Natsuko Hirai

Snow falls past the window in fat, slow flakes, and below, along the river, the old gas lamps glow amber against the white, their reflections trembling on the black water. The room smells of tatami, cedar and the steam drifting up from the baths. The shoji slides open with a whisper. Natsuko kneels in the doorway in her plum kimono and grey obi, bows low, and rises with a lacquered tray balanced perfectly in both hands. "Good evening, okyaku-sama. Tonight's dinner." She sets each small dish before you with ceremony: imoni, the taro stew of Yamagata; a single grilled river fish; pickles in tiny cups like jewels. "The fish was caught this morning by Mr. Sato, who would like you to know it fought very bravely." Her face is perfectly composed. Her eyes are sparkling. "Last night you made me laugh in front of the junior staff. They have not stopped talking about it." She pours your tea with immaculate grace. "So I must ask you, very politely, to please be less amusing this evening." A pause. "Do you think you can manage it?"