Chapter 23: liness, Medie, HealingK was hardly the first woman to call me a misogynist. They all did. I’m not talking about the silly things I brought home from clubs or the offibsp; Dumb as they were, they usually khe score and I never led them on. With few exceptions I never promised to call or any of that nonsense. If I did say I was going to call, you could damn well expeobile t soon, and not after some bullshit two-day wait. I rarely gave my hough. It’s not like I was looking for anything long term, right?

  The women that sted a little longer? The retionships--and it’s almost ughable to call them that--that endured a couple of weeks, a month, maybe two at most? Yeah, those didn’t usually end so well. Those women had several choice words for me, and ‘misogynist’ sure as hell wasn’t one of them. It’s one of the fo memory I have of Akiko. I guess it’s not surprising for an academic of Literature, but she revealed a surprisingly creative knack for swearing after I dumped her.

  That being said, Akiko was the one who taught me what the word ‘misogynist’ meant. That was the teacher in her. It was the kind of word she liked to use, being a uy professor and all. She was trying to save me from myself and by the end of the retionship she decided the reason I was beyond saving was because I hated both myself and women. Which is crazy because, believe me, I definitely don’t hate women. Akiko, she always looked too deeply into things. I think it’s a danger io studying books and shit.

  Amanda called me a misogynist. She thought it was funny. Muna would’ve called me a misogynist had we dated longer. I seem to remember that she had an impressive vocabury for a seventeen-year old.

  I doubt Persephone would have. She didn’t think I hated women. She couldn’t have cared less anyway. That’s probably because she hated women too. Actually, she hated everyone, including herself. To this day I still believe she hated and loved me more than anyone.

  And Sakura? She knew why I hated women and fostered that hate, taught me how to use it and make it blossom when necessary, how to restrain my spite when not. Sakura taught me many things and maybe that’s why I was never able t myself to despise her, no matter how hard she worked me, how savagely she beat me. Not even after she abandoned me. No; not even then.

  What I felt for her was something more than childhood infatuation, something less--or different--than the overwhelming, ing swell of emotions I experienced with Sephy.

  Uhe other women from my past, thinking about Sakura didn’t get me--God!--moist in the crotbsp; I could still vividly picture her even though it’s been nearly two decades years since I worked for her. A tiny woman of Japanese dest and youthfully indisible age, she wasn’t what you would call pretty. But she was sexy, in the same way that power be sexual. She was attractive, in the way a roadside act draws attention. Looking at a picture of her you might not think mubsp; In person? The woman had this real . . . presenbsp; Nah, presence doesn’t cover it, not by half. You know that feeling right before a really big, really cool storm? That electric hum in the air and an expet weight spread across the sky, as the clouds roil above and the wind blows stronger and stronger and the leaves rustle and hiss anxiously irees? Yeah, that’s kinda like how I felt around Sakura. Seriously.

  To just describe her, the long, straight shiny bck hair, her small dark eyes and angur features, captures nothing of whom and what she is. Emotions varied and strong animated her body and she was capable of the most amazing expressions of joy or weling er--but a few times I had this uneasy sensation that she wore these emotions like a mask, easily discarding and repg them as necessary. She certainly was capable of revealing nothing when she chose to, turning inscrutable, empty. I never learo read that woman, not when she fouhat day in the hospital; not after I dropped out of school to join the gangs and she started to teach me; not even wheook me in after I ran away from home.

  I uood her least of all when I turo her after Persephone’s death. Even then, at the end, wheurned her bae and offered me nothing—even then, I couldn’t bring myself to hate Sakura.

  “Hey there, you okay?” asked Auntie, gently shaking my shoulder. “You looked a wee bit lost.”

  I blinked, snapping back to the present. It was beginning to grow dark outside. A faintly transparent image hung suspended in the window I unseeingly stared through: dy, quickly sketched in obscure lines, long hair, empty eyes, shiny lips. “Umm, yeah,” I answered softly. “Just . . . thinking.”

  “About what, dear?”

  My fucked-up past, I wao say, but instead I turossing that long mane of golden hair over my shoulder, and gave her a big, shiny smile. “Nothing! Well, nothin’ important, anyway.” Yeah, I learned a thing or two from Sakura about hidiions, sing masks. “Just kinda w when we’re gono . . . uh, that pce we’re going.”

  “The Asklepios ic?”

  “Yeah! That pbsp; The, umm . . . Ask-a-pbsp; ibsp; Thingy.”

  My aunt gave a tolerant smile, and poi the glove partment. “Have a look in there, dy. I think I kept a flyer or something.”

  Shrugging, I reached forward, popped open the partment, and amidst the jumble of road maps, packs of gum, old CDs, a snub-nosed .45, a couple of fsh memory keys and crumpled napkins, I found a glossy fold-out leaflet.

  “This it?”

  She nodded. “Have a look before it gets too dark. You wouldn’t want to strain your eyes, now would you?”

  “No Auntie,” I mumbled.

  The Asklepios ic: liness, Medie, Healing, the leaflet’s front promised, apparently amidst the sanctity and privacy of nature’s embrabsp; I had the sinking feeling that K was bringio some dumb-ass Goddess-worshipih Mother-loving, tree-hugging, grano-mung hippy une, but was surprised by what the publication revealed within. The ic seemed to be some kind of bination private hospital, recovery tre and sanatorium, thoughtfully led away from the bustle and fusion of the big city. Those with either rge sums of money or a special reendation reviewed by a board of trustees were wele at the Asklepios ic, to stay and heal and--I wasn’t sure what they meant by this--ge.

  The facilities seemed ultra-modern. The tre offered a full range of surgical, medical, psychological and strangely enough (I thought), spiritual services, spread between four distinct collectives: the Hygieia tre, Meditrine ic, Panacea house and Telesforos retreat. Aodations varied from unal to very private and the iised that they catered to a wide, yet very selective, range of ts.

  The low whistle I released was entirely out of character. “Holy shit, K,” I said, flipping bad forth between the pictures of happy, shiny people clearly enjoying their stay at the ibsp; “What the hell are we heading to this pce for?”

  “You need qualified medical help, Mr Saunders,” K answered. “And you require somewhere private, secure ae in which to y low. The Asklepios ic was the a pce avaible.”

  “Yeah, but . . . .” I sed through the leaflet again. “ we afford this kind of pce?”

  K chuckled. “No, Mr Saunders, as well-paid as we may both be and even if we had easy access to our ats, our collective ine would scarcely cover a weekend’s stay at the ibsp; Fortunately, I have some es on the admittance board. A few favours owing, you could say.”

  “Huh.” I wondered what kind of favours she had owed to her and what she’d doo earn them. There were more than a few favours owed to me out there as well, and I wasly proud of some of the shit I’d doo get them. Still, owed favours were damn useful things to have. “But, ah . . . what about dy? What would she need with this kind of pce?”

  K--Auntie--gave a loving pat to dy’s knee. “Don’t worry, dear,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. “This is just what you need. A ce to finally get over the past.”

  What kind of past, I wondered, could a chick as young as dy possibly have to get over?