It was on my fourth birthday...
When my aunt was reading sei shonagon...
That I saw my father and his publisher together...
For the first time.
Though I'm certain that any clear understanding of what I had witnessed...
Would have to wait until I was much older.
On my sixth birthday...
At the matsuo tiasha shrine in kyoto,
Encouraged by my aunt,
I vowed I would keep a diary.
A pillow book of my own.
I would fill it with all manner of observations,
Just like sei shonagon.
Perhaps one day, like her,
I could fill it with accounts of all my lovers.
On the same day as I started to keep my own pillow book,
I met my future husband for the first time.
I was six. He was ten.
We did not exchange a word.
He had been handpicked by my father's publisher.
Like sei shonagon, my sense of smell was very strong.
I enjoyed the smell of paper of all kinds.
It reminded me of the scent of skin.
My mother had taught me mandarin.
When my father painted a japanese greeting...
On my face on my birthday,
She played her favorite chinese record.
It had been popular when my parents had met in shanghai.
In remembrance of my father and in memory of sei shonagon,
I was determined to take lovers who would remind me...
Of the pleasures of calligraphy.
I could not be sure which was more important...
An indifferent calligrapher who was a good lover...
Or an excellent lover who was a poor calligrapher.
I became a wife.
I married.
I acquired a husband.
Whichever way you say it,
It was bound to end badly.
I had a ceremonial wedding in style.
Separated from my parents and my aunt,
I confided in my own pillow book more and more frequently.
Like the pillow book of sei shonagon, it was full of lists.
Unlike sei shonagon, all the lists were negative.
That was the first fire.
There was to be a second.
Both fires marked a big change in my life.
When I first arrived in hong kong, I hid.
I lived in kowloon city in the cheapest rooming houses I could find.
I did not want to be found by my parents...
Or by my husband.
I tried hard to improve the chinese my mother had taught me.
In the meantime, I was determined...
To keep alive my father's tradition.
I learned to type on my 21st birthday,
I tried to give myself my father's blessing.
I found work in the offices of a japanese designer.
And I was determined to speak english with an american accent.
I was planning to go to california.
Twenty meter of pale green organdy, pattern 14.
A meter of type-b tulle.
The small net size.
The type-b tulle with the small net size.
We went to kyoto, back to japan,
To work in the matuso tiasha shrine,
Which sei shonagon had visited regularly.
I couldn't give up such an opportunity.
I was also a little homesick.
We didn't finish walking the catwalk until midnight...
When all the audience had gone.
Sei shonagon had watched the moon rise in that garden...
A thousand years ago.
I could have walked up and down that path all night long.
You are not in a position to preach clean living.
Oh, yes, I am. And in blood red.
You could join us.
I'm too beautiful... And too rich.
- What's wealth got to do with it? - A great deal, I'd think.
I design material. You can wear it.
Frighten the buyers.
Then I'd soon cease to be wealthy.
You wouldn't need to be paid. You would do it for free.
Oh, yeah?
What else would you do for free?
I've been waiting to waste my talent on your body...
For a little reward.
My search for the ideal lover-calligrapher continued.
But it was becoming less and less likely that I would find him.
If they were old, they were invariably in no position...
To take advantage of what I had to offer.
And if they were young, they were often easily distracted.
It's them!
Don't look! Don't look.
What are you doing here? Are you responsible for this?
You shrimp! What do you think you're doing?
Shut up!
They were children playing a game.
They used hoki, the japanese photographer from tokyo,
As a pawn to find me.
I want those photos.
I had once kissed him on the cheek in a moment of happiness.
- You're a creep. - I'm sorry.
I have watched you, followed you everywhere.
It's only too obvious. And I could help you.
You haven't done too well so far.
You are very beautiful.
I employed a calligrapher...
With an obsession for mathematics.
While his wife sang and waited in the kitchen,
This account clerk filled my back with additions,
My front with subtractions.
I contacted a magazine designer...
Who insisted that I came back to his apartment in the new territories,
Where he could show me off to his parents who wanted grandchildren.
- Write "dear nagiko." - What?
- I took risks. - Where?
- Here. - I can't.
- Yes, you can. - Who knows what casual meeting would produce a surprise.
Nagiko?
Some of the great japanese calligraphers...
Were very modest and unassuming men.
Humble clerks by day, daring poets by night.
Good. Now write something else here.
With great trepidation,
I sought to move away from what I knew best.
After all, there were other great calligraphic traditions.
What have you written? That's for you to find out.
How am I going to do that?
You know, some cultures permit no images.
Perhaps some cultures ought to permit no visible text.
I need writing.
Don't ask me why. Just take out your pen and,
Please, write your name on my arm.
Go on.
I met an english translator at the cafe typo.
He said he spoke four languages, including yiddish.
I'll give you another chance.
Write on my back.
Well, what shall I write?
Write...
"we met for the first time at the cafe typo."
Write in three languages...
Japanese, french and english.
Waitress!
Are we going to do more writing?
Perhaps.
You smell strange.
Do you use perfume?
And your fingers.
What's wrong with my fingers?
I'll give you another chance. The last one.
Write on my breasts. A little inappropriate.
I'll decide what's inappropriate.
Write in yiddish. What's yiddish for "breasts"?
If you're a writer, surely you'd write on anything?
This is not going to work.
You're not a writer.
This is not writing; It's scribbling.
Distasteful scribbling.
Get out.
You're not a writer; You're a scribbler.
I've watched you with your little typewriter go click, click, clack.
Get out. Go!
You could show me.
- Go on. - No. I can't.
How can I get pleasure writing on you?
You have to write on me.
Go on.
Use my body like the pages of a book.
Of your book.
Not a special writing instrument at all.
I began very tentatively,
Thinking of sei shonagon's lists of anatomical comparisons.
The thoughts were often hers,
But the words were entirely mine.
For my first experiment in using flesh as paper,
I made a deal with an englishman who was entirely ignorant of oriental languages.
Hoki, this is where you can prove you have my interests at heart.
Come here quickly.
Off you go. Beautiful photographs.
And you don't get paid because you owe me.
This is where I begin to do the writing.
I'm now going to be the pen, not just the paper.
I could help you.
I think not.
Why not? What's wrong with me?
Because you are from kyoto, and you're young.
And your handwriting is illegible.
Besides, your skin does not make a good paper.
Watch.
You see? In my diary, I called you "the blotter."
Hoki the blotter.
I could help you.
I think not.
Why not?
You're none too smart with compliments.
Let me try.
Hoki set off at dawn for a foreign language bookshop...
In kowloon city in a street full of restaurants.
He finally gave the packet to some doorman.
"We feel that we are unable to consider...
"publication of this material.
It's not worth the paper it's written on."
So they're not satisfied with the quality of the paper.
Perhaps it's not japanese enough.
Try writing on me.
Seduce him.
I met jerome in the cafe typo...
And asked him for the services of a translator.
He gave me a choice of six languages.
They had increased by two.
I talked to him and I flattered him,
And I admired all the books he had yet to write.
You have to sign here.
Our first transaction was strictly financial.
He wanted to pay the bill but had no money.
He offered to write a check but had no checkbook.
I volunteered the palm of my hand.
If I could not seduce the publisher,
Then perhaps I could seduce the publisher's lover.
His writing, in so many languages,
Made me a signpost pointing east, west, north and south.
I had shoes in german, stockings in french,
Gloves in hebrew, a hat with a veil in italian.
He only kept me naked where I was most accustomed to wear clothes.
Shut up. Go away. Go away.
I would like to honor my father by becoming a writer.
I could help.
I could learn new languages...
To make you understood...
All over the world.
When god made his first human being...
He painted in the eyes.
And lips.
And the sex.
And when god approved of his creation...
He was obliged to sign his name.
There are so many publishers in the world. Why worry about this one?
I have my reasons.
I suspect it's because he rejected you so swiftly,
And few people, if any, have ever done that.
Perhaps.
But... If you're so determined to be published by him,
The publisher who rejects you and who loves me...
Then I have a plan.
I could be your messenger. You could write on me.
And with your permission and, of course, your blessing, I could...
Pay your publishing friend a visit?
A sacrifice?
But not without pleasure for you?
Perhaps.
You could be jealous?
Vtamo?
It's worked. He won't let me go. Wait for me.
He's thinking of an edition of 3,000...
If there are more, and there will be more, won't there?
I'll see you this evening. Wait for me here.
Hey, you are enjoying it too much.
But with your permission. And only according to the quality of the writing.
If you don't hurry it along, I'll be looking for someone else.
You dare.
He's making me wait. Buy some new paper.
Don't get so upset. You could use me.
Give me two more of these and some more of this and some stuff for him.
You could have babies.
- They're not bad-looking ladies. - I need some skin, two meters and a half.
- Sorry? - Back and front.
I could give you three and a half.
True, but the quality of the paper would not attract my fastidious publisher.
Jerome! Jerome.
Jerome!
I need you both. Come with me?
I really do. It's like wild kingdom.
All right, you're gonna like this one. This one's funny.
Okay. There are these two lesbians, all right? And one says to the other...
Keep going. Keep going. It felt good.
It felt good, I swear to god.
You know something? If you had a pair of tits...
Hey, you know something? They got a song about you in america.
You know what it's called? It's called "the hokeypokey."
You get it? "The hokeypokey."
Ready? You put your right foot in you put your right foot out
your put your right foot in and you shake it all about
you do the hokeypokey. You turn your...
Hello. Sorry.
Americans always say they have nothing to hide.
I can see that's true.
Look what I got here? It is a menu.
It's a menu to my very own restaurant. So you come on in.
No, get off! Come on in. And you've known me a long time. I'll let you in free.
Moo goo gai pan and all that stuff.
You wanna come in?
How 'bout a little kiss? How 'bout you kiss me in the hay? How does that sound?
Love me a long time, baby, love me a long...
nagiko? C'est moi. C'est jerome.
Nagiko?
Nagiko!
Nagiko...
Nagiko! Nagiko!
I know you're there! Let me in!
Don't play games! I know you're there!
Nagiko!
I met your friend. I met your fat friend.
He was nice? Was he nice?
He was covered in my paint! My paint for my body!
Nagiko! Nagiko!
Oh, my god! What have I done? What have I done?
I'll make it... make it up!
Please let me in!
I love you, nagiko.
I love you. Talk to me.
Nagiko!
Please!
I won't play games.
Let me in! Let me in!
Let me in!
Hoki, why won't she talk to me?
- Nagiko, why won't she talk to me? - I don't know.
What do you mean, you don't know? Have you seen her?
When did you last see her?
Oi.
Whiskey.
She comes here, you know, to pick up her clients.
She almost lives here.
The waiters are all pimps.
She makes sure they are very smooth-skinned.
You know? Between the legs?
Her maid usually washes them...
With lemon juice to make their skin soft...
And smooth.
But you could scare her.
You are a writer,
Like in romeo and juliet.
Shakespeare?
Jerome? Jerome? Jerome?
Jerome? Jerome? I'm sorry.
We can start again from where we left off.
I was angry. You deceived me...
With a man I detest, with a man who blackmailed my father.
But... We can revenge him.
We need to work.
Jerome.
Jerome?
Jerome! Jerome! Jerome!
Jerome!
Jerome always wanted to be foreign,
Though not necessarily oriental.
English wasn't enough for him.
He'd never have made a writer.
He didn't have enough imagination.
Jerome was dyslexic until he was 12,
Before it became fashionable.
And he broke every pair of glasses I gave him.
He hated wearing glasses.
He was very good at breaking things,
Especially relationships, just like his father.
His father was a catholic convert, always experimenting with faith.
We called our first son paul and our second jerome...
After his father's confessor, who was a jesuit in singapore.
Jerome never liked me.
He preferred my sister,
A little fool who was excited by modern literature.
All swear words and scatology, before it became fashionable.
I hear you're fashionable.
I suppose that's what excited jerome.
We burned an effigy of jerome's car.
We didn't burn his books.
They were too damp.
I burned my books...
And my clothes and shoes...
And the photographs and diaries.
It was the second major fire in my life.
The first fire had taken me out of japan.
The second took me back.
Hoki wrote to me.
Even after jerome's death, he was still very, very jealous.
He wrote to tell me about the publisher's act of sacrilege.
I had promised jerome 13 books.
I could not now write them on jerome's body.
I found substitutes in japan.
I would write the books for the publisher as a bargain...
For the return of the pillow book he had made of jerome's body.
Now you've been signed by me,
You can go and do my business.
Excuse me. Can I see the manager, please?
Let's take another photograph.
Excuse me. Give it to the manager and tell him we are here.
This is the writing of Nagiko Yujikino,
And I know you to have blackmailed,
Violated and humiliated my father.
I suspect you also of ruining my husband.
You have now committed the greatest crime.
You have desecrated the body of my lover.
You and I now know...
That you have lived long enough.
Today, I am 28 years old.
And on my 28th birthday I have experiences enough...
To write my own pillow book.
Think of that.
The pillow book of Nagiko Kiyohara.
I can now make my own list of things...
That make the heart beat faster.