10Chapter 5: Mastery
Welcome to a new chapter of Sei's story as an expat columnist in Rome, writing about and partying with beautiful women of art and culture. She is a consummate seductress, and by her own admission a whore for attention and bodily warmth. Meet the girls in her irresistible, glamourous orbit, from uni student Yumi to ordained nun Shiori. But Sei has a new target for her affections: the rage of Rome's cultural scene, the ascendant opera star, Kanina Shizuka. What lies in store for this mischief-making journalist and her mysterious match?
Her editor, Alessandra, had been bugging her for over three weeks – an eternity in journalism time – to get on with it and send her something, anything for her column. An intern had been ghost-writing Sei's column over the past fortnight but anyone could tell that it lacked Sei's touch, the biting wit and sarcasm that got her in trouble so often yet endeared her to so many. Given her truancy, she still would have gotten an earful from the managing editor even if she had bothered turning up to the office with a month's worth of articles. To make matters worse, she'd put her phone on silent, not bothering to answer.
There was no way she was getting away with running away this time.
She was behaving like a bratty child. She thought she had left that phase behind long ago, the era when she would sulk and throw tantrums and she would only stop when she got her way or when the world denied her – just as it had denied her and Shiori of a normal, healthy relationship. Just as it had denied her…
Denied her…
Of who?
Oh, who was she kidding? She knew exactly who.
What on Earth was happening to her?
Sei enveloped her cool body in a bathrobe as she stepped out of her bath. She had treated herself to a long soak, thinking long and hard about everything, her ruminating punctured by stares up at the paint-peeling ceiling. She felt her fingertips growing wrinkled, turning into delicate raisins. It took her over half an hour to actually snap out of her absent-minded trance, to wash herself with some bath gel, before stepping out and wrapping her body in a fluffy and comfortable white bathrobe. She inserted her feet into a pair of bunny slippers and walked out into her living room. She stared at the open notebook on her bench beside the open kitchen. Her laptop. Her phone, lying beside it, with several Whatsapp and Facebook notifications flashing on the idle screen.
She pursed her lips.
She could lie to herself all day long. She knew bloody well what was up. Shizuka. That maestro, that masterful performer, how normal she made Sei feel, who usually felt at the centre of the universe. That night, the singer cut Sei down to size, reducing her to simply one of the many fans and journalists who begged for something from her – an autograph, a quote, a hug, anything for Shizuka's stardom to rub off on them, even if it was just a brush of the hand.
Was it jealousy? No. No, it couldn't be. Sei might have her own fanbase and known plenty of adoring women throughout her career, but she really meant it when she protested to her sceptical editors that she couldn't care if she lost it all. Competing with others for recognition and fame was not what she lived for. No, she wasn't jealous of Shizuka. It was quite the opposite: she was jealous of everyone else for attracting Shizuka's obligatory attention.
In other words, Shizuka had reduced her to a fangirl, just like all the others that swarmed around her that night at the opera.
And she hated it. She hated it because deep in her heart of hearts, she wanted to know more about Shizuka.
I'm stuck. I've got to try something. If I stuff up, so be it. But I've got to at least try something.
Sei wasn't sure who she was, but what was certain was that she was a columnist. She was an opinion maker. She was a storyteller. It was time that she reminded herself of just how far she'd come. Of just how much power she had. Yes, Shizuka may have temporarily made her feel helpless and wobbly. But she had a weapon too. The pen was mightier than the Shizuka, or at least, that was what she wanted to believe. Whatever. She was a journalist. Her only weapon, her way of making war so that she could conquer and make love to her spoils, was to write.
And now, she would dictate.
She picked up her IPhone and dialled a number, pressing the speaker icon so that she could walk to her sink and wash a mug. She waited for a few seconds, before a high-pitched, slightly panicked voice came from the other end. "Miss Satou? It's been a while… I thought you didn't need me anymore."
"Well, I assume the paper has still been sending you cheques, so even if I didn't assign you anything, you'd be okay. How have you been?"
"I'm fine. I'm just… surprised that you called. I mean, I'm happy. I felt really guilty, being paid but with nothing to do. I mean, you used me for a couple of articles every month, and then you just kind of disappeared."
"I'm sorry, Viola. But I need your stellar typing skills once more. I have an article in mind. I need to send it to Alessandra in a few hours. Can I count on you?"
"Always, Sei. Please. I already opened Word. I'm ready."
Sei fell silent for a few moments as she adjusted the collar of her bathrobe. She inhaled, closing her eyes for a few minutes.
Then she began to speak.
"There's a new queen in town," she said aloud, and the clack, clack, clack of Viola's keyboard could be heard on the other side of the phone. "You'd think I were exaggerating, since we all know that Rome is the city of the best, the most beautiful, and the most ambitious opera singers. I've written plenty about them as they come and go, rise in their fortunes or fade from the spotlight. I've watched singers from around Italy and elsewhere seek their fortunes in Rome, where your name can be as enduring as the stone monuments to undying glory." She paused. "Keeping up?"
"No problem," came Viola's voice on the other end.
"Yet the opera scene here has stagnated precisely because we have too many queens of the conventional. The dirty secret that we Japanese and Romans share is that performers and artists feel the city is becoming more and more constrained, like a beautiful corset that presses too close to a girl's torso and waist. Stefania Bonfadelli prefers to lend her soprano talents to houses around Europe. The magnificent baritone Alessandro Corbelli is a famously an established name for Mozart and Roselli, but when will he choose an artistic heir? Even non-Italians, as much as they love Italian operas, do not always see Italy as the centre for the flourishing of the art.
"So, what to do?" wondered Sei aloud, rubbing her chin as she leaned on her kitchen bench. She smiled as she listened to the relaxed but rapid tapping of Viola's fingers on the keyboard at the newsroom. "Whoever will be the saviour of us whimsical, fickle consumers of song?
"I have the solution. I have seen her in the flesh. In fact, many of you would have heard of her. She is not an Italian, but one of our own among the Japanese community. She returns to Tokyo in a few days, but she will return for her tour. And I call for her to come back to Rome at least a few times every year," dictated Sei insistently, her voice beginning to smoulder with yet-to-be-satiated passion. Viola's typing intensified in tandem with Sei's words. The column was taking shape. The premises of the article were established, and now Sei was about to make her main pitch. "Her name is Kanina Shizuka, and her fame has deservedly skyrocketed around here. When I saw her sing in my booth, amidst an illustrious audience of hundreds, I felt like I was the only one in the auditorium. She sang only for me, yet to my deluded outrage, I hated that others heard her voice. That is how good she is. She makes you want to get into a punch-up with the other listeners.
"I could go on and on about her technique, but in time there will be more written about her career and approach to opera than any other Japanese star. That is my prediction." She paused, staring out her window and onto the street below. Everything suddenly looked brighter, more colourful: the people, the clothes they wore, the old buildings of the neighbourhood, the balconies and railings, the fruit and food stalls below her apartment.
"Sei?" came Viola's voice, after a few moments' silence. "I've caught up."
"Right. Something about technique, Shizuka's career…" muttered Sei. "Right. The piece needs to be all about her. I'm going to write about her stage presence, Viola. How she captivating she was. How she bewitched everyone." Her silver eyes shone. "How she enchanted me."
And on Sei went, until she had said everything she had wanted to say. It was her confession, masquerading as a newspaper article. It was her cry to the world, masking a cry aimed at Shizuka only. That was her prerogative as a columnist. Shizuka might have denied her their night together, but by God, she would not let Shizuka flee her attention and favour so easily.
"It's done," came Viola's voice through Sei's phone. She sounded tired but very pleased – it had taken over two hours of dictating, frustration, and revising, but they had had something to show for it all, and the finished work was fantastic. Sei was satisfied with it too. "I'll send it to Alessandra as soon as I tidy it up."
"You're a lifesaver. Thanks for your help. If the editors shout at you, tell them it's my fault for being late." Sei hung up and opened her kitchen cabinet tiredly, grabbing a jar of chocolate cookies. She needed some sugar. She stared blankly at nothing as she munched away happily, her mind running over what she had just sent to her editor at the paper.
She put a hand to her face, rubbing her brow in near-disbelief at what she had just done.
When was the last time she had desired someone so badly, so badly that it hurt, that she would throw down her professional gauntlet for her?
"Shiori… I think I'm going mad," she murmured.
"Shizuka…"
NEXT CHAPTER: SHIZUKA'S ANSWER.
THE CONVERSATION BEGINS…
