WALKING ALL THE WAY
FELICITY SAVAGE
Devin fled to Tokyo to escape a bad break-up. She never knew how much worse it could get.
Smashwords Edition by Knights Hill Publishing
http://www.knightshillpublishing.com
Copyright © 2011 by Felicity Savage
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Books by Felicity Savage
Novels
Vampire Democracy
Music to Die By
Humility Garden
Delta City
EVER: The War in the Waste
EVER: The Daemon in the Machine
EVER: A Trickster in the Ashes
Collections
Black Wedding and Five More Funerals
Short Stories and Novellas
The Immortals
Good Money
Coming Clean
Going Under
The Forest of Sincerity
Walking All the Way
Black Wedding
A Natural Phenomenon
The Kingdom of Darkness
In the Black Desert
Mercy
The Unburied
Vanishing Point
WALKING ALL THE WAY
On her first day in Tokyo, Devin woke disoriented but filled with a sense of optimism. Sunbeams streaked across her sleeping-bag from the gap between the curtains of Margrethe and Tatsuya’s living-room. A heartbeat later she remembered her breakup with Chaz: the grief, the shouting, the dreary U-Haul trek back to her mother’s house in New Jersey. She thought about all that for a few seconds, and then, slowly but undiminished, her optimism returned.
She got up and stepped between the curtains, through the open window onto the balcony, where a few spider plants and sanseverias looked as if they needed watering. Stretching her arms high, she squinched her face up and wriggled from head to toe in the sunlight like a child under a fire hydrant. She opened her eyes; across thirty feet of air she met the gaze of a woman who was hanging out her futons on the balcony of a neighboring building. The woman stared at her.
Four storeys below, a tailless cat scuttered across the path of a postman on a motorized tricycle, balked at nothing, and dived behind a stack of recycling bins.
Devin plunged back into the apartment, giggling. “I think I just traumatized your neighbor.”
Margrethe stood in the kitchen, which was separated from the living-room by an accordion screen of flower-printed vinyl. She shook coffee into the french press. “Do them good,” she said. “Anyway, no one talks to their neighbors in Tokyo. I’ve never even seen the people next door.”
“Just like New York.”
“Only more so.”
The rich scent of coffee filled the apartment. The two girls sat at the kitchen table and resumed last night’s conversation where they had left off.
“I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other since your wedding,” Devin said, smiling at the memory. Margrethe and Tatsuya had been married in Hawaii, with leis for everyone. “How is Tatsuya, anyway? I can’t believe I missed him…” She had passed out on her air mattress before Margrethe’s husband returned from work last night, and he had already been gone when she awoke this morning.
“Oh, that’s totally normal. He never gets home before midnight. Sometimes it’s like two or three a.m.; the company pays his taxi fare… But he’s taking Saturday off so we can all do something.”
“Doesn’t he always get Saturday off?”
“Oh no. Oh no.” Margrethe rose. Tallish and hippy, she had a delicate face framed by the fine blond hair of her Danish ancestors. “Dev, it’s almost noon! Why are we still slopping around in here? I want to show you everything. I promised Tatsuya we’d leave Akihabara until Saturday, but we could go to Shinjuku Gyoen – that’s a really gorgeous park – or Yasukuni Shrine, or just wander around Shibuya. Or do the museums. There are billions of museums I’ve never even been to.” She cocked her head. “Or we could always…”
“Go shopping,” Devin said.
“Go shopping,” Margrethe finished almost simultaneously, and both of them burst into laughter.
“You are kidding. You have got to be kidding me.” Devin struggled out of the skirt and peeked around the curtain of the changing cubicle. “Mar, can you see if they’ve got a bigger size?”
Margrethe spoke to the sales clerk. Her Japanese was fluent, but even Devin could hear that it did not sound like Japanese as the Japanese themselves spoke it. She sounded as if she were speaking English, only with nonsense in place of words. At any rate the sales clerk understood. A moment later Margrethe came back to the changing cubicle, shaking her head. “You’ve got the M, right? That’s the largest size.”
“There is no way that was an M! That was like an XS.”
“I told you, I don’t even try to buy clothes anywhere except The Gap.”
“Yes, but…” Devin was smaller than her friend; she wore an 8, sometimes a 6. “Oh well. I guess maybe I could fit into a sweater or something.”
“Or a t-shirt,” Margrethe said. “Hey!”
The sun poured down on Takeshita Street. Everyone looked to Devin like Gwen Stefani’s Harajuku Girls, including the boys. The cramped little shops, spilling lace and tartan and sneakers and leather goods onto the sidewalk, reminded her of a bazaar in the Arab world, but without the haggling. She had already bought a Hello Kitty wallet and a pair of skull-and-crossbones earrings. Now a cornucopia of vintage and novelty t-shirts beckoned.
Rape Me.
“Kurt Cobain could get away with it,” Margrethe said.
Miso Horny.
“That’s actually kind of funny.”
“Yeah, it has to be stupid funny, not funny funny.”
変な外人.
“This means Weird Foreigner.”
“Ouch. I’m not sure I can carry off such profundity.”
Zoom Hero Drive Fast.
“Ditto.”
Fuckin’ 西洋.
“Oh Dev, you have to get this one.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Fuckin’ Occident.”
“Are you sure that’s not too profound for me?”
“No, you can get away with it because you’re Jewish. So it’s not even ironic self-hate, it’s like a political protest.”
“I think it’s illegal to wear obscenities on t-shirts in America.”
“Is it? Well, you can always put a patch over the u or something. Look, they’ve got patches at the register. A star, or…”
Devin emerged from the shop with Fuckin’ 西洋 stretched across her bosom, a patch over the u of a smiley face with a bullet hole in its forehead. Margrethe had bought the same patch to put on her work satchel.
Laughing, arms brushing, they wandered down Takeshita Street to Meiji Avenue, bought sandwiches to go at Aux Bacchanales, detoured into the surrealist shopping mall of LaForet, and finally circled up to Jingu Bridge, a graceful stone arch where a handful of punks and goths sat around not listening to the buskers. “The real cosplayers aren’t here. They come out on weekends,” Margrethe said. “Gothic lolitas, French maids, you name it.”
“Oh my God, that guy totally looks like Sweeney Todd. Do you think they’d mind if I took pictures?”
“I think it would make their day.”
They ate their sandwiches i
n Yoyogi Park. It was a late lunch: the sunlight had already started to slant amber between the trees. “And now I have to go,” Margrethe said, draining her Diet Pepsi. “Dev – this is awful of me, but can I leave you to get home by yourself? I mean can you find the way? If not—”
“I’m sure I can find the way, but—” Devin was confused. “Mar, do you have to work this evening? You should’ve said!”
Margrethe was an English teacher who worked odd hours, roving among her clients’ corporate offices. Today she wore capri jeans and a flowered blouse. “Not in this. No, I took the day off, but – oh, Dev, can I tell you a secret? I mean you’ve got to guard it with your life.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me already,” Devin howled. “Of course you can.”
“I just didn’t want to – I mean, after you and Chaz, and the last time you saw me and Tatsuya we were so happy, and I didn’t want to spoil your illusion…”
“When it comes to men, I have no illusions anymore,” Devin said grimly.
Margrethe laughed weakly. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. But anyway – I’m having an affair.” She wrung her hands in her lap.
“I knew it,” Devin said, after a barely perceptible pause. She was completely astonished. “But Mar, what’s wrong with you and Tatsuya? I mean, he seemed so nice—“
“See? That’s exactly why – I mean, it’s like impossible to explain. And I know objectively it is indefensible.”
“No, oh my God, I totally support you. But couldn’t you—”
“I will try to explain later. I promise. But right now I’m supposed to be meeting him in Shibuya like fifteen minutes ago. So—”
“Shit! Go on, then. I can find my way home, I’ll just wander and enjoy myself a bit first… Be careful, ‘kay?”
Margrethe leaned down and hugged her tightly. “You’re a total star, Dev. Listen, if you get stuck anywhere, call me… and if Tatsuya comes home early, although he won’t, tell him I have a private student. That’s my alibi.”
“You got it… Mar! Just one thing, OK, what’s his name?”
Already turning to rush off, Margrethe paused and smiled. It was not her usual smile; it made her look sappy. “Philip,” she said. “His name’s Philip.”
Philip, who preferred to be known as Phil, leaned back against the scalloped, seashell-pink headboard, flipping through the faux-leather-bound album that described the offerings of the Dolphin Hotel’s entertainment center. Karaoke, porn with mosaics over the interesting bits, a selection of movies (mostly Hollywood fare)... He lingered over the video games. Pathetic, really, that anyone who had managed to steal a few hours with his lover should then waste them on Sonic the Hedgehog. Clearly, though, there was a demand… He switched on NHK and half-heartedly tried to guess what the politicians were expostulating about.
The sluicing of the shower ceased. Margrethe padded out of the bathroom, a towel knotted around her generous hips. She was ashamed of her body, Phil knew. They had had long conversations about the insanity of the media and its stereotypes of physical beauty – this was before they became lovers – but he had not yet been able to convince her that she was beautiful. Her smile had an edge of insecurity as she exposed herself to him now, outwardly casual. “So, any resolution on the beef ban?”
“Is that what they’re talking about?” As he spoke, the TV switched to a scene of brawling protesters in Korea.
“It’s a symbolic issue, of course,” Margrethe said, settling beside him. “They’re banning American beef imports because they can’t ban American cultural imports.”
“Unfortunately.” Phil curved an arm around her back and squeezed a breast. “So why haven’t I seen you in class this week?”
Phil was Margrethe’s yoga instructor.
“I’ve got a friend from America staying. I’ve been busy cleaning up, getting the apartment ready for her…” She jumped up. “Oh my God, I forgot! I’ve got to show you what I found in the bathroom.”
She vanished into the lighted rectangle of the bathroom door and re-emerged a moment later, pulling a large rectangular mat that would have done as a yoga mat if it were a little longer.
“It’s a Love Mat,” she said, giggling. “Look.”
The dimpled surface bore the legend LOVE MAT and depicted a chubby cartoon couple in a variety of coital poses. “Kama Sutra for Dummies,” Phil said, shaking his head. “Listen, I know the Japanese really like following instructions. But this is just… I mean, this is a love hotel, right? If you’ve got this far, you presumably know how to make love, right? Or is the problem a lack of imagination?” He flicked the cartoon man’s genital area with a fingernail. “Actually, I feel sorry for anyone who finds this stimulating.”
Margrethe went off in gales of laughter that sounded slightly forced. “But we’ve got to try it out,” she said. “Since it’s here.”
“I… have no objection to that.” Phil leered. “But first…” He tugged on the knot of her towel. It fell. “Guruji says no pain, no progress.”
“Do we have to?”
“Yes, Margrethe, because I care about your practise.”
Wrinkling her nose resignedly, Margrethe placed her feet together and steepled her hands in front of her chest. “Ommm,” she intoned.
“Ommm,” Phil joined in, and the doors of his mind gently irised shut, turning his head into an echo chamber empty of carnal desire. He was no longer even tempted to eye Margrethe’s body. “Om vande gurunam charanaravinde…”
The room smelt of stale cigarette smoke. In one wall, a vending machine dispensed dildoes and other sex toys from clear perspex drawers. In the other wall, heavy wooden shutters kept out any chink of light from the world beyond. The ceiling over the bed bore clusters of LEDs in the shapes of constellations, which blinked down unheeded upon Phil and Margrethe as they stretched, inhaled, and exhaled their way through a series of sun salutations.
Shivering with contentment, Devin settled onto a stool facing the great glass wall of the hotel bar and raised her Kir Royale to the view that rolled from horizon to horizon. Spiky neon fish swam in the gathering twilight, amid dark spires and towers whose great height appeared less from this even greater height. She seemed to be floating on a level with the remnant of the sunset that stained the western sky like the echoes of a shout, orange now fading to lemon and an eerie green. Classical music tinkled through the bar. She felt pleased with herself for successfully finding this place. Also, she felt very glamorous. In her joke t-shirt and canvas wrap-around skirt, she knew that she probably looked like a typical tourist. But glamor was a state of mind, she thought. It was how she felt about her future: a sense of shapeless anticipation.
“Cheers.” The voice came from her left. She tore her gaze from the view and faced a youngish Indian man, tieless, with a plump melancholy countenance.
“Oh.” She clinked her drink against his beer. “Cheers.”
“This is the place where Lost in Translation was filmed, you know.”
“I know,” Devin said, grinning. “That’s why I’m here.”
“It is very beautiful.”
“Yes,” although beautiful was not the word she would have chosen; beautiful was landscapes and animals, not post-industrial metropolises. But then again, what if she was wrong about that and the Indian man right?
“Where are you from?”
“New York,” Devin said. “America. What about you?”
“I am from Delhi. But I live here now. I have my own company.”
“Wow. Excellent.”
“Yes, I have my own company, I have people working for me, but I have no friends.”
“Oh dear,” Devin said, shifting away a little. “Why not?”
“I have no time. Always working, always busy.”
“You’re not working now,” she pointed out.
“Recently I have a little time. So I am looking for a girl.”
“Oh. Well…”
“I am looking for a girl with a good pure heart.”
/> “Oh,” Devin said. “Well, that’s a very commendable ambition. Quite a challenge, though.” She thought of Margrethe and then of herself. “I mean, you’ve set the bar kind of high.”
The Indian man’s smile sagged. Lifting his chin, perceptibly bracing himself, he said hopelessly, “You are very beautiful.”
For a moment Devin felt poisonously resentful. How dare he interrupt her private happy hour, and then compound the offense by hitting on her? With a mental effort, she recognized the absurdity of her own complaint, and summoned a smile. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s really nice to hear. I’m afraid I have to go now—” she slipped off her stool, leaving an inch of Kir Royale in the bottom of her glass— “but I really do hope you find what you’re looking for.”
The Indian man’s parting smile held a valedictory warmth that both reassured and humbled her. At least he knew what he was looking for, she reflected.
She took the long way back to the elevators, drinking in the view once more from close up. The sunset had faded to a wash of gradually dulling blue: the neon kanji glowed and flashed.
Swinging his briefcase, relishing the warm evening into which he had escaped at the almost unheard-of hour of seven thirty, Tatsuya strolled homeward along the arcade of little shops near the station. The street seemed unfamiliar, it had been so long since he got home before everything closed. The tofu-maker and the senbei-baker were serving customers beneath the arc lights clipped to their awnings, the butcher in his wellingtons slapped pork chops onto the scale, the greengrocer totaled purchases on her abacus, the take-away sushi shop was doing a brisk trade. Because he could, he bought a box of inari-zushi and maki-zushi, but he stopped off anyway at the Seven-Eleven at the end of the arcade for beer and cigarettes. The fluorescent-lit shelves were more familiar to him than the contents of his own refrigerator. At the check-out, he reached into the hot drinks case and drew out a can of café au lait; considered; added another.
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