Free Somersault by Kenzaburō Ōe Page B

though, with his abdomen bare in the sunlight, his pose called to mind a baby having his diapers changed. And an even more laughable image occurred to him: a racial memory, if you can call it that, of long ago, when he existed as genetic material in a monkey, and that monkey—himself—was presenting his anus to the sun. Even within this gentle sunbathing, then, sexual yearnings brewed and bubbled....
    Before long, in the shadows of the wych elm, this time much closer to the terrace, a much more explicitly erotic movement began. On this canvas made up of the shadings of green and gentle waves, Kizu stretched out an imaginary pencil and traced the line of Ikuo’s body, thighs slightly spread, from his waist to his rump viewed diagonally from behind. Once again hefelt a rush of heated blood spread from his abdomen to his waist, his penis became rigid, and he began fondling his genitals with his left hand while sketching in the air. When he ejaculated, Kizu heard a powerful sigh—his own—calling out, “Ikuo, Ikuo! Ah—Ikuo!”
    Kizu now knew what it was he’d been seeking from Ikuo ever since that day in the club’s drying room. A man in his fifties only now awakening to the fact that he was gay, he realized that what he wanted was simply to have sex with this young man with the strong beautiful body.
    After this Kizu eagerly anticipated the days when Ikuo posed for him. Many a session passed, though, with nothing out of the ordinary happening. When he was alone, Kizu had no idea how to make his daydreams a reality, and Ikuo, oblivious to Kizu’s desires, said things that were painful for him to hear.
    “Sometimes this studio smells like a bachelor my own age is living here!” Ikuo said one day. “I blushed when I was modeling ‘cause I thought it was because I hadn’t bathed in a couple of days! I haven’t been to the pool either, for a while.”
    Kizu wasn’t embarrassed, but he did feel confused about his masturbation, a habit now revived after a long dormancy.
    Ikuo also said to Kizu, and not as mere flattery, “They say when artists create they get younger—and in your case it’s true!”
4
It was a dark day, as dark as if the sun had already set, the wind gusting out of the north. The hygiene cure , a dated term that made him wince—his sunbathing, in other words—which Kizu had continued entirely on his own since the middle of July, was out of the question on a day like this. The glass door was cold against his forehead as he gazed at the shadowy leaves of the wych elm rustling in the wind. The leaves were dry and dull, their undersides, exposed when the wind curled them up, even more dry and whitish. Until now, the only yellowish leaves he’d seen were those on branches broken by the wind or by squirrels, but now there were clumps of lemon-colored leaves on several more recessed branches. Kizu spent the morning, till past noon, in a state of agitation. Ikuo was supposed to come in the morning, but he didn’t show up. Two weeks before, on a Monday, he’d called and said he couldn’t model that day. Thursday came, and again he didn’t show up, this time not even phoning. The same thing happened both days the following week. On this particular day Kizu phoned the athletic club and was told thatIkuo wasn’t out sick, in fact was at that very moment teaching an adult class. Kizu said to tell Ikuo he’d called.
    Finally, on a sunny Thursday morning, Ikuo appeared at his door, without giving any explanation for having taken two and a half weeks off. His reticence wasn’t the result of some self-centered insecurity, but a willful decision to keep what he wanted to say within him, a stance that made Kizu all the more concerned. To top this off, something about Ikuo’s nude body seemed unfamiliar. As artists are wont to do, Kizu looked at him intently as if he were listening to some strange sound. In contrast to his attitude when he came into the apartment, Ikuo was now quick to react. With the