HOT WATER

After it happened, neither Margret nor Tamie could agree on which one of them deserved most of the credit. Tamie was the one with a trick-spot, it was true, a place on her back that she couldn’t bear to have touched. She also had a piercing scream that was, Margret claimed, a lethal weapon in its own right. A voice like that was wasted on a nurse, Margret maintained. She herself was a high school teacher and had often felt that an ear-piercing voice would be a great advantage.  But then it wasn’t Tamie who kept forgetting that you didn’t leave your soap on the floor next to the bathtub where someone could slip on it – not in Japan, anyway. The fact that the bathtub was built of stone and the water in it was scalding-hot – well, that had a lot to do with it too. One thing was for sure:  they were damn lucky. That they both agreed on.  

It had all started just after they’d boarded the bus that was to take them to their hotel. They’d been in high spirits: their first holiday together in ages! Finally they were out of Tokyo, away from their respective jobs, the rush-hour trains, all the big-city bustle and nonsense of Tokyo. Who cared if they didn’t see a decent coffee shop for another two weeks? They were free, together, and out of Tokyo. Being away from Tamie’s family and their relentless (and futile) match-making plans didn’t hurt either.

Sitting together as the bus twisted and turned along the winding mountain road past tiny shrines and rustic little temples, it was hard to imagine that anything could go wrong.

Five minutes into their journey, however, the bus lurched to a stop and a small group of people got on, including the problem. The problem was small – after a fashion – but infinitely pesky. He was short, he had a potbelly and a punch perm and – worse luck – he had a side-kick who looked even meaner and uglier.

‘Yakuza,’ murmured Tamie, her voice barely a whisper. ‘Be cool, but don’t be nasty. These guys are probably chimpira – just small fry – but they’re trouble.’

Yakuza were a pain in the butt.  If you were rude to them, you took a risk: yakuza were easy to offend, notorious for the oversized chips on their shoulders.  If you were nice to them, though, they stuck to you like ugly on a walrus.

Margret was young and naïve. She tended to be nice to everybody, so she was especially vulnerable. She also happened to be drop-dead beautiful with a figure that had to be a source of endless torment for most of the high school boys she taught English to, so she was pretty much a magnet for assholes.

And Margret had definitely attracted the yakuza’s attention: he was staring at her with barely-concealed lust. His friend had turned his dull-witted but equally lecherous eyes their way too. Damn!

 ‘Let’s pretend we can’t speak English. Let’s speak German,’ whispered Tamie just before the two yakuza installed themselves in the seats opposite theirs and began to make the inevitable overtures. Unfortunately, only Margret really spoke German – the odd greeting and a few clumsily-constructed sentences were all Tamie could manage so far – but the yakuza weren’t going to know that, were they?

It didn’t work. ‘No English?’ queried Margret’s lech. No problem. ‘Ich liebe dich,’ he offered, obviously proud of his international communication skills. He’d tried English first (You are very beautiful and What is your name?) His less verbal companion tried a more direct approach. He opened his girlie magazine to a favorite page and held it open for them to see. Two women engaged in pleasantries with each other, obviously for the delectation of a male audience. Oh, these guys were real charmers.

German peoples, Japanese peoples – good combination, said Margret’s lech next, in a conversational manner. Lose war, but stay friend – good combination. Margret stared straight ahead, a pained look on her face, and Tamie sighed inwardly. She’d heard this one a few times in the two years she and Margret had been together. Pretty soon this asshole would say Heil Hitler – it was just a matter of time.

Heil Hitler, said the asshole, looking at Margret meaningfully. Tamie could feel her lover’s body stiffen. Damn! How far away was their hotel, anyway? She squeezed Margret’s hand. Not far now, she reassured her. The lech leaned forward in his seat, his eyes all over Margret. German women – very nice, he said approvingly. Japanese women – he held his hands out palms parallel and moved them up and down. No blest, he sneered.  Tamie burned with rage. Here’s a fellow with a pot belly, 5’4” in his elevator shoes, tops. And he dares to criticize women’s bodies?

To their dismay, the yakuza got off the bus at their hotel. We’ll book another place tomorrow, Tamie assured Margret. Too bad, really. The hotel was everything they’d been promised: quaint and old-fashioned, but flawlessly clean.

The communal bathrooms were even nicer than the guidebook had described them. There was an outside hot spring, women’s and men’s sides separated by a bamboo screen. You could immerse yourself in hot water and gaze up at the stars, breathe in the fresh piney air.

The indoor communal bathroom was just as spectacular:  pale bamboo floors in the dressing room, wall-to-wall mirrors and complimentary toiletries. The bath itself was huge, a shining stretch of piping-hot mineral water that gushed into the overflowing stone tub from a marble dragon surrounded by ferns. There was a good view of the outside bath through one-way glass windows, too. With lecherous characters like those yakuza around, that one-way glass was particularly reassuring.

Fortunately, the yakuza disappeared shortly after they booked in. Tamie and Margret took a leisurely walk around the town. When they got back to the hotel, they had a quick bath to freshen up, then retired to their room. This is heavenly, sighed Margret, snuggling up to Tamie. She suddenly sat up, biting her lip. Is the door locked? she asked. Of course, Tamie reassured her. Think I’d take any chances when Monkey-face and his buddy could be in the next room for all we know?

Dinner was served in their room. Tempura, lightly fried to perfection, thinly sliced raw fish with horseradish and local pickles, tiny seafood stews that cooked in covered iron pots right in front of them, savory egg custards with chicken and herbs, salt-broiled trout, and plenty of beer to wash it all down.

While they ate dinner, the maid came in and put down their futons. This was the beauty of being a lesbian couple: you were basically anonymous – just two ladies travelling on your own. Gay men didn’t have it so easy. Two men sharing a room made a lot of people raise their eyebrows, but two women sharing seldom got the same reaction. Unless you walked into the establishment wrapped around your partner and French-kissed at the check-in desk, you were just two friends on holiday together.

Much later, they went down to the indoor communal bath for a long soak. It was pitch-dark by this time, or they would have used the outside bath instead, but neither of them wanted to take chances with those yakuza around.

Lock the door, Tamie told Margret. No one else’ll be coming down at this hour. Giggling, they undressed and put their clothes in the baskets provided.

The room was dimly lit, the swirling steam creating an atmosphere that was both romantic and mysterious. Condensation clouded the huge plate glass window. Margret stepped into the bath to wipe it off, but cried out; the water was boiling hot. Put in some cold water, advised Tamie.

But Margret couldn’t get the cold tap handle to budge. It’s stuck, she fretted. Tamie sighed and came over to help. You’d think that Margret, who was larger and far more competent-looking than she was, ought to be able to manage, but she was hopeless with things like this. Pickle jars, wine bottles, you name it – she ended up wringing her hands and calling for help every time.

Silly billy! Tamie chided her now, picking her way over to the tap through the swirling steam. And you’ve left your soap on the floor for me to slip on again, too!

Later, they realized the yakuza must have picked the lock. At the time, absorbed in trying to turn on the cold-water tap, with the rushing sound of the hot water filling their ears, they hadn’t heard the noise. And they’d both had their backs to the door, so when the lech grabbed Tamie from behind, it had come as a complete surprise. Problem was, he’d touched her trick-spot.

Not long after they had first gotten together, Margret had learned to steer clear of Tamie’s trick-spot. If you didn’t want a broken eardrum – or worse – you were wise to do so. Everyone in my family knows about this spot! Tamie laughed. Once when we were playing, my little sister touched my spot. I could not help myself – my arm flew back, I broke her nose! I felt very, very bad, but my mother said that it could not be helped, she touched my trick-spot. Very dangerous, my trick-spot!

The yakuza who grabbed Tamie was, for all his puny size, much larger and stronger than her younger sister. But her ear-splitting scream took him by surprise and he let go of her, dropping the syringe he was holding. He also jarred his friend, who had been next to him, causing him to lose his balance. This would not have been a problem if he had spotted the soap on the floor. Unfortunately, he stepped squarely on it and plunged forward straight into the boiling-hot water, whacking his head on the stone side on his way in. 

Tamie wasted no time looking for a weapon. Spotting the syringe on the floor, she grabbed it and, with a nurse’s deft sleight-of-hand, emptied it into the thigh of her attacker.

Ketamine, Tamie told their friends later, a date rape drug. A horse anesthetic! Two good doses he got, too. If he survived, he’s probably still unconscious.

There had been enough in the syringe for both Tamie and Margret, it turned out. The men had obviously come prepared to party. Along with the ketamine, they’d brought a length of rope and a top-of-the-line video camera. 

Such a waste, an expensive camera like that ending up in the bath! lamented Tamie.  Margret nodded. Ja, well, at least we saved the film. You were awfully clever, figuring out how to use it, Tami.

 Tamie shrugged and smiled modestly. I just hope their, ah, colleagues will recognize them on the Internet, she said. With all the mist in that room and the blood pouring out of the one fellow’s nose. Kind of hard to see.  

Margret patted her hand. But their tattoos – their friends will recognize those, she said. Tamie nodded, wrinkling her nose. It hadn’t been too hard pulling the cotton robes off the unconscious yakuza, but it certainly hadn’t been a pleasant experience.

You know, said Margret, those yakuza –  they were right about one thing. Tamie turned to stare at her.

 Margret laughed and put her arms around her. Germans and Japanese, she said, good combination.