Tokyo Zero

by Marc Horne

  I decided to hang out with the thin lady for a little while and moved as close as I thought proper, giving her a thin lipped smile. I looked up and the haze was briefly thin enough for me to see the City. It was an amazing sight. All of the lights I saw had been individually screwed into walls by millions of men and women and they had not conferred much on their task. Yet they had made this, we had made this. It made sense to me, the field of light with a little rhythm even to my eyes but pulsing like a lung to the patient. All of the cities looked like this, or aspired to. It was the unstoppable blueprint of the future. And then it was a pink cloud, much as I had imagined the train suicide earlier.

  She struggled to speak English, a grave concern for my welfare was what I saw in her face, surely incorrectly. The English that came out was pretty good.

  "Is the group here good? Are you with them do you know? How much do I give?"

  I thought for a while about the appropriate reply. In the end I said… "Well.. how many people do want killed?"

  She pulled out a napkin and drew a picture of a man in a tartan skirt: No, a kilt. We parted.

  The boat continued out over almost flat water now. Light from the boat hit the water and made a shoal of fish that were nothing but light to accompany us. All the fish would look at the boat and none of them would understand it.. that it was what happened when a tree or anything fell into water… it turned into a fish.

  That was the fundamental principle by which I lived my life, I reflected. I did reflect. I could see pieces of me in the water.

  Elsewhere on the yacht, my friends were doing things. Honda was moving around to impress people . Or rather he was being moved around: Maruhashi wanted to flex his muscle. People had to realize how tough the Path was when the ladies were not around. Maruhashi had his hand near Honda's back so he could pat it at will. I saw, from on high, Honda telling a story. He was upright and his eyes ranged across the small crowd of eyebrowed small men. He became rigid and apparently his gravity became intense. Then he twisted his hand stretched like a knife by ninety degrees so it was flat. Then he made a fist. Then he held his fist before his face and then moved it over his face like a mask… fading away.

  They giggled.

  So I had a mission to find all my friends and see what they were doing. Also to obtain champagne. Once upon a time an American told me that all Englishmen felt obliged to pretend they were alcoholics. In fact, Americans fear alcohol and they just don't get it. They need to be themselves, the same psychotherapeutically cured self every day, all the time.

  She had some point.

  I found Yosuke. He was handing out tiny books that rested in his palm for a second before he handed them over. He had a big smile on his face and I was happy for him. He was sucking them in. They would either give money, or fill their minds with craziness or be soldiers. I knew no one would say no. We all knew it was time to get on a side.

  Where was Junko… ? I walked along the boat again. She was not on deck: was she a-midships? I went downstairs. I knew that perfume that I walked into, smelt like glass. Mayumi, the millionaire's girl. It was time to find her: I had a pretty good idea what Junko was doing… puking or something. Mayumi I had to find. She would be a good friend to have. A little glow of optimism was on me, wasn't it?

  I think I had gone underwater. I said, loud, "Mayumi." I kept walking, holding onto a copper rail that alternately put heat in me and took it out. My hand squeaked along it: a scared brake.

  In a doorway, which was quite lavish I saw her silhouette. She was in a gown that revealed her abstract but no real detail. It was an invitation to learn. Her eyes twinkled and something hung from her hip, possibly a gun. I had a small gun with me too. No jokes please. She had been positioned and you couldn't doubt that any more than a trap tearing through your ankle bone or rose petals on your bed in your own house.

  Fifteen minutes later and the sex was over. She arched her back up and stretched out all of her muscles and something spat out of her in a careless fashion. She made a moan that was very strong, different from the soft ones during the sex. At one point when my face was very close to hers she had seemed much more vivid. her face was curved and her eyes fluttered thin and her eyelids were beautiful and full and her face melted away. Her body was hard though and kung-fu strong.

  I asked her, "Do you like me at all?"

  She replied "Blake… you are changing. I like you quite a bit, but… who knows who you are"

  It went quiet and we both let ourselves cool. I wondered how women dried and got sticky after the event.

  Next door, a couple was having sex. A little bit of a turn on, reversing affairs belowdecks if you know what I mean. Sounds going straight through you.

  Fun.

  The distinct sound of a snapping bone followed by an extremely dehydrated moan of pain rewrote things. I was listening to the sounds of torture. She looked me right in the eye, and smiled for the first time.

  This was now a test, her probably inadvertent smile told me. A very clear scream followed by a large splash came through the wall.

  It was a pretty stupid test. Even though I really wanted to go next door and stop the torture, and even though I had a small gun in my pocket not too far away, I would hardly do it on the boat surrounded by a hundred cult members.

  To make things less horrifying I put a hand on her nice-sized right breast and another hand in a spot that would surely send a clear signal that I wanted sex again. She gave a huge shiver that I could not clearly interpret. We did it again as the torture went on next door. The sex was ten times better, more physical. And afterwards as she left me and everything was silent I tested my mind to make sure it was just because she was turned on by the pain next door, but realistically the nature of sex like that is that you share stimulus and reaction. I took pleasure from a squeeze she gave when she heard the electrodes spark. The pleasure was just a second later and routed around my conscience (a short cut I had set up and no-one else.)

  I contemplated the finality I was working on. Thinking about the big picture was the trick we had stolen from our enemies to allow us to contemplate compassionate monstrosities and which ultimately made us no better. That was the paradox that had led me to leave the group… until a letter from Claire… Claire of all people who had so rejected what we had been trying to do… brought me back round.

  When I got back on deck, the entire sky was lit by a vast green typhoon cloud that was frozen like geography above us and seemed heavy to fall.

  … … .

  "Wait a minute," I said to myself "Has everyone been speaking in Haiku

  tonight?"

  Chapter 20

  A few days later, I'm jogging. You're sick of hearing about me sweat, so I leave it up to you to remember that fact from now on.

  I am eagerly anticipating three days from now, when we will scope out the station we are going to gas. I need action too.

  University students play cricket as I pass: proof of my father's theory that the world has become almost transparent to ideas. There is absolutely no reason that someone called Nobuhiro should be spinning a googly. In a world just a pencil thickness from us, he is bullfighting. Samsara has been to that world. I look up and am amazed and entertained by the number of planes in the sky.

  When I was growing up, my dad was always inviting the world's leading free thinkers to hot tub parties with good food. The impossibly high quality of the hor's d'ouevres was the main thing that brought together the right and left wings of the guests: they would pleasantly rail at each other, mocking what they thought the other would say of the unnecessary foods and then the jousting would be done, they would all eat and then discussion would begin.

  In the tub, a fat man with a red beard with steam pouring from his eye sockets would talk about DNA as an overloaded 8-track cassette ruining sweet music. A naked Scandinavian beauty would talk about… something I'm sure (I was in my teens!)

  As the steam rose, people would loosen up. One man would invariably be heard s
houting (in the distance) "Yes… I DO despise the human race!!!"

  Everyone agreed on one thing by the time they left: ideas were alive and evolving. they were interacting in ways that no individual could master, implying that there were meta-thoughts in existence that would never fit in our heads. The only real source of disagreement was whether that implied there was something out there thinking them. Those who strongly thought so would gather in corners and agree with my father's plans.

  Ahead of me on the path that ran along the dike near the Edo river was a red bicycle and a white man was shaking it around with great ferocity. As I got nearer I saw that in fact he was shaking himself around with great ferocity, the bike static like it was his planet.

  Details of the white man rewarded my running. Short, carrying legacy muscles from an endurance sport, in the taunting phase of baldness. American, somehow. Either short-tempered or at the end of a Job-like trial: his temples!

  His bike was a big Japanese model, ladies with basket up front and baby chair out back. I had had a chance to take a good look at these indestructible Japanese bikes a few times and had consequently added them to all of my post-apocalyptic daydreams along with their soul-mates, the untouchable cockroaches.

  I was now so close and so white that I had to help out my fellow Gaijin. He was wearing a pair of shorts designed to be worn with belt. During the conversation I saw the large tag on the back that said "Made in Japan" by actually saying "People of the world are in agreement that the pursuit of sport is an interest. We must all work together to get strong our needs to push into natures beauty places."

  I slowed to a halt and said "Need a hand there?"

  He looked up at me with cold blue eyes, that flickered as he sought the stereotype that fit me so he could deal with me.

  "Thanks, but I think I can destroy a bicycle all on my own!" was his reply. A moment's pause and then a spasming cackle that went on much too long. I had some time to myself during it and watched a long silver train span the river on the bridge, long enough to reach both sides.

  "But seriously… " I said, fairly warmly.

  "This thing just needs a new chain, but I'm out of here tomorrow so I can't be bothered buying one."

  "Do you have kids?" I asked. He looked at me like he thought I was coming on to him and he definitely didn't like it. My theory was that he had been educated at one of those ivy league schools or whatever and consequently didn't ever want to find himself picking up the soap in the shower if you know what I mean. That's how he talked as we walked down to the bike shop, lots of aggressive innuendo and fast judgments of people.

  I had been talking about the baby seat and he explained that the bike was a gift from a Japanese woman who lived in his apartment building and who had taken a liking to him because of his attempts to learn Japanese calligraphy. I almost winked at him when he said "Japanese calligraphy" but apparently he was serious.

  He gave me his bicycle, and that was why we walked to the shop together. I don't know how much I really wanted one, but I got one. Pushing it down the road it became clear that the bike was sufficiently heavy to set off the next great Kanto earthquake if you weren't careful enough about putting the kick stand down.

  The American talked a little about how he loved Japan and how he loathed the idea of returning to the US where people thought that "Good Manners" was something like being a "Good Loser"… not applicable to USA Number 1. He went on like this a lot. It was interesting to see someone reject everything he came from.

  We went to one of this little bike fixing shops that, until that day, I had not really noticed where everywhere. An old fellow came out and didn't really need to be asked what to do. His small yellow dog watched.

  I asked the American if he would miss Japan and he said only the people, who were so bright and so generous. I couldn't really help myself and I asked him what he thought about all the suicides and the techno-obsession. He looked at me like I was insane.

  "That's America you're talking about, pal. Yeah, people kill themselves a lot here but you can see it coming. 'Mommy, Daddy's late home tonight… did he kill himself?','Yes, unfortunately he touched a woman on the … . the Joban line." Not like in the states where if you miss a "Parental advisory" sticker in your kid's bedroom your fondest hope he didn't take anyone with him. And they all wear walkmen all day too and it isn't Pizzicato Five they listen to… it's some transvestite who is offloading his abortion anxiety… ."

  And so on. I had the feeling I would probably be going to America next, if I succeeded in Japan. I would be less invisible there than here: also, it would take us a while to pick a lunatic group to infiltrate. Like picking candy bars there.

  Anyway, I got my bike and the American walked away, waving me away in friendly disgust.

  Chapter 21

  The Yamanote Line makes a ring around Tokyo, or more correctly Tokyo is a ring: it's heart is nothingness.

  Well OK, I suppose there may be several million people in the middle of this big ring along with baseball stadia etc… it doesn't pay to over-interpret these things.

  The point is, that it is the kind of city where you can pick one of a number of places to do a mass murder… there is no compelling "ground-zero"

  If you wanted to make it easy for the foreign News reader you could go for the Ginza. If you wanted to decapitate the country you could go for Kasumigaseki but since the Japanese change governments even more frequently than they do favorite sport, it would be a somewhat Pyhrric victory.

  If you had something against bizarrely basted teenage Japanese girls with baggy socks you could take out Shibuya. The financial district near Otemachi has some appeal but somehow isn't very shocking… "several hundred bankers died today".. you can imagine that sliding by on the blue strip at the bottom of a cable financial news channel.

  And of course there is something to be said for gassing up one of those huge right-wing Shinto shrines that Japanese politicians visit to honor the spirits of the war dead and get on the TV news and up the nose of all of their Asian neighbors.

  But at the end of the day you would be hard pressed to find a more compressed chunk of potential corpses than in the conveyor belts of Shinjuku station.

  Let me present you with some fascinating facts about Shinjuku station, garnered from my in-flight magazine.

  Each day more than 3 million people course through the station on Tokyo's west side.

  Shinjuku Station enjoys five rush hours

  There are 430 pay phones and 6 flower shops

  A train pulls in every 130 seconds

  It's slogan is "The Starting Station of a brilliant future."

  The station is a marvel : a structure of people as well as a building. From the outside it is nothing: hard to find, largely underground. It has as many entrances as hell, so you can't find it from the people falling in.

  Inside you feel a force on you. Try and stand in the few open spaces in that place and you can undeniably feel a force pulling you. It is different from the force that pulled us to the station and it is different from the force of the wildebeest smell that moves you when you have stepped into the river of people. It is the force of expectation, architected by the mass of people. But it is the building that sends the first and final instruction. You could argue that the first person to arrive in the morning starts the force and it is added to by the others. You are pushed by democracy. But there is never just one person here… human time is not sufficiently granular. It is the always already occupied place.

  The station is a ferocious machine set to largely benign purposes. It releases almost all of those it captures, like a water wheel taking their energy somewhere for someone.

  The suicides defy it… they choose to jump in front of a smaller and less terrifying machine.

  Man made the station because he wanted to go somewhere and do something. It was part of his plan to escape from beneath the crushing foot of the elements. The storms and the starvation and the typhoons and the scratching at the earth for
mercy. Instead to tear the veins from the earth and melt them and clothe himself in them, Murder the world first. Be many, fast , liquid… then directed, one, solid. A force against a force. With a mind, and hence the winner.

  And he believed that in four billion years the much bigger thing with all the connections had not evolved a comparable mind. There was no evidence of its thought. I watch a salaryman hang from his strap for an hour. His saliva is random… I see no pattern in it. Then I have to get off the train but I have seen enough.

  Over time people either become frequency or noise… there is nothing special about us. Shinjuku station is a huge tuning crystal. But it was built so some men could go to work… it had to be built… we didn't want to do it.

  No one wanted Tokyo and no one wants it now. Have you been here yet.. have you felt it? Because we bombed it flat we made it. From the flames come new and strange plants that feed on death. It is energized by transistors. The transistors hummed and called the money here. Money is the excess energy of the dead third world and as near to soul as we will see in this life.

  But back to the station. It makes sense to strike here. Because in between one box and another this is where the Japanese worker sees other people. And he will not look. He looks at his comic book. In the comic books women are raped and everyone is killed (there is also golf and Mah-Jong… I know.) We are told it is harmless because Japan is very safe. But then again, periodically, it is very dangerous. I saw a murderer asleep. I saw him in England… or was he drinking tea? He was with his mother and it was a sunny day. A flock of random birds distracted us all and we watched it as we would never watch TV static. Something watches that static sometimes for peace. There is something about the birds following a magnetic pattern or a huge time trace burned right into them… the feeling is envy. We can't even walk to the toilet when we wake up and some freakish dream has moved us a thousand miles from our home. We can't find anything. We can't walk for a year with our huge heads that grow on us like parasites. Our huge brains with their long tendrils that run through otherwise elegant chimpanzee bodies. They will grow and burst… something put them in us… made us unhappy moneys… carrier monkeys.