Tokio Whip

by Arturo Silva

  –Oh, never! I too sit in my fashion.

  –Sit on it sometime, Arlene.

  –Really, stop it, Van Zandt!

  –Alright, sorry. But what about now?

  –What about it?

  –For recovery’s sake –

  –For recovery’s sake.

  ***

  Pure and licentious in the Absolute.

  – Robert Desnos

  ***

  –A thousand dives and I knows ’em all: Shakespeare, Old and New 1, 2, 3, Raison d’Etre, Infinity, even got tipsy on beer at Zonar, D Ray, Copa’s (“Step into another world,” indeed), Sometime, Eau de Vie, Somewhere (“Watch your steps”), the FLW, that Old World place in the basement of the shabu-shabu restaurant, D Grace, the Irish bars, the German joint with all those kids singing drinking songs, Mu Ichi Mon, Golden Dust, Gargantua, Sans Soleil, the saké and kushiyaki place by the Scientology office, Big Pal, Shot Bar (“Est. 1984,” Japanese absinthe), B (and Plan B), all the grappa we drank at Cucina, the Tobu Hotel and the other hotel bar in Shinagawa, the FLW – no, I said that ... Jeez, am I gonna make it home in one piece?

  –Steady, VZ, steady.

  ***

  Ah, this city, Kazuko reflects, five, seven years here now? No matter. It has given me much. Might I return it? How? To be myself, to become the woman I want to be. To be both the Kyotoite I was born, and to be the Tokyoite – though never an Edokko – heavens forbid! Yes, to be myself, whomever, wherever I am.

  ***

  I’ve been here just a few years and it’s still a surprise to me. You take an innocent girl from across the river and put her in the big city. Hiroko-chan, you’ve still got some growing up to do. Even after how many hundreds of times there, I still get lost in Shibuya station. It’s those first floor Tokyu doors; do they face different directions? And I still haven’t gotten the way right to that Italian restaurant in Jiyugaoka. What is it? Right, right, ramen shop, left. Uhn, that doesn’t sound quite right. Ooh la la as Maxine would say. And I’m still looking up at six-story buildings. What did van Zandt say about it being a street-level city? Well, maybe when you’re as tall as he is. But it’s an ok city – sure it’s crowded and noisy, but you learn to live with it. It is clean, and it’s safe too. You take the good with the bad. That’s life. Isn’t it? Then I don’t really know any other place. Maybe I don’t know much about life either. I’ve been to Sendai once; that was nice, very pretty, and a good size, too. But this is the place where I was born, so I guess I’d better try to appreciate it, maybe even make my small contribution someday, who knows. Yes, that’d be nice. I wonder how Kazuko can stand it though. It must be such a contrast for her. Such a nice girl, but that’s how they make them in Kyoto. Can prostitutes also be ladies? “An innocent girl from across the river.” Sounds like a title. But I really do have to do something about that innocence. I don’t want that story to be written about me.

  ***

  Oh, if only you could have recognized what was always yours, could have loved what was never lost.

  – Joan Fontaine (b. Tokyo), Letter from an Unknown Woman (Max Ophuls, 1948)

  ***

  Arlene? She likes hotel lounges, poolsides, pink or turquoise cocktails served with umbrellas.

  Chapter 5

  EBISU–SHIBUYA

  Lang didn’t even pay attention to Tokyo at first, he wanted something from Roberta but it wasn’t coming; and then he simply didn’t like her life here, didn’t like where she was living then, somewhere between Shinjuku and Nakano and Yoyogi, “honcho” no less, he called it “nondescript” and she said yes, yes she thought it was wonderful for having no character… and one simply doesn’t say something like that to Lang, no way, and anyway, after all, he’d brought all his Euro-baggage and had no idea what he was getting into and she already into it, she was settled the woman was moving – she was becoming a real Tokyoite – and then besides, he didn’t like her friends. Oh, and the party.

  ***

  cellular

  dragonfly pinhole

  molecular

  microchip

  mosaic

  ***

  The poor and fatherless, suffering the quiet punishments of despair, may see themselves as permanently damned for crimes they can’t remember having committed.

  – Ross MacDonald

  ***

  3AM and she needed a record store.

  3:30AM and she had a record store.

  ***

  Lang wakes up somewhere in the Ogasawara Islands. It is h-o-t. He has island-hopped his way here via Okinawa and the Mariannas and has further hopped from island to island here – here too a Mukojima, a Mamma Island and a Pappa Island, Sis and Bubba Islands too, and of course the infamous Iwojima. Here too Japan – Tokyo in this case – reaches as far east and south as it will, these the borders of the city, the borders of consciousness. He gets out of bed and is in the street with Roberta. They walk along a stream in search of a decent café. They pass what they think is either the remains of an ancient Roman capitol or a French Gothic church (all architectural knowledge suddenly having slipped them by). It is a building whose interior has been blasted out, the lining of the gut alone remaining, not unlike the memorial in Hiroshima. They cross the stream-now-become-a-river and enter a café. Lang’s mother is there. She asks the waiter for a “frou-la-la, you know, like they have in Amsterdam.” The waiter is flustered, he’s never heard of such a thing. The mother becomes flustered. The drink arrives. Lang becomes angry after his mother now complains that the frou-la-la costs 2.75. Outside the café now, Lang is with Roberta again and now too her French friend Yolande. They are in a public square where a “Folk Music Festival” is going on. There’s Bill Monroe and Nathan Abshire, Amedée Ardoin and Bob Wills, as well as Mrs. Williams’ son Hiriam. Country Heaven. Monroe is wailing, ever so high and lonesome, “I’ll waive my time here on earth, love, and come to you when I die.” Then the group tries to cross the street but only gets half way; they are stranded on a grassy pathway that divides the road. A jeep-load of soldiers stops them, asks for their passports. Five men get out of the jeep. They surround Yolande and Roberta, feeling them up for their passports. What kind of soldiers are these, what are they doing here?, this isn’t Okinawa, Lang wonders, this is Tokio!

  Hiro is a young boy; he is on vacation for five days in the Ogasawaras with his mother. (“Take photographs, not plants. Leave footprints, not garbage.”) He is annoyed by the American music, all fiddles, accordions, yodeling – he’s seen Japanese dressed up in Cowboy outfits, but seeing the real thing now is a bit disconcerting. (Real in the dream, that is, after all, these are the tropics.) In two days they will return to Tokyo; the following day he will have an important exam. For the last three evenings before falling asleep she has fellated him. She allows him to kiss her breasts, but no more. He’s never seen her fully naked, and so his daydreams are filled with her in variously different costumes – his Mother in high-school uniform; in a bikini, but only the top half, and revealing a very dense bush; severe and black in Yohji Yamamoto; in Alpine dirndl (breasts exposed); in a “smoking” and mules, with a girlfriend at her side; in classic Chanel, deep blue; and finally, in Japanese military uniform.

  ***

  –Oh, it’s lovely! A glass of saké with a flake of goldleaf in it. I’ve never seen such a thing, really. But isn’t it expensive?

  –Not really that much more. Anyway, one glass, ok, Arlene?

  –Sure. But what’s the occasion?

  –Oh, a small bonus from a friend.

  –Good for you; I wish I had such friends.

  –But you can, Arlene.

  –Uhn, no thanks. Anyway, it is nice to see you alone, Hiromi.

  –Thank you for coming. And please call me Mona.

  –Oh, ok, Mona. But why the name change, why Mona?

  –Because Hiroko got Maxine first. But don’t you think everyone should have an artistic name?

  –An “artistic” name? Oh, you mean an artist name. Wel
l, I’ve never really given it much thought. I know that Kabuki actors and writers do – but does everyone?

  –No, only we artists.

  –Oh. I’m sorry, Hiro –, I mean Mona, but exactly what art do you practice? No, let me see ... I suppose your calligraphy is exquisite.

  –Terrible, to tell the truth. My father’s always correcting my strokes; and I can’t remember any complicated kanji. Do you know kanji? The stroke order? I can teach you some, uhn, strokes.

  –Perhaps some other time, Mona. But really, what art do you practice? Traditional dance?

  –No, silly, the “contemporary arts” – you know, make-up, fashionable dressing –

  –Ah! So you’re a Non-Non girl.

  –No, and I don’t read An-An either. I’m an independent. There are lots of us.

  –Ah, I see. Of course, silly of me to think otherwise.

  –I’m happy. You know, Arlene, I’ve known quite a few Americans –

  –Boys?

  –Yes.

  –Van Zandt?

  –Yes.

  –Ok, go on.

  –And, if I may be so bold – is that phrase ok? – and if I can ask you something personal … would you be called “square” back in the States?

  –Well, Mona, because you’ve offered me this saké with goldleaf, I won’t take offense, and I will answer you honestly. Yes, I suppose some people would consider me square. But mind you, a lot of people would consider me perfectly normal.

  –Oh.

  –Why, Mona, that’s really not so bad.

  –No, I suppose not. Here it’s the desired thing, of course.

  –And not only here, let me remind you.

  –Well, no offense. In fact, I like you square, Arlene. It’s so different.

  –Thank you – I think.

  –Why “think”?

  –Oh, it’s just a phrase.

  –Oh, I see. Do you think I have a nice body, Arlene?

  –Mona? Uhn, yes, I suppose one would have to say that by most standards you have a nice body. I’m sure most men would find it attractive.

  –And not only men, Arlene.

  –Not only men, I’m sure. Anyway, do you have anything against normal people?

  –No, I was just wondering because your friends are so far out.

  –Oh, you mean van Zandt.

  –Not only. Lang and Roberta too. And that old guy, that Cafferty.

  –Cafferty is a wonderful man, and so strange and curious, Mona, that he is perfectly normal.

  –Really? Well, I hardly know him. He seems to have no interest in me at all, and that does not strike me as being normal in a man.

  –Anyway, do you find Roberta and Lang so odd, so abnormal?

  –No, I just wonder what kind of couple they are. I mean, I understand that she left him – just like that [snaps fingers] – and then he came after her – and now they’re having all these problems.

  –You’ve been talking to VZ too much.

  –Oh no, we never talk.

  –I’m sure.

  –No, occasionally I see things, you know.

  –No, I didn’t.

  –Yes. I mean, if I was Roberta – or should I say, “If I were Roberta”? – I could never leave a man like Lang. He’s so ...

  –So ...?

  –Well ...

  –Yes, I understand. Go on.

  –Well, I don’t get it! That’s all.

  –Look, Hi–, Mona. Remember when Lang first arrived here? You know, he never really wanted to come to Tokyo in the first place. But then he arrived, and boy! He didn’t even pay attention to Tokyo at first. He wanted something from Roberta but it wasn’t coming; and then he simply didn’t like her life here, didn’t like where she was living then, oh where was it?, somewhere between Shinjuku and Nakano and Yoyogi, “honcho” no less. He called it “nondescript” and she agreed, said yes it was, she thought it was wonderful for having no character … and one simply doesn’t say something like that to Lang, not at all, and after all, he’d brought all his Euro-baggage and had no idea – no idea! – of what he was getting into, and she already so into it, she was settled. Oh, Roberta was moving – she was becoming a real Tokyoite. And then besides, he didn’t like her friends. And, oh yes, there was, uhm, the party.

  –Didn’t like me?

  –No, he didn’t like anyone. I’m sure he liked you, in his way. Anyway, he stood it for a while, and then he up and left.

  –But I thought her friends were wonderful.

  –So did they. That was the trouble for the both of them. She needed that boisterousness for a while, it lifted her, especially in the wake of her suddenly up and leaving Lang and going for something she wasn’t really sure of herself –

  –Not sure of?

  –Not sure where or really exactly why – only something that she must do.

  –Must?

  –Going on instinct.

  –Feelings!

  –She and Lang had come to an impasse. They’d been so good together for so long, and then that, that stasis.

  –Impasse. Stasis.

  –Yes. It was against Lang to some extent; but also to some against herself. But more for.

  –But she needed her quiet far more. It was not coming from them, and it was definitely not coming from Lang either.

  –I can’t stand quiet. But then, she’s so much older than me. What kind of quiet did she need?

  –Oh, Mona – don’t you see? Haven’t you ever been in love, I mean for a long time? No, I suppose not, you’re too young.

  –Three months?

  –Too short, Dear. I’m talking of permanency.

  –You’re right. Too young.

  –Thank you, I see we agree.

  –I can be agreeable, Arlene.

  –I’m sure. Anyway, no, it just simply wasn’t working for them together at her old place. They needed another break. Maybe that way they could come back together.

  –And if not?

  –Well, let’s not think of that right now. In the meantime, we should all try and be good friends. You know, talk, talk freely, caringly, take a walk together sometimes.

  –And if they don’t, will Lang be free?

  –I suppose, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up, Dear. I don’t think you’re his type.

  –Not too young?

  –No, just not too ... well, it doesn’t matter. Content yourself with van Zandt.

  –Ok!

  –So, as I was saying, they needed that other break. But then that sort of backfired.

  –Ah, Lang the Edokko!

  –Ah, there is something upstairs!

  –?

  –Yes, Lang the Edokko. But that’s another chapter. Tell me, Mona, what are you going to do tonight? After I go home?

  –You mean ...?

  –Yes, Dear, I want to go home.

  –Why do you call me “Dear”?

  –Oh, well, it’s an endearment. That is, we say it when we are fond of someone.

  –“Fond”? Does that mean like?

  –Yes, but not in the way you think.

  –Or not in the way you’d like perhaps to think, Arlene?

  –Really, Hiromi. Between you and van Zandt –

  –Yes, between us?

  –I mean, well, I mean, look, you are cute, yes, but I don’t know if I ... that is ...

  –Don’t worry. Another chapter, as you say. We have lots of time ...

  –Yes, but I wonder if I can turn that page.

  –It’s not for us to say. Dear.

  –Oh, D–

  ***

  Gotta get to Kamakura, there’s a bell I wanna see.

  ***

  Rich and strange, Kazuo regards Kazuko’s friends Lang and Roberta. They are rather superficial, really, in spite of all that earnestness. I suppose they say the same about us, but in reverse. Ah, but we are all – what? Rich, open to change. Strange, alike. Ah, but Kazuko’s parents?

  ***

  “Hagiwara [Sakutaro] himself explain
ed his especial liking for beer as permitting long arguments about poetry as one proceeded slowly toward incoherence.”

  ***

  Just so, relax, hang out. Talk, laugh, smoke, drink, eat, in any order – and no speeches, thank you, no beribboned magnifying glasses. “Hi, my name’s Marianne, and I want to fuck your son’s brains out.” “Hi, my name’s Marianne, and I think your article was shit.” “Hi, my name’s Marianne, and I saw your scumbag husband with a high-school girl yesterday.” “Hi, my name’s Marianne, and your wife just went down on me.” “Hi, my name’s Marianne, and guess what? You’re Korean.” Oh god, here comes that horrible art critic. She smiles politely, and turns quickly to the man at her side, a scruffy looking, photographer whose work she likes: people-less black and whites, just the massive jumble of Tokyo. The most honest photos of the city we have, she feels. They begin to talk about music; his taste runs to Iggy Pop and the Clash, hard Blues, Otis Rush and the Wolf. He’s never heard Monk, never heard of Hawk – which reminds her of how things really started to go wrong at Roberta’s party, how Roberta wanted to play Monk, solos, clear enough, tasteful certainly, who could possibly argue? But Lang had other ideas, suddenly insisted on hearing Hawk, the European stuff with Benny Carter, which Roberta didn’t even have, and Lang was sure he’d seen it in her collection, couldn’t find it, of course, which only pissed him off more, so he yanked the Monk off, and put on – in a complete switch in direction – Dwight Yoakum real loud, which really annoyed everyone, and then what was it, the Mississippi Sheiks, which only made things stranger, not exactly party music. Oh, Roberta was fuming, and she knew she was powerless to do anything about this husband of hers that had such a gift of being an asshole at the worst moments – at least she knew she would be powerless for only a little while yet.

  ***

  Fiction a verb, an improvisation. “Ask Lester Young,” a song.

  ***

  R’n’L!!!!!

  Wireless, wireless! Whatever happened to coils and cables, springs and connecting rods – the stuff automata’s dreams are made on? Bah! “My Last Sony.”

  Randolph and Cary, Cary and LSD, Cary as a wife-beater ... jeez.

  Isn’t it terrible what happened to Veronica Lake? And then to wind up waiting tables? I mean is fate cruel or what? Why didn’t someone know beforehand, why didn’t someone go to her? I know I would have, and I know you would have too, and I know that that’s one of a zillion reasons we’re friends. Ohh, Veronica!