Women of Straw

I always hate it when Mamika san smokes in bed. She just sits there so languid and impassive, a cigarette smoked to the filter, dangling between her cherry-colored lips, the ashes littering the top folds of a golden bedspread laced with designs of peach boys and Karakuri puppets. Each night, she performs the same ritual--counting her thick wads of cash. She reminds me of a spoiled empress waiting to be served tea.As I sit on the bare floor across from her, I stare at her beautiful kimono, heaped pell-mell on the floor. It makes me sad.

It makes me sad whenever I think of how lovely Mamika san once was a child, lovelier than a Hina doll. In fact, that is where we first met, at the doll festival or the Momo no Sekku. She had hair smoother than honey and her eyes were perfect as marbles. Her skin was the color of willow-wood.

That was when Mamika san cared about me and my sister, Mayako. In the cold, she would wrap me in a warm, thick blanket, pretending I was her child. How things changed. I wish we never left the snow country of Honshu for the bustling streets, the smog-dense air of Sapporo.

But Mamika san screamed at her parents that she wished to be free, that she would make it on her own. In a rage, she killed my sister, flung her across the room and pulled off her arms and legs until she resembled a Kokeshi doll, just that large head, eyes staring out over a small cylindrical body. I could never forget the way her eyes stared at me. I could never forget her last words to me, “aishite'ru yo"--I love you. But there was little I could do. Mamika san never replaced my batteries.

Then, Mamika san packed her clothes and kidnapped me. I can never forgive her for killing my sister. Just like I can never forgive her for selling her body to the strange men that enter our apartment every day. And even though I still love Mamika san, the way a daughter still loves a deranged mother, I hate her too.

I do not know how a precious child can turn to a woman of straw. What I do know is that a woman of straw can burn very easily. I wish Mamika san would stop smoking in bed.

Today, a regular customer, Mr. Hayashi, a businessman with kind eyes and always dressed impeccably, picks me up and says to Mamika san that his daughter would love a doll like me. “Does she talk?” he asks.

“She does,“ says Mamika san, “but I haven’t replaced her batteries in years.”

I don’t think it is right for her to give me away so freely. After all, I’ve always been a loyal doll. They say that sometimes a doll acquires the sins of its owner. If that is true, I am cursed forever with the fact of not being loved.

The next day, Mama san greets Mr. Hayashi, who then opens my back and slips in two batteries, size A. Slowly, I rise, begin to walk towards him, and say “kon'ya a, taiyô ga noboru.”--the sun rises at night.

Mamika san’s eyes widen.

Mr. Hayashi scratches his face and says this is a very strange thing for a doll to say. Mamika san tells him that it’s an old saying from the snow country, a promise of revenge. She tells him that maybe I didn’t say that.

“Say it again, stupid doll.”

I stretch out my arms, fix my gaze upon Mr. Hayashi and say “Take me home.”

He smiles and says again that his little daughter will adore me.

Standing in a corner of Mamika san’s cramped bedroom, I watch as the two of them make love, listen to her faked cries of ecstasy. Then, silence. Mr. Hayashi rolls over, heads to the bathroom to shower and freshen up before bringing me home.

Mamika san lights up a cigarette, sometimes eyeing me suspiciously. “What did you say, stupid doll?”

I say nothing.

She turns, pulls the covers over her, and naps. I listen to the spray of water from the bathroom, its hisses and wheezes.

Slowly, I walk forward, climb upon Mamika san’s rumpled bed, making sure I do not disturb her nap. I reach for her matchbook and light a stick. And since I am made partly of wood, and like my mistress, partly of straw, I set myself on fire, burning so easily, the flames spreading to the bed, to Mamika san who is still sleeping.

The sun rises tonight are my last words. Now this is for what you did to my beautiful sister, Mamika san. Never will we be like mother and child. Never again will we see the flakes of snow dousing the hills of Honshu. And never again, will you ever smoke in bed.