by Susan Barker
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Sato-san,’ he said, smiling gently, ‘your promotion means that you are now able to delegate responsibility. Yet you insist upon wearing yourself out, overseeing everything, right down to the most menial of office chores.’
My jaw descended. It had never once occurred to me that my commitment to Daiwa Trading could elicit such criticism.
Murakami-san leant forward and adopted a low, confidential tone. ‘Allow me to make a suggestion. I think you would work more efficiently if you took some time out to relax . . . Do you know our department has an entertainments account for guests and senior management?’
I nodded. I had heard rumours of this debauched account.
‘How long have you been with us in the Finance Department, Sato-san? Three months? We still haven’t had the opportunity to socialize together, have we? How about I take you out for a night on the town, courtesy of this generous account?’
I squirmed in my chair. ‘Tonight?’
‘Yes, tonight. I have tonight free in my schedule.’
‘Forgive me, Murakami-san, but tonight may be difficult. It is my intention to have the Kawazaki files ready by Wednesday . . .’
‘Now now, Sato-san. You can’t wriggle your way out of this one. Today is the day you learn to delegate.’ Murakami-san beamed triumphantly.
I pushed my spectacles up the bridge of my nose. I was flattered that my boss had taken such an interest in me, but the mere thought of an evening of drinking and carousing made my stomach shrivel in trepidation. ‘I . . . er . . .’
‘I’ll come for you at six,’ he announced.
Twisting my fingers in my lap, I smiled back awkwardly, flushed with defeat.
All afternoon I hoped that Murakami-san would forget. At five to six I sneaked away to the water fountain. I wasn’t thirsty, but I thought if I loitered there Murakami-san would grow impatient and leave without me. Many of my colleagues were queuing at the vending machine, purchasing coffee to fuel the hours of overtime that stretched ahead. How I envied them! I hadn’t been hiding there long when Murakami-san came striding down the corridor towards me, his heavy overcoat billowing behind him.
‘Ah! Sato-san. Thought I’d find you here!’ he thundered. ‘I brought your briefcase and jacket.’ He thrust them into my arms. ‘Now, what do you fancy for dinner? I know a restaurant in Shinsaibashi that serves battered squid so sublime it’ll make your toes curl!’
A giant plastic crab sat on the roof of the restaurant, waving its mechanical claws at passers-by. Inside, it was overcrowded and noisy. Murakami-san ordered plate after plate of skewered seafood for us to cook on the grill in the centre of our table. The grill glowed with heat, baking Murakami-san’s complexion to terracotta. He also requested a large jug of sake. My stomach gave a nauseous tremor at its paint-stripper fumes, but I took a couple of polite sips anyway. Through mouthfuls of squid and tiger prawns Murakami-san told me of his recent golf tournament. He invited me to participate in the next one, turning a deaf ear to my protestations that I am an awful sportsman. The laughter and chants of the college students at the next table rang in my ears. They were terribly rowdy, and even the girls swigged beer and sat with their knees pulled up to their chests. I remember the folk clubs we used to go to in Tokyo, how we used to sit and talk quietly with our friends, appreciating the music. There was none of this incessant gossiping into mobile phones or using chopsticks to pop the tops off beer bottles.
Murakami-san was growing disgracefully tipsy. His eyelids were bee-stung and his cheeks had taken on an unsettling burgundy hue. This reassured me. Surely now, considering his inebriated state, he would want to go home to bed. When we received the bill I suggested that perhaps we should call it a night, especially as we both had work the following day. Murakami-san blinked at me, incredulous. ‘Nonsense!’ he boomed. ‘It’s only nine thirty! . . . Now, tell me, Sato-san, how’s your English?’
In the smoky lounge, many businessmen sat in groups encircling the low, wooden tables. Lampshades with tasselled fringes dangled above them, and the chairs were scattered with soft, velvet cushions. Not that the décor was the first thing to command your attention. Dotted about the lounge, evenly dispersed between the groups of salarymen, were four or five foreign hostesses. The lounge had a very gay and frolicsome atmosphere, laced with peals of feminine laughter. ‘Mariko! Oi! Mariko!’ Murakami-san bellowed. A dainty Japanese hostess whisked up to our table and took our drinks order. Despite my protests, Murakami-san ordered me a double whisky.
He leant forward, invigorated by our exotic surroundings. ‘Sato-san. Tell me . . . what do you think of these foreign women?’
At that moment a blond girl in a red dress stood up to accompany a group of departing businessmen to the door. She was very reluctant to see them go, teasing and cajoling them to stay a bit longer. The blond girl was uncommonly tall, at least a head taller than a couple of the men she was saying goodbye to.
‘They are very tall,’ I ventured.
Another foreign girl emerged from the kitchen, seemingly shrink-wrapped in her black lycra dress. She wore impractical shoes with dangerously high heels that must have put crippling pressure on her toes. When she spotted Murakami-san she waved and hurried towards us. Her hair was orange and piled on top of her head.
Murakami-san and I both stood and bowed in greeting.
‘Murakami-san! What a surprise! How are you?’ she cried in halting Japanese. This impressed me enormously. Japanese-speaking foreigners are very rare.
‘In excellent health as always, my princess! Excellent health! Now, allow me to introduce my company subordinate, Sato-san. Sato-san, this is Stephanie. She is from Florida.’
‘You work for Murakami-san! How nice!’ she said and smiled warmly. She looked very radiant and healthy, full of Florida sunshine and vitamins.
We all sat down. The little Japanese hostess served us our whiskies and slipped back to the bar again. I noted with interest that Stephanie from Florida had orange eyebrows. She also had orange freckles, sprinkled across every square inch of skin, from her forehead to her wrists. She seemed unabashed by these freckles and had made no attempt to camouflage them. Stephanie was terribly fond of Murakami-san, positively enthralled by his every word. When he brought a cigar to his mouth she quickly held aloft a silver lighter, to spare him the inconvenience of lighting the cigar himself. On the stage some men had begun to shunt about heavy speakers and tighten guitar strings.
‘So how are things at work?’ Stephanie asked, generously addressing both of us, even though I am of lesser company ranking.
‘Work bores me!’ Murakami-san complained. ‘Day in, day out: the same tedious drivel.’
I bristled with disapproval. A Deputy Senior Managerial Supervisor should know better than to make flippant remarks injurious to the reputation of Daiwa Trading.
‘Let’s not talk about work. It’s all stuffy board meetings and broken photocopiers. Let us drink whisky and talk about golf instead! I have a tournament coming up next week, you know.’
‘How exciting!’ Stephanie exclaimed, leaning across the table in her eagerness to hear about the golf tournament. As she did so her ample cleavage tumbled forwards, disclosing far too many secrets of the female flesh for comfort. I examined some potted ferns by the door.
‘I had a tournament last week too. The Daiwa Trading team were ranked ninth in the Osaka prefecture. We would have finished higher if it wasn’t for my dratted shoulder injury.’
Stephanie’s face fell in dismay. ‘Never mind. You’ll do better next time.’
‘Yes, we will. Sato-san has offered to join us next week, haven’t you, Sato-san? I’m going to take him to practise his swing.’
Fortunately another hostess materialized at our table and the conversation shifted from the perilous subject of golf. It was the statuesque, blond girl in red I had spied earlier. Murakami-san and I stood and bowed once more.
‘Murakami-san! Long time no see. How are you this evening?�
� Her Japanese appeared to be fluent, but her accent was very coarse and unladylike.
‘I’m in marvellous health, thank you. Allow me to introduce my company subordinate, Sato-san. Sato-san, this is Mary.’
We exchanged How-do-you-dos? and with a perfunctory smile Mary sat herself in the chair beside me. This seemed to please Murakami-san, who gave the distinct impression of wanting to talk privately with Stephanie.
Suddenly stranded, I was very nervous of this tall, blond girl – so nervous, I took a grimacing sip of whisky. She tucked her chair in, her face drifting into the light. With a start I realized that this girl was terribly young, far too young to be working in a hostess bar. I wondered if her parents knew what she did for a living, so many thousands of miles away from America. Blond hair cascaded down to her shoulders in feathery layers, a few strands oddly static and levitating about her head. Her fine, young skin was suffocated beneath thick foundation and her mauve eye shadow had migrated to the creases in her eyelids. She tapped a cigarette from a packet she had with her, lit it and inhaled with relish.
‘I would like to congratulate you on your Japanese,’ I began, somewhat timidly. ‘It is exemplary.’
‘Thanks,’ she replied, blowing smoke into my eyes.
‘If I may presume, you are an American?’
Mary flinched slightly, her smile tightening. ‘No. I’m English.’
Well, I was delighted to hear she was from England. ‘I am a great fan of Sherlock Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘I have read every book in the series. More than twice!’
‘Really?’ Mary said, her eyes flickering with interest. ‘Wasn’t he an opium addict?’
I stared at her blankly. I know nothing of this opium addiction. ‘I also greatly admired your Princess Diana,’ I added sombrely. ‘I am very sorry she died.’
‘That’s OK. I think we’ve just about got over it,’ Mary said.
I may be mistaken, but her lips seemed to twitch in amusement. Her callousness stunned me and I had to look away.
On stage the band had finished their preparations. The band members didn’t look Japanese at all, more like immigrants from the Philippines or Indonesia. I thought them very smart with their lilac tuxedos and neatly Brylcreemed hair. Without introduction they launched into a splendid rendition of ‘Hotel California’ by the Eagles. It was very pleasant and melodious and I soon began tapping my foot in time to the music. Across the table Murakami-san and Stephanie, ensconced in their tight cocoon of intimacy, exchanged urgent whispers. Mary wore a glazed expression as she picked scarlet varnish from her fingernails. Sensing my gaze, she jerked from her reveries. She glanced at the band and gave me a ‘thumbs up’ of smiling approval. Then, remembering her duties as a hostess, she asked if she could get me another drink.
I glanced at my glass. It was three-quarters full. ‘That is not necessary. Thank you,’ I said.
Then Mary did something very peculiar. She began to laugh and throw her head about as though I had made a joke. I smiled uncertainly. ‘So . . . Tell me about your job!’ she blurted with sudden enthusiasm.
I blinked. ‘I am sure you will find it very dull.’
‘Oh no!’ she protested. ‘I like hearing about other people’s jobs.’
She then looked anxiously towards the bar. I turned, curious as to the source of her distress. At the bar stood a plump and burlesque Mama-san, who was beckoning sternly to Mary. A halo of black curls framed the Mama-san’s head. Her dress sense was highly eccentric for a woman of her advanced years: a velvet dress with a plunging neckline and an extravagant, floor-sweeping skirt. Just like a heroine from those historical romance novels you liked to read in the bath. Clutched tightly to her bosom was a tiny dog with bouffant hair. The dog stared at me, unnerving me with its fierce little eyes.
‘Is that the proprietress?’ I asked Mary.
‘Erm . . . yeah,’ she said. ‘I’d better go.’
Trailing her spiked heels as she went, Mary crossed the lush maroon carpet to speak to the Mama-san. After a terse exchange of words, punctuated by the fraught yaps of the tiny dog, Mary was sent into the kitchen. I did not see her again after that.
In spite of the fact I had no one to talk to I was quite content. I ordered a lemonade from the little Japanese hostess and she brought me one with a jaunty parasol and a curly drinking straw. We shared a chuckle over this frivolity. The immigrant band were superb and played a variety of popular tunes. I think you would have enjoyed them very much.
Several couples twirled about the dance floor, including Murakami-san and Stephanie from Florida. A glittery disco ball revolved from the ceiling, shifting pretty shafts of light over the faces of couples. I have to report that Murakami-san was not very skilled on the dance floor. He shuffled drunkenly in Stephanie’s arms in a manner hardly suggestive of dancing. Fortunately for Murakami-san, Stephanie’s sturdy Western frame supported him like scaffolding. Despite Murakami-san’s drunken condition Stephanie smiled serenely as he drooled and slurred gibberish in her ear. The smile persevered even as she gently removed a wayward hand from her behind.
After an hour or so the lounge began to empty. One by one businessmen, giddy with philandering and liquor, bid their farewells and swung out of the double doors. The immigrant band played their final song of the evening – a gloriously heartfelt rendition of ‘Unchained Melody’ – and began to pack up their equipment. After returning to the table Murakami-san slumped in his seat, occasionally patting Stephanie’s thigh or gazing at her affectionately. She sat quietly, the tranquil smile never slipping from her lips. The hour was shockingly late – about one o’ clock. I was about to ask Murakami-san if I should call a taxi to take us home, when the petite Japanese hostess appeared at our table.
‘I am sorry to interrupt,’ she said, though we had been sitting in deathly silence, ‘but we are closing in thirty minutes. So it’s last orders for the drinks.’
Murakami-san’s unfocused pupils roved in a lazy gyroscopic spin as he cultivated a spit bubble between his lips. Stephanie was smoking a cigarette and looking at her watch.
‘I don’t think we need any more drinks, thank you,’ I said.
The Japanese hostess looked at Murakami-san and tittered. ‘No, I don’t suppose you do!’ she giggled, modestly raising her fingertips to her mouth. ‘Shall I just bill your company account, then?’
‘Yes. Thank you. It’s Daiwa Trading . . .’
‘Yes. I know.’
She didn’t leave immediately. She stood there for a moment, her eyes resting upon me. She looked even younger than Mary, her hair in a sleek bob, her eyes wide and gazelle-like. ‘Well, then . . .’ she said, and, with a wry smile, moved on to the next table.
Outside, the entertainment strip was awash with revellers still in pursuit of sleazy distraction. The sight of so many salarymen amazed me. However do they concentrate at work the next day? Neon signs flashed with the promise of topless cabaret and exotic dance acts incorporating pythons. It was all so bright and mind-fuddling that I wanted to locate a dimmer switch. Murakami-san flailed about on his fifth attempt to thread his arm through the sleeve of his overcoat. Then he stumbled into an alleyway to urinate against some wheelie-bins. As I stood listening to the drumming of urine against plastic I burnt with an inexplicable shame. Going to that hostess bar had been a terrible mistake. And it had cost the company 50,000 yen. If that’s how much Murakami-san likes American women he could have bought himself an aeroplane ticket to the United States instead! When Murakami-san reappeared from the alleyway, cheerfully zipping up his fly, I could barely look him in the eye. My glum mood bounced off him completely.
‘So, Sato-san!’ he cried, slapping me on the back, ‘how d’you like The Sayonara Bar?’
I resisted a stubborn urge to ignore him, reminding myself that he was the Deputy Senior Managerial Supervisor. ‘I very much enjoyed the band,’ I said.
‘I mean the girls, Sato-san. The foreign bitches!’
‘They were very tall.’
M
urakami-san cackled with laughter and paused beneath the awning of a noodle restaurant. Tattered red lanterns swayed above his head. ‘How about some noodles?’ he asked, squinting at the grease-tinged menu.
‘Actually, Murakami-san, thank you very much for your kind hospitality but I think I will take a taxi home now. I want to be fresh for work tomorrow,’ I said apologetically.
‘Don’t be ridiculous! It’s still early! I promise you . . . the whores at this next place will blow your mind.’ His eyes glinted and he lowered his voice to a stage whisper. ‘How d’you like massages?’
‘Murakami-san, I am most grateful for the hospitality you have shown me this evening, but I really should return home.’
‘Sato-san,’ he said, his face hardening slightly, ‘as your boss, I officially grant you the day off tomorrow. There. Now you can stop panicking about the dratted office and enjoy yourself.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘I am going home.’
Murakami-san sighed, his voice softening. ‘Sato-san, I am only trying to help you.’
Well, I was entirely flabbergasted. It was he who needed help! Indulging himself in these lubricious pursuits night after night. I suddenly thought of his wife, a sweet, homely woman who always provides picnic hampers for the annual cherry-blossom viewing. How hurt she would be if she knew!
‘I am in no need of help,’ I asserted, stony-faced.
Murakami-san leant against the window of the noodle shop and hiccuped. He pointed at my hand, at the wedding band on my finger. ‘C’mon, Sato-san,’ he wheedled. ‘How long’s it been already? Maybe things would be easier if you just took that off.’ He smiled encouragingly, his stance wobbly, his head lolling slightly.
I glimpsed my reflection in the noodle-shop window and recognized the belligerence smouldering behind my spectacles. I remembered walking along a beach in Okinawa and impaling my foot upon a nail; the searing pain and shock of seeing the rusty apex of that nail poking through my shoe. As I smiled back at Murakami-san a tourniquet tightened across my chest.