About a week after the Communists had been introduced into The White Countess, Mr. Matsuda asked him, “Have you ever thought that there is beauty in imperfection?”

They were sitting together by the dance floor, away from the enclosure of the crowd watching Pepot and Tamara's interpretive performance. Smoke, alcohol, cologne, and sweat surrounded their tiny island of mutual interests and provocative conversation. Although Todd Jackson had taken up the creation of fragile havens as a hobby, there were times when he thought that this one--the table he shared with Mr. Matsuda--was the most secure refuge of all.

As he often did when Matsuda posed an unexpected question to him, Todd let out a snort of laughter. “You mean that with her arms, the Venus of Milo wouldn't be beautiful?”

“Just so.” Matsuda sounded amused, but didn't elaborate on his observation further, leaving Todd to ponder the reasons behind it. Boisterous applause followed Pepot and Tamara off the stage and welcomed Mei Li to the microphone.

“I see your thinking. Give the Venus arms, and she becomes one of many. Yet another statue.” Todd rubbed his thumb along the edge of his glass. “Are you suggesting that if I attain the perfect balance of political tension in my establishment, it will diminish her beauty?”

“I was not thinking of The White Countess, but this is a most interesting question, Mr. Jackson,” Matsuda said in that peculiar way he had of presenting contradiction as agreement.

Mei Li's sweet voice sang of a Cantonese maiden's first love. A couple took the table beside theirs and began a low, intimate conversation in Italian.

Countess Sofia was near. She wore perfumed face powder, a very cheap kind but because she wore it, it was elevated to a sign of luxury in Todd's estimation. Her dress swished softly as she walked behind him. He heard her laugh; her face was turned away.

Beauty in imperfection. Had Matsuda meant Countess Sofia? Her tragedy, her past, her present station in life: to the outer world, these were imperfections. To Todd, these only made her more beautiful. Yes, beauty in imperfection. It was a keen observation after all, he thought, admiring Mr. Matsuda's insight.

Some minutes had passed. He waited for Mei Li to finish her song then he leaned on the table until the faint scent of fine soap and hair oil demarcated Mr. Matsuda's presence. “What you were saying about beauty in imperfection...”

“Mr. Jackson, I regret that we cannot continue this pleasant conversation at this time,” Mr. Matsuda said slowly, the words gliding up and down in his distinctive accent. “My driver has come for me, and I must take my leave. My sincere apologies.”

He sounded genuinely regretful, and Todd appreciated that. He waved Mr. Matsuda off with a cheerful “some other time” and finished off his drink. Around him were bodies swaying and pressing and moving, voices laughing and talking and arguing. He listened for one voice, one body, until Countess Sofia came to the table and sat with him while the band packed up.

-----

A few nights--or perhaps a week--later, he sat with Mr. Matsuda while the band whipped up some jazz worthy of Chicago or New York. The club was crowded, moving, and hot around them. They had both drunk rather a lot, Todd thought. He was well aware of how much he had drunk, and he detected slight slips in Mr. Matsuda's careful speech.

“I've been thinking, Mr. Matsuda. When might we introduce the Kuomintang to my little establishment? The Communists seem quite comfortable, or so I'm told.”

“We have been thinking of the same things, Mr. Jackson,” Matsuda said. “I took the liberty of speaking to a man I know--I hope you will not mind--and I believe we may invite certain men from the Kuomintang very shortly. The atmosphere is almost right. I think--”

What Mr. Matsuda thought was interrupted by a thick hand on Todd's shoulder.

“Sir, Mr. Crane is here,” the doorman said quickly into Todd's ear, then was away. Todd rose and turned and smiled into the space where the doorman's breath had touched him.

“Why, Thomas, it's good to see you.”

“Sir,” Thomas said urgently, some paces to the left of where Todd faced. Todd turned to his voice, felt fine wool, and patted Thomas's arm.

“Sir, the board meeting is tonight. You said you would be there.”

“Oh, now, Thomas, I don't believe I did say that. I'm sure the board meeting can continue without me.”

“But my father particularly wanted your opinion on--”

“Your father's opinion is as sound as mine. And more informed, I dare say. Run along to the board meeting without me. Or why don't you stay here? You never stay at The White Countess, Thomas, and make an evening of it. Well, I suppose you might be too young for these things. But I'd like for you to see her in all her beauty sometime.” He turned his head toward where he thought Mr. Matsuda was sitting and winked.

“Mr. Jackson,” Thomas said in that childish tone. “You promised my father--”

“No.” Todd trembled with anger for a moment, then let it melt beneath the taste of whiskey and the scents of mixed perfumes, Thomas's sweat, and Mr. Matsuda's hair oil. Thomas was very young, he reminded himself. Calmer now, he said, “No, I did not promise. Now, you... You just run along. The board meeting will be fine without me. Better, no doubt.”

Thomas stayed for a moment before leaving. Too abruptly for a gentleman, Todd thought, hearing him push through the crowd. Todd's fingers fumbled on the tablecloth and he turned slowly until his thigh pressed against the chair and he got his bearings. He slid into the chair, took a drink, and wondered whether Mr. Matsuda expected him to apologize for Thomas's rudeness. He hoped Mr. Matsuda knew him better than that.

“That young man is in love with you,” Matsuda said.

“In love?” cried Todd. He tried to laugh. “Young Thomas? Why, he may have had a case of hero worship--a painful case--but love... No, I wouldn't call it love.” He shook his head, smiling at this preposterous idea.

After a pause, Mr. Matsuda said, “You will forgive me, Mr. Jackson, but I have seen the way he looks at you. And at me.”

Todd's smile faded, and for a brief moment it was all he could do to keep from lashing out in his disappointment in Matsuda for claiming the authority of sightedness, until he considered what Matsuda had actually said.

“At you?” he asked, but his voice was too quiet. Sasha was singing, painful and haunting, and just now Todd felt drunk, unpleasantly drunk. He drifted into the mood of Sasha's song, and from there into the piercing, jagged fragments of the past, and when he emerged from his reverie, it was completely silent. The club was closed and everyone had left.

Not everyone. Countess Sofia was here. He smelled her before he heard her dress swish swish as she moved about, doing something. Tidying? Why did she tidy when he employed staff for that? Why did she take on so many extra burdens? He couldn't ponder that right now. As Sofia was always reminding him, he didn't want to know the answers.

I have seen the way he looks at you. And at me. Todd regretted that he hadn't had the chance to ask Matsuda to explain. He doubted there would be another opportunity. It was the kind of conversation that could only happen under the right circumstances and mood, with the right amount of liquor and heat. He wanted to know why Thomas would be looking at Mr. Matsuda and what Thomas would be seeing. But of course, he didn't know what Matsuda looked like.

He leaned back in the chair, head nodding, listened to Sofia linger, and thought back to the Japanese he had met, before. Mostly diplomatists, older men with greying hair, serious eyes, and thin mustaches, putting the best face on their country's annexation of Korea that they could. He wasn't certain how old Matsuda was, though he could make a fair guess, and he didn't know much about Matsuda's grooming except that he discreetly used a good brand of gentlemen's hair oil, washed with the best French-milled soap available in Shanghai, and wore suits made of very fine, expensive cloth. He didn't even know if Matsuda had a mustache. He thought not; Matsuda didn't sound as if he had a mustache.

Todd barked out a laugh at the idea that men with mustaches would sound different from men without. It was an absurd, charming idea.

“What?” Sofia asked, coming closer. She sat down at the table, in the chair last occupied by Matsuda. “What's so funny?”

Todd laughed, still entertained by his idea and testing it against men he knew (or was reasonably sure) had mustaches.

“I want to ask you...” He hesitated. He was about to ask her if Mr. Matsuda had a mustache. He was about to ask her to describe Mr. Matsuda. He stopped himself.

“Ask me what?” Her voice was welcoming, longing to be let in on his private joke.

“No, no,” he said, trying to put as much laughter into the refusal as he could. “It wouldn't do.”

“I see,” she said in her business-like voice, the voice she adopted when she was annoyed and disappointed in him. He didn't like that voice, but it hurt him far less than she supposed.

“No, it wouldn't do at all,” he said blandly. “Just a passing whim I had.”

She stood up and moved away, not too abruptly, not too angrily. That was good. She was quite patient, really. He appreciated that.

-----

On the evening after they introduced the Kuomintang, Todd was a little drunk. He had started drinking in the afternoon while sitting at his café and listening to the radio. He hadn't really stopped drinking, and although he wasn't completely drunk, he was drunk enough for Liu to fuss over him until Todd sent him away.

When Mr. Matsuda arrived early in the evening, apparently curious to see the blossoming of political tension, Todd invited him to their favorite table and sat in a silent, very good humor. The club wasn't busy. Sofia was being a gracious hostess to a wealthy American couple, perhaps to steer them away from asserting their previous acquaintance on Todd, and Todd was grateful to her for this.

The band played a rolling, bright jazzy number. Todd tapped his cane against his shoe and attempted to match the tempo. He had a nervous desire for Mr. Matsuda to speak, so that he could listen for a mustache. Mr. Matsuda, however, seemed content to sit quietly and observe the life around them.

The jazzy number ended, and the pianist began a romantic solo. Todd leaned on the table and said, “Do you know, Mr. Matsuda, that I almost asked Countess Sofia if you had a mustache?”

“Did you?” Mr. Matsuda replied with a surprised laugh Todd hadn't often heard.

Todd grinned and nodded. “Yes, I almost asked her.” He sat back and tapped the chair's arm. “But I didn't think it would do. Didn't think it would be exactly correct, so I didn't ask her.”

Mr. Matsuda waited for the piano to finish the next phrase before saying, amused, “So you still do not know if I have a mustache.”

“No, I don't.” Todd matched his amused voice.

There was a pause. “Should I tell you, Mr. Jackson?”

“I haven't asked you, Mr. Matsuda. I don't think that would be exactly correct, either.”

Matsuda paused again, and it occurred to Todd that he might not be waiting for the music, but deliberating for some other reason Todd wasn't aware of. Again he was curious as to why young Thomas Crane would be looking at Matsuda, and what he would see.

“Well, it may be most irregular,” Matsuda said, sweetly blurring his r's and l's, “but if you wish to find out, I could offer a suggestion.” Matsuda had leaned forward, quite close. He smelled of French soap and good brandy.

Todd leaned forward to meet him and lowered his voice, enjoying the charade of conspiracy over a man's mustache. “What is your suggestion?”

“It is most simple,” said Matsuda. “I would propose that you find out yourself. But of course, this may be rather uninvited in so public a place. Therefore, I would also propose that first we retreat to the privacy of the men's washroom.”

A flicker of giddiness more daring than that caused by drinking made Todd's cheeks flush. He laughed and didn't have to think about his answer. “A most simple and admirable answer, indeed,” he said, rising and wrapping his fingers around the head of his cane.

Despite his obstinate wishes on the matter, the men's washroom always smelled rather more of piss than was acceptable, and Todd felt a pang of apologetic regret that he had to lead Mr. Matsuda into this disappointing space, though of course Mr. Matsuda had been in here before and could not be very dismayed. The washroom was empty; Todd could tell that immediately, but Mr. Matsuda took a few steps to find out for himself. When Mr. Matsuda was close--very close--Todd said, “Well, then.”

Mr. Matsuda took Todd's hand, as if in a dry, diplomatic handshake, and lifted it. Not very far. Mr. Matsuda was not very tall, as Todd had known from the direction of his voice and the presence of the scent of his hair oil. In a polite and graceful move, Matsuda placed Todd's fingers on his face, on the cup of skin just beneath his nose. His breathing was a shade quick.

Matsuda did not have a mustache. He shaved--or was shaved--very close, although Todd detected the faintest burr marking where the hair would grow if Matsuda allowed it. Matsuda released Todd's hand and stood quite still, and instead of lifting his fingers, Todd indulged his sudden, intense curiosity. He was also breathing a little faster.

His forefinger and ring finger traced above Matsuda's lips from end to end, where a mustache, if any were to be found, would grow. His fingertips rested on the edge of Matsuda's upper lip, on the tiniest shelf of skin, and he let them fall and land in the valley of Matsuda's lips. A very deep valley, soft, only slightly moist. Todd's heartbeat quickened from the reckless giddiness and he ran his fingers over Matsuda's mouth to understand them completely, to get the clearest picture. A mouth of lush curves, almost too sensuous for a man. How interesting that was! He tried to fit this information with the French soap and fine suits. His fingertips reached the lower edge and tripped down to Matsuda's chin--a bit round but narrow--before he took the outrageous liberty of touching Matsuda's nose, running one fingertip up to a sharply angled, severe bridge. He fanned his fingers out and touched an eyebrow and eyelashes which blinked and fluttered against his skin. From there he let his fingers drop again, to rest on a cheekbone, quite high and prominent, the skin very warm.

“Mr. Jackson,” Matsuda said quietly, with only the tiniest slip in his voice, the merest hint that somewhere, in some way, he was unsettled. But not angry or displeased, Todd thought, drawing his hand away and letting it fall into empty air.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Matsuda,” Todd said, shaken to hear the slip in his own voice. “I took an awful liberty. Unforgivable.”

“Not at all.” Matsuda had not moved away from him, and Todd heard him take a deep, steadying breath. “There is nothing to forgive.”

At his side, Todd rubbed his thumb over his fingers, remembering the deep curve of Matsuda's lower lip. How very surprising that had been.

“Even so,” he said. His voice quavered. He mastered it and said firmly, “Even so. It was a presumption, and uninvited, and I apologize for it.” He paused, and there was a flat, peculiar silence between them that felt unnatural until he broke it by adding, “Though if you'll allow me to, I must also thank you for it. It was most interesting. A most interesting experience.”

“For me as well, Mr. Jackson.” Todd fancied he heard a smile in his voice.

“You're very sporting, Mr. Matsuda. I thank you for that. Well, now, and I suppose I must be getting back to my guests out there.” He couldn't stop rubbing his thumb, though it was not at all the right shape or softness.

As they walked back to the table, negotiating a path between swaying and still and moving bodies, Mr. Matsuda expressed his sorrow at having to leave so early, and there was that in his voice which told Todd that his departure was unrelated to the liberty Todd had taken, that there was a genuine prior engagement. Before he left Todd alone at the table, Matsuda said, “It is my experience that there is a difference between the uninvited and the unwelcome. Is it not often the case that one cannot invite what one nevertheless welcomes?” But he left before Todd could form an appropriate response to this.

-----

“Liu, how would you describe Mr. Matsuda?”

Todd sat in the foyer, passing his cane from hand to hand. Liu's hand on his shoulder urged him to stand.

“Mr. Jackson, I do not think it is appropriate for me to--”

“Now, Liu,” Todd said, refusing to rise. “I try not to make too many demands. I don't think I ask too much of you. If I do, then I apologize, and perhaps it's time for us to part company.”

An empty threat; he suggested they part company at least two or three times a week.

“Mr. Jackson.” Liu's hand became more insistent.

“How would you describe Mr. Matsuda?”

Liu sighed. “He is Japanese.”

“That's all?” Todd stood. “He strikes me as a somewhat dapper man. Is he dapper?”

“He is Japanese,” Liu repeated, as if this answered every question. He guided Todd's arm to his overcoat and Todd pulled away from him as soon as he could shrug into it himself.

“I don't think he's ostentatious, though,” Todd said. “Dresses well, nothing vulgar. Though, perhaps... perhaps--and here is where I would value your observations, Liu--perhaps there is an unexpected hint of showiness, some little surprise that doesn't call attention to itself yet startles you just the same once you notice it. A tie clip, perhaps. Or a ring. His cuff links? Have you observed his cuff links, Liu?”

“No, Mr. Jackson,” Liu said in a low, disapproving tone.

“Then I would ask you, as a favor to me, to observe his cuff links the next time he comes to the club. I'd like you to do that for me.”

“Mr. Jackson, he is Japanese.”

Although Liu was a good man, the exasperation in his voice had convinced Todd that he was never going to find out about Mr. Matsuda's cuff links. Unless he asked Matsuda about them himself. He considered this in the car while Liu drove him to the club. He imagined Matsuda leading him back to the men's washroom so that Todd could feel his cuff links. A curious, electric jolt collided with his alcohol-flavored numbness. What else might Matsuda let him touch? His tie, his collar, the buttons on his coat? And where did he want to touch, if Matsuda allowed him? He would want to complete his picture of Matsuda's face: explore that cheekbone and jaw more thoroughly and trace the shape of his eyes. He'd always been told by his Chinese friends that Japanese eyes were different, but he had never paid much attention to the subtleties of difference, before.

And he would want to touch Matsuda's mouth again, all over, slowly this time. He wondered if Matsuda would speak while he was touching him. It would be quite interesting to feel Matsuda's lips moving as he formed his careful words.

Todd entered the club in a state of heated restlessness made more acute by the uneasy stir of politics around him. He drank and played the host and annoyed Countess Sofia with his purposely boring cheerfulness, and the hours ticked away beneath the music and dance until he was left alone upstairs, and Mr. Matsuda had not shown up. When Sofia shook him awake, he was still trapped in a stupor, half-caught in a disintegrating dream about his wife. He made a grab for Sofia and caught her hip. His hand slid over the slick satin. A warm, round, fleshy, female hip. He was forcibly reminded of Mr. Matsuda's lips, and he would have held on to Sofia's hip, but she gently and silently moved away, letting his hand fall.

-----

Mr. Matsuda made one brief, pleasant but bland visit to The White Countess in the following days, and though Todd was glad, for various reasons he was rather preoccupied with Sofia. However, by the time Mr. Matsuda returned for a leisurely evening, for various reasons Todd chose not to be preoccupied with Sofia, and he turned his full attention to Matsuda. They sat at their table, and Matsuda made quietly congratulatory comments about the success of the club's political dimension, and Todd made sure their bottles were never empty.

“Mr. Matsuda, I am about to suggest something a little improper,” he said some hours later.

“And what is that, Mr. Jackson?” Matsuda asked, neither wary nor welcoming, but expectantly curious.

“If I may--if you will agree to it--I would like to complete my picture of you.”

Matsuda did not immediately reply but there was nothing unfavorable about his silence. Todd assumed he was drinking.

“Mr. Jackson,” he said with a little laugh, “I do agree to it. It would be a great pleasure.”

Todd rose from the table. “Then I invite you to the room upstairs. It's less inhospitable than the washroom, but not much more comfortable, either. Certainly more private. If you'll follow me...”

He bumped into people on his way across the club. That irritated him, though by the time he reached the stairs he wondered how many people a somewhat drunk blind man was allowed to bump into. What would society's acceptable number be? Perhaps he should ask Mr. Matsuda for his opinion, he thought, and immediately decided he should not.

Somewhere in his halting progress he had lost his sense of Mr. Matsuda, and he paused on the bottom stair, cane raised to touch the next one, until a shifting of sounds and scents suggested Matsuda's presence behind him. As he climbed he listened to Matsuda's shoes a few steps below, and at the top of the stairs he waited.

As before, Matsuda stood perfectly still while Todd touched him, finishing the shape of Matsuda's face by running his fingers along his jaw, cheek, temple and brow. He touched Matsuda's hair: sleek but not oily. He touched his neck, and around his eyes, and over the tip of his nose before placing his fingers on Matsuda's mouth.

“The night we introduced ourselves,” Todd said, “you asked me if young Thomas was my protégé. I've been wondering, Mr. Matsuda, if you have a protégé.”

“I?” Mr. Matsuda said, his lips moving under Todd's fingers as if this were no impediment, nothing unusual. “My work is such that it does not require--and does not attract--protégés.”

His lips and warm breath caressed Todd's fingers as he spoke, and with a surge of frightful, thrilling shock, Todd imagined his fingers tumbling into the words, into Mr. Matsuda's mouth. He would touch Matsuda's tongue, discover if his teeth were crooked or straight. He would feel the inner shape of Matsuda's mouth as he formed his polite, accented, suggestive words.

Todd inhaled sharply and drew his hand back. It was trembling. In fact, his whole body was trembling, at least on the inside, along his veins. Could Matsuda see this?

Matsuda took his hand and gently raised it until his fingertips rested on the prominent slope of Matsuda's cheek. Todd's thumb brushed against Matsuda's lips.

“Mr. Jackson.” The breathy s heated Todd's thumb. “It is unfortunate, but my work will keep me away for some little time. I will miss our evenings here, but I hope we may resume our friendship when I return.”

Todd began to reply, forming the right blend of neutrality and sincerity, but didn't want to say the words. He ran his thumb along the edge of Mr. Matsuda's mouth, a series of projections and depressions of infinite fascination. And Mr. Matsuda let him. If anything, encouraged him by parting his lips just enough for Todd to feel the line of moisture where they had met.

Todd's pulse thudded. With a shaky breath and a false little laugh he said, “In your absence, my little establishment will no longer be perfect.” He touched the tip of his thumb between Matsuda's lips, pressed until it met the resistence of teeth, then moved it away. “But there is beauty in imperfection, isn't that right?”

He let his hand fall slowly, fingertips sliding down Matsuda's skin and into the air.

“Yes, Mr. Jackson. There is.”

Todd stayed where he was, standing long after Mr. Matsuda's footsteps had vanished from the room and the stairs. Long after the lingering traces of his scent had disappeared.

By the time Todd lowered himself into a chair, there were sounds of closing-time downstairs. Countess Sofia would find him up here eventually. He would let her find him up here. He would let her preoccupy him again: she was beautiful and perfect in her imperfection.

(the end)

january-february 2006