Dance Dance Dance

  “Yeah, why?” said Yuki. “Don’t look at me. I’m just a kid. You’re the adult here.”

  “True enough.”

  “But I understand how you feel.”

  “I don’t.”

  “At times like this, adults need a drink.”

  We went to the Halekulani bar. The one indoors, not the one by the pool. I ordered a martini this time, and Yuki got a lemon soda. We were the only customers in the place. The balding pianist, with a Rachmaninoff scowl, was at the concert grand running through old standards—“Stardust,” “But Not for Me,” “Moonlight in Vermont.” Flawlessly, with lackluster. Then he finished off with a very serious Chopin prelude. Yuki clapped for this, and the pianist forced a smile.

  On my third martini, I shut my eyes and that room came to mind again. The sort of scene where you wake up drenched in sweat, relieved that it was just a dream. But it hadn’t been a dream. I knew it and so did Yuki. She knew I’d seen something. Those six skeletons. What did they mean? Who were they? Was that one-armed skeleton supposed to be Dick North?

  What was Kiki trying to tell me?

  I remembered the scrap of paper in my pocket, the scrap of paper I’d found on the windowsill. I went to the phone and dialed the number. No answer. Only endless ringing, like plumb bobs hanging in bottomless oblivion. I returned to my bar stool and sighed. “I’m thinking about going back to Japan tomorrow. If I can get a seat, that is,” I said. “I’ve been here a little too long. It’s been great, but time to go back. I’ve got things I got to clear up back home.”

  Yuki nodded, as if she’d known this all along. “It’s okay, don’t worry about me. Go back if you think you should.”

  “What are you going to do? Stay here? Or do you want to go back with me?”

  Yuki shrugged her shoulders. “I think I’ll go stay with Mama for a while. I don’t think she’d mind. I’m not in the mood to go back yet.”

  I finished up the last of my martini.

  “We’ll do this then: I’ll drive you out to Makaha tomorrow. That way I get to see your mother one more time. And then I’ll head off to the airport.”

  That night we had our last dinner together at a seafood restaurant near Aloha Tower. Yuki didn’t talk much, and neither did I. I was sure I would drift off at any moment, mouth full of fried oysters, to join those skeletons in the attic.

  Yuki gave me meaningful glances throughout the meal. After we were done, she said, “You better go home to bed. You look terrible.”

  Back in my room I poured myself some wine and turned on the television. The Yankees vs. the Orioles. I had no desire to watch baseball, but I left the game on anyway. It was a link to reality.

  The wine had its effect. I got sleepy. And then I remembered the slip of paper in my pocket and tried the number again. No answer again. I let the telephone ring fifteen times. I glared at the tube to see Winfield step into the batter’s box, when something occurred to me.

  What was it? My eyes were fixed on the screen.

  Something resembled something. Something was connected to something.

  Nah, unlikely. But what the hell, check it out. I took the slip of paper and went to get the notepad where June had written her phone number. I compared the two numbers.

  Good grief. They were the same.

  Everything, everything, was linking up. Except I didn’t have a clue what it meant.

  The next morning I rang up JAL and booked a flight for the afternoon. I paid our bills, and Yuki and I were on our way to Makaha. For once, the sky was overcast. A squall was brewing on the horizon.

  “Sounds like there’s a Pacman crunching away at your heart,” said Yuki. “Bip-bip-bip-bip-bip-bip-bip-bip.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Something’s eating you.”

  I thought about that as I drove on. “Every so often I glimpse this shadow of death,” I began. “It’s a very dense shadow. As if death was very close, enveloping me, holding me down by the ankles. Any minute now it could happen. But it doesn’t scare me. Because it’s never my death. It’s always someone else’s. Still, each time someone dies it wears me down. How come?”

  Yuki shrugged.

  “Death is always beside me, I don’t know why. And given the slightest opening, it shows itself.”

  “Maybe that’s your key. Maybe death’s your connection to the world,” Yuki said.

  “What a depressing thought,” I said.

  Dick North seemed sincerely sad to see me leave. Not that we had a great deal in common, but we did enjoy a certain ease with each other. And I respected him for the poetry he brought to practical concerns. We shook hands. As we did, the one-armed skeleton came to mind. Could that really be this man?

  “Dick, do you ever think about death? How you might die?” I asked him, as we sat around one last time.

  He smiled. “I thought about death a lot during the War. There was death all around, so many ways you could get killed. But lately, no, I don’t have time to worry about what I don’t have control over. I’m busier in peace than in war,” he laughed. “What makes you ask?”

  No reason, I told him.

  “I’ll think about it. We’ll talk about it next time we meet,” he said.

  Then Amé asked me to take a walk with her, and we strolled along a jogging path.

  “Thanks for everything,” said Amé. “Really, I mean it. I’m not very good at saying these things. But—umm—well, I mean it. You’ve really helped smooth things out. Yuki and I have been able to talk. We’ve gotten closer. And now she’s come to stay with me.”

  “Isn’t that nice,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything less banal to say. Of course Amé barely heard me.

  “The child seems to have calmed down considerably since she met you. She’s not so irritable and nervous. I don’t know what it is, but you certainly have a way with her. What do you have in common with her?”

  I assured her I didn’t know.

  What did I think ought to be done about Yuki’s schooling?

  “If she doesn’t want to go to school, then maybe you should think of an alternative,” I said. “Sometimes it’s bad to force school on a kid, especially a kid like Yuki who’s extra sensitive and attracts more attention than she likes. A tutor might be a good idea. I think it’s pretty clear Yuki isn’t cut out for all this cramming for entrance exams and all the silly competition and peer pressure and rules and extracurricular activities. Some people can do pretty well without it. I’m being idealistic, I know, but the important thing is that Yuki finds her talent and has a chance to cultivate it. Maybe she’ll decide to go back to school. That would be okay too, if that’s her decision.”

  “You’re right, I suppose,” Amé said after a moment’s thought. “I’m not much of a group person, never kept up with school either, so I guess I understand what you’re saying.”

  “If you understand, then there shouldn’t be anything to think about. Where’s the problem?”

  She swiveled her head, going from side to side, popping her neck bones.

  “There is no problem. I mean, the only problem is, I don’t have unshakable confidence in myself as a mother. So I don’t have it in me to stand up for her like that. If you lack confidence, you give in. Deep down, you worry that the idea of not going to school is socially wrong.”

  Socially Wrong? “I can’t make any reassurances, but who knows what’s going to be right or what’s going to be wrong? No one can read the future. The results could be devastating. But that could happen either way. I think if you showed the girl that you’re really trying—as a mother or as a friend—to make things work with her, and if you showed her some respect, then she’d be sharp enough to pick up on it and do the rest for herself.”

  Amé stood there, hands in the pockets of her shorts, and was quiet. Then she said, “You really understand how the child feels, don’t you? How come?”

  Because I wasn’t always on another planet, I felt like telling her. But I didn’t.

&nbsp
; Amé then said she wanted to give me something as an expression of her appreciation. I told her I’d already received more than enough from her former husband.

  “But I want to. He’s him and I’m me. And I want to thank you. And if I don’t now, I’ll forget to.”

  “I’d be quite happy if you forgot,” I joked.

  We sat down on a bench, and Amé pulled out a pack of Salems from her shirt pocket. She lit up, inhaled, exhaled. Then she let the thing turn to ash between her fingers. Meanwhile, I listened to the birds singing and watched the gardeners whirring about in their carts. The sky was beginning to clear, though I did hear the faint report of thunder in the distance. Strong sunlight was breaking through thick gray cloud cover. In her sunglasses and short sleeves, Amé seemed oblivious to the glare and heat, although several trails of sweat had stained the neck of her shirt. Maybe it wasn’t the sun. Maybe it was concentration, or mental diffusion. Ten minutes went by, apparently not registering with her. The passage of time was not a practical component in her life. Or if it was, it wasn’t high on her list of priorities. It was different for me. I had a plane to catch.

  “I have to be going,” I said, glancing at my watch. “I’ve got to return the car before I check in.”

  She made a vague effort to refocus her eyes on me. A look I occasionally noted in Yuki. Like mother, like daughter, after all. “Ah, yes, the time. I hadn’t noticed,” said Amé. “Sorry.”

  We got up from the bench and walked back to the cottage.

  They all came outside to see me off. I told Yuki to cut out the junk food, but figured Dick North would see to that. Lined up in the rearview mirror as I pulled away, the three of them made a curious sight. Dick waving his one arm on high; Amé staring ahead blankly, arms folded across her chest; Yuki looking off to the side and kicking a pebble. The remnant of a family in a makeshift corner of an imperfect universe. How had I ever gotten involved with them? A left-hand turn of the wheel and they were gone from sight. For the first time in ages I was alone.

  Back at the Shibuya apartment, I went through my mail and messages. Nothing, of course, but petty work-related matters. How’s that piece for the next issue coming along? Where the hell did you disappear to? Can you take on this new project? I returned nobody’s call. Faster, simpler to get on with the work at hand.

  But first, a phone call to Makimura. Friday picked up and promptly turned me over to the big man. I gave him a brief rundown of the trip, saying that Hawaii seemed to be a good breather for Yuki.

  “Good,” he said. “Many thanks for everything. I’ll give Amé a call tomorrow. Did the money hold out, by the way?”

  “With lots to spare.”

  “Well, go ahead and use it up. It’s yours.”

  “I can’t do that,” I said. “Oh yes, I’ve been meaning to ask you about your little present.”

  “Oh, that,” he said, making light of it.

  “How did you arrange that?”

  “Through channels. I trust you didn’t stay up all night playing cards, eh?”

  “No, I don’t mean that. I want to know how you could buy me a woman in Honolulu all the way from Tokyo. I’m just curious how something like that is done.”

  Makimura was quiet, sizing up the extent of my curiosity. “Well,” he began, “it’s like international flower delivery. I call the organization in Tokyo and tell them I want a girl sent to you, at such-and-such a place, at such-and-such a time. Then Tokyo contacts its affiliated Honolulu organization and they send the girl. I pay Tokyo. Tokyo takes a commission and wires the rest to Honolulu. Honolulu takes its commission and what’s left goes to the girl. Convenient, eh? All kinds of systems in the modern world.”

  “Sure seems that way,” I said. International flower delivery.

  “Very convenient. It costs you, but you save on time and energy. I think they call it worldwide sex-o-grams. They’re safe, too. No run-ins with violent pimps. Plus you can write it off as expenses.”

  “That so?” I said, nodding to myself. “I guess you couldn’t give me the number to this organization?”

  “Sorry, no go. It’s absolutely confidential. Members only, very exclusive. You need glamour and money and social standing. You’d never pass. I mean, forget it. Listen, I’m already talking too much. I told you this much out of the kindness of my heart.”

  I thanked him for it.

  “Well, was she good?” he asked.

  “Yes, quite good,” I admitted.

  “Glad to hear it. I asked them to send you the best. What was her name?”

  “June.”

  “June, eh? Was she white?”

  “No, Southeast Asian.”

  “I’ll have to check her out next time,” he said.

  There wasn’t much more to say, so I thanked him again and hung up.

  Next, I rang Gotanda and got his answering machine. I left a message saying I was back and would appreciate a call. By then it was already getting late in the day, so I hopped in the Subaru and drove to Aoyama to do some shopping before the stores closed. More pedigreed vegetables, the latest shipment fresh from Kinokuniya’s own pedigreed vegetable farms. Somewhere in the remote mountains of Nagano, pristine acres surrounded by barbed wire. Watch-tower, guards with machine guns. A prison camp like in The Great Escape. Rows of lettuce and celery whipped into shape through unimaginably grueling supravegetable training. What a way to get your fiber.

  No message from Gotanda when I got back.

  The following morning, after a quick breakfast at Dunkin’ Donuts, I headed to the library and combed through the last month’s newspapers. Checking if there’d been a breakthrough in the investigation of Mei’s death. I read the Asahi and Mainichi and Yomiuri with extreme care, but found only election results and a statement by Revchenko and a big piece on delinquency in the schools and how for reasons of “musical impropriety” the White House had canceled a command performance by the Beach Boys. Anyway, not one line about the case.

  I then read through back issues of various weekly magazines. And there it was: “Naked Beauty Found Strangled in Akasaka Hotel.” A sensationalized, one-page article on Mei. Instead of a photograph, there was a sketch of the corpse by a specialist in criminal art. Next best thing if you didn’t have the bloody photo itself. True, the sketch did look like Mei, but then I knew who it was supposed to be. Could anyone else have recognized her? No, Mei had been warm and animated. Full of hopes, full of illusions. She’d been gentle and smooth, fantastic, shoveling her sensual snow. It was the reason we could connect so well, could share those illusions. Cuck-koo. She was all innocence.

  This lousy sketch made it cheap and dirty. I shook my head. I shut my eyes and sighed slowly. Yet that line drawing, better than any morgue photograph, hammered home the fact that Mei was dead. Extremely, irrevocably dead. She was gone. Her life had been sucked away into black nothingness.

  The article fit the drawing. A young woman believed to be in her early twenties was discovered strangled to death with a stocking in a luxury Akasaka hotel. Completely naked, without identification, an assumed name, et cetera, et cetera. Nothing new to me, except for a one detail: Police were running down probable links to a prostitution ring, an organization that dispatched call girls to first-class hotels.

  I returned the magazines to the racks and sat thinking. How had the police been able to narrow their leads to the prostitution ring? Had some hard evidence turned up? Not that I was about to call those two cops to find out.

  I left the library and ate a quick lunch nearby, then went for a walk, waiting for a brilliant notion to pop into my head. No such luck. I walked to Meiji Shrine, stretched out on the grass and looked up at the sky.

  I thought about the call girl organization. Worldwide sex-o-grams. Place your order in Tokyo and your girl is waiting in Honolulu. Systematic, efficient, sophisticated. No muss, no fuss. Very businesslike. Just went to prove, once you’ve got an illusion going, it can function on the market like any other product. Advanced capitalism churni
ng out goods for every conceivable niche. Illusion, that was the key word here. Whether prostitution or discrimination or personal attacks or displaced sex drive, give it a pretty name, a pretty package, and you could sell it. Before too long they’ll have a call girl catalog order service at the Seibu department store. You can rely on us.

  I looked up at the sky and thought about sex.

  I wanted to sleep with Yumiyoshi. It wasn’t out of the question. Just get one foot in her door, so to speak, and tell her, “You have to sleep with me. You should sleep with me.” Then I undress her, gently, like untying the ribbon on a present. First her coat, then her glasses, then her sweater. Her clothes off, she’d turn into Mei. Cuck-koo, she says. “Like my body?”

  But before I can answer, the night is gone. Kiki is beside me, Gotanda’s graceful fingers playing over her back. The door opens. Enter Yuki. She sees me making love with Kiki. It’s me this time, not Gotanda. Only the fingers are his.

  “I can’t believe this,” says Yuki. “I really can’t believe this.”

  “It’s not like that,” I say.

  “What was that all about?” says Kiki for the umpteenth time.

  It’s not like that, I insist. The one I want to sleep with is Yumiyoshi. I just got my signals crossed.

  First thing, I have to untangle the connections. Otherwise, I come away empty-handed. Or with someone else’s hands. Or even a missing hand.

  Leaving the grounds of Meiji Shrine, I went into a backstreet café in Harajuku and had a good strong cup of coffee. Then I walked leisurely home.

  In the evening Gotanda rang.

  “Sorry, I don’t have much time now,” he spoke on the fly. “Can I see you tonight around eight or nine?”

  “Don’t see why not.”

  “Good, let’s have dinner. I’ll come pick you up.”

  While I waited, I put away my suitcase, then went over the receipts from the trip, methodically separating Makimura’s charges from my own. Half the meals and the car rental go to him, along with Yuki’s personal purchases—surfboard, blaster, swimsuit, … I itemized our expenses and slipped the calculations into an envelope together with the leftover travelers cheques, ready to be cashed at the bank and returned to Makimura. I always keep on top of these business details. But not because I like them. I just hate sloppiness in money matters.