I again handed back the envelope. ‘No thanks.’
‘Pure madness.’
We sat in silence for a moment staring out over the city. In the last light of day it was square and grey and cluttered. The buildings were packed tightly beside one another, like old boxes in storage. Boxes on boxes, extending out endlessly. The glass deadened all sound. I watched great fans turn lazily inside the rooftop airconditioners and thought how unlike the hostel this was, how unlike the little street Mami had stood in, squinting up and telling me to stick my head out. Back then I feared her entering my life. Now she was excising me, cutting around and beneath me like a tumour.
‘And in addition to this gift—which will only be left here if you don’t take it—I’m going to find you somewhere to live. You’ll pay the rent but I’ll act as a guarantor and pay the deposit. All you’ll have to do is move in.’
‘I won’t take it. None of it.’
‘You will. Just watch.’ And without another word, Mami dropped the envelope on the floor and left. I called after her but she ignored me. The eyes of the staff followed her out, curious. I suspected they knew who she was because they grouped to discuss the visit as soon as she was in the elevator.
For a long while after Mami’s departure, I remained. I sat staring out the window at the city, watching familiar red bulbs pulse on tall buildings while trains slid into a station immediately below. They came from opposite directions but stopped perfectly in line, time and time again. Nearby, a Mitaya store, the brightest in the area, demanded a degree of attention hardly befitting its size. And to my right, dwarfed by distance, sat Shinjuku, a lump, like an ant nest burning from the inside out.
I had come to associate this height, this detached overview of the world and its workers, with Mami. I decided it was a perspective I should never have known. Having stepped from my own anxious poverty just long enough to recognise the endless possibilities before me, the vast panorama of adulthood, I had marooned myself between two worlds.
I picked up the envelope on my way out and buried it deep in my coat pocket. Perspectives aside, there was rent to pay.
Tinkerbelle’s Treat
Growing marijuana gave Phillip something to think about, distracting him from his daily headaches. He was in and out of the apartment like a bee, researching one horticultural detail after another.
I did not share his enthusiasm.The size of the project and Phillip’s intention to sell the crop to a mystery buyer worried me. I researched Japanese drug laws on the internet but found little information that was concrete. The reliable sites were all in Japanese, the remainder posted by past and present foreigners. Though I did not trust the latter, they were clear on two points—Japanese law made little or no distinction between marijuana and heroin, and growing it was tantamount to dealing it. Which meant a hefty prison sentence.
When Phillip purchased tubular fluorescent lights and installed them without permission, I decided there was a need to put an end to this new hobby. I interrupted him as he read from a book on hydroponics, purchased in the English section of Kinokuniya.
‘You know,’ I said, keeping my voice calm and level, ‘you never told me where the stems came from or who it is you plan to sell this crop to.’
‘It’s a need-to-know basis, Tuttle.’ Phillip put the book down, collected his wallet and keys, and crossed to the apartment door.
‘Bugger that,’ I said.
‘What?’ He looked irritated at not having escaped before my objection.
‘I share the risk.’
‘Relax. You know the guy.’
This surprised me. ‘Who?’
Phillip opened the apartment door as if about to leave but did not step out. It was raining and I could see large drops falling as straight and fast as darts. Unlike in the rainy season, this rain was cold. Suppressing a shiver Phillip pulled on a windbreaker with one hand.
‘Harry,’ he said at last. ‘You know, from the hostel.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Why?’
‘I’m curious.’
Phillip looked sceptical as he pulled on the hood. ‘If you screw this up for me, Tuttle, I swear I’ll—’
‘You’ll what?’ I glared at him but then quickly thought the better of it and almost smiled, allowing the faintest hint of a laugh to fall into my words. ‘For God’s sake, I won’t screw anything up. Trust me. Now where is he? I’d like to catch up with him.’
Phillip thought a moment, then answered in a murmur almost lost to the rain. ‘Tinkerbelle’s Treat.’
‘What?’
‘It’s in Musashi-Urawa. That guy’s making a name for himself. The rumour is, he owns the place. Now keep your mouth shut and remember there’s money in this.’
‘Fine.’
Phillip let himself out, shaking his head. Rain dripped loudly, coldly, until the door banged shut and the silence of the kitchen leant in to hear my whisper. ‘Son of a bitch.’
Tinkerbelle’s Treat was a bizarre building, just bizarre enough to be a success in Japan. The country was funny that way—it was the perfect place to launch a ludicrous business. Like, for example, theme parks modelled on Dutch towns, or the ride at Parque Espana, where people become the bull in a bullfight. There was always a new novelty waiting to grab the attention of a population raised on bright lights and kitsch replicas.
I was lucky to find the place. After taking a commuter train to Musashi-Urawa Station I asked locals for directions, but no one had the first idea what I was talking about until one man grinned and pointed down a featureless street. He mumbled instructions in shy, broken English. I thanked him and within a few hundred metres passed the barn he had described. A sign, situated above a huge American flag—flapping like a rug in the strong breeze—read ‘Tinkerbelle’s Treat—Authentic American Hostesses’.
I had waited only one day to find Harry. I had no plan for getting back my money beyond asking him for it and again threatening to go to the police. Somehow, never having dealt with unscrupulous, thieving, drug-dealing people, I imagined he would feel bad and offer up whatever he could. In each wood-framed window there were fluorescent lights promoting American beers—Bud, Miller, Coors Light. I could hear the bass of a stereo thumping to a rock song and on the balcony a carpenter was cutting lengths of timber with an electric saw while another stacked them. Without doubt Tinkerbelle’s Treat had been built to a theme. There was a balcony and railing, an ornate doorbell, a letterbox and space for a front lawn, now sprinkled with seed. The more I looked at it, the less barn-like it seemed. It was a prairie cabin.
I ignored the workers and rang the bell. Behind me the electric saw wound out. I stood waiting. Finally Harry appeared, short as ever and dressed in a suit with a shiny tie strung loosely around his flabby neck. He was perfectly relaxed, giving the impression he considered me a close friend. He stuck out his hand and I could not help but shake it.
‘Let’s go for dinner,’ he said.
‘Fine.’
‘I know a good place. Grill your own meat sort of a thing. You’ll love it.’
The automatic glass doors slid back. A woman in her early fifties came rushing to assist us, apron around her middle, notepad at the ready. She showed us to a table and, as soon as we were seated, reached to the side and turned a knob. The burner in the middle of our table flared beneath black coals and she stood expectantly with her notepad until Harry ordered two Kirin beers.
‘I want that money,’ I said while we waited.
‘I know.’
‘Do you have it?’
‘I’ve said I’ll give it to you.’
‘But you haven’t, and it’s time you did.’ I was doing my level best to sound assertive.
A young girl of five or six in a floral dress entered with her mother, distracting the waitress from our drinks. We sat watching the two women—obviously old friends—talk, while the girl stood facing the counter, head turned towards us. Her eyes drank us up without revealing an opinion. She might have bee
n staring at a television. After they left we received our drinks and clinked them wordlessly.
‘So why won’t you pay?’ I asked.
Harry leant in, elbows on the table. I had the uneasy sense he was enjoying toying with me, like a cat with a grasshopper, unwilling to kill it outright—letting it go and swiping it back.
‘The world to me,’ he said, ‘is nothing more than opportunities, and you’re not an opportunity.’
‘Let’s confine this to the money.’
‘I am confining it to the money.’
‘I’m serious, Harry. Don’t give me the run—’
‘You’re not worth repaying, not yet.’ He gestured to the waitress. ‘Let’s eat,’ he said.
‘I know about Phillip, about the grass—what you’re up to. It only takes a phone call.’
Harry’s face lost its levity. ‘Listen to me, Noah. For whatever—’ The waitress arrived and, not understanding a word, waited by our table for an order. Harry glanced at her, but decided to go ahead and finish what he was saying.
‘For whatever reason, you’ve cut yourself off from this world. You know next to no one and you don’t seem interested in getting to know anyone. That’s why you’re no opportunity. I don’t have any need for some kid who sits around staring at his cock all day. You understand? Whatever use you were, I’ve used. I’m talking plainly now. You somehow want to make yourself of use again, well, maybe you’ll see the money sooner rather than later, but you never, ever fucking threaten me. I’ll pay you when I’m good and ready.’
He turned to the waitress, smiled and placed an order in effortless Japanese, adding in English for my benefit, ‘It’s just for one. My friend has to go.’
I sat for a moment, trying to think up a powerful reply. But I lacked the courage. All those nights planning my invective, and I only stood and walked out of the restaurant. The doors peeled back for me—chimed. Outside the last of the sun glinted in my eyes. Cars roared past too fast for the narrow roads.
Then something struck me hard from behind and the pavement smacked my skull, grazing my face. Someone kicked me sharply in the stomach. Trying to look up I caught sight of the carpenters from Tinkerbelle’s Treat, before both men climbed into a car and pulled out into the traffic.
The Winter
So began the winter.
I remember thinking, sitting on the train home from Tinkerbelle’s Treat, that the season ahead could only improve. I stared out over apartment blocks—thousands upon thousands of staircase safety lights. Somewhere a giant strobe was sweeping the sky and I found myself following it up, down and around. The stations stopped and started. In the carriage I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, my face. Presumably it was still bleeding. I could taste blood on my lips and took care licking them clean.
A middle-aged woman would not avert her eyes, even when I stared her down. Others glanced or shared whispers. At home I would have been a ghost, everyone afraid I might stand and hit them. But here I was a spectacle. And no wonder. The train carriage looked like every other. A few boys tended to their streetwear in darkened windows with the fastidiousness of young women. Ugly salarymen read about computers. Make-up-smeared girls typed messages into mobile phones from which dangled cheap toys and tacky plastic jewellery. A bum rubbed at his hands and explained something to himself. Dull men in plain clothes read porn. And attractive women scowled as if they would have their looks forever. There were no children.
Above all this, like an exhaust, lingered an oppressive unease, a nastiness that got into the blood and filled the brain with malice. To blot out the middle-aged woman I pulled a newspaper from the luggage rack. I could read nothing more than the date—two days old. I flicked through the dense pages, scanning pictures. There was a crane, a boy in uniform, a politician and a Bangkok freeway which came to an abrupt halt in midair. Finally I turned to a society page only to find myself staring at a photo of Mami Kaketa. She was with a man. There was no doubt in my mind it was her. I tried to read the article but it was hopeless, so I asked the girl to my left if she spoke English. Startled, she waved her palm rapidly and dropped her head. Same with an old man with gunk at the corners of his lips, though he stiffened stupidly like a hare hiding in a mown field.
It was my stop and I had to get off. I dropped the paper into a bin, deciding it was nothing important, and did not give it another thought until my hotel shift the following day, where it was still news.
It turned out Mami had stolen something—a bag. She had been caught on video trying to smuggle it out of Takashimaya. Oddly, though an accomplished thief, she had set off the store alarms and was taken in for questioning by a security guard who wasted no time turning her over to police. A co-worker of mine with frizzy hair and a degree in English Literature from a top Japanese university raised the matter as we stood in the kitchen, waiting for the same order.
‘It’s a shock,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Kaketa-san.’
‘Why?’
‘She was—how do you say? Royal. Famous. No, not famous. Almost, I think.’
‘She was? I didn’t know.’
‘But you had heard of her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you see.’
I did not explain how I knew Mami.
‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘the media in Japan, they used to say the perfect girl. Rich and pretty. Clever maybe, too. Always I think pretty people are clever. Clever ugly get the money to do the sex with pretty people.’ He paused. ‘Et al.,’ he added.
‘What will happen to her?’
‘Trial. But she had run away. It was on the news— NHK. She had run far, far away. Maybe Hokkaido, the top Japanese island.’
‘Why not leave the country?’
He shrugged.
‘Here at this hotel, I hear she has no money from her father now. Or maybe she likes snow. There will soon be snow.’
I hardly slept for a week. I walked quiet streets, peering into yellow-lit apartments. I felt incredibly lonely and it was this which eventually led me to call Tilly a little before sunup on a Saturday morning, having walked and sat on benches all night and waited in vain for the sun to rise from the top of an austere parking lot. How could it hurt to be civil, I reasoned, to take an interest in an ex-girlfriend? Was she home?
I found a phone, purchased a card and dialled Tilly’s number, which was still deep inside my wallet. The call rang out and, nervous, I dialled again.
Mr Willoughby’s voice was sleepy.
‘Mr Willoughby?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Noah Tuttle. I was wondering, is Tilly there?’
There was a lengthy silence in which I pressed the cold plastic receiver hard against my ear, waiting for a reply.
‘Matilda?’ he asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Noah Tuttle.’ I worried about the early hour. ‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’
Another pause.
‘She’s dead,’ Mr Willoughby said, before quietly hanging up.
I was astounded. I had to know more. Even if more was only a scrap, a single word. I had to know how.
For days I dialled Tilly’s number, always getting the busy signal. More often than not I would think about that one tail-light, about the day I found a seat on the train without bothering to say goodbye. It was by no means the last time I saw Tilly, but it was the moment I most regretted. Somehow in my mind that was the point at which I abandoned her; the point at which I finally took her for granted. Perhaps it was even earlier than that. Perhaps it was from the beginning. But it was the tail-light my mind skipped to whenever I heard that long tone.
Once or twice I slumped and tried to cry but, sober, the tears felt forced and unearned. I had no idea what to cry about. Without knowing how she died, she was not dead. At least not to me. Over and over I would expect her to answer, to discover she was alive and merely extracting revenge for the cats.
In between dialling I
tried to go on with my life as before, but my hatred for Tokyo only intensified. At work I came close to shouting at customers. My thoughts bubbled threateningly like lava and I became yet more racist in my outlook, lumping the Japanese in together and hating them all with an equal, unjust ferocity. I had, of course, never made any effort to integrate myself into Japanese society, but now took Tokyo’s disinterest in me, in my loss, as a rebuke.
It never occurred to me to leave, however. There was nowhere to go. Instead I acquired sleeping pills and doggedly tried to take up drinking. The two threw my life out of focus like a snapped antenna. I was fired for not being able to add up change and for vomiting on a computer keyboard. I was always either drunk or ill, rarely bothering to leave the apartment. I stole Phillip’s grass and smoked it in the bathroom, regularly exiting to dial Tilly’s number, until eventually it was disconnected and replaced with a Telstra ‘Out of Service’ message.
This bout of booze, pills and self-pity came to an end outside a love hotel near a foreign shot bar called ‘The Munroe’. I had been drinking whisky since around midday when, just on dusk, a woman sat beside me, a woman with an old, scar-pink cut that caused one eyelid to sag slightly. Japanese, she had a solid roll of fat around her middle and was perhaps forty but still retained a certain unmistakeable attractiveness. She said nothing for an hour or so, just sat and drank whatever I did. Eventually I think I bought her something—a pack of cigarettes, maybe—and we did our best to chat across two languages, mincing up the grammar of both. Twice the barman warned her off, whispered in her ear that she was drunk, that she ought to go home, but this did not stop me kissing her. We rented a love-hotel room and I vaguely recall sleeping with her, sex that became almost violent towards the end as we both struggled to finish. Horribly drunk I sobbed afterwards, and she lay hugging me until our hour was up and we found ourselves back outside, roughly dressed. She took my hand and shook it, then hobbled on high heels to a pedestrian light, waiting patiently for it to turn green before crossing the street and vanishing into a dark, leafy park full of concrete dinosaurs.
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