Falling From the Floating World

by Nick Hurst

  FIVE

  ‘You know Takata-san!?’

  My outburst surprised me as much as it did her. I could only put it down to the release of tension. The timing was unsettling, coming as it did, just at the point of climax. The lack of subtlety was also unideal. Sakura stopped dead. I was unable to follow up with an explanation for a short while.

  ‘I worked with someone who knew him,’ I gasped when I was able to speak again. ‘He’s the one who recommended you.’

  It was weak. Sakura looked unconvinced. I tried to gather my wits.

  ‘I’m sorry, that’s not true. I did Japanese Studies at university. I was always fascinated by samurai, then after them I started finding out about the yakuza – watching the films and reading the magazines.’

  That wasn’t as strange as it might have sounded. You can find a magazine for everything in Japan, including those that cater to yakuza fans.

  ‘I heard this was a Takata-gumi area and thought with your place being the most prestigious, you might have had the chance to meet the senior people, maybe even Takata-san himself.’

  It was more plausible. It would have benefited from a smoother lead-in. But it was enough for Sakura to pretend to believe me and return to her ministrations, in this case towelling down the lubricant I was slathered top to toe in as I lay on my back on a blow-up bed.

  The experience had been awkward, which perhaps wasn’t surprising given my lack of sleuthing experience or brothel know-how. That didn’t stop me feeling unhappy my first foray into detective work had not been handled as best it could. Tomoe was relying on me and I’d let her down.

  The taxi had turned from the main road at a petrol station fronted by a distinctive weeping willow. The road it turned into cut an unusual S-shape in the surrounding street grid. It was lined with shiny-fronted buildings on straightening, the establishments’ names lit in neon above doorways in which rough-hewn men failed to look welcoming.

  Power cables criss-crossed the road as they did elsewhere in Tokyo, but here it gave the impression of complicity, as if uniting these havens of sin. They ranged from the gaudy – the lower end of Las Vegas with a Japanese twist – to pristine, marbled-fronted palaces more akin to five-star resorts.

  ‘Senzoku-yon-chōme crossing,’ announced my driver.

  I got out and made my way toward the shrine Tomoe had told me would be on the right.

  ‘Asobi?’ a doorman proposed as I passed.

  ‘You want play?’ another managed in heavily accented English.

  I politely declined and the smile chiselled into his face instantly reverted to a snarl.

  When I saw the shrine ahead I turned into an alley on my left, as Tomoe had said. There was an instant transformation, a sense of Tokyo as it used to be. It’s not that the buildings were historic. For the most part they were like those in any other side-street. But their layout – the small blocks of houses inter-coursed by alleys – suggested street architecture from centuries gone by.

  A few more turns and despite being only fifty metres from the rows of soaplands, it felt like I was in a different Tokyo. A place of the past.

  The entrance to Matsubaya was so unassuming it could have been somebody’s home. It was housed in a new building, its façade covered with dark matt tiles that rose to latticed balconies finished in a tasteful charcoal grey. It couldn’t have been in greater contrast to the flashing lights and intimidating doormen of the nearby world so far away.

  I hesitated, confused by the lack of a sign or bell. But it was as Tomoe had described in the place she’d said it would be. So despite its contrary appearance, I had to trust this was it and I wasn’t about to barge into a stranger’s living room with demands to be sexually pleased.

  The heavy wooden door opened at my push, leaving me with no option but to go in. The building’s well-maintained minimalist interior was aesthetically aligned with the outside. I made my way down its hallway, up a staircase and toward a matching door at the end of the corridor. Again there was no nameplate, but there was a buzzer this time.

  ‘Konni—’

  Her welcome, already quizzical, was cut short when she saw me.

  ‘—chiwa. I’m sorry, may I help you?’

  Her diction was as exquisite as her kimono, as fine as the make-up applied to her delicately ageing face.

  ‘Konnichiwa,’ I attempted to reply in equally polite, if less beautifully weighted, Japanese. ‘I believe this is Matsubaya. I was very much hoping to enjoy the services you provide.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, but we operate on an appointment-only basis,’ she said with a perfectly executed bow. ‘I do hope you haven’t gone too far out of your way. Perhaps I could recommend somewhere nearby?’

  Tomoe had debated the best way to get me in. She’d decided an attempt to make an appointment would be useless. I had no introduction and I was a foreigner – neither aspect conducive to entry. She reasoned the best approach was to arrive unannounced in the afternoon, after the lunchtime business but before the evening rush. I could then try to impress them with my best attempts at being impeccably Japanese.

  ‘Please excuse me,’ I returned her bow with my own. ‘I’m afraid to say I was unaware of the procedure for visiting. Your establishment was recommended by an acquaintance who couldn’t compliment it enough. Unfortunately, he declined to inform me of the necessary protocol. There’s no excuse but I hope you’ll forgive my bad manners.’

  ‘Well, it’s always pleasing to be the subject of praise. May I enquire who your kind friend was?’

  ‘I’m so sorry but I have to admit I’m not entirely sure. We were at the British Embassy,’ I lied, hoping to portray myself at home mixing with the elite. ‘It was towards the end of a function and they’d been quite generous with the drinks …’

  She smiled. If my etiquette visiting her premises had been flawed, I had at least behaved as one should at a Japanese party.

  ‘I believe he may have been a diplomat, although I was speaking to a company president for a while. Unfortunately by the time I returned home I couldn’t remember which business card came from whom.’

  It seemed enough to get the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘Well, it isn’t normal procedure but we’ve had a couple of late cancellations. If you’d like to come in, I hope we may have something to meet your taste.’

  She opened the door to reveal a scene of Edo-period finery – I could only assume the building was joined with the neighbouring one and perhaps a couple more after that. Lustrous wooden boards extended away from me, glowing under a thick lacquer of varnish. They led to a small stone bridge that straddled a stream flowing in and out of the room filled with brightly coloured carp. There was a tatami resting area across it and to the sides latticed sliding doors mazed away. It was more like a hamlet than what had appeared to be a small residential house.

  She led me over the bridge and lowered herself to a kneel when I sat down. A younger doppelganger immediately slid out from behind a screen and bowed at the edge of the tatami mats. She quick-stepped forward to place a leather-bound book on the table before me before apparently disappearing into thin air.

  I opened it at the proprietor’s gesture to find a menu offering refreshments of a more unusual kind. Even with the mind-expanding possibilities Tomoe had introduced me to, my imagination was inadequate to their gymnastic implications. After leafing through for the sake of form I went for the recommendation of the house.

  ‘Oh, and I’d like to choose Sakura-san if I may. My acquaintance spoke very highly of her.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, but Sakura won’t start for another half hour. I can assure you, you’ll be just as happy with Kiku.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s wonderful, but I’d very much like to meet Sakura-san. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait.’

  ‘Ray-sama?’ she asked, using the honorific of san.

  I looked up. The flattening effect of Sakura’s kimono only made me more excited at the curves that couldn’t be contained. Her twinkling eyes a
nd subtle pout intimated there was more to her than the demure sartorial display. I scrambled to my feet.

  She led me to a bathing room not dissimilar to the ones you find in a ryokan but with a finery beyond compare. Every flat surface was lined in granite and a sunken bath consumed one side of the sizeable room. To its right were shower fittings that gleamed like freshly polished platinum and I’m sure cost about as much. And in front of them was a beautifully crafted wooden stool.

  Sakura stripped me slowly with no acknowledgement of the untoward, her hands brushing gently against me before maddeningly pulling away. When undressed, she took me to the stool, sat me down and started to shower then soap me. At this point I noticed she was now miraculously naked as well. An arm pressed against me, then a breast, then a smooth-skinned thigh. Then soft, firm hands that teased and caressed before disappearing into a sea of suds.

  Once soaped, rinsed and thoroughly aroused I was taken for a bath quite unlike any I’d had before. Then the blow-up mattress, generous applications of lubricant, and a massage that was not only hands-on but involved plenty more as well.

  Every moment was a sensorial overload, an explosion of nerve-endings crying out for more. Hence my distraction when the moment for clear thinking came.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name,’ Sakura said sweetly.

  ‘You don’t? I’m sorry, it’s probably just me getting things wrong. I’m a bit of a beginner in yakuza studies!’

  I pretended to laugh it off. She obliged me by giggling but showed no inclination to say anything more.

  I tried again.

  ‘But it is a yakuza area, isn’t it? You must hear great stories and meet some real characters?’

  ‘I wish I could say I did but in truth it isn’t very exciting. We tend to get wealthy salarymen with a few rich kids thrown in – you’re the most interesting client I’ve had. We don’t get many foreigners, especially ones as handsome as you.’

  She’d clearly marked me as the sucker for flattery I am.

  ‘I don’t know – the yakuza must have some special gangster places for themselves,’ she lied through an innocent smile. ‘I have a friend whose friend was in a bikers’ gang though. I could try to get some stories from her.’

  ‘So, how did it go?’ asked Tomoe when I got back.

  ‘I didn’t get anything. I’m sorry.’

  She looked far less devastated than I felt.

  ‘You weren’t expecting me to, were you? You knew I’d screw it up.’

  ‘That’s not true, Ray-kun,’ she consoled me, a sympathetic crumple in her brow. ‘I was hoping, but I knew it would be hard. And that’s nothing to do with you. It’s a sensitive subject – there was no way she was going to open up. We just had to hope she’d let something slip. It seems she was too smart.’

  She grabbed my arm and pulled me to the sofa, a glint in her eyes.

  ‘Now, tell me everything about it.’

  I recounted my experience, broad brushstrokes at first, then in increasing detail as she prompted and then made exclamations and offers to replicate what we’d done. This wasn’t entirely unwelcome but after a while it started to feel strange.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Tomo, it’s not that I mind telling you about it and I’m more than happy to try some things out. But isn’t this conversation a bit odd?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve just spent two hours with a prostitute.’

  She looked at me blankly.

  ‘You’re my girlfriend. You’re not supposed to be happy about something like that. Do you really want to know everything we did?’

  ‘Of course I do, I’m a girl!’ she said, as though it explained everything. ‘We don’t get to go to these places. This is my chance to find out what they’re like.’

  Admittedly, it was an unusual thing to say, but it had sounded so plausible at the time.

  SIX

  Two raps – a polite but firm way to let someone know you’re waiting at their door. I opened it to find a tall, well-built gaijin man on the other side. I recognised him instantly – champion martial artists didn’t make a habit of turning up at my flat. I looked behind me, as though the person he actually wanted might have miraculously appeared. Finding my flat still empty I turned back.

  ‘Are you Ray?’

  ‘Er, yeah.’

  I continued to stand there, unsure of what else to say.

  ‘Do you mind if I come in?’ he said.

  I ushered him into a flat that was too small for me and certainly not spacious enough to comfortably afford a martial arts fighter as well. I threw a pile of clothes from the sofa into a corner and offered him a drink.

  ‘A cup of tea would be nice.’

  ‘I’ve got English breakfast or genmai, whichever you’d prefer.’

  ‘Oh, if it’s from an Englishman I surely have to take the breakfast,’ he said politely.

  I put the kettle on.

  *

  Ernesto Aerts was a fight-game legend in Japan. After winning the hugely popular K-1 championship three years in a row (think boxing with the addition of elbows and kicks), he’d decided no challenges remained and moved on to Pride, whose rules allowed fighting to continue on the mat. While it may not sound so different, it required a new set of pugilistic skills. Ernesto had much impressed the Japanese with his dedication to learning them, immersing himself in an intensive regime with a jujitsu sensei and an Olympic wrestler. A year after his last fight he stepped back into the ring and proceeded to destroy fifteen of the world’s best fighters before retiring without loss.

  This wasn’t specialist knowledge on my behalf. Martial arts competitions were massive in Japan at the time and everyone knew Ernesto Aerts. What he was doing in my flat a couple of years into retirement was far less clear.

  ‘I’m sorry, I should really tell you what this is all about.’

  ‘I was wondering,’ I said, still star-struck.

  ‘Well, ah, it’s a bit awkward actually,’ he continued in his sing-song Netherlands lilt. ‘There are some associates of mine who feel you’ve been paying them more attention than they’d like.’

  He may as well have been speaking Dutch. I knew no one in the fight game and if I had come across any of its characters, my instinct would have been to back away. I gave him his tea and sat on the floor, the coffee table between us.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  He shifted uneasily.

  ‘I’ve been asked to come here by a Japanese organisation – I think they assumed it would be more comfortable for a fellow gaijin to talk to you,’ he said, looking anything but. ‘Apparently you’ve been asking questions about them. They asked me to request you stop.’

  My jaw dropped.

  ‘You work for—’

  ‘I don’t work for anyone,’ he interrupted, some of the steel he was famous for in the ring edging out the warmth he was better known for outside. ‘I don’t know how much you know about me, but I suffered a couple of disappointments after I retired. There was a business venture that didn’t work out and I went through an expensive divorce.’

  He paused for a second but kept me fixed in his stare.

  ‘I’m telling you this because it has some bearing on your situation, you understand?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I had to find some money quickly at one point. The problem with quick money is it doesn’t come cheap and the people who lend it are linked to people you don’t want to borrow from. Before you know it, you’re in debt to them and they ask favours in return.’

  He rolled his shoulders. It appeared to be habitual but it served as a reminder of his power and size.

  ‘Now, you seem like a nice guy, but if I don’t do the favours asked of me, all of a sudden I’m in your position.’

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  ‘What’s my position?’

  ‘They’ve allowed me discretion in what I do. If I think you’re taking me seriously, I just need your
word you’ll back off. If I don’t, they suggested I give a taste of what they’ll do if they have to come knocking at your door.’

  I didn’t let the roll of his R finish.

  ‘You have my word.’

  He’d had to face down hard men in his career, fighters practised at masking their fear in the ring. He could spot a coward soiling himself in his own home.

  ‘And I’m confident you’ll keep it,’ he said, his eyes friendly once more. ‘So, what are you doing in Japan?’

  Apparently seeing the unpleasant business as over, he relaxed on the sofa with his tea. We proceeded to have a charming conversation during which he regaled me with tales from his fighting days and stories of life as a megastar in Japan. He was every bit as likeable as his persona.

  ‘Well, I must be going,’ he said, getting up from the sofa.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I stopped, unsure of the correct platitude. ‘Um, it was a pleasure meeting you.’

  ‘You too,’ he said, turning at the door and shaking my hand.

  He squeezed it a little tighter.

  ‘Now, just to confirm, you won’t let me down?’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ I shook my head. ‘We’re shaking on it, aren’t we?’

  ‘You’re a nice guy. I wouldn’t want to have to …’

  He let the sentence drift and any bravado a braver man might have had died with it. I hadn’t been affected in the first place.

  ‘No,’ I insisted. ‘It was a one-off thing. I’ve got no interest in your acquaintances.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ he said, brightening again.

  We shuffled awkwardly.

  ‘Well, perhaps we could grab a beer sometime when this is all over.’

  It felt ridiculous even as I said it.

  ‘That would be great.’

  He seemed to mean it and even gave me his number. He took a step back.

  ‘Well, I’d better be going – things to do.’

  I shuddered at the thought and closed the door.