Masks Read Free Page A

across the room. Her wide-collared light-weight red coat brought out the curve of her cheeks in strong relief. There emanated from her an attractiveness and warmth strangely out of keeping with the word “widow.”
    “Yasuko, over here.” Ibuki called to her, grinning, and she blinked and moved toward him, a deep dimple appearing in one round cheek.
    “Have you waited long?”
    “I’ve had company.”
    “Oh!” Noticing Mikamé across the table, she noddedpolitely, then turned back inquiringly to Ibuki. “Has he been in Kyoto, too?”
    “Osaka, he says.”
    “I happened to come in here a little while ago, and whom do I see but Ibuki. We were just talking about that séance the other day.”
    As Mikamé spoke, his fingers itched with a desire to touch the dimple coming and going in her soft fair-skinned cheek like a small insect ready for the taking. To his mind there were four kinds of beautiful skin. The first he likened to porcelain: finely grained and flawless in sheen, but marked by a hardness and chill. The second he compared to snow: duller and more coarsely grained, with a deep whiteness and an inner warmth and softness that belied its cold surface. Next was what he called the textile look, what others called silken; this was the complexion most prized by Japanese women, yet it had no virtue in Mikamé’s eyes beyond a flat, smooth prettiness. To be supremely beautiful, he thought, a woman’s skin had to glow with the internal life-force of spring’s earliest buds unfolding naturally in the sun. But city women, too clever with makeup, lost that perishable, flowerlike beauty at a surprisingly early age—and rare indeed was the woman past twenty-five whose skin had kept the freshness of youth. So musing, Mikamé gazed fixedly at Yasuko, her face clear and moist as just-opened petals.
    “Ah, the séance.” She nodded. “That’s right, we haven’t seen you since then, have we?” She turned again to Ibuki. “Why doesn’t Toyoki come along with us now?”
    “Exactly what I thought. Where’s Mieko?”
    “Waiting in the car.” She turned to Mikamé. “Please come. It’s quite all right. Mother will be glad to see you—and I’ve heard the masks are stunning. Say you’ll come, please?” She made the appeal prettily, her head tilted toone side, but to Ibuki her soft smile was repugnant, seeming to reveal within her an unconscious hint of the harlot.
    “Come on, you might as well,” he said curtly, and abruptly stood up. “You’ve got till ten before that train leaves, haven’t you?”
    —
    Yasuko squeezed through the ticket gate and darted ahead as far as the station entrance, then stood facing the parking lot with one arm in the air, beckoning energetically. Her small figure, enveloped in the wide-skirted red coat, seemed from behind to flutter like a narrow triangular flag.
    When a large automobile slid up to the curb, she swung open the rear door and launched into a hasty explanation of the situation.
    “How nice! Certainly, by all means he must come.” A gay and youthful voice came floating toward them from the interior of the car, and then, as Yasuko’s red overcoat moved aside, no longer blocking the way, the face of Mieko Toganō appeared. “Get in, everybody. There’s room back here for Yasuko and one other person.”
    “I’ll sit in front,” said Mikamé, quickly climbing in by the driver. Ibuki followed, sitting next to him.
    “Oh, but really, there’s plenty of room back here—”
    “That’s all right. I like to see where I’m going.” Mikamé twisted around, facing the back seat, to greet Mieko more formally. “How have you been, Mrs. Toganō? I ran into Ibuki in the station coffee shop just now, and this expedition to the Nō master’s house sounded interesting—but I suppose that’s not the right word, is it? Anyway, I’m delighted to be able to go along. You’re sure it’s all right?”
    Listening, Ibuki observed with a faint smile that in speaking to