Hotel Iris by Yōko Ogawa Read Free Book Online Page A

through my wrist as his fingertips dug into the skin. I found it hard to believe that a small man of his age could be so strong. But I knew he was going to hold me here, that I could not leave this place.
    “Let me go,” I said. The words that came out of my mouth were the opposite of what I wanted, but I knew that resisting would make his orders even more forceful. He tried to drag me back to the center of the room, but he pulled so violently on my arm that we both fell. I caught a glimpse of the leg of the couch, a stray slipper, the sea through a gap in the curtains.
    “I’ll show you how,” he said. Pressing my face to the floor, he ripped open my dress. There was a tearing sound, as if he had slit my back with a knife, and I tried to curl into a ball. But he refused to let me move, not a finger, not an eyelid.
    He was still terribly angry, and, in his own way, he was using my body to take revenge on that woman and the maître d’. My ear was flattened, my breasts crushed, my mouth forced half open. The pile of the carpet had a bitter taste. My whole body should have hurt, but I didn’t feel anything. Somehow, my nerves had become hopelessly tangled, so that pain became vaguely pleasurable as it rippled over my skin.
    He tore off my dress and threw it aside—a ball of yellowcrumpled in the corner. Then in quick succession, my slip and stockings and bra were stripped away. He seemed to know exactly what to unfasten, where to pull. His arms and legs and fingers moved skillfully and relentlessly over me. When he finally slipped my panties down to my ankles, I let out a cry. It was then that I realized I was no more than a helpless lump of flesh.
    I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, but I could only moan. He forced my head deeper into the carpet. I caught sight of the Russian books in the bookcase—and my ugly reflection in the glass front.
    I was certain he would be disappointed by my underdeveloped breasts, my sweaty pubic patch, by the stubble under my arms and the ugly color of my private parts. How could he admire the hideous shape of my body when he tied me up? Wouldn’t he have preferred the woman outside the restaurant, even with her insults?
    He produced a strange piece of cord from somewhere and began to tie me up. It was thicker and stronger and more flexible than the plastic twine they use at the post office, and it had a slightly medicinal smell, like the science labs at school. Or perhaps it smelled like my grandfather before he died, like the tube that had drained the yellow fluid from his stomach.
    The cord dug into my flesh, holding me fast. The translator was remarkably skillful, quick and sure.
    I looked at my reflection in the glass front of the bookcase. My wrists were bound behind my back. The cord crushed mybreasts, but the nipples were sensitive and pink and wanting to be caressed. The cord ran down between my thighs and around my knees, spreading me wide open, and if I made any effort to close my legs, it dug deeper into the soft place between them. Light fell in this crease, this pleat of skin that had been hidden in the dark until now.
    Then he lay on top of me. He moved very slowly, as if to make his pleasure last as long as possible—and to be absolutely sure the cords did not come loose. His lips ran over my neck and ears, and then pressed against mine. It was not quite a kiss, not like the one he had given me a few minutes earlier. Our mouths met, and saliva, tinged with the flavor of cheese from the pizza, dripped into me. He played with my breasts. They were swollen and sensitive from the cords.
    He was still in his suit and tie. Even his cuff links were still neatly fastened. He looked exactly as he did when we met in front of the flower clock—though I was now completely changed.
    He used only his lips and tongue and fingers, but they were enough. Nothing was neglected; I felt I was learning for the first time that I had shoulder blades and temples, ankles and earlobes and