Mari nods. “She says she’s sorry for getting the sheets all bloody.”
“That’s okay, we’re used to it,” Kaoru says. “I don’t know why, but lots of girls’ periods start in love hos. They’re always calling downstairs and asking for napkins ’n’ tampons ’n’ stuff. I wanna say, ‘What are we—a drugstore?’ But anyhow, we’ve gotta get this kid dressed. She’s not goin’ anywhere like this.”
Kaoru searches in another carton and pulls out a pair of panties in a vinyl pack—the kind used in vending machines in the rooms. “These are cheapies for emergencies. They can’t be laundered, but let her put on a pair. We don’t want her to have any drafts down there making her nervous.”
Next Kaoru hunts in the closet and comes out with a faded-green jersey top and bottom she hands to the prostitute.
“These belonged to a girl who used to work here. Don’t worry, they’re clean. She doesn’t have to give them back. All I’ve got is rubber flip-flops for her feet, but that’ll be better than nothing.”
Mari explains this to the woman. Kaoru opens a cabinet and takes out a few sanitary napkins. She hands them to the prostitute.
“Use these, too. You can change in that bathroom.” She motions toward the door with her chin.
The prostitute nods and thanks her in Japanese: “Arigato.” Then she takes the clothing into the bathroom.
Kaoru lowers herself into the desk chair, shakes her head slowly, and says, “You never know what’s gonna happen in this business.”
“She tells me it’s just over two months since she came to Japan,” Mari says.
“She’s here illegally, I suppose?”
“I didn’t ask her about that. Judging from her dialect, she’s from the north.”
“Old Manchuria?”
“Probably.”
“Huh. I suppose somebody’s gonna come and pick her up.”
“I think she’s got a boss of some kind.”
“A Chinese gang,” Kaoru says. “They run prostitution around here. They sneak women in by boat from the mainland and make them pay for it with their bodies. They take phone orders and deliver the women to hotels on motorcycles—hot ’n’ fresh, like pizza. They’re one of our best clients.”
“By ‘gang,’ you mean like yakuza?”
Kaoru shakes her head. “No, no. I was a professional wrestler a long time, and we used to do these national tours, so I got to know a few yakuza. Let me tell you, compared to these Chinese gangsters, Japanese yakuza are sweethearts. I mean, you never know what’s coming with them. But this kid’s got no choice: if she doesn’t go back to them, she’s got no place to go.”
“Do you think they’re going to be hard on her for not making anything this time?”
“Hmm, I wonder. With her face looking like that, it’ll be a while before she can have any customers, and she’s worthless to them if she can’t make money. She’s a pretty thing, though.”
The prostitute comes out of the bathroom wearing the jersey outfit and rubber thongs. The top has an Adidas logo on the chest. The bruises remain distinct on the woman’s face, but her hair is now more neatly combed. Even in this well-worn outfit and with her lips swollen and face bruised, she is a beautiful woman.
Kaoru asks her in Japanese, “I’ll bet you want to use the phone, right?”
Mari translates into Chinese. “Yao da dianhua ma?” Would you like to use the telephone?
The prostitute answers in fragmented Japanese. “Hai. Arigato.”
Kaoru hands her a white cordless phone. She presses the buttons and, speaking softly in Chinese, she makes a report to the person on the other end, who responds with an angry outburst. She gives a short answer and hangs up. With a grim expression, she hands the phone back to Kaoru.
The prostitute thanks Kaoru in Japanese: “Domo arigato.” Then she turns to Mari and says, “Mashang you ren lai jie wo.” (Someone is coming to pick me up. Right away.)
Mari explains to Kaoru: “I think they’re coming to get her now.”
Kaoru frowns. “Come to think of it, the hotel bill hasn’t been paid, either. Usually the man pays, but this particular son-of-a-bitch left without paying. He owes us for a beer, too.”
“Are you going to get it from the one who picks her up?”
“Hmm.” Kaoru stops to think this over. “I hope it’s that simple.”
Kaoru puts tea leaves in a pot followed by hot water from a thermos jar. She pours the tea into three cups and hands one to the Chinese prostitute. The woman thanks her and takes a drink. The hot tea hurts her cut lip. She takes one sip and furrows her brow.
Kaoru drinks some tea and says to the prostitute in Japanese, “But it’s hard for you, isn’t it? You come all the way from China, sneak into Japan, and you end up with those goons sucking the life outta you. I don’t know what it was like for you back home, but you probably would’ve been better off not coming here, don’t you think?”
“You want me to translate that?” Mari asks.
Kaoru shakes her head. “Nah, why bother? I’m just talking to myself.”
Mari engages the prostitute in conversation. “Ni ji sui le?” (How old are you?)
“Shijiu.” (Nineteen.)
“Wo ye shi. Jiao shenme mingzi?” (Same as me. What’s your name?)
The prostitute hesitates a moment and answers, “Guo Dongli.”
“Wo jiao Mali.” (My name is Mari.)
Mari offers the woman a little smile—her first since midnight.
A motorcycle comes to a halt at the front entrance of the Alphaville: a big, tough-looking Honda sports bike. The man driving it wears a full-face helmet. He leaves the engine running as though he wants to be ready to get out fast if he has to. He wears a tight-fitting black leather jacket and blue jeans. High-top basketball shoes. Thick gloves. The man takes off his helmet and sets it on the gas tank. After a careful scan of his surroundings, he takes off one glove, pulls a cell phone from his pocket, and punches in a number. He is around thirty. Reddish dyed hair, ponytail. Broad forehead, sunken cheeks, sharp eyes. After a short conversation, the man hangs up and puts the phone back into his pocket. He pulls his glove back on and waits.
Soon Kaoru, the prostitute, and Mari step outside. Rubber sandals flapping, the prostitute drags herself toward the motorcycle. The temperature has fallen, and she seems cold in her jersey outfit. The motorcycle man barks something at the prostitute, who responds softly.
Kaoru says to the motorcycle man, “Ya know, fella, I still haven’t been paid for my hotel room.”
The man stares hard at Kaoru, then says, “I don’t pay hotel bills. The john pays.” His speech is flat, unaccented, expressionless.
“I know that,” Kaoru says in a hoarse voice. She clears her throat. “But think about it. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. That’s how we do business. This has been a drag for us, too. I mean, this was a case of assault with bodily injury. We could’ve called the cops. But then you guys would’ve had a little explaining to do, right? So just pay us our sixty-eight hundred yen and we’ll be satisfied. Won’t even charge you for the beer. Call it even.”
The man stares at Kaoru with expressionless eyes. He looks up at the neon sign: Alphaville. He takes off a glove again, pulls a leather billfold from his jacket pocket, counts out seven thousand-yen bills, and lets them drop to his feet. There is no wind: the bills lie flat on the ground. The man puts his glove back on. He raises his arm and looks at his watch. He performs each movement with unnatural slowness. He is clearly in no hurry. He seems to be trying to impress the three women with the sheer weight of his presence. He can take as much time as he likes for anything. All the while, the motorcycle engine keeps up its deep rumbling, like a skittish animal.
“You’re pretty gutsy,” the man says to Kaoru.
“Thanks,” Kaoru answers.
“If you call the cops there might be a fire in the neighborhood,” he says.
A deep silence reigns for a time. Arms folded, Kaoru keeps her eyes locked on the
man’s face. Her own face marked with cuts, the prostitute looks uneasily from one to the other, unable to comprehend their give-and-take.
Eventually the man picks up his helmet, slips it on, beckons to the woman, and seats her on his motorcycle. She holds on to his jacket with both hands. Turning, she looks back at Mari and at Kaoru. Then she looks at Mari again. She seems to want to speak but finally says nothing. The man gives the pedal a strong kick, revs the engine, and drives off. The sound of his exhaust reverberates heavily through the midnight streets. Kaoru and Mari are left standing there. Kaoru bends over and picks up the thousand-yen bills one at a time. She turns them so they face the same way, folds the wad in half, and stuffs it into her pocket. She takes a deep breath and rubs her palm over her short blond hair.
“Man!” she says.
4
Eri Asai’s room.
Nothing has changed. The image of the man in the chair, however, is larger than before. Now we can see him fairly clearly. The signal is still experiencing some interference: at times the image wavers, its outlines bend, its quality fades, and static rises. Now and then a completely unrelated image intrudes momentarily. But the jumble subsides, and the original image returns.
Eri Asai is still sound asleep in the bed. The artificial glow of the television screen produces moving shadows on her profile but does not disturb her sleep.
The man on the screen wears a dark brown business suit. The suit may well have been an impressive article of clothing in its day, but now it is clearly worn out. Patches of something like white dust cling to the sleeves and back. The man wears black, round-toed shoes which are also smudged with dust. He seems to have arrived at this room after passing through a place with deep piles of dust. He wears a standard dress shirt and plain black woolen tie, both of which share that look of fatigue. His hair is tinged with gray. No, it just may be that his black hair is splotched with the white dust. In any case, it has not been properly combed for a long time. Strangely, however, the man’s appearance gives no impression of poor grooming, no sense of shabbiness. He is just tired—profoundly exhausted—after unavoidable circumstances have conspired to smear him, suit and all, with dust.
We cannot see his face. For now, the TV camera captures only his back or parts of his body other than his face. Whether because of the angle of the light or through some deliberate arrangement, the face is always in a place of dark shadow inaccessible to our eyes.
The man does not move. Every now and then he takes a long, deep breath and his shoulders slowly rise and fall. He could be a hostage who has been confined to a single room for a very long time. Hovering around him there seems to be a drawn-out sense of resignation. Not that he is tied to the chair: he just sits there with his back straight, breathing quietly, staring at one spot directly in front of him. We cannot tell by looking at him whether he has decided for himself that he will not move or he has been placed into some kind of situation that does not permit him to move. His hands rest on his knees. The time is unclear. We cannot even tell if it is night or day. In the light of the banked fluorescent lamps, however, the room is as bright as a summer afternoon.
Eventually the camera circles around to the front and shows his face, but this does not help us to identify him. The mystery only deepens. His entire face is covered by a translucent mask. Perhaps we should not call it a mask: it clings so closely to his face, it is more like a piece of plastic wrap. But, thin as it is, it still serves its purpose as a mask. While reflecting the light that strikes it as a pale luster, it never fails to conceal the man’s features and expression. The best we can do is surmise the general contours of his face. The mask has no holes for the nose, mouth, or eyes, but still it does not seem to prevent him from breathing or seeing or hearing. Perhaps it has outstanding breathability or permeability, but, viewing it from the outside, we cannot tell what kind of material or technology has been used to make it. The mask possesses equal levels of sorcery and functionality. It has been both handed down from ancient times with darkness and sent back from the future with light.
What makes the mask truly eerie is that even though it fits the face like a second skin, it prevents us from even imagining what (if anything) the person within is thinking, feeling, or planning. Is the man’s presence a good thing? A bad thing? Are his thoughts straight? Twisted? Is the mask meant to hide him? Protect him? We have no clue. His face covered by this precision-crafted, anonymous mask, the man sits quietly in the chair being captured by the television camera, and this gives rise to a situation. All we can do, it seems, is defer judgment and accept the situation as it is. We shall call him the Man with No Face.
The camera angle is now fixed. It views the Man with No Face straight on, from just below center. In his brown suit, he stays perfectly motionless, looking from his side of the picture tube, through the glass, into this side. He is on the other side, looking straight into this room where we are. Of course his eyes are hidden behind the mysterious glossy mask, but we can vividly feel the existence—the weight—of his line of vision. With unwavering determination, he stares at something ahead of him. Judging from the angle of his face, he could well be staring toward Eri Asai’s bed. We trace this hypothetical line of vision with great care. Yes, there can be no doubt about it. What the man in the mask is staring at with his invisible eyes is the sleeping form of Eri. It finally dawns on us: this is what he has been doing all along. He is able to see through to this side. The television screen is functioning as a window on this room.
Now and then the picture flickers and recovers. The static also increases. The noise sounds like an amplified sonic version of someone’s brain waves. It rises with increasing density, but at a certain point it peaks, begins to degrade, and eventually dies out. Then, as if changing its mind, it emerges again. The same thing repeats. But the line of vision of the Man with No Face never wavers. His concentration is never broken.
A beautiful girl sleeping on and on in bed. Her straight black hair spreads over the pillow like a deeply meaningful fan. Softly pursed lips. Heart and mind at the bottom of the sea. Whenever the TV screen flickers, the light striking her profile wavers, and shadows dance like inscrutable signals. Sitting on a plain wooden chair and staring at her in silence, the Man with No Face. His shoulders rise and fall unobtrusively in concert with his breathing, like an empty boat bobbing on gentle early-morning waves.
In the room, nothing else moves.
5
Mari and Kaoru walk down a deserted back street.
Kaoru is seeing Mari somewhere. Mari has her navy blue Boston Red Sox cap pulled down low. In the cap, she looks like a boy—which is probably why she always has it with her.
“Man, am I glad you were there,” Kaoru says. “I didn’t know what the hell was going on.”
They descend the same stairway shortcut they climbed on the way to the hotel.
“Hey, let’s stop off at a place I know—if you’ve got the time,” Kaoru says.
“Place?”
“I could really use a nice cold beer. How about you?”
“I can’t drink.”
“So have some juice or something. What the hell, you’ve gotta be some place killing time till morning.”
They are seated at the counter of a small bar, the only customers. An old Ben Webster record is playing. “My Ideal.” From the fifties. Some forty or fifty old-style LPs are lined up on a shelf. Kaoru is drinking draft beer from a tall, thin glass. In front of Mari sits a glass of Perrier with lime juice. Behind the bar, the aging bartender is involved in cracking ice.
“She was pretty, though, wasn’t she?” Mari says.
“That Chinese girl?”
“Yeah.”
“I suppose so. But she won’t be pretty for long, living like that. She’ll get old and ugly overnight. I’ve seen tons of them.”
“She’s nineteen—like me.”
“Okay,” Kaoru says, munching on a few nuts. “But age doesn’t matter. That kind of work takes a lot out of you. You’
ve gotta have stainless-steel nerves. Otherwise you start shootin’ up, and you’re finished.”
Mari says nothing.
“You a college kid?”
“Uh-huh. I’m doing Chinese at the University of Foreign Studies.”
“University of Foreign Studies, huh? What’re ya gonna do after you graduate?”
“If possible, I’d like to be a freelance translator or interpreter. I don’t think I’m suited to a nine-to-five.”
“Smart girl.”
“Not really. From the time I was little, though, my parents always told me I’d better study hard, because I’m too ugly for anything else.”
Kaoru looks at Mari with narrowed eyes. “You’re plenty damn cute. It’s true: I’m not just saying it to make you feel good. Let ’em get a load of me if they wanna see ugly.”
Mari gave an uncomfortable little shrug. “My sister’s older than me and she is just amazing to look at. As long as I can remember they always compared me to her, like, ‘How can two sisters be so different?’ It’s true: I don’t stand a chance if you compare me to her. I’m little, my boobs are small, my hair’s kinky, my mouth is too big, and I’m nearsighted and astigmatic.”
Kaoru laughs. “People usually call stuff like that ‘individuality.’”
“Yeah, but it’s not easy to think that way if people have been telling you you’re ugly from the time you’re little.”
“So you studied hard?”
“Yeah, pretty much. But I never liked the competition for grades. Plus I wasn’t good at sports and I couldn’t make friends, so the other kids kind of bullied me, and by the time I got to the third grade I couldn’t go to school anymore.”
“You mean, like a real phobia?” Kaoru asks.
“Uh-huh. I hated school so much, I’d throw up my breakfast and have terrible stomachaches and stuff.”
“Wow. I had awful grades, but I didn’t mind school all that much. If there was somebody I didn’t like, I’d just beat the crap out of them.”