. Enjoys that underwater feeling – of being both distant and ever so close. She’s a great admirer of the Japanese freedivers Ryuzo Shinomiya and Shun Oshima.Men who can
Similar Books
