Chiasa was becoming more than a feminine outline in my eye’s view. She was like a drawing that was just beginning to be filled in with shades and colors. I respected her this minute more than five minutes ago. No smoking, no drinking, no fake flirt, sixteen and still a virgin. In her father’s absence she was maintaining his rules and conditions for her living. In my father’s absence, I was trying to do the same.
We walked and climbed the several steps to Roppongi Hills under the beam of the sun until we reached the top. “Need water?” I asked Chiasa. Her breasts were rising and falling faster than regular breathing.
“I don’t if you don’t,” she said. “Once we get to the top of that winding staircase over there, we’ll arrive at your address. But I think you should decide now if you want me to walk through and film the location like in Ginza or whether you want to actually go over there and inside. Or maybe you want us to go in together. I can speak in Japanese for you if you have something to say or ask.”
I didn’t answer right away. I was thinking.
“This girl who you are looking for, she must speak English, right? Otherwise how would you even know her?” she questioned.
“I’ll wait here, you walk through the whole block. Make sure you capture everything, the address, the place to the left of it and to the right and in front and behind. Even any cars parked over there. Get it all on film,” I directed her.
“Easy,” she said, as we approached the stairs. “I got this now.”
* * *
I made the Dhuhr prayer on the winding staircase of wide, clean cement. There was a peace and stillness in Roppongi Hills, which seemed to be the residential extension of Roppongi. Here, everything was blossoming or had already blossomed. The mansions were sturdy and well built. People here seemed to spend more money on expensive designer doors, security walls, and iron fences than on the land itself. Each property was high-quality but condensed. I couldn’t see from the outside looking in any pools or huge courtyards, backyards, or play areas. They were showcasing amazing nature more than anything else, orchids and pansies and roses and exotic plants and flowers down to designer bushes and rock gardens. All of the trees were magnificent expressions of Allah. I could see that luxury vehicles were routine here, and every one of them glistened as though they were washed, polished, and buffed as many times a day as I made my prayers.
Strolling, I came up on a merchant alley modeled with miniature stores and short doorways. Quietly people walked in and out, purchasing an array of items. I imagined that these people were house servants, maids and cooks, or drivers sent here and there to make purchases for their wealthy employers. In the Sudan when I was young, our servants were sent to market daily. Umma always made sure they bought the best and freshest from the butcher, halal of course. After a few months of living in the United States, I could detect any dish prepared with old meats. The taste of the fresh kill was completely different than meats that had sat out, then been frozen, then defrosted and frozen over again, which were the way most Americans seemed to be accustomed to handling and consuming their flesh.
In a tiny market I purchased peanut butter ground from peanuts right in my presence, as I waited, also, a few bananas and oranges. I had not seen any halal restaurants yet, and these were items I could trust, just in case I had nothing for breaking the fast at sunset. I already knew that I would not allow Chiasa to prepare my meal tonight. She hadn’t offered to, but I could see there was a possibility that she might. I didn’t want to eat from her hand. Umma would say, “Food from a woman’s hand to a man’s mouth makes the two of them familiar.” I wanted my wife to serve me. Until that was possible, and while out here in Japan, I would be fed by stangers at selected restaurants or I would shop at food markets and feed myself.
Easing around the corner, I caught sight of a lone building on a short hill that towered over all the other residences. I took the short walk up. When I arrived in front, I entered the building behind a young boy with a bike. His hand was shaking as he tried to hold on to his bicycle while opening the locked door. His bike fell, but he got the lock opened. He held the open door with his foot and leaned over to lift his bike. He then tried to balance himself and push his bike through as he walked. He looked up at me when he felt the weight of the door he was holding disappear. He bowed his head slightly to thank me and pushed his bike in smoothly down a short corridor and further down a short ramp. The elevator arrived. I got in. On the top floor I walked off, found the stairwell, and climbed a few steps to the roof. A workman was on his break up there, hiding out and smoking a cigarette. I acknowledged him with a nod and acted calm and cool like I lived here.
I looked out over Roppongi Hills first with my eyes and then through my binoculars. I pulled out my map and my compass and tried to pinpoint the location of the Nakamura address. As Chiasa had mentioned, it was difficult to decipher. I could easily locate the name of the street, but the numbers of the houses and buildings did not go in order the way they would have in New York. Instead the numbers were random, based on when the structure was built, which I thought was crazy. Or maybe it wasn’t crazy. Maybe it was just the Japanese method of disguising things or making them so complicated that only they could understand. It definitely helped them to lock outsiders out. I couldn’t be mad at that.
My lens was focused now on the right street. Which house, I had no idea. I was glad that it was a house and not a building or a complex. I took my time and looked at each property one by one.
The chain-smoker smoked his cigarettes slowly. I counted. He was inhaling his twelfth one. His face had the stain of sleeplessness and worry. He didn’t say nothing. Neither did I. When he left, I left.
I ducked into the smallest hardware store I had ever seen. It was shaped like the letter U, one aisle only that bent once and led you down to the cashier and out the exit. “San bags domo,” I said to the only visible staffer. “Three bags, please.” I wrapped up my purchases securely so inquisitive Chiasa could not see through and discover some more pieces of the puzzle. She was already doing enough piecing together without my permission.
At a pay phone tucked beneath the canopy of a florist shop, I phoned Iwa Ikeda to check in. Unlike yesterday, my heart was no longer filled with anticipation that she would pick up or even convey my message to Akemi. Still I tried. My wife must’ve trusted her for some sensible reason. Yet after pressing the digits, I ended up with absolutely nothing. As I held the receiver, I had a stupid thought. What was the reason to open a florist shop in the middle of a small village packed with flowers, plants, and trees growing naturally?
“Any problems?” I asked Chiasa, when she returned to the winding stairs.
“None,” she said confidently. “There were some people passing by. I asked a couple of them if they wanted to be in my movie. It’s interesting how the camera makes strangers become so friendly and talkative, and it’s almost like they’ll do anything that the person holding the camera suggests.”
“I gotta check into a different hostel,” I said, pulling out my list. Chiasa stepped in and looked at the list.
“Here, this one is in Harajuku! It’s very close to my house,” she said with a bit of excitement.
“Okay, let’s go take a look,” I told her.
“I hope they have locks on everything so you’ll be glad to stay there.” She smiled as we walked more swifty.
I had already told this girl Chiasa that I was only here for a week. How could she get so excited at me staying close to her house for one night? She didn’t know that if nothing here in Tokyo worked out, and if I couldn’t find Akemi here, I would leave for Kyoto early tomorrow. I checked my watch. It was going on 3:00 p.m.
Chapter 4
HARAJUKU
It was as though I were in another country, and it happened suddenly. Instead of calm and orderly passengers, the train was now packed with pumped-up youths. There were more teens than seats, and they sat and stood stuffed in at every angle, but somehow without touching. There were
hands on every strap. Fingernails from natural to nine inches long and decorated with diamond dust, sculptured replicas of flower pots, and other objects that were strange to see on nails of every type, with color galore. When the train doors finally eased opened and the feminine voice whispered “Harajuku,” the young came pouring and popping out, spilling and squeezing onto the platform and pushing without touching, down a slim tunnel.
In Harajuku the alleyways were narrow and packed with thousands of teens. The air smelled like sugar, vanilla, and cream. Every few feet an outdoor vendor was wrapping ice cream into soft, hot crepes and decorating them with fruit and confectioner’s sugar. The narrow passageways were framed by small stores and signature shops, places to get nameplates and earrings, fake necklaces and rings, T-shirts and ribbons, lace gloves and panties, sneakers and jean belts and pocketbooks, lotions and perfumes, socks and stockings, hats and umbrellas, boots, shoes, and bicycles, as well as barbers and beauticians and piercing and tattoos and tans and anything else a teenager could want. The theme was “too much.” A pretty girl with long black hair wore over a hundred barrettes separated by one centimeter each. Instead of one headband, girls rocked two, three, four. Eyes were painted with patterns and purples and pinks. Earmuffs in the spring, long boots with mini skirts, and real girls with fake furry cat tails!
There were no cops or controllers, no parents or babysitters and no babies. Just teens—and a few adults who owned the businesses that served teens. The crowd moved in waves, shoulder to shoulder, three across, hundreds headed north and shoulder to shoulder, three across, hundreds headed south, all down the same narrow alleyway. But the bugged-out thing was not none of that. It was the weird way the kids in the crowd were dressed.
“What’s going on here?” I asked Chiasa.
“Everything, anything,” she said casually.
There were teenaged girls dressed up like baby dolls with wigs and face makeup that I was sure was making them look less attractive than they knew. They wore miniskirts with layered lace beneath, making the skirts shoot out. They wore corsets and ribbons, no stockings with bare thighs and bare legs, and some slight suggestion of butt cheeks exposed. There were chicks dressed as cartoon characters, vampires, birds, mice, and cats, heroes, aliens, heroines.
“Is it Japanese Halloween?” I asked.
“Nope. This is Harajuku. This is everyday. Some of the kids dress up as their favorite characters from children’s stories like Strawberry Shortcake, Alice in Wonderland, Little Bo Peep, and some from Manga books and anime films like Hantoro and Naruto. Some are just doing their own thing—like them.” Chiasa pointed. There were three Japanese girls in black fishnet stockings and panties, wearing no skirt, no dress, and no pants. Around one of each of their thighs was a garter belt made of satin and lace. On the back of their panties were big red bows as though they were gifts given to the public. They had to be about thirteen, fourteen, or fifteen years young.
“I won’t stay here,” I told Chiasa.
“You can. The place where you’ll be staying is in the nice section. It’s called Omotesando. We just need to keep walking.” Hundreds of dark-eyed girls in high school uniforms swarmed around us. Their skirts were hiked up to their hips and blouse buttons open. I ran my hand over my Caesar cut.
Omotesando was all upscale boutiques and shops with the same crowd. I peeped three Syrian men grilling beef and chicken kebobs serving fifty-nine nearly naked schoolgirls who lined up and waited patiently with pockets filled with money. Their dusty beige Syrian faces were covered in a sheen of sweat from the hot meat and heated grill. I knew they were fasting. I could tell. Many Muslims worship and restrain themselves quietly, while watching others run amok.
I didn’t cast even an eye on these strange Japanese teenage dudes.
The hostel was on Kat Street in an old mansion with Spanish architecture. “Let me look around first,” I told Chiasa as soon as we entered. She remained at the front desk while I explored.
“Habari gani,” a guy passing by in the hallway called out to me. I stopped and turned, recognizing his Swahili greeting. My father said every black person everywhere in the world should learn Swahili. “It’s our common language,” he told me.
“Peace,” I told him.
“Haki, from Kenya.” He extended his hand to me.
“Midnight, from New York,” I countered.
“You just arrived, right?” he asked knowingly.
“Yeah.”
“How long will you stay?”
“One night,” I responded speculating that I’d bolt out on the bullet train at sunrise.
Haki laughed a bit and said, “There are guys here who came for one night and stayed for two years!” Then he smiled and said, “Brother, if you need anything, let me be your friend.”
I gave him a pound. “One minute, how are the rooms? Do the room doors have locks on them?” I asked, since that was much more important to me than the scenery.
“What kind of place doesn’t have locks on the door?” Haki laughed some.
“I heard the Japanese don’t steal,” I said, smiling at the stupidity of my comment.
But Haki said, “They don’t. But everyone else does! So of course there are locks.”
“You got it,” I told him.
“Wait, my room is two doors down. Take a look inside for yourself.” Haki unlocked his door with a metal slide key. He slid his door open. He looked completely settled there in the room, his books stacked in piles like pancakes, his shirt flung over his chair, and worn shoes forming a line across the wall.
“A bed, a desk, a lamp, and a closet—the basics,” he said. “But there is no real crime in Japan and it’s clean and comfortable.”
“Alright, good looking out,” I told him, stepping out to leave.
“For fifteen hundred yen extra per night you can get a room with a bigger window and a terrace. Me, I’m on a budget. Most of us college students are” was the last thing he said as I left. I saw three more guys walking in the same hallway and began to wonder if this was an all-male hostel.
“Over here,” Chiasa called, as she shot out of a side opening that led to the stairwell. “We’re on the second floor, room 202.”
“I didn’t check in yet,” I told her as she climbed the stairs ahead of me. I kept my gaze on the marble steps.
“I did. I have a passport and I paid the six thousand yen. Besides, you don’t like to give anyone your name and information anyway,” she said in a serious tone, no laughter.
I did the conversion swiftly. “Six thousand yen, that’s high for a hostel.”
“I signed you up for two nights, that’s why it sounds high. You can add on the rest of the nights if you like it. I have a receipt, you can reimburse me for my expenses on this mission, right?” She reached the top stair and turned and looked down at me.
“Why not?” is all I said.
Chiasa got a room bigger than Haki’s. There was one big window and a fire escape that Haki had called a terrace. I leaned out the window and saw plenty of people passing by—shoppers, skaters, athletes, musicians, and some of those costume dress-up types. I pulled backed inside and had to laugh at myself. What kind of place am I in? I’m a Muslim in the middle of a brothel with no walls that’s in the middle of a nuthouse during Ramadan.
I picked up the receiver on the desk phone, listening for a dial tone. “What about this phone? Does it work?”
“It does work, but you can only receive calls if you give them a credit card at the front desk. I don’t have one on me,” she said. She didn’t ask if I did. “But you can call from room to room in here.” She handed me the room key and the small folded leaflet that came with it. I pulled it all the way open; in ten different languages were the rules and benefit listings for hostel guests. I put it in the drawer.
“This is Naoko Nakamura’s current photo,” she said, pulling a paper folded in fours out of her bag. She laid it on the desk and pointed.
“Where did you get it?” I aske
d her, as I eased in to take a close look. My eyes shot to the top of the page; it was dated today. Yet Naoko Nakamura’s appearance was not much older than the way he looked in an old picture in the book Sensei had gifted to me. With a head full of black hair styled by a precise barber, he was a sharply dressed executive in a one-thousand-dollar tailored business suit. He stood taller than the two men pictured at his side. He didn’t wear glasses like many Asian men. Determination in his eyes, he didn’t seem like the obvious villain.
“But we’re not looking for him, right?” Chiasa said, interrupting my thoughts. “This is a love story, right? So where does he fit in?” She stood up straight now. I thought to myself, Chiasa, quick like lightning.
“He doesn’t,” I said solemnly. “Who are these guys standing beside him?” I asked her. “And what’s going on in the news story?”
She leaned over to read the Japanese captions. “Oh, this man is the vice president of Nakamura’s Pan Asian Corporation. His name is Bishamon Ikeda.” Chiasa pulled her face up and her jaw dropped open. But I was a second ahead of her.
“Iwa Ikeda,” we both said aloud. I locked in my game face.
“The girl you are looking for is Iwa Ikeda and this is her father!” Chiasa pronounced.
Purposely I did not correct her. It would be better for her if she did not know. As my anger was stirring up slowly, it had nothing to do with Chiasa. I would not allow her to get caught in a deadly mess. And what if she got questioned in a situation where this became a police matter? Yes, it would be better. The less she knew, the less she could tell. But I could tell she wouldn’t tell.
“Or maybe you are after Bishamon’s wife and she is named Iwa Ikeda!”
“I never intefere with another man’s wife,” I told her, and her light laugh and suspicion evaporated.