Sex and Emotion

I've been in Japan for almost five years, and these five years of living abroad have taught me a lot. I've come to understand that the most precious thing in this world isn't money, but human dignity.
Unfortunately, my father fell ill and became paralyzed on one side
. Our old bungalow was demolished, and we had to take out loans to buy a new one. To overcome these difficulties, I worked tirelessly in Japan, hoping to earn more money to send home. I worked as a tutor in Japan. This profession was the subject of speculation and private discussion among acquaintances in Japan and friends who had returned home, who tainted it with a strong sense of ambiguity. But I proved my independence and innocence through my actions.
My two students were middle-aged wealthy Japanese women. My teaching consisted of selecting painters and artworks from various countries, periods, and schools, explaining and appreciating them, and accompanying them to various art exhibitions in Tokyo. Through these two "students," I could also occasionally create decorative paintings for people they introduced me to, each piece selling for $600 to $1000.
When I first arrived in Japan, I was destitute. To survive, I had to work as a cover designer for a publication in a Chinese student club. However, the pay was meager, barely enough to make ends meet, and I soon fell behind on rent. Later, a gallery owner from Hong Kong knew my landlord and spoke on my behalf, preventing me from being evicted and ending up homeless.
Even so, I couldn't let go of my passion and pursuit; I continued to love painting. When I heard that Fujita was going to hold an exhibition in Meguro, I was immediately thrilled. Fujita was very famous; for someone seeking a career in oil painting in Japan, not seeing his work was almost like going to China to study Chinese painting and not seeing the works of Qi Baishi or Xu Beihong.
That day, when I heard the news of the exhibition, I was painting a mural on the wall at the entrance of a company. After finishing the work, I threw down my brush and rushed to the station to take the train to Meguro. I arrived at the venue around 4 PM. Not knowing the way and unwilling to spend money on a taxi, I stumbled upon the Garden Art Museum, only to find it nearly deserted.

I was immediately captivated by Fujita's paintings, lingering at the exhibition without noticing the lateness of the hour. Just then, a well-dressed lady politely informed me that the museum was closing. She was Mrs. Ogawa; Fujita was a distant relative, and she was volunteering at the exhibition.
Being unfamiliar with the area, I asked Mrs. Ogawa if there was a cheap hotel nearby, as I wanted to continue visiting the exhibition the next day. I awkwardly emphasized "cheapest" twice in Japanese. She looked me over, sensing my identity and unease, and then subtly asked, "You don't mean a 'motel' by 'cheapest,' do you?"
I understood her meaning. "Motels" are cheap, but those who stay there are either homeless or involved in prostitution. I said awkwardly, "I prefer not to stay in those kinds of hotels."
She then asked what I did for a living and why I was so interested in Fujita's exhibition. I briefly explained my situation. Afterwards, Mrs. Ogawa asked me to come with her, saying she was a relative of Fujita. On the way, I shared with her my understanding and appreciation of Fujita's works. So when she led me to the villa-like "Kōei Hotel," I panicked and said I couldn't afford such a place. Mrs. Ogawa said, "It's run by a relative, so it's free for you."
Later I learned that Mrs. Ogawa had paid for everything for me that day.
Unexpectedly, this chance encounter led to me becoming Mrs. Ogawa's art tutor, and she even had her lawyer and I sign a formal two-year contract.
Soon after, Mrs. Ogawa also persuaded her friend, Mrs. Takeshita, to hire me as a tutor as well. To be honest, they didn't really want me to teach them art; they wanted me to help them with shopping, dressing, and as an art consultant for their homes. Mrs. Ogawa's
family was very wealthy, their ancestors having been rich. She was an only child and met her husband while studying in Paris. Her husband was intelligent and hardworking, and relying on his father-in-law's wealth, he became a banker and mining tycoon, based in Paris.
Ten years ago, the young couple began living separately. The husband had an affair in Paris, and their marriage existed in name only. However, neither wanted a divorce; they wanted to protect the reputation of their family and business. Furthermore, Mrs. Ogawa controlled all the company's assets, and she herself had no business acumen. Fortunately, her husband responsibly treated her as a major shareholder, diligently providing her with financial reports and dividends. Mrs. Ogawa herself was accustomed to being this vain and illusory socialite.
She frequently flew between Paris and Tokyo, fabricating beautiful lies about her husband to relatives and friends. In reality, their meetings were merely brief encounters, casual conversations, and meals.
Mrs. Ogawa shrouded herself in vanity, illusion, and falsehood; in truth, she was deeply unhappy. She had no power to change her circumstances; the only thing she could do was build a protective barrier with money. She hired two private lawyers at great expense, entrusting everything to them. Many times, I saw her discussing matters with her lawyers, her eyes filled with childlike fear, hesitation, anxiety, and helplessness… Once, a thief broke into her house, and she was so frightened that she hid in a small storage room behind her bedroom, freezing all night. She only dared to come out the next morning when she heard the maid calling her. Mrs. Ogawa frequently participated in numerous social activities, including various charitable events. She did these things simply to alleviate her inner loneliness.
I admit that as we spent more time together, Mrs. Ogawa developed subtle feelings for me. A friend told me that this was a classic story; Mrs. Ogawa was a typical classical female character. Although she was middle-aged, she possessed a childlike romanticism, and she was still quite naive about relationships.
I admit that because of Mrs. Ogawa's favor, I was able to move out of my previous cramped apartment and rent a room with a private bathroom, kitchen, and telephone. I also successfully completed my Japanese language studies and was admitted to the University of Tokyo as a self-funded international student majoring in Western Art History.
After Mrs. Ogawa hired me as her tutor, I had to "study" for her every Saturday and Sunday, basically accompanying her to art exhibitions and explaining the works. Each time, she would treat me to dinner.
Mrs. Ogawa always dressed up beautifully for our meetings. At first, she frequently invited friends like Mrs. Takeshita to join her. Soon, however, she only saw me. She began to show affection beneath her reserved demeanor, even giving me clothes and other gifts. I wasn't stupid; I could sense what she was thinking.
At that time, TBS was airing a drama series every day, "The Lover's Phone Call," made specifically for wealthy and leisurely housewives. The protagonist was a wealthy woman like Mrs. Ogawa who, lonely in her marriage and family, received a pack of tissues with an advertisement for a lover's phone company at a subway station. Out of boredom, she dialed the number, which escalated from a phone call to a love hotel, leading to a family tragedy. The
theme song of the drama was good; it was played repeatedly on speakers outside many shops. Listening to it, I felt very confused. What role was I playing? Did Mrs. Ogawa treat me like a commodity, a lover? Was I willing to play that role…? Honestly, I understood Mrs. Ogawa perfectly. She was lonely, vain, but also weak and kind. All she truly possessed was money and material possessions, which she used to exchange for the respect and comfort she needed emotionally and spiritually.
I needed money, and I could offer her comfort. However, when these two things became synonymous, we both lost our most precious thing—respect.
I needed money, and I could offer my services, my time, and my knowledge to earn it, but not my feelings. I couldn't abandon my self-respect for the sake of money and have an ambiguous relationship with a married woman more than ten years my senior. I had to maintain a proper balance.
In the early summer of the second year after I met Mrs. Ogawa, she invited me to the Meiji Imperial Palace to see the annual gladiolus flower exhibition. After the exhibition, she took me out to dinner, as usual.
I noticed that Mrs. Ogawa's dishes were different from usual; each dish had an extra item—various crystal-clear red hearts made of fruit.
A profound unease made me extremely restless, a mixture of excitement and embarrassment. I faced only two paths: one, to abandon my dignity and conscience starting tomorrow and become Mrs. Ogawa's lover; two, to quit this job and say goodbye to Mrs. Ogawa.
My awkwardness affected Mrs. Ogawa, and her face gradually flushed. I knew Mrs. Ogawa was emotionally fragile, and I began to feel a little sorry for her. But I knew very well what I should do.
The music was elegant, and the aroma of wine lingered. I intentionally spoke to Mrs. Ogawa about my study abroad experience in Japan, which I had never discussed in detail with her before, about my gratitude towards her, and about the TV series "Lover's Phone Call," and what I had said when I called and wrote home about her… My words were clear and measured.
We gradually calmed down. Mrs. Ogawa understood the meaning behind my conversation. She began to change the subject, regaining her composure, and slowly began to talk about my studies and my future. Moreover, she first talked about her vision of my future girlfriend.
A sense of concern, understanding, and mutual comfort emerged between us, a clear distinction between friends despite differences in age, status, and life experience.
That night, as we parted, Mrs. Ogawa said to me in French—a phrase upper-class Japanese women often used to flaunt their status and refinement—"It's more pleasant to appreciate a friend than to pamper a lover."
Now, two years have passed since I ended my contract as Mrs. Ogawa's "tutor." But thanks to her help, I successfully overcame the difficulties I faced upon first arriving in Japan. In that respect, I was fortunate. But even more fortunate is that both Mrs. Ogawa and I were able to transcend misplaced love, and that I've begun my path to success.

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