Dr. Klein's entire premise for training me instead of killing me is wrong. I have never been a dancer. I have no recollection of dancing at any point of my life, discounting the occasional pirouette from a bar stool to regain my balance as I am about to leave the bar. I have also never been in love. My share of occasional ships in the night have been so random and inconsequential, that I would probably have a difficult time remembering any specific one.
This means, she must have been expecting someone else, and I showed up instead. I should not be complaining, without this confusion I would probably have been dead the very first night. However, it does bring the question what would happen when I have to deliver for her.
Meanwhile, my training has started. It is based on a simple concept: Nature intended us to be honest. Live, feel, express, and, in turn, know what others around us are feeling and expressing. Be part of a genuine, transparent world.
But the adult human mind opposes that. It sees honesty as a weakness and duplicity as an advantage. Hence, it urges us to obscure and conceal.
Except that it fails. Dr. Klein's research has shown that it is impossible to consciously hide emotions. 650 muscles in the human body, all of which, simultaneously, and in agreement with each other, express the way we truly feel. One may be able to control some of these muscles consciously, but the rest, or the lack of natural synchrony with the whole, will still tell the truth to an experienced observer.
Try to smile when you are sad. Your lips may twist into an imitation of a smile, but the rest of your body will still express your sadness.
I have been provided videos of babies and toddlers, lessons of anatomy, physiology, muscle movement, gestures, grimaces, and posture. Each case study contains a detailed explanation of how the underlying emotion is expressed by the entire body.
Dr. Klein stops by a few times a day to gauge my progress. Her makeup is back, although not to the extent to which she had it the day I met her. She has told me she is using a face primer, followed by a foundation, followed by a concealer, the latter very aptly named. This is her rudimentary layer of protection from what I am learning, although why she is hiding her emotions while still teaching me how to recognize them is still a mystery.
So far it has been effective. I watch her for the tell-tale signs of emotions I have already studied, but I still fail to detect them. Dr. Klein has assured me, however, that it is only a matter of time for me to get that first read. "You'll have to work harder for it."
Meanwhile, I continue to analyze my willingness to go along with her agenda. Am I letting her train me by my own free will? Did she tap into and exploit my natural curiosity for exploring the psyche? Or did she operate on me? Am I under her spell without knowing it? Or, is my compliance somehow driven at a more primitive, instinctual layer, by my undeniable physical attraction to her?
I know I cannot trust her, but I still look for signs of a reciprocal attraction. I watch her movement, smooth, graceful, feminine. I am aware of the position of her body, the flexing of her muscles. I try to read her as an exercise, but in reality, I am really trying to find out the reason for her spending that first night with me.
I find myself referring to her as both Mrs. Nakamura and Dr. Klein, separating the roles she plays in my current predicament. Mrs. Nakamura is the quiet, graceful hostess whose house I live in, whom I have to trust with my meals, and to whom I harbor an undeniable attraction. Dr. Klein is the expert who trained enemy agents who then used that knowledge to operate on me.
It is fascinating to watch the Jekyll and Hyde transformation. She comes home from work, dressed professionally, exuding confidence and strength. There is a certain austerity to her look, a focus, a determination. She walks over to her room, emerging half an hour later in a comfortable kimono, softer, quieter, nonthreatening. My conversations with Dr. Klein are about the material I am studying. Mrs. Nakamura carries out polite small talk about the island, its culture, its beautiful Springs and frightening thunderstorms.
It is day four. I sit on the back porch of her minka, laptop on my lap. The cherry trees in the garden are blooming. Bees are gyrating around fragile pink petals and birds are cheeping at the top of their tiny lungs. Had it not been for the involving videos I have been watching, I could have called this vacation.
The porch door slides open. She is back from work, dressed in an ironed business skirt and a blazer on top of a white shirt. She is Dr. Klein right now. She is wearing more makeup than the day before. This is probably because my training has progressed to reading emotions in adults.
She maintains an expressionless face, but despite that, and despite her concealing makeup, the pieces of the puzzle are starting to fall together. This is happening naturally, without conscious effort on my end. It is muscle memory, brought on by days of repetitive exercises.
There is a tray with a glass in her hand, a healthy fruit and vegetable smoothie by the looks of it. She is keeping me sober during the day while I am learning, offering alcohol only with dinner. I have gotten used to the healthy diet and have even started to lose my cravings for a nice, strong Scotch.
She leaves the tray next to me. That's when it happens, my first read. It caches me by surprise.
It is a weak read, but it is unmistakable. I read ambivalence. It is as if the sentiment is spelled out for me in words. Ambivalence is not an emotion. It is a state. But it is a state that the mind possesses, and the body expresses, and I am able to recognize it in Dr. Klein's body language.
I feel a sudden rush, the kind that a sportsman might feel when they have just executed a difficult new routine for the first time. It is exhilarating to get a glimpse into another person's feelings.
Dr. Klein nods without looking at me. "Good," she says before turning around and walking away hastily.
I try to decipher what I had just seen. What is she ambivalent about? Training me vs killing me? Keeping it professional vs sleeping with me? I willfully dismiss the latter thought. My attraction to her is likely skewing my judgment, making me see things that are not there. The former is very much a possibility. I do not believe for a second that she would train a nemesis with no strings attached.
It is at dinner when I am able to unravel her ambivalence more. We are outside, in the garden. I have helped her bring out a picnic blanket and she has brought the food on a large tray. In a different world, this would have felt like a date.
But her makeup is thicker than ever. Her face even more expressionless and doll-like. Even with that protection, I see it again, and now I can dig deeper. Her ambivalence consists of two distinct feelings: fear and hope.
The moment I read her, her fear spikes and overtakes her hope. She knows I see beyond her makeup now. It is clear that she is afraid of me. I am an enemy. I am also an unknown. Nothing prevents me from changing my mind and turning in on her. Nothing precludes the possibility that I might possess abilities that are further-reaching than those of her own. Her only protection from me is her quick ability to read me first, stay one step ahead of me, attack me and neutralize me before I do.
The read changes our usual dynamic. Conversation is superficial, forced, focused on the food. I watch her accelerated breathing, the added tension around the edges of her eyes, the inwardness of her averted gaze. I wish I could assure her to not be afraid, but I can't. I have no way of guaranteeing anything. I have accepted this unplanned partnership, but it is not a partnership based on trust. Just as she sees me as an enemy, so do I. She knows that.
I don't know what her hope represents. This is how reading emotions differs from reading thoughts.
She finishes her dinner first and waits silently for me.
"I will be gone for a few days," she says at last. "I will make sure meals are brought to you."
She gathers the dishes and walks away with the tray. I follow her with the picnic blanket, but she has already gone into her room and does not come out again.
A week passes before she comes back. During that time, I continue my training, my confidence growing as I progress through the exercises. She has given me a gift, an ability that gives me a clear advantage over many. What does she expect in return?
It is on a dark and cloudy evening when she returns. The sky is lead-colored, hanging close to the ground. A storm is expected soon.
I am setting up for an indoor dinner by myself when I hear someone closing the window shutters outside. She walks in shortly after, glides across the room with small steps and kneels across from me on the other side of the chabudai.
Her kimono is plain and brown. Her makeup is still thick, but sloppier, as if she had put it on in a hurry. There is a barely noticeable slouch in her usually straight posture. She looks at me. She is no longer averting her gaze. Her eyes are open, direct, staring into mine.
I am not even trying to read her, but I do so subconsciously. Her dominant emotion hits me like a tidal wave. Sadness. She is drowning in it.
"Mr. Nakamura does not live in Sendai," she says quietly. The profoundness of her emotion is palpable.
"What happened to him?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
I want to tell her I am sorry, but I don't need to. She knows, and acknowledges it with reciprocal emotion which I read.
"Who is responsible? My people, or yours?" I ask.
"They are the same thing, Sherman," she answers, and I read a bitter mix of disgust, anger and despair.
I wonder if she puts me in the same category as them. I, too, have committed murder.
There is more to her feelings though, an underlying emotion that barely shows under the dominant ones. I can see it now, even though it is buried deep. Love. She loves someone. And it is not her late husband. I don't know how I know that, but I do.
"He left behind a son?" I take a leap.
"A daughter," she corrects me.
I am not just reading her pain. I can actually feel it.
"How do you keep her hidden?" I ask
"The same way you do your work," she says.
She is now a jumble of feelings, some surging, others ebbing, yet others popping like the droplets of light rain that has started outside. As I stare into her eyes, her emotions paint images, which then form larger pictures. She is willfully remembering what happened and is letting me read it.
And I do. It is as if I see it in a movie. Her disbelief and shock when she found out that her husband is dead for no good reason. Her knowledge that she carries his child. Her determination to keep the baby a secret. Her risky, stealthy operations on the minds of her husband's killers, diverting their attention away, keeping them focused on her work instead, on her results.
She must have worked on their minds throughout her entire pregnancy and birthing. After that, she likely kept the baby nearby, possibly living inside the facility where she works, so she could see her often. With so many other babies and toddlers there, a small child would be easy to evade suspicion.
"Soon, they will be asking me to train them how to read," she says. "Once this is done, she will no longer be safe."
Reading is a game changer. When there are more around with her skills, there will be no more secrets, just like when there are more around with my skills, there are no guarantees of free will.
"I need to do what I have to to keep her safe," she says. Her sadness is palpable, but there is, now, also decisiveness, determination, hope.
There is a flash of lightning that outlines the edges of the window shutters and a loud thunder outside. The storm is starting. Dr. Klein sits across from me, eyes wide open, staring into mine. Suddenly, I know what she needs from me. I stare at her in disbelief. She just nods.
"You know our kind, Sherman," she says. "Once they find out, there will be no place for me to run..."
"What if I fail?" I ask. I am not even sure that what she wants me to do is possible.
"You better do your best," she says. "Your absolute best."
The storm outside unleashes. Heavy rain starts to pound the roof and outer walls.
"When?" I ask, over the rising noise.
"Tomorrow," she says.
She is watching me intensely, and she reads my acquiescence. He emotions spike. Her sadness is vast. But so is her hope.
As if in a trance, she stands up and heads to the door, sliding it wide open. The wind blows her hair back. The torrent hits her in the face and sends swaths of water inside the house. She casts a single backward glance at me and walks out, disappearing into the storm.
I walk over to the door and stare at the deluge. Lightning and thunder are striking every few seconds now. A waterfall connects the Earth and the sky. I cannot see her, but she is somewhere out there, wearing only her plain, brown kimono, walking along that dirt road.
There are states of mind compared to which the fury of nature is insignificant.
I lay in bed for a long time, listening to the storm. It is in the early morning hours when I become aware of her presence again.
The storm has already quelled. The house is quiet. She appears at the door of my bedroom, holding a candle. I had not heard her coming back. She has had time to bathe and dress up. Her hair is dry, neatly combed and tied in a ponytail. She is wearing the same silk red kimono she wore the very first night when she was still just Mrs. Nakamura. She has no makeup on.