Back in his room, Jiro changed out of his uniform into a t-shirt, bathing shorts, and flip-flops and strolled out of the bathhouse’s side entrance, into the bright afternoon sunlight. The bathhouse stood on a hill facing the sea. Jiro took the winding dirt path that led down to the main road below.

As he walked, he tried not to think of Kaori’s breasts but of the things she had told him. Why had she said the guests were not exactly human? Jiro had seen only a few guests in his time here, but they had seemed entirely human to him. Old and decrepit? Sure. Senile? Perhaps. But unhuman? Not unless growing old took away your humanity. He shook his head. It was probably just another one of Kaori’s pranks. She was trying to kill him from embarrassment. Or from desire. And she was doing a hell of a job. But right now, Jiro had bigger problems. Money problems.

Jiro stepped off the dirt path and onto the street. A battered car nearly grazed him as it drove past. It honked in protest before continuing down the road that led to the nearby town. Jiro turned back to look up at the bathhouse. His bathhouse. From down here, it was a grand thing. Full wood construction, tiered structure, and an arched roof, upon which stood carvings of lions and tigers, dragons and peacocks. Each floor had its own balcony, like the pagodas from kung fu films, and the wood carried the same strange carvings Jiro had seen in the meeting room. Yes, it was a magnificent building … until you got closer.

When you got too close, all the flaws were revealed: chipped wood, torn paper lanterns, missing roof shingles. Plus, in some places, the flooring was not altogether sound. Jiro had learned that firsthand. On his first day, the floor of one corridor had caved under him, and he had fallen down into the room below.

But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that there had been guests in that room. Naked guests. Two of them: a man and a woman, who had checked in to the bathhouse for a steamy, romantic honeymoon. And they weren’t just naked. They had also been engaged in the kind of things that naked people do, late at night, when they are newly married and alone together in a room.

Jiro shook his head violently, trying to chase away the horrific memory. But he couldn’t. He could see it all like it was right in front of him. A man and a woman, sweaty, panting, joined in a rather compromising position … One that Jiro had never seen before, even in the kinkiest of internet magazines. Days later, he didn’t fully comprehend what the couple had been trying to accomplish. Among other things, the couple’s passionate act of lovemaking had involved a daikon radish, a cucumber, three carrots, the spines of several cacti, a hamster (still alive), a poodle (not alive) and—for some mysterious reason—nearly three dozen separate rolls of restaurant-grade, heavy-duty plastic wrap.

Jiro felt his face absently with one hand. His jaw still hurt from where the husband, once he had torn himself free from his bride (a feat that had taken several long, agonizing, awkward moments), had strolled over, still butt naked, and swung his fist into Jiro’s jaw. No wonder there were no more bookings.

Jiro crossed the street and began to climb down the rocks that separated the main road from the dark sandy beach beyond. There was something else strange about the bathhouse, he thought. A touch of mystery, you could say. He had only been there for a few days, and already many strange things had happened. Sometimes, it felt like the bathhouse was alive: doors seemed to emerge from empty walls, staircases seemed to switch destinations or disappear altogether, and, on one occasion, Kaori’s underwear had, overnight, magically teleported into one of the drawers in Jiro’s room. That had made it even harder to look Kaori in the eye … now that he knew what kind of panties she wore. They hadn’t at all been the conservative type of underwear you expected a woman in a kimono to wear ... Closer to a shoelace than any kind of lingerie, really.

Yes, alive was the right word for the house. Alive or deranged. Even in the bright daylight, it was difficult to tell how large the building was. Jiro had tried in vain to climb to the highest floor only to find himself, hours later, panting and covered in sweat, back at the reception desk, where Kaori had been relaxing in a wicker chair and sipping a cup of tea. That had raised eyebrows.

Jiro yawned and sat down on a rock, facing the beach. It was probably just his imagination. Just the jet lag getting to his head. Houses didn’t come to life. Guests didn’t transform into non-human beings. And sexy women’s lingerie (lavender scented) certainly didn’t travel across time or space.

Two couples in swimsuits were playing volleyball at a net set up near the water. Jiro sat and watched them. Or, rather, he ignored the men and just watched the girls. They were tan, athletic muscular. A rare thing to see in Japan, let alone the Japanese countryside.

Whenever one of the girls jumped to spike a ball or dove for a reception, her breasts seemed to jump or dive with her. Several times the breasts almost leaped out of the fabric that held them, only (to Jiro’s great disappointment) to return safely to their starting positions, hidden from Jiro’s eye.

One of the girls stopped to take a drink of water. She was wearing a red bikini and had her hair—black with blonde highlights—up in a messy bun. Her bikini bottoms, Jiro could not help but notice, had ridden up slightly between her butt cheeks. Suddenly, the girl turned her head and looked straight in Jiro’s direction. There was no time to look away. Their eyes met.

For a moment, they both stood looking at each other, eyes locked. Then the girl’s friend called for her and she turned away. But before she went, Jiro was sure that she had winked at him. As if to say, I know where you were looking.

“Japanese women are shy,” someone had told Jiro, before he left Canada. “They can barely speak to man, let alone touch him.” If only he could remember who had said that. The next time Jiro saw him, he would make sure to send a flying kick straight at his shins.