Remember Tokyo

by Nick Wilkshire

  “How do you feel?”

  “I’m good. Charlie and I were just talking about the latest news back in Canada. You know, trying to shake something loose,” he said, tapping his forehead.

  “Of course,” Kimura said. She shed her colourful scarf and grey three-quarter-length coat and draped them over a chair, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Her form-fitting white blouse and the black leather pants she wore tucked into the same stiletto boots she had worn the other day left no doubt that she had the figure of a swimsuit model underneath. Charlie was intrigued by Lepage’s little charade, but decided there were any number of reasons why someone might not want a girlfriend rummaging through their apartment, especially if he couldn’t remember her beyond the past few days.

  “Well, I was just leaving.” Charlie moved away from the foot of the bed.

  “You don’t have to go,” Kimura said, her tone and body language suggesting the opposite.

  “I should really get back to the office. I’ll check in on you again soon though,” he said to Lepage, making his way to the door.

  “Thanks for dropping by, Charlie,” he heard Lepage say as he reached the hallway and headed quickly for the elevators, feeling his pocket to make sure the apartment key was in there.

  CHAPTER 11

  “You’re sure this is it?” Charlie looked out the window at the large, glass-clad building in Harajuku. Addresses in Tokyo, especially residential ones, were difficult for Westerners to follow, so he had given Rob Lepage’s address to one of the embassy drivers rather than run the risk of going to the wrong place.

  “Yes, this is Omote-sando Hills Residences.”

  “Thanks. I can make my own way back,” Charlie said, getting out of the van and instantly feeling foolish as he caught sight of the name emblazoned on the side of the building, next to the entrance. He took the key card out of his pocket and went up to the front door, steppi SACCADE ng inside the ultra-modern lobby and heading over to an electronic directory. There were only ten floors, which was a small building for Tokyo, so it didn’t take him long to find Rob Lepage’s name next to apartment 903. He took the elevator up to the ninth floor and followed the numbers until he found himself in front of Lepage’s door. He felt like a bit of an intruder as he slid the key in the lock and turned the handle.

  On the other side of the door, he found himself in a foyer that was spacious by Tokyo standards. The foyer and the hall beyond were lit by a soft light; as he walked forward he found a wall switch that, when touched, flooded the room with bright light. He hadn’t known what to expect of the state of the apartment, given that Lepage had not been here in over a week, but the air seemed fresh and everything was immaculate. He walked into a living room furnished with a couple of bright, modular sofas and centred by a glass table. As he made his way through the room, he had the sense of being in a boutique hotel. There wasn’t a speck of dust, and everything was arranged perfectly. The other thing he noticed was the lack of anything personal on the table, or on the shelf by the window. There were no plants, pictures, or other knick-knacks on the single bookcase. The kitchen was similarly spotless, and Charlie realized that Lepage must have a housekeeper who had been making regular visits despite the occupant’s absence and who may not even know Lepage was in hospital. There were no dishes in the sink, no water glasses on the counter, and no magnets or papers on the stainless steel fridge. Nothing to disturb the perfect sterility of the place.

  Charlie continued on into another little hallway that led to the bedrooms, the first done up as a guest room. The second had been converted to a study, with a large corner desk topped with a desktop computer, printer, and three monitors arranged in a row. Even here — where he assumed Lepage must spend most of his time given the nature of his work and the fact that he apparently didn’t spend much time at Nippon Kasuga’s offices — there was little evidence of a human presence. There was no clutter, no loose papers or pens, much less photos or posters on the wall. Apart from the desk, there was a small bookcase with neatly ordered boxes on every shelf. He decided to come back to the room later, and continued on to the master bedroom at the rear of the apartment. It was centred by a large bed, the sheets tucked with military precision. There were matching side tables — adorned only by a pair of lamps and some sort of docking station that included a digital clock on the left table — and a leather club chair in the corner. Again, there were no pictures or other personal effects anywhere that he could see, and he was beginning to think his task of finding something to jog Lepage’s memory was an impossible one. What was Charlie supposed to tell him if he returned to the hospital empty-handed? And what did the place say about Lepage — that he was obsessive-compulsive, or that he had an overzealous housekeeper?

  Charlie flicked on the light in the ensuite and found a corner whirlpool tub and shower enclosure next to a toilet with so many buttons and features that it seemed capable of launching a satellite. (There had been a similar model in his hotel room and he had learned that they were standard fare here in Japan.) He surveyed the gleaming fixtures and popped open the mirrored cabinet above the sink to reveal a spare toothbrush, some aftershave lotion and hair gel, a couple of antiperspirant sticks, and a bottle of Tylenol. No prescriptions or anything else of a personal or peculiar nature. This was getting ridiculous, he thought, as he made his way back into the bedroom and over to the walk-in closet. Here he found a half-dozen neatly arranged suits, some sport coats and pants of different shades of grey and blue, arranged over a selection of dress shoes that gleamed like mirrors. A quick search through the drawers was as fruitless as the same exercise everywhere else in this apartment — absolutely nothing to distinguish it as the home of Rob Lepage as opposed to anyone else, either in Tokyo or on the planet. Was Lepage some kind of cyborg?

  Returning to the room converted into a home office, Charlie pulled one of the storage boxes off the shelf and glanced at the neatly-arranged file folders inside. He plucked one out and skimmed its contents — correspondence from the Tokyo Stock Exchange regarding the listing of a high-tech company, some approval letters and other correspondence from brokers and banks. He flipped through the contents for a while and, finding nothing of particular interest, he moved on to the other folders, which contained the same sort of materials. He went through the other boxes and after five minutes, he had come up with precisely nothing of interest. He took out a letter addressed to Lepage at Nippon Kasuga, not because of its content, but because he thought it might jog something in Lepage’s memory. Besides, it was the only thing he had seen in the whole apartment that had his name on it.

  Turning to the desk, Charlie saw that the computer’s power light was on, so when he clicked the mouse, the screen came to life. Unfortunately, it was the standard password page. He considered calling the hospital to get it from Lepage, but decided that might be beyond the scope of what Lepage had asked Charlie to do, even if he did remember the password. He looked at the letter in his hand, thinking it would be pretty pathetic if that was the only thing he could bring back, and decided to take another look around the office. He pulled out the top drawer and riffled through an assortment of Post-it Notes, paper clips, and pens. The pens were different colours but otherwise the same, except for one. He pulled the oversize blue, red, and white pen from the back of the drawer and found himself looking at the familiar logo of the Montreal Canadiens hockey team. So Lepage was a Habs fan. Charlie was excited by the possibility that the pen might be just the kind of thing that might actually stir a memory. It seemed a little odd for a Toronto native to be a Montreal fan — the two teams being the ultimate arch-enemies. That reminded him that he had meant to ask Lepage about whether he spoke French, given Yamaguchi’s observation of his first words when he had emerged from the coma. But he had been preoccupied with delivering the news of Seger’s death, and then Kimura had arrived.… He would have to remember to ask Lepage about it when he went back to the hospital.

  After completing his search of the other drawers and fin
ding nothing of interest, Charlie returned to the bedroom and went through the dresser drawers again. He selected a couple pairs of cufflinks, as well as two ties, thinking they, too, might be cues for something. On his way back to the entrance, he spotted a thin pile of mail on the hall table, neatly arranged next to a lamp. There were four pieces of mail in all: two of the envelopes looked like junk mail, with indecipherable Japanese characters, a flyer for an Omote-sando sushi restaurant, and a postcard with a picture of a snow-capped mountain on the front. He picked it up and examined the photo, recognizing it as Mount Fuji, and flipped it over. Other than Lepage’s handwritten address, it was blank, which struck him as odd. He put it back on the little pile, then changed his mind and took it back, thinking it might have some meaning for Lepage.

  He found a plastic bag in one of the kitchen drawers for the items he had selected and left the apartment, heading for the Omote-sando Metro Station. He didn’t have much time to make it home for a quick shower before changing into his impromptu costume and meeting up with Fraser’s gang in Shinjuku. He would drop by the hospital tomorrow and see if his slim pickings from Lepage’s apartment would be of any use. Yamaguchi had thought it was worth a shot, and though he had been disappointed not to find some photos, Charlie hoped maybe the pen might evoke something. You never knew.

  If he usually felt a little self-conscious as the only Westerner on the subway, being the only person dressed as a vampire wasn’t making Charlie feel any better. He had felt downright ridiculous getting on the train in the very proper bureaucratic district of Akasaka and, taking a seat between two men in suits who did their very best not to make eye contact, he had begun to seriously question his decision to accept Fraser’s invitation. But he had relaxed a bit as they headed west and a sprinkling of other people in costume appeared on the platforms and joined his car. There were all sorts of outfits, but there was definitely a theme in the women’s costumes — short, frilled skirts and striped tights, like some of the cartoon characters he had seen in front of the stores in Akihabara.

  By the time he came up out of the subway station in Shinjuku, he felt much better. He found the landmark Fraser had given him easily, at the eastern entrance, and was relieved when she appeared with her husband and four other people a few minutes later. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t opted for a pirate costume, as Jeff Fraser was a dead ringer for Johnny Depp. The other four were dressed as a nurse, a nun, a cartoon character of some kind, and a cowboy — he soon realized the nun was male and the cowboy female. After the introductions, they made their way to the restaurant where the rest of their group awaited. Charlie chatted nervously with the nurse as they made their way along the brightly-lit but narrow streets, deeper and deeper into the entertainment district. Charlie’s nerves had nothing to do with his costume — the majority of the people on the street here were in costume — but the realization that the average age of Fraser’s friends seemed to be a decade or more younger than him. He tried to be positive, but he wondered how the evening was going to turn out. Along the way, Charlie learned that the cowboy and the nun were American, and the nurse was Australian. By the time they got to the restaurant, they were all chatting easily.

  After a few drinks and a good meal of meat that they cooked themselves on a grill in the middle of their table — which he learned was called yakiniku — they set out on a bar-hop that took them through some of the tiniest bars in Tokyo, a few seating only a half dozen people at a time. By the time they made it to a batting cage they were all pretty buzzed, but everyone was game to try hitting a hundred-kilometre-an-hour fastball. Charlie surprised himself by making decent contact a few times and got some cheers, but Fraser’s husband stole the show with a handful of homers. After that, it was on to a little karaoke bar, where Charlie found himself belting out a couple of Bryan Adams songs.

  He was so caught up in his own alcohol-emboldened performance that he didn’t notice one of the two Americans they had met at the bar sidle up to the nurse. By the time his number was done and he returned to their table at the far end of the bar, the two were ensconced in the far corner, and Charlie was left to half perch on the end of the bench seat, feeling like the loser in a game of musical chairs.

  As the evening wound down, he watched as the newly formed couple slid into the back seat with the nun and the cowboy, while Charlie was hustled into the back of another cab, next to the Frasers. They went their separate ways back at the staff compound, and Charlie could hear giggling as Fraser and her husband negotiated the external stairs to their apartment, while he slid the key in and opened his door, entered the darkened living room, and slumped onto the couch. He told himself he didn’t need the potential fallout of a loosely work-related hook-up that had the real possibility of going wrong; and the other guy had to be at least ten years younger than him. Besides, other than some friendly banter throughout the evening, he hadn’t given her any indication that he was interested in her romantically. But none of that made the image of her sitting next to her American companion in the back of the cab any less haunting.

  He gazed around his empty apartment and realized that, like Rob Lepage’s, it lacked any sense of home or expression of his own personality. The only difference was that his place was filled with government-supplied furniture, as opposed to the high-end stuff in Lepage’s apartment. In fact, the only difference between him and Lepage was that Lepage was apparently rich. Both were equally alone, although in Lepage’s case it was due to likely temporary amnesia, whereas Charlie had no such excuse. In any event, Lepage had the sexy, if somewhat enigmatic, Aiko Kimura waiting patiently on the edge of his bed for him to remember her name. Charlie should be so lucky.

  He debated getting a beer from the fridge but decided against it — he had had enough. He had the first inkling of the amount of alcohol he had consumed when he went to brush his teeth and the bathroom started spinning. Then he remembered drinking sake at the end of the meal at the restaurant and felt the first hint of alarm about what his morning would be like, given the highballs at the karaoke bar and the beers he’d had along the way.

  He was about to flop into bed when he decided to check his email one last time. He clicked his BlackBerry to life and found himself staring at a message from his brother in St. John’s. On its surface, it was the usual greeting, just checking in. But Charlie knew the subtext: What the hell are you doing in Tokyo? It occurred to him that the last time he saw his brother, Brian Hillier had tried to persuade him not to go to Moscow, but to come work for him instead. His brother’s building supplies company was booming, and he didn’t seem too concerned that Charlie lacked any relevant experience whatsoever. Charlie had wondered at the time whether Brian was making the offer for their parents’ sake, who couldn’t fathom why Charlie would suddenly decide in middle age to traipse off to the four corners of the Earth. Given the way things had turned out in Moscow, Charlie thought with a grim chuckle as he stared at the email, he might have been better off accepting the offer. But whatever his brother’s motives, he had known then — just as he knew now — that he could never accept. To do so would be to admit defeat, to be permanently compared — unfavourably — with his successful older brother and his perfect family. Charlie wasn’t sure what Tokyo had to offer, but he wasn’t prepared to throw in the towel just yet. He turned off the BlackBerry and set it on his night table, deciding he would wait until he was a little more clear-headed before sending off a response.

  Collapsing on his pillow, he closed his eyes and fought the urge to feel sorry for himself as the image of his ex-wife’s face appeared. He forced his mind to replace it, and for a moment his mind went blank before another face emerged, her delicate Japanese features calming him as he drifted off to sleep with the memory of that distinctive floral scent lingering in his nostrils.

  CHAPTER 12

  Despite the overcast sky, Charlie was squinting behind his sunglasses as he made his way along Aoyama-dori midmorning on Saturday. He had started off the day by sufferin
g through a breakfast of coffee and orange juice before emptying the contents of his stomach into his toilet bowl. Things could only get better after that, but he still felt fragile. He popped another mint in his mouth as he reached the Metro station, descended to platform level, and bought a ticket. Arriving at the same station where he had met Fraser and the rest of the gang the night before, he hurried past the meeting point toward the hospital, clutching the plastic bag with the pathetic assortment of quasi-personal effects from Lepage’s apartment and wondering if it was even worth giving to him. He tried to ignore these doubts as he took the elevator up to the fifth floor and spotted Dr. Yamaguchi behind the reception counter, chatting with a nurse.

  “Mr. Hillier. I’m sorry I missed you yesterday.”

  “You were on rounds,” Charlie said, with a wave of the hand, hoping he looked better than he felt. The smell of disinfectant was causing his stomach to gurgle and roll in a most unsettling fashion. “How’s our patient?” he said, with a cheer he didn’t feel.

  “No change.” As usual, Yamaguchi’s even tone left Charlie to wonder whether this was good news or bad. “Were you successful in finding some personal effects?” He looked at the plastic bag in Charlie’s hand.

  “There wasn’t really a lot to choose from, but I brought a couple of things. Are you going to come with me when I give them to him, to observe his reaction?”

  “If you wish.” Yamaguchi came out from behind the counter and accompanied him down the hall. After a knock on the door, they entered the room and found Lepage sitting up, looking alert. His face broke into a smile.

  “Hey, Charlie.” His eyes went straight to the plastic bag. “Any luck at the apartment?”