17



The Fitting Room

*

A Successor



Nutmeg knew nothing about the women who came to her. None of them offered
information about herself, and Nutmeg never asked. The names with which they made
their appointments were obviously made up. But around them lingered that special smell
produced by the combination of power and money. The women themselves never made a
show of it, but Nutmeg could tell from the style and fit of their clothes that they came
from backgrounds of privilege.
She rented space in an office building in Akasaka- an inconspicuous building in an
inconspicuous place, out of respect for her clients' hyper active concern for their privacy.
After careful consideration, she decided to make it a fashion design studio. She had, in
fact, been a fashion designer, and no one would have found it suspicious for a variety of
women to be coming to see her in substantial numbers. Her clients were all women in
their thirties to fifties of a sort that could be expected to wear expensive, tailor- made
clothes. She stocked the room with clothing and design sketches and fashion magazines,
brought in the tools and work benches and mannequins needed for fashion design, and
even went so far as to design a few outfits to give the place an air of authenticity. The
smaller of the two rooms she designated as the fitting room. Her clients would be shown
to this "fitting room," and on the sofa they would be "fitted" by Nutmeg.
Her client list was compiled by the wife of the owner of a major department store.

The woman had chosen a very carefully limited number of trustworthy candidates from
among her wide circle of friends, convinced that in order to avoid any possibility of
scandal, she would have to make this a club with an exclusive membership. Otherwise,
news of the arrangement would be sure to spread quickly. The women chosen to become
members were warned never to reveal anything about their "fitting" to outsiders. Not
only were they women of great discretion, but they knew that if they broke their promise
they would be permanently expelled from the club.
Each client would telephone to make an appointment for a "fitting" and show up at
the designated time, knowing that she need not fear encountering any other client, that
her privacy would be protected absolutely. Honoraria were paid on the spot, in cash, their
size having been determined by the department store owner's wife-at a level much higher
than Nutmeg would have imagined, though this never became an obstacle. Any woman
who had been "fitted" by Nutmeg always called for another appointment, without
exception. "You don't have to let the money be a burden to you," the department store
owner's wife explained to Nutmeg. "The more they pay, the more assured these women
feel." Nutmeg would go to her "office" three days a week and do one "fitting" a day.
That was her limit.
Cinnamon became his mother's assistant when he turned sixteen. By then, it had
become difficult for Nutmeg to handle all the clerical tasks herself, but she had been
reluctant to hire a complete stranger. When, after much deliberation, she asked him to
help her with her work, he agreed immediately without even asking what kind of work it
was she did. He would go to the office each morning at ten o'clock by cab (unable to bear
being with others on buses or subway trains), clean and dust, put everything where it
belonged, fill the vases with fresh flowers, make coffee, do whatever shopping was
needed, put classical music on the cassette player at low volume, and keep the books.
Before long, Cinnamon had made himself an indispensable presence at the office.
Whether clients were due that day or not, he would put on a suit and tie and take up his
position at the waiting room desk. None of the clients complained about his not speaking.
It never caused them any inconvenience, and if anything, they preferred it that way. He
was the one who took their calls when they made appointments. They would state their
preferred time and date, and he would knock on the desktop in response: once for "no"
and twice for "yes." The women liked this concision. He was a young man of such classic
features that he could have been turned into a sculpture and displayed in a museum, and
unlike so many other handsome young men, he never undercut his image when he opened
his mouth. The women would talk to him on their way in and out, and he would respond
with a smile and a nod. These "conversations" relaxed them, relieving the tensions they
had brought with them from the outer world and reducing the awkwardness they felt after
their "fittings." Nor did Cinnamon himself, who ordinarily disliked contact with
strangers, appear to find it painful to interact with the women.
At eighteen, Cinnamon got his driver's license. Nutmeg found a kindly driving
instructor to give him private lessons, but Cinnamon him self had already been through
every available instruction book and ab sorbed the details. All he needed was the practical
know- how that couldn't be obtained from books, and this he mastered in a few days at
the wheel. Once he had his license, he pored over the used- car books and bought himself
a Porsche Carrera, using as a down payment all the money he had saved working for his
mother (none of which he ever had to use for living expenses). He made the engine shine,

bought all new parts through mail order, put new tires on, and generally brought the car's
condition to racing level. All he ever did with it, though, was drive it over the same short,
jam- packed route every day from his home in Hiroo to the office in Akasaka, rarely
exceeding forty miles an hour. This made it one of the rarer Porsche 911's in the world.



Nutmeg continued her work for more than seven years, during which time she lost
three clients: the first was killed in an automobile accident; the second suffered
"permanent expulsion" for a minor infraction; and the third went "far away" in
connection with her husband's work. These were replaced by four new clients, all the
same sort of fascinating middle- aged women who wore expensive clothing and used
aliases. The work itself did not change during the seven years. She went on "fitting" her
clients, and Cinnamon went on cleaning the office, keeping the books, and driving the
Porsche. There was no progress, no retrogression, only the gradual aging of everyone
involved. Nutmeg was nearing fifty, and Cinnamon turned twenty. Cinnamon seemed to
enjoy his work, but Nutmeg was gradually overcome by a sense of powerlessness. Over
the years, she went on "fitting" the "something" that each of her clients carried within.
She never fully understood what it was that she did for them, but she continued to do her
best. The "somethings," meanwhile, were never cured. She could never make them go
away; all that her curative powers could do was reduce their activity somewhat for a time.
Within a few days (usually, from three to ten days), each "something" would start up
again, advancing and retreating over the short span but growing unmistakably larger over
time - like cancer cells. Nutmeg could feel them growing in her hands. They would tell
her: You're wasting your time; no matter what you do, we are going to win in the end.
And they were right. She had no hope of victory. All she could do was slow their
progress somewhat, to give her clients a few days of peace.
Nutmeg would often ask herself, "Is it not just these women? Do all the women of the
world carry this kind of 'something' inside them? And why are the ones who come here
all middle- aged women? Do I have a 'something' inside me as well?"
But Nutmeg did not really want to know the answers to her questions. All she could
be sure of was that circumstances had somehow conspired to confine her in her fitting
room. People needed her, and as long as they went on needing her, she could not get out.
Sometimes her sense of powerlessness would be deep and terrible, and she would feel
like an empty shell. She was being worn down, disappearing into a dark nothingness. At
times like this, she would open herself to her quiet son, and Cinnamon would nod as he
listened intently to his mother's words. He never said anything, but speaking to him like
this enabled her to attain an odd kind of peace. She was not entirely alone, she felt, and
not entirely powerless. How strange, she thought: I heal others, and Cinnamon heals me.
But who heals Cinnamon? Is he like a black hole, absorbing all pain and loneliness by
himself? One time- and only that once-she tried to search inside him by placing her hand
on his forehead the way she did to her clients when she was "fitting" them. But she could
feel nothing.
Before long, Nutmeg felt that she wanted to leave her work. "I don't have much
strength left. If I keep this up, I will burn out completely. I'll have nothing left at all." But
people continued to have an intense need for her "fitting." She could not bring herself to

abandon her clients just to suit her own convenience.
Nutmeg found a successor during the summer of that year. The mo ment she saw the
mark on the cheek of the young man who was sitting in front of a building in Shinjuku,
she knew.