How to Date Japanese Idols (The Tenshi Series)

by Cilia Jaspers

  To her left, Gakino and Fujiwara were walking slowly toward her making their way through the audience. Gakino was dressed in a black tux, talking to Sugiyama and a woman she assumed was Fujiwara’s manager. As he topped the stairs, he smiled at Eloise, happy and in his element. The only thing that reminded her that he was an idol and not a Hollywood dream hunk was that he wore a pink bow tie. Jogging toward her, Gakino squeezed her hand before he was pulled away to stand center stage. Placed in front the massive poster that covered the wall behind them, Gakino’s laughing, animated face struck her as more beautiful than the smooth, serious look he wore in the promo.

  In the picture, Gakino was embracing Fujiwara, the perfect Glamazon. His hold and his expression were an engaging mix of desire and despair. Although the couple looked lost in passion, near to a kiss, Gakino’s eyes held naked desperation, a fear that he could not hold on to the woman who seemed to be slipping away. Fujiwara’s character was wearing a white dress that was decorated with words. Eloise could read Beauty, Grace, Wife but the rest where in Japanese Kana, Chinese characters, Korean, and what looked to be Arabic. At the bottom right corner, the dress morphed and reality shifted, giving the impression that the dress was dissolving, becoming a whirlpool of mad text. At the top, the poster read事実とフィクション, which Gakino had explained meant Jijitsu to fikushon or Fact and Fiction.

  Eloise could’t help contrast the couple in front of her with their larger than life selves. Fujiwara was dressed as she was in the promo image, in a long flowing dress of pure white. Gakino’s tux, though, was a complete change from the plain khakis and white button-up his character wore. They stood closely on stage, more closely than was typical. They weren’t embracing, obviously, but Eloise couldn’t decide which image disturbed her more. She thought, with just a touch of bitterness, that sometimes you couldn’t stare at beautiful things directly for long periods of time. It hurt. Where was the sun when you needed it to burn out your retinas?

  “Eloise-san?”

  “Yes,” she answered, embarrassed to have been caught unaware.

  “Hi. I’m Sugiyama. We met briefly yesterday.”

  “Yes, I remember. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like you to just walk this way a little bit, and sit right here. You’ll be out of most of the shots, which will please the director. He doesn’t want the actors’ personal lives overshadowing the production. You understand.”

  “Of course,” she replied, moving to the spot he’d pointed out.

  “No, I’m sorry, not that one. Just a little bit more to your left.”

  She shifted, and he smiled.

  “There you are. Absolutely perfect. We’re ready to get started.”

  Walking away, he was handed a mic by a staff member. She noticed that Gakino, Fujiwara, and a few others had microphones as well, and then everyone took up a seat

  The others on the stage took turns greeting the audience, bowing, saying words of thanks. She understood little. Arigatou. Yoroshiku Onegaishimasu. One man who was dressed completely in black remained standing. He started speaking...and then never stopped. He had to be the director. Eloise started reciting Wallace Stevens’ “The Idea of Order at Key West” in her mind and prayed the exercise gave her an Audrey-Hepburn style far-away look.

  On Eloise's tenth round of “She sang beyond the genius of the sea,” Sugiyama moved down stage, given the chance to speak. He smiled at the audience and then began making motions toward the people behind him, apparently introducing and thanking them individually. He paused regularly to give the press a chance to clap politely.

  When he pointed at the man-in-black there was quite a noise, so he must be popular. That would be good for Gakino, so Eloise clapped right long with the rest of the audience. Next, Sugiyama gestured behind himself, bowing and opening his palm delicately to Rei Fujiwara. The woman had sat still and statuesque through everything. Until Sugiyama spoke of her. Then she humbly lowered her head. When Sugiyama waved at the poster behind them again amid another flurry of Japanese, she bowed even more deeply. Eloise heard him say fikushon repeatedly. A few members of the press clapped and others snapped photos.

  Turning, Sugiyama jabbed a finger at Eloise. She jumped a little, surprised to have been included, and pasted on a smile, hoping her shock had been too small to be noticed. Then, Sugiyama pointed at the poster again with a helpless little shrug and smiled apologetically. The press twittered and started taking photos madly, many of them aiming their lenses at her. And suddenly Eloise understood why Sugiyama had been so specific and so adamant about where he’d wanted her to sit.

  He was making a tableau that mirrored the poster behind them.

  Eloise, sitting under the text事実, was dry reality, unhappy fact.

  Rei, sitting on the opposite end of the stage, was a woman so perfect she could only exist in fiction, a universal ideal that Gakino’s character could only try to conjure with words.

  Sugiyama had compared them and found Eloise lacking.

  And the press was loving every minute of it.

  Trying to smile with lips that seemed determined to tremble, she looked for Gakino. His eyes threatened retribution. And his hands were fisted at his sides, even the one holding the mic. Or at least it seemed so.

  The expression passed so quickly, Eloise couldn’t be sure it had ever been. In seconds, he was grinning and laughing, rising from his seat and clapping Sugiyama on the back. Lifting his mic, he spoke to Sugiyama and the audience, but he was speaking in Japanese, so she couldn’t even guess at what was said.

  The press clapped politely, and one of them called out a question. Instead of answering, Gakino smiled widely and walked toward Eloise, grabbing her hand in one of his. Then he bent over it, like some eighteenth century hero and placed a light kiss on her knuckles. His lips were warm against her skin, and she shivered at the contact. Just moments before she’d been in a sweat from all the bodies, and lights, and the layers of her dress, and now she was freezing. As Gakino lingered over her hand, the room erupted in clicks and flashes. She did her best not to blink. A photo of her with her eyes closed was not good press.

  “Daiji at Non-no Magazine wanted to know if I preferred fact or fiction,” he explained. "I told him that you were both." He ran his knuckle softly along her cheek. “Just a little bit more, all right?”

  “Ok.”

  Gakino pulled her up and held out his arm for her. When she linked her arm in his, he turned them both around. Facing the audience, he lifted his mic again. His speech wasn’t long. She recognized arigatou and wondered if he would still thank them tomorrow if they decided to humiliate his girlfriend. Finally, he lowered his mic and whispered, “We’re nearly done. We’ll bow, and then we’ll get off this damned stage. One. Two. Three.” They bowed together, and he led her down the steps and out of the spotlights.

  As they left the stage, the press didn’t crowd them as they’d done her family in the States. The reporters maintained a respectful distance, but their questions were endless. Again, she understood little, but she did hear Gakino say her full name and then spell it carefully. Her heart thundered. Her mouth grew dry and her palms slick. No one had asked her name last night.

  “Gakino,” she whispered.

  He laid his hand over hers where it rested on his arm and squeezed gently. He bowed to the reporters perhaps a full dozen times. She heard him mumble what sounded like an apology. The reporters and the rest of the crowd immediately parted, creating a clear and definite path that led to the far left, where she remembered the prep rooms were located. It was happily a place reporters were not allowed to go. He walked steadily toward sanctuary, bowing and smiling to the people they passed. Eloise did her best to mimic his behavior, but she was afraid her smile was too brittle to be convincing. Her cheeks were heavy and waxy and her lips thinned to a grimace.

  They rounded the corner, and out of the sight of cameras Gakino dropped the pretense.

  He bent to look closely at her face, “Are you ok El
oise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Sugiyama should never have— Did you understand . . .”

  “It’s fine. Really. I’m just glad that’s over.”

  “For you,” he said, emphatically, nodding his head at her.

  “For me?”

  “Yes. I told them that you were leaving, but that I’d be back. The press part is scheduled for two hours.”

  “How long were we up there?”

  “About one. That was the first part, with speeches by the director, the producers and managers.”

  “Speeches like Sugiyama’s?”

  “No, and we’re not going to have to deal with that asshole much longer, Eloise. I promise. But now there are interviews. And then there is a screening of the pilot episode.”

  “So it’s not over?”

  “Not nearly.”

  “But it’s almost midnight.”

  Gakino smiled at her. She wanted to see the expression as an innocent one, but it looked faintly patronizing. “I actually mentioned that just now. That it was late and that, after a day of being bombarded by strangers, and flash bulbs, and questions hollered at you in Japanese, you were tired. One of the reports asked if your fairy godmother demanded that you return before midnight. I said yes and that seemed to do it.”

  “Is that what the Moses trick was?”

  “Moses trick?”

  “Yeah. The crowd just split in half. Like Moses split the sea.”

  “Oh, yes. That cracked them right down the middle, didn’t it?”

  “The Cinderella myth's popular here, too. That would make quite the essay.”

  “You go back to the hotel, and I’ll meet you there later.”

  “Like last night?” she asked, accusingly. She didn’t mean to sound so angry, but her head was pounding and she wanted to spend one moment in peace with the man she loved. She was running out of patience.

  “No, not like last night. I’ll be late, but I’ll be there.”

  “This is sounding remarkably like last night.”

  “I told you, one of the upper management of JAL asked us to go out drinking.”

  “At 3 a.m.?”

  “Yes. Do you really want me to explain it all again.”

  “I just don’t understand why you couldn’t tell him no.”

  “Because this is Japan, and that just isn’t done. Business happens around a sake cup, Eloise. When your boss invites you out, you don’t say no. Ever.”

  “Okay. Okay.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “Forget I said anything. Where do I go to get this thing pulled off me?” she asked sweeping her hands over her dress.

  “I’ll take you.”

  Taking her elbow, he guided her to a room she recognized from earlier this evening. She saw her clothes hanging neatly on a rack.

  “Wait here. I’ll send someone to you.”

  She tumbled onto the couch and put her head against the cushions, covering her eyes with her arm.

  She thought he’d left the room, but suddenly Gakino’s palms were warm on her knees. Opening her eyes, she saw him kneeling in front of her, sadness written in his features. His eyes were dark and his usual smile was gone. “I am sorry, Eloise. This trip hasn’t gone as I’d planned either. I didn’t expect the JAL deal to go through. None of us did. No KM performer—no pop group in Japan—has ever gotten an endorsement this big. I really didn’t think this would happen. You were in the air when I found out. If I had known . . .”

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m being dreadful. I know I am. I can’t seem to help myself though. You know how it was . . .”

  “With your father?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And this feels the same?”

  She tilted her head and pinched the top of her nose, hoping to stem the pounding in her head.

  “That’s a yes,” Gakino mumbled.

  “Sorry.”

  “Me, too. I’ll try to make it up to you.”

  “Just try to make it to the hotel. That’ll be enough.”

  “Ok.” Giving her a quick kiss, he jogged out of the room. She wanted his urgency to be about her need for a stylist and a chauffeur, not for the press corp that waited. But she wasn’t naive enough to hope that was the case. Tears prickled at her eyes and made her nose tingle, but she’d already decided she’d cry when she got to the hotel. She’d have hours to weep in. Maybe by the time Gakino came home, she’d be more herself, all wrung out and dried up. The normal, nice, unsoggy girl that she normally was.

  *

  True to his word, Gakino sent people to her. With the help of KM staff, she was back in her hotel room by one, and asleep thirty minutes later. Her eyes had stayed dry. Exhaustion and jet lag had claimed the battle. But anxiety won the war.

  As tired as she was, she woke up nearly every hour, thinking she’d heard Gakino come in. But two hours passed without him. And three. Four went by and five, too. When she woke at six, she was surprised to see him sprawled out asleep on the couch. He smelled of alcohol, but not of perfume. While she was happy that he wasn’t slathered in eau de Rei, she was ashamed she had stooped to sniffing her boyfriend. She wanted to blame travel and Japan or even moon tides for her current behavior, but she knew that the blame lay in all her family baggage. She tried to be logical, but all her sense had flown with the first flash bulb.

  She stepped quietly around Gakino and dialed up room service. She wanted to let him sleep as late as possible, but she worried that he’d miss something. His schedule was busy, and she had no way to know what it was. Wanting to be of some help, she ordered breakfast for them both. Worse case scenario, it went cold. At least he could heat it up if he was in a hurry.

  They told Eloise that room service would arrive in less than fifteen minutes—apparently staying in a suite had its perks. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and dressed quickly, tossing on a comfortable pair of shorts, a white tee, and her worn out old black sweater. She’d thrown it in her bag at the last minute, thinking it silly because she’d have no reason to wear the ratty old thing. Part of her had known she’d need the comfort it would bring.

  Pulling on socks and seeing she still had roughly five minutes to wait, she started restlessly tidying up. She picked up Gakino’s tux jacket that he’d tossed on the floor and, dusting it off, hung it in the wardrobe. She found his shoes, which he’d flung off in opposite corners of the room, and placed them by the door. At a loss for more to do, she started hot water for tea and straightened the complimentary fruit.

  The knock at the door made her jump although she’d been expecting it. Putting on her best imitation of a smile, she pushed the lock aside and opened the door.

  But it wasn’t room service. It was Sugiyama.

  “May I come in?” he asked. His expression was designed to seem earnest and kind, but to Eloise his smile was cold and oily.

  “No, I’m sorry,” she whispered, stepping forward to block his entry. “Gakino is still resting.”

  “Yoh-kun’s here? In your hotel room? Asleep?”

  Leaning back a little, she grabbed her key card off the nearby table and stepped into the hall, letting the door click shut behind her. “Yes.”

  “I’d hoped, as the daughter of an American politician, that you would show more discretion than our young man,” he said, with a nod toward the door behind her. “But I’ll be assured that you wouldn’t say as much to anyone in the press and that you are being as reserved as possible with the hotel staff.”

  “As reserved as possible?”

  “Certainly. I hope you have considered the relevant issues.”

  “Relevant issues?”

  “Quit parroting me, young lady.”

  She checked the urge to roll her eyes. The manager couldn’t be more than ten years older than she was.

  He went on, unaware of her thoughts. “Have you asked yourselves the proper questions? How should Yoh arrive? How should he enter yo
ur room? Could anyone see him enter it? Should he have his own room on the hall? Will the staff see him in your room, especially at odd hours?”

  She thought of the room service that was due to arrive at any moment, with two clear portions, and wanted to get rid of the manager as soon as possible.

  “Sugiyama, how can I help you?”

  “Well, actually I came to talk with Yoh about this.” He handed her a stack papers he’d wrapped in brown paper. At a glance, she could tell they were stories about her and Gakino. “And to congratulate him.”

  “About JAL?”

  “No, about you, actually. Asking you here without company permission was a bit of a masterstroke, something I thought to be completely beyond him, truth be told.”

  “What?”

  “It put me in quite a position. Admit to Kishimoto-san that I had no control over my talent. Or, pretend that I had planned it entirely without regard for Kishimoto himself. Neither option served me, obviously. I am no longer Tenshi’s manager. At least for the present. I came to congratulate Yoh on his strategy and to give him a message from Kishimoto-san.”

  Keeping herself still and willing her voice to be steady, she said, “Give me your message. I’ll make sure he gets it.”

  “Quote it exactly. I want there to be no confusion.”

  “The message, please, Mr. Sugiyama.”

  “‘As Yoh believes he can serve as his own management, he is now responsible for managing that American disaster.’ He means you, Eloise-san.”

  “Yes, that much is clear.”

  “What perhaps might not be clear is the bad press this has all stirred up. I’m afraid there’s a tiny storm brewing over the fact that Yoh could find none to please him in all of Japan and that, traveling to Taiwan, he finds there, not a beautiful Asian woman, but a transplanted American. There are some that harp on the fact that Yoh’s own countrywomen aren’t good enough for him. Japanese people love foreign things, Ms. Bromleigh, but we like them at a distance.”