Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [64]
I pushed the door open with my shoulder and squeezed in. A pleasant, lingering warmth tickled my nose, and despite myself I sneezed. It was not the heat alone but also the peculiar air, in which sizing and new dyestuffs mingled with perfume and steam from the hot iron in the basting room at the back of the shop. On the left were display shelves for samples of goods, pattern books, and orders already made up. Besides that, there were glass cases for buttons, little pieces of fur, and costume jewelry. On the right a round table, its artificial marble top supported by slender metal legs, stood between two ivory-colored chairs; and there was a sofa. The walls and the ceiling were covered with the same material as the curtain that cut off the basting room—a gay yet tasteful rough-woven material on which dark-brown flowers lay scattered over a light-yellow background, and the balance was cleverly maintained by the simplicity of the lighting, which followed the walls of the room in the form of an extended glass rod.
My wife had placed both hands on the sides of the armchair, her back to the curtain of the basting room, and she looked up at me with a droll smile on her face. It was at times like this that I envied men who wore glasses. Glasses get foggy and you could take up time cleaning and fussing with them. Having none, I proceeded, expressionless and in silence, to seat myself on the end of the sofa nearest the door. A spring groaned; suddenly, before I knew it, I had sunk into the sofa.
“The springs are broken. I’ll have to send it out to be repaired,” said my wife, laughing. She seated herself in the armchair and crossed her legs. Her knees peeping out from under her short skirt seemed even better than when I had last seen them. Sensing my look, my wife tapped her legs as if she were slapping a mosquito. She spoke quickly with a velvety smoothness: “Skirts are getting shorter and shorter. It’s really a help. When the price of material goes down, you can’t raise the sewing charge. People have to get new clothes every time they go up or down very much.”
“Don’t they say that when skirts go up there’s going to be a war?”
“Yes, and they say cycles exist for everything.”
“Apparently, it would seem.”
“What brings you here today?”
“I have a little something to ask you. Is it all right … now?”
The curtain behind her parted and a young assistant appeared—“Hello. Shall I bring some ordinary tea … or would you prefer coffee?” She was not exceptionally pretty, but her face was attractive and innocent. My wife generally wore plain, unobtrusive clothes herself, since anything would suit her small-boned frame, but for the girl she made daringly modern ones. She reckoned on the psychological effect they would have on the customers. If the woman owner of a dressmaking establishment dressed too flashily she would be resisted by her clients. Yet something overly plain would have the effect of lowering confidence in her technique and sensitivity—neither was good. The two of them together were definitely effective. However, the girl kept staring intently at me over my wife’s shoulder, revealing only her face. Her open, innocent gaze was like that of a small bird waiting for a whistle. Since I was her employer’s husband she could get along without being defensive. But I was the separated husband, and so her curiosity was aroused and there was no need to be particularly formal in her mistress’s presence. I had the impression that the part of the girl’s body hidden by the curtain was stark naked. But this coquetry was not at all the type meant for me as a man. Indeed, the first time my wife had brought the girl home with her, I had some question whether my wife didn’t have lesbian tendencies. In all likelihood the girl looked at tables and walls with the same sultry gaze.
“Is what you have to talk about complicated?”
“It depends on how you look