A tale of twisted love from Yoko Ogawa-author of The Diving Pool and The Housekeeper and the Professor. In a crumbling seaside hotel on the coast of Japan, quiet seventeen-year-old Mari works the front desk as her mother tends to the off-season customers. When one night they are forced to expel a middle-aged man and a prostitute from their room, Mari finds herself drawn to the man's voice, in what will become the first gesture of a single long seduction. In spite of her provincial surroundings, and her cool but controlling mother, Mari is a sophisticated observer of human desire, and she sees in this man something she has long been looking for. The man is a proud if threadbare translator living on an island off the coast. A widower, there are whispers around town that he may have murdered his wife. Mari begins to visit him on his island, and he soon initiates her into a dark realm of both pain and pleasure, a place in which she finds herself more at ease even than the translator. As Mari's mother begins to close in on the affair, Mari's sense of what is suitable and what is desirable are recklessly engaged. Hotel Iris is a stirring novel about the sometimes violent ways in which we express intimacy and about the untranslatable essence of love.
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March 01, 2010
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Excerpt from Hotel Iris by Yoko Ogawa
o n e
He first came to the Iris one day just before the beginning of
the summer season. The rain had been falling since dawn. It
grew heavier at dusk, and the sea was rough and gray. A gust
blew open the door, and rain soaked the carpet in the lobby.
The shop keepers in the neighborhood had turned off their
neon signs along the empty streets. A car passed from time
to time, its headlights shining through the raindrops.
I was about to lock up the cash register and turn out the
lights in the lobby, when I heard something heavy hitting
the floor above, followed by a woman's scream. It was a very
long scream-- so long that I started to wonder before it ended
whether she wasn't laughing instead.
"Filthy pervert!" The scream stopped at last, and a woman
came flying out of Room 202. "You disgusting old man!" She
caught her foot on a seam in the carpet and fell on the landing,
but she went on hurling insults at the door of the room.
"What do you think I am? You're not fit to be with a woman
like me! Scumbag! Impotent bastard!"
She was obviously a prostitute-- even I could tell that
much-- and no longer young. Frizzy hair hung at her wrinkled
neck, and thick, shiny lipstick had smeared onto her
cheeks. Her mascara had run, and her left breast hung out
of her blouse where the buttons had come undone. Pale pink
thighs protruded from a short skirt, marked in places with
red scratches. She had lost one of her cheap plastic high heels.
Her insults stopped for a moment, but then a pillow flew
out of the room, hitting her square in the face, and the screaming
started all over again. The pillow lay on the landing,
smeared with lipstick. Roused by the noise, a few guests had
now gathered in the hall in their pajamas. My mother appeared
from our apartment in the back.
"You pervert! Creep! You're not fit for a cat in heat." The
prostitute's voice, ragged and hoarse with tears, dissolved into
coughs and sobs as one object after another came flying out of
the room: a hanger, a crumpled bra, the missing high heel, a
handbag. The handbag fell open, and the contents scattered
across the hall. The woman clearly wanted to escape down the
stairs, but she was too flustered to get to her feet-- or perhaps
she had turned an ankle.
"Shut up! We're trying to sleep!" one of the guests shouted
from down the hall, and the others started complaining all at
once. Only Room 202 was perfectly silent. I couldn't see the
occupant, and he hadn't said a word. The only signs of his
existence were the woman's horrible glare and the objects flying
out at her.
"I'm sorry," my mother interrupted, coming to the bottom
of the stairs, "but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to
"You don't have to tell me!" the woman shouted. "I'm going!"
"I'll be calling the police, of course," Mother said, to no
one in particular. "But please," she added, turning to the other
guests, "don't think anything more about it. Good night. I'm
sorry you've been disturbed. . . . And as for you," she went on,
calling up to the man in Room 202, "you're going to have
to pay for all of this, and I don't mean just the price of the
room." On her way to the second floor, Mother passed the
woman. She had scraped the contents back into the bag and
was stumbling down the stairs without even bothering to
button her blouse. One of the guests whistled at her exposed
"Just a minute, you," Mother said into the darkened room
and to the prostitute on the stairs. "Who's going to pay? You
can't just slip out after all this fuss." Mother's first concern
was always the money. The prostitute ignored her, but at that
moment a voice rang out from above.
"Shut up, whore." The voice seemed to pass through us,
silencing the whole hotel. It was powerful and deep, but with
no trace of anger. Instead, it was almost serene, like a hypnotic
note from a cello or a horn.
I turned to find the man standing on the landing. He was
past middle age, on the verge of being old. He wore a pressed
white shirt and dark brown pants, and he held a jacket of the
same material in his hand. Though the woman was completely
disheveled, he was not even breathing heavily. Nor
did he seem particularly embarrassed. Only the few tangled
hairs on his forehead suggested that anything was out of the
It occurred to me that I had never heard such a beautiful
voice giving an order. It was calm and imposing, with
no hint of indecision. Even the word "whore" was somehow
"Shut up, whore." I tried repeating it to myself, hoping I
might hear him say the word again. But he said nothing
The woman turned and spat at him pathetically before
walking out the door. The spray of saliva fell on the carpet.
"You'll have to pay for everything," Mother said, rounding
on the man once more. "The cleaning, and something extra
for the trouble you've caused. And you are not welcome here
again, understand? I don't take customers who make trouble
with women. Don't you forget it."
The other guests went slowly back to their rooms. The
man slipped on his jacket and walked down the stairs in silence,
never raising his eyes. He pulled two bills from his
pocket and tossed them on the counter. They lay there for
a moment, crumpled pathetically, before I took them and
smoothed them carefully on my palm. They were slightly
warm from the man's body. He walked out into the rain
without so much as a glance in my direction.
I've always wondered how our inn came to be called the
Hotel Iris. All the other hotels in the area have names that
have to do with the sea.
"It's a beautiful flower, and the name of the rainbow goddess
in Greek mythology. Pretty stylish, don't you think?"
When I was a child, my grandfather had offered this explanation.
Still, there were no irises blooming in the courtyard, no
roses or pansies or daffodils either. Just an overgrown dogwood,
a zelkova tree, and some weeds. There was a small
fountain made of bricks, but it hadn't worked in a long time.
In the middle of the fountain stood a plaster statue of a curlyhaired
boy in a long coat. His head was cocked to one side
and he was playing the harp, but his face had no lips or eyelids
and was covered with bird droppings. I wondered where
my grandfather had come up with the story about the goddess,
since no one in our family knew anything about literature,
let alone Greek mythology.
I tried to imagine the goddess-- slender neck, full breasts,
eyes staring off into the distance. And a robe with all the
colors of the rainbow. One shake of that robe could cast a
spell of beauty over the whole earth. I always thought that if
the goddess of the rainbow would come to our hotel for even
a few minutes, the boy in the fountain would learn to play
happy tunes on his harp.
The r in iris on the sign on the roof had come loose and
was tilted a bit to the right. It looked a little silly, but also
slightly sinister. In any event, no one ever thought to fix it.
Our family lived in the three dark rooms behind the front
desk. When I was born, there were five of us. My grandmother
was the first to go, but that was while I was still a baby so I
don't remember it. She died of a bad heart, I think. Next was
my father. I was eight then, so I remember everything.
And then it was grandfather's turn. He died two years ago.
He got cancer in his pancreas or his gallbladder-- somewhere
in his stomach-- and it spread to his bones and his lungs and
his brain. He suffered for almost six months, but he died in
his own bed. We had given him one of the good mattresses,
from a guest room, but only after it had broken a spring.
Whenever he turned over in bed, it sounded like someone
stepping on a frog.
My job was to sterilize the tube that came out of his right
side and to empty the fluid that had collected in the bag at
the end of it. Mother made me do this every day after school,
though I was afraid to touch the tube. If you didn't do it
right, the tube fell out of his side, and I always imagined that
his organs were going to spurt from the hole it left. The liquid
in the bag was a beautiful shade of yellow, and I often
wondered why something so pretty was hidden away inside
the body. I emptied it into the fountain in the courtyard,
wetting the toes of the harp- playing boy.
Grandfather suffered all the time, but the hour just before
dawn was especially bad. His groans echoed in the dark,
mingling with the croaking of the mattress. We kept the
shutters closed, but the guests still complained about the
"I'm terribly sorry," Mother would tell them, her voice
sickly sweet, her pen tapping nervously on the counter. "All
those cats seem to be in heat at the same time."
We kept the hotel open even on the day grandfather died.
It was off- season and we should have been nearly empty, but
for some reason a women's choir had booked several rooms.
Strains of "Edelweiss" or "When It's Lamp- Lighting Time
in the Valley" or "Lorelei" filled the pauses in the funeral
prayers. The priest pretended not to hear and went on with
the ser vice, eyes fixed on the floor in front of him. The woman
who owned the dress shop-- an old drinking friend of Grandfather's--
sobbed at one point as a soprano in the choir hit
a high note and together it sounded almost like harmony.
The ladies were singing in every corner of the hotel-- in the
bath, in the dining room, out on the veranda-- and their
voices fell like a shroud over Grandfather's body. But the goddess
of the rainbow never came to shake her robe for him.
I saw the man from Room 202 again two weeks later. It was
Sunday, and I was out doing some errands for Mother. The
sky was clear and the day so warm I'd begun to sweat. Some
kids were on the beach trying to get the first tan of the year.
The tide was out, and the rocks along the coast were exposed
all the way to the seawall. Though it was early in the season,
a few tourists could be seen on the restaurant terraces and the
excursion boat dock. The sea was still chilly, but the sunlight
on the seawall and the bustle in town made it clear that
summer was not far off.
Our town came to life for just three months each year. It
huddled, silent as a stone, from fall through spring. But then
it would suddenly yield to the sea's gentle embrace. The sun
shone on the golden beach. The crumbling seawall was
exposed at low tide, and hills rising from beyond the cape
turned green. The streets were filled with people enjoying
their holidays. Parasols opened, fountains frothed, champagne
corks popped, and fi reworks lit up the night sky. The restaurants,
bars, hotels, and excursion boats, the souvenir shops,
the marinas-- and even our Iris-- were dressed up for summer.
Though in the case of the Iris, this meant little more
than rolling down the awnings on the terrace, turning up the
lights in the lobby, and putting out the sign with the highseason
Then, a few months later, the summer would end just as
suddenly as it had begun. The wind shifted, the pattern of
the waves changed, and all the people returned to places that
are completely unknown to me. The discarded foil from an
ice cream cone that yesterday had glittered festively by the
side of the road overnight would become no more than a
piece of trash. But that was three months away; and so, without
a care, I went out to do Mother's shopping.
I recognized the man immediately. He was buying toothpaste
at the house wares shop. I hadn't looked at him carefully
that night at the Iris, but there was something familiar
about the shape of his body and his hands as he stood under
the pale fl uorescent light. Next, he seemed to be choosing
laundry detergent. He took a long time with the decision,
picking up each box, studying the label, and then checking
the price. He put a box in his basket, but then he read the
label again and returned it to the shelf. His attention seemed
completely focused on the soap; in the end, he chose the
I cannot explain why I decided to follow him that day. I
didn't feel particularly curious about what had happened at
the Iris, but those words, his command, had stayed with me.
After leaving the shop, he went to the pharmacy. He
handed over what appeared to be a prescription and was
given two packets of medicine. Tucking these into his coat
pocket, he walked on to the stationer's, two doors down the
street. I leaned against the lamppost and cautiously looked
inside. He had apparently brought a fountain pen to be repaired,
and there was a long exchange with the shop keep er.
The man dismantled the pen and pointed at one piece after
the other, complaining about something. The own er of the
store was clearly upset, too, but the man ignored him and
went on with his complaints. It occurred to me how much I
wanted to hear his voice. Finally, the shop keep er seemed to
agree reluctantly to his demands.
Next, he walked east on the shore road. He wore a suit,
and his tie was neatly knotted, despite the heat. He held
himself stiffl y and looked straight ahead as he walked, keeping
a good pace. The plastic bag containing the laundry
detergent dangled at his side, and the packets of medicine
made a bulge in his coat pocket. The street was crowded, and
from time to time his bag bumped a passerby, but no one
noticed or turned to look back. I was the only one who
seemed to see him, and that made me all the more intent on
my strange little game.
A boy about my age was playing the accordion in front of
the giant clock made of flowers in the plaza; perhaps because
the instrument was old, or because of the way he played it, the
song sounded sad and thin.
The man stopped and listened for a moment, though
no one else seemed interested in the boy's performance. I
watched from a short way off. In the background, the hands
of the clock turned slowly around the floral face.
The man threw a coin in the accordion case. It made a
soft thud. The boy bowed, but the man turned and walked
off. Something about the boy's face reminded me of the
statue in our courtyard.
How far was I going to follow him? The only thing that
I'd bought on Mother's list was the toothpaste. I began to
worry. Mother would be angry that I was still out when the
guests started arriving, but I couldn't take my eyes off the
He reached the excursion boat dock and stepped into the
waiting room. Was he planning to take a ride? The room was
crowded with families and young couples. Several times a
day, the boat sailed out to an island about a half hour away
from the shore, briefly docking at the wharf before returning
to the mainland. The next boat wouldn't be leaving for
twenty- five minutes.
"Young lady. Why are you following me?" At first, I didn't
realize he was speaking to me-- the room was so noisy and the
words so unexpected-- but finally I recognized the voice that
had shouted at the Iris. "Is there something I can do for you?"
I shook my head quickly, startled to have been caught,
but the man seemed even more frightened than I was. He
blinked nervously and ran his tongue over his lips. I found it
difficult to believe that this was the same man who had uttered
that magnificent command at the Iris that night.
"You're the girl from the hotel, aren't you?"
"Yes," I said, not daring to look directly at him.
"You were sitting at the front desk that night. I recognized
you right away."
A group of elementary school children filed into the waiting
room, pushing us back against the windows. I wondered
uneasily what the man intended to do with me. I'd never
planned to speak to him, but now I didn't know how to get
"Did you have something you wanted to say? Perhaps you
were going to scold me?"
"Oh no! Not at all . . ."
"Still, I apologize for the other day. It must have been
unpleasant for you." His tone was polite, quite unlike the
man who had shouted in the lobby of the Iris, and this somehow
made me even more nervous.
"Please don't worry about what my mother said. You were
very generous when you paid the bill."
"But it was a terrible night."
"That awful rain . . ."
"Yes, but I mean I'm still not sure how things ended up
the way they did. . . ."
I remembered that I had found a bra wadded up on the
landing after they left that night. It was lavender, with gaudy
lace, and I had gathered it up like the carcass of a dead animal
and tossed it in the trash bin in the kitchen.
The children were running wildly around the waiting
room. The sun was still high in the sky, sparkling on the sea
outside the window. The island in the distance, as everyone
in town seemed to agree, was shaped like a human ear. The
excursion boat had just rounded the lobe of the island and
was heading back toward us. A gull rested on each post of
Now that I was standing next to him, the man seemed
smaller than I had imagined. He was about my height, but
his chest and shoulders were thin and frail. His hair was even
more neatly combed now, but I could see a bald spot in back.
We stood quietly for a moment, looking out at the sea.
There was nothing else to do. The man grimaced in the
bright sunlight, as though he'd felt a sudden pain.
"Are you taking the boat?" I asked at last, suffocated by
"I am," he said.
"People who live here don't usually ride it. I did it only
once, when I was little."
"But I live on the island."
"I didn't know anyone actually lived there."
"There are a few of us. This is how we get home." There
was a diving shop on the island and a sanatarium for employees
of a steel company, but I hadn't known about any houses.
The man rolled and twisted his tie as he spoke, creasing the
tip. The boat was getting closer, and the children had begun
lining up impatiently by the gate. "The other passengers have
cameras or fishing poles or snorkels-- I'm the only one with a
"But why would you want to live in such an inconvenient
"I'm comfortable there, and I work at home."
"What kind of work?"
"I'm a translator-- from Russian."
"Translator . . . ," I repeated slowly to myself.
"Does that seem odd?"
"No, it's just that I've never met a translator before."
"It's a simple sort of job, really. You sit at a desk all day
long, looking up words in a dictionary. And you? Are you in
"No, I tried it for a few months, but I dropped out."
"I see. And how old are you?"
"Seventeen . . . ," he repeated, savoring each syllable.
"There's something wonderful about taking a boat to get
home," I said.
"I have a small place. It was built a long time ago, a cottage
on the far side from where the boat docks. Just about
here on the ear," he said, tilting his head toward me and
pointing at his own earlobe. As I bent forward to look at the
spot, our bodies nearly touched for a moment. He pulled
back immediately, and I looked away. That was the first time
I realized that the shape of an ear changes with age. His was
no more than a limp sliver of dark flesh.
The excursion boat blew its horn as it pulled up to the
dock, scattering the gulls in a cloud. The loudspeaker in
the waiting room announced the departure, and someone
unhooked the chain at the entrance.
"I have to be going," the translator muttered.
"Good- bye," I said.
"Good- bye." I felt as though we were saying something
far more important than a simple farewell.
I could see him from the window as he joined the line of
passengers and made his way along the pier. He was short,
but there was no mistaking his suit in the crowd of tourists.
Suddenly, he turned to look back and I waved to him, though
it seemed absurd to be waving to a stranger whose name I
didn't even know. I thought he was about to wave back, but
then he thrust his hand in his pocket, as if embarrassed.
The boat blew its horn and pulled away from the dock.
Mother was furious when I got home. It was past five o'clock,
and I had forgotten to pick up her dress at the dry cleaner's.
"How could you forget?" she said. "You knew I was planning
to wear it to the exhibition to night." Someone was ringing
the bell at the front desk. "It's the only dancing dress I
have, and I can't go without it. You know that. The exhibition
starts at five thirty. I'll never make it now. I've been
waiting all this time. You've spoiled everything."
"I'm sorry, Mama. I met an old woman in town who was
feeling ill. She was pale and shaking all over, so I took her to
the clinic. I couldn't just leave her there. . . . That's why I'm
late." This was the lie I'd come up with on my way home.
The bell rang again, enraging Mother.
"Go get it!" she screamed.
The "exhibition" was nothing more than a humdrum little
function where shopkeepers' wives, cannery workers, and a
few retirees could dance. It was a miserable thing, really, and
if I had remembered the dress, she would probably have decided
that it wasn't worth the trouble to go.
I have never seen my mother dance. But it makes me a
little queasy to imagine her calves shaking, her feet spilling
out of her shoes, her makeup running with sweat, a strange
man's hand at her waist. . . .
Since I was a little girl, Mother has praised my appearance
to anyone who would listen. Her favorite customers are the
big tippers, but the ones who tell her I'm beautiful run a
close second, even when they aren't particularly sincere.
"Have you ever seen such transparent skin? It's almost
scary the way you can see right through it. She has the same
big, dark eyes and long lashes she did when she was a baby.
When I took her out, people were constantly stopping me
to tell me how cute she was. And there was even a sculptor
who made a statue of her-- it won first prize in some show."
Mother has a thousand ways to brag about my looks, but half
of them are lies. The sculptor was a pedophile who nearly
If Mother is so intent on paying me compliments, it might
be because she doesn't really love me very much. In fact, the
more she tells me how pretty I am, the uglier I feel. To be
honest, I have never once thought of myself as pretty.
She still does my hair every morning. She sits me down at
the dressing table and takes hold of my ponytail, forcing me
to keep very still. When she starts in with the brush, I can
barely stand it, but if I move my head even the least bit, she
tightens her grip.
She combs in camellia oil, making sure every hair is lacquered
in place. I hate the smell. Sometimes she pins it up
with a cheap barrette.
"There," she says, with deep satisfaction in her voice, "all
done." I feel as though she's hurt me in a way that will never
I was sent to bed without any dinner that night-- the
usual punishment since I was little. Nights when my stomach
is empty have always seemed darker, but as I lay there I
found myself tracing the shape of the man's back and ear
over and over in my mind.
Mother took extra care with my hair the next morning,
using more oil than usual. And she made an even bigger fuss
about how pretty I am.
The Iris came into being when my great- grandfather fixed up
an old inn and turned it into a hotel. That was more than a
hundred years ago. In that part of town, a restaurant or hotel
was either supposed to have an ocean view or to be right on
the beach. The Iris didn't qualify on either count: it took more
than half an hour to walk to the sea, and only two of the
rooms had views. The rest looked out over the fish- processing
After Grandfather died, Mother made me quit school to
help at the hotel. My day begins in the kitchen, getting
ready for breakfast. I wash fruit, cut up ham and cheese, and
arrange tubs of yogurt in a bowl of ice. As soon as I hear the
first guests coming down, I grind the coffee beans and warm
the bread. Then, at checkout time, I total the bills. I do all
of this while saying as little as possible. Some of the guests
try to make small talk, but I just smile back. I find it painful
to speak to people I don't know, and besides, Mother scolds
me if I make a mistake with the cash register and the receipts
The woman who works for us as a maid comes just before
noon, and she and Mother begin cleaning the guest rooms.
In the meantime, I straighten the kitchen and the dining
room. I also answer the phone to take reservations, or to talk
to the linen company or the tourist board. When Mother
finishes the cleaning, she comes to check on me. If she finds
even one hair out of place, she immediately combs it down.
Then we get ready to welcome the new guests.
Most of my day is spent at the front desk. The space behind
the desk is so small and cramped you can reach just
about anything you need without moving-- the bell, the oldfashioned
cash register, the guest book, the pen, the phone,
the tourist pamphlets. The counter itself is scarred and dark
from all the hands that have touched it.
As I sit slumped behind the desk, the smell of raw fi sh
drifts in from the factory across the way, and I can see the
steam from the machines that make fish paste seeping through
gaps in the factory windows. Stray cats are always gathered
under the delivery trucks, waiting for something to spill from
My senses seem sharpest when the guests are all checked
in, settled in their rooms getting ready for bed. From my
stool behind the desk, I can hear and smell and feel everything
happening in the hotel. I can't say I have much experience
or even any real desires of my own, but just by shutting
myself up behind the desk, I can imagine every scene being
played out by the people spending the night at the Iris.
Then I erase them one by one and find a quiet place to lie
down and sleep.
A letter from the translator arrived on Friday morning. The
handwriting was very beautiful. Taking refuge in the corner
behind the desk, I read it as discreetly as I could.
My Dear Mari,
Please forgive me for writing to you like this, but it was
such a great and unexpected plea sure to speak with you on
Sunday afternoon in the waiting room at the dock. At my
age, few things are unexpected, and one spends considerable
effort avoiding shocks and disappointments. I don't suppose
you would understand, but it is the sort of mental
habit you develop when you reach old age.
But this past Sunday was different. Time seemed to have
stopped, and I found myself being led to a place I had
never even imagined.
It would be only natural that you despise me for the disgusting
incident I provoked at the hotel, and I had been
hoping even before we met to make a proper apology. But
the open and completely unguarded way you looked at me
left me so bewildered that I was unable to say anything to
the point. Thus, I wish to offer you my apologies in this
I have lived alone for a long time now, and I spend my
days locked away on the island with my translations. I
have very few friends, and I have never known a beautiful
girl like you. It has been decades since anyone waved
good- bye to me the way you did. I have walked along
that dock countless times, but always alone, never once
having cause to turn back to look for anyone.
You waved to me as if I were an old friend, and that
gesture-- insignificant to you-- was enormously important
to me. I want to thank you . . . and thank you again.
I come into town every Sunday to do my shopping, and I
will be in front of the fl ower clock in the plaza about two
o'clock in the afternoon. I wonder whether I shall have
the good fortune to see you there again. I have no intention
of trying to extract a promise from you-- think of my
request as simply an old man's ramblings. Don't give it a
The days seem to grow steadily warmer, and I suspect
you will be busier at the hotel. Please take care of yourself.
P.S. I know it was rude of me, but I took the liberty of
finding out your name. By coincidence, the heroine of the
novel I am translating now is named Marie.