Silent revolutions sometimes assert themselves in a detail.
Like a frosted glass door suddenly covered with a curtain.
“When Rio joined the club, I had to create a changing room for her,” explains Fumihiko Nara, the chairman of the Japanese Sumo Federation, dressed in his impeccable gray Tokyo executive suit.
A cluttered storage room whose small rickety metal door opens directly onto the thick brown sand of the
dohyō,
a circle 4.5 meters in diameter drawn in chalk, surrounded by weathered blond woodwork, scratched with
kanji
(ideograms).
“Spirit, technique, physics,” says an inscription above the
mashawi
hanging from the walls, under the pale light of the neon lights.
These wide canvas belts are soaked with virile perspiration after having encircled the white skins of the sumo wrestlers, naked as worms.
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In the center of the room, a young woman with ebony eyes, her thighs wrapped in tight shorts, is warming up, almost squatting, raising horizontally…
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