glanced some more out the corner of his eye. Astoundingly deep brown eyes that seemed packed with experience. Strong, lean, tanned arms. Hair pulled back tight. Prominent cheekbones.
‘Taro – ’ he finally began. He was cut short before he could get out his family name.
‘No need,’ the woman said bluntly. ‘A hundred years ago the peasants of Japan were only ever granted a first name. That system will work well for us now.’
She swung her Gucci carry bag onto her lap and took out a red aluminium Docomo mobile phone. She wafted it in front of him.
‘You’re probably not a very nice kid, but I’ll give you fair warning anyway. You’re here to take a job, not negotiate it. The phone is your contact. Instructions will come by text or voice and you’ll see them done. You’ll earn your money.’
Taro took the phone. He wasn’t particularly enthused. He could look around Yoyogi Park and see what he would see anywhere in Tokyo: people’s lives mollified by these small pieces of equipment. Still, at least this was a company phone. He turned it on and examined the function icons.
‘Don’t go downloading music or joining dating sites,’ the woman said. ‘And if you drop it in the toilet, you better dive in after it.’ She stood up, leaving the Gucci bag behind. ‘The first message you receive will tell you what to do with that. If there are no hiccups, the money will flow and your life can begin.’
‘What is in the bag?’ he asked nervously.
The woman shook her head. ‘Japanese are not necessarily noted for their intense curiosity and I wouldn’t recommend you buck that trend right now. Do what you’re told. The solitary piece of comfort I can offer you is that it reflects badly on Tokin if he loses people too frequently; therefore, he’s not going to want you wiped out in the first five minutes. He chooses people for their character. All you’ve got to do is show some. Now wait here. You’ll get a message soon enough.’
Taro watched her walk away. She swayed her broad hips with a confidence. Taro put the phone down on the top of the bag and folded his arms. He was not really so curious about what was in the bag. Drugs or money were most likely – what else would it be?
He spent the next few minutes wondering what was wrong with him. People in their early twenties were supposed to feel indestructible, but he felt like he was already dead. If everyone felt like that, Tokyo would be a city of tormented ghosts.
The screen of his new phone lit up in phosphorous blue. It was an incoming message.
19
If it was a drug deal he was embroiled in, Roppongi Crossing was not the ideal place to be. In reality it probably wasn’t the heart of Tokyo’s drug culture as was widely assumed – Kabuki-cho was a noteworthy rival in that regards – but the cops had to carry out their random drug searches somewhere and Roppongi with its numerous bars and night clubs and eclectic mix of nationalities was invariably the place of choice.
The time of the meeting at least was on Taro’s side. Three o’clock on a Monday afternoon; the police were preoccupied at that time of day with issuing parking tickets and telling off high school students for carrying friends on the back of their bicycles.
Taro stood and waited outside the mobile phone shop as directed in the text message. Although it was farfetched that someone in such tatty clothes would be in possession of a Gucci bag, he hoped that standing as still as possible would avoid any unwanted attention.
‘You’ve got something for me?’
In a city where strangers did not talked, Taro did not need to doubt he had made contact. The twenty something man was wearing a smart black suit and green shirt and probably didn’t feel as cool as he looked on what was a humid afternoon. His hair curled out at the side and his nose was equine. He was brimming with energy. He was a man who might have one beautiful girlfriend or many.
The message on Taro’s phone instructed him to hand over the bag and accept what was given in return. Taro wouldn’t have minded if it was a task that involved an exchange of words as well. It might have helped work out what kind of world he was getting himself into.
The transaction was made. Taro came away from it with a smaller, non-designer bag. It suited him better.
He walked with it in the upmarket Roppongi Hills direction for no other reason than it was the opposite direction to which the Gucci bag had been taken. He texted over the red phone that delivery had been completed. The reply was prompt and brought a smirk to his face - so, perhaps that was why Roppongi had been selected for the transaction: he was being given directions to an apartment that was to be his, and it was within walking distance.
20
He was instructed to pick up his room access card at the front desk and leave the bag in letter box in the foyer. Apartment 2.05. He presumed they had already obtained a spare key. It was to happen in Roppongi Garden View Building. The building wasn’t hard to find, marked as it was in large black letters in a sign at the top of twelve floors of black tinted glass. It was a new building, luxurious, and no doubt the rent would be a small fortune.
Taro deposited the bag and went to the elevators.
The apartment was better than he could ever have hoped for. Two bedrooms, living room, kitchen, detached bathroom and toilet, plenty of closet space, and a spacious balcony complete with deckchairs. And with each finer point he only liked it more. The soft pillows and bed linen. The superb view of Roppongi and Asakasa. The wide screen, wafer thin television. The impressive array of cooking utensils in the kitchen.
Taro checked the bedroom’s closet as he recalled one of the text messages that had streamed in: “Hope they fit.” It was signed WM, the same as the other messages. Taro wondered if those were the initials of the woman in the park. His eyes widened as he saw the kinds of clothes that had been left for him. Leather jackets, woollen suits and exquisite black shoes. They all seemed the right size. Taro wondered if Aso had been measuring him as well as beating him. At least he would no longer look conspicuous in a building like this or holding a Gucci bag on a street corner.
He took one last encapsulating look at the apartment and had to concede that, despite the luxury of it all, he didn’t even want to sit down. Maybe it was because he was too used to rooms in which he could touch each wall at any given time. Or more likely it was the fear of the images that would flood his head if he did. Koki on top of Hiromi. Hiromi on top of Koki. A thousand such images. Mixed with actual memories. Koki wiping off lover’s perspiration from his naked body. Hiromi serenely asleep on the futon. Whatever it took he had to keep them out of his head.
Computer games and manga wouldn’t do it. He had seemed to have outgrown them.
He showered and shaved and dressed himself in one of the black suits. He matched it with a blue shirt. He had rarely perused himself in front of such a fine mirror and it made a world of difference. “They fit” he typed into his phone and pressed send.
He walked to the station, checking his balance at an ATM on the way. It caused his heart to quicken. He withdrew eighty thousand yen just to see that the numbers could translate into something real. It was enough to get him to New York or California or Hawaii if things got too much. He had about as much concept of what those places were like as he did the atmosphere of Venus. But with money behind him, he could find out. The old paper notes felt like magic.
Taro took the subway to Ikebukuro.It was late afternoon. The pace of movement around the busy station area was as frantic as ever. It was only when he got into the entertainment district beyond the North Exit did the streets quieten down. Another few hours would make for a different story as businessmen with clients or loveless marriages poured in.
It didn’t take long for Taro to find what he was looking for. Under a large sign pointing visitors towards the Rakugo stand-up comedy hall there was a stylish young woman elevated by high heels. Her hair was ginger tipped and her skin was soft and tanned. She wore blue lensed sunglasses and had a Louis Vuitton bag hooked under her arm. She was standing casually, typing into her mobile phone. No
ne of these things separated her from the average teenage girls, but what was different was the pointed glance she sent Taro’s way.
Taro wasn’t sure how he should go about negotiating a price with her. He had never done anything like this before. Having money in his pocket made it easier. He supposed it would enable him to find out what kind of person he really was. The thought scared him.
21
With her sunglasses off and the sex out of his brain, she was looking younger; neither of these things had happened until morning. She might have been seventeen or eighteen. She looked different with her makeup off, closer to earth, even closer than when she had taken off her high heels.
‘Good morning,’ said Taro, standing up from the bed, one towel around his waist, one in his hand, and still dripping wet. ‘Would you like to take a shower?’
The girl pulled herself up higher onto the pillow and nodded. ‘What time is it?’
‘Half past seven. Do you have school?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you study?’ Taro didn’t want to embarrass her by asking where: it might have been somewhere prestigious like Waseda or Rikkyo, but probably wasn’t.
‘Commerce,’ she replied. She didn’t instil much confidence that she knew a lot about the subject. Or maybe she just didn’t want to talk about it with him. Taro