Part 3 (2/2)

'See you.'

It was a Mal Waldron time of day. The afternoon was shutting up shop early. The owner of the greengrocers across the street took in his crates of white radishes, carrots and lotus roots. He rolled down his shutter, saw me and nodded gravely. He never smiles. Some pigeons scattered as a truck shuddered by. Every note of 'Left Alone' fell, a drop of lead into a deep well. Jackie McLean's saxophone circled in the air, so sad it could barely leave the ground.

The door opened, and I smelt air rainwashed clean. Four high school girls came in, but one of them was completely, completely different. She pulsed, invisibly, like a quasar. I know that sounds stupid, but she did.

The three bubbleheads flounced up to the counter. They were pretty, I guess, but they were all clones of the same ova. Their hair was the same length, their lipstick the same colour, their bodies curving in the same way beneath their same uniform. Their leader demanded in a voice cutesy and spoilt the newest hit by the latest teen dwoob.

But I didn't bother hearing them. I can't describe women, not like Takes.h.i.+ or Koji. But if you know Duke Pearson's 'After the Rain', well, she was as beautiful and pure as that.

Standing by the window, and looking out. What was out there? She was embarra.s.sed by her cla.s.smates. And so she should have been! She was so real, the others were cardboard cut-outs beside her. Real things had happened to her to make her how she was, and I wanted to know them, and read them, like a book. It was the strangest feeling. I just kept thinking, well, I'm not sure what I was thinking. I'm not sure if I was thinking of anything.

She was listening to the music! She was afraid she'd scare the music away if she moved.

'Well, have you got it or haven't you?' One of the cut-out girls squawked. It must take a long time to train your voice to be so annoying.

Another giggled.

The leader's pocket phone trilled and she got it out.

I was angry with them for making me look away from her.

'This is a disc collector's shop. There's a toyshop in the shopping mall by the metro station that sells the kind of thing you're looking for.'

Rich s.h.i.+buya girls are truffle-fed pooches. The girls at Mama-san's, they have all had to learn how to survive. They have to keep their patrons, keep their looks, keep their integrity, and they get scarred. But they respect themselves, and they let it show. They respect each other. I respect them. They are real people.

But these magazine girls have nothing real about them. They have magazine expressions, speak magazine words and carry magazine fas.h.i.+on accessories. They've chosen to become this. I don't know whether or not to blame them. Getting scarred isn't nice. But look! As shallow, and glossy, and identical, and throwaway, as magazines.

'You're a bit uptight aren't you? Been dumped by your girlfriend?' The leader leaned on the counter and swayed, just a few inches away from my face. I imagined her using that face in bars, in cars, in love hotels.

Her friend shrieked with laughter and pulled her away before I could think of a witty retort. They flocked back towards the door. 'Told you!' one of them said. The third was still speaking into her pocket phone. 'I dunno where we are. Some c.r.a.ppy place behind some c.r.a.ppy building. Where are you?'

'You coming?' The leader said to the one still staring into s.p.a.ce, listening to Mal.

No, I thought with all my might, Say no, and stay with me in my s.p.a.ce.

'I said,' said the leader, 'are you coming?'

Was she deaf?

'I guess so,' she said, in a real voice. A beautiful, real voice.

Look at me, I willed. Look at me. Please. Just once, look straight at me. Look at me. Please. Just once, look straight at me.

As she left, she looked at me over her shoulder, my heart trampolined, and she followed the others into the street.

The cherry trees were budding. Maroon tips sprouted and swelled through the sealed bark. Pigeons ruffled and prilled. I wish I knew more about pigeons. Were they strutting about like that for mating purposes, or just because they were strutty birds? That would be useful knowledge for school syllabuses. None of this capital of Mongolia stuff. The air outside was warmer and damp. Being outside was like being in a tent. A jackhammer was pounding into concrete a few doors down. Takes.h.i.+ said that yet another surf and ski shop was opening up. How many surfers and skiers are there in Tokyo?

I put on a Charlie Parker anthology, with the volume up loud to drown out the ringing of metal. Charlie Parker, molten and twisting, no stranger to cruelty. 'Relaxin' at Camarillo', 'How Deep is the Ocean?', 'All the Things You Are', 'Out of Nowhere', 'A Night in Tunisia'.

I dressed the girl in calico, and she slipped away through a north African doorway.

Here, being as different as I am is punishable.

I was in Roppongi one time with Koji, he was on the pull and got talking to a couple of girls from Scotland. I just a.s.sumed they were English teachers at some c.r.a.ppy English school, but they turned out to be 'exotic dancers'. Koji's English is really good he was always in the top cla.s.s at school. English being a girl's subject, I didn't study it much, but when I found jazz I studied at home because I wanted to read the interviews with the great musicians, who are all American. Of course reading is one thing, but speaking is quite another. So Koji was mostly doing the translating. Anyway, these girls said that everyone where they come from actually tries tries to be different. They'll dye their hair a colour n.o.body else has, buy clothes n.o.body else is wearing, get into music n.o.body else knows. Weird. Then they asked why all girls here want to look the same. Koji answered, 'Because they are girls! Why do all cops look the same? Because they're cops, of course.' Then one of them asked why j.a.panese kids try to ape American kids? The clothes, the rap music, the skateboards, the hair. I wanted to say that it's not America they're aping, it's the j.a.pan of their parents that they're rejecting. And since there's no home-grown counter culture, they just take hold of the nearest one to hand, which happens to be American. But it's not American culture exploiting us. It's us exploiting it. to be different. They'll dye their hair a colour n.o.body else has, buy clothes n.o.body else is wearing, get into music n.o.body else knows. Weird. Then they asked why all girls here want to look the same. Koji answered, 'Because they are girls! Why do all cops look the same? Because they're cops, of course.' Then one of them asked why j.a.panese kids try to ape American kids? The clothes, the rap music, the skateboards, the hair. I wanted to say that it's not America they're aping, it's the j.a.pan of their parents that they're rejecting. And since there's no home-grown counter culture, they just take hold of the nearest one to hand, which happens to be American. But it's not American culture exploiting us. It's us exploiting it.

Koji got lost trying to translate the last bit.

I tried asking them about their inner places, because it seemed relevant. But I just got answers about how tiny the apartments were here, and how houses in Britain all have central heating. Then their boyfriends turned up. Two b.l.o.o.d.y great US marine gorillas. They looked down at us, unimpressed, and Koji and I decided it was time for another drink at the bar.

But yeah, it's certainly different here. All through my junior high school days people ha.s.sled me about my parents. Finding part-time jobs was never easy, either: it was as tough as having Korean parents. People find out. It would have been easier to say they'd died in an accident, but I wasn't going to lie for those k.n.o.b-heads. Plus if you say someone's dead, then it tempts fate to kill them off early. Gossip works telepathically in Tokyo. The city is is vast, but there's always someone who knows someone whom someone knows. Anonymity doesn't m.u.f.fle coincidence: it makes the coincidences more outlandish. That's why I still think one of these days my father might wander into the shop. vast, but there's always someone who knows someone whom someone knows. Anonymity doesn't m.u.f.fle coincidence: it makes the coincidences more outlandish. That's why I still think one of these days my father might wander into the shop.

So, from elementary school onwards I used to be in fights. I often lost, but that didn't matter. Taro, Mama-san's bouncer, always told me it's better to fight and lose than not fight and suffer, because even if you fight and lose your spirit emerges intact. Taro taught me that people respect spirit, but even cowards don't respect cowards. Taro also told me how to headb.u.t.t taller adversaries, how to knee in the b.a.l.l.s and how to dislocate a man's hand, so that by the high school n.o.body much bothered me. One time a gang of junior yakuza were waiting outside school for me, because I'd given one of their kid brothers a nose-bleed. I still don't know who tipped Mama-san off Koji, most probably but Mama-san sent Taro along that day to pick me up. He waited until they had formed a ring around me down an alley, and then he strolled along and scared seven shades of s.h.i.+t out of them. Now I think about it, Taro's been more like a dad to me than anyone else.

A leathery man in a blood-red jacket came in, ignoring me. He found the Charles Mingus section and bought about two-thirds of the stock, including the collectors' items, peeling off ten-thousand yen notes like toilet paper. His eyeb.a.l.l.s seemed to pulse to the ba.s.s rhythm. He left, carrying his purchases in a cardboard box which he a.s.sembled himself on the counter. He hadn't asked for a discount, though I would have gladly given him one, and I was left with a wad of money. I phoned Takes.h.i.+ to tell him the good news, and that it might be best if he came to pick the money up himself that night. I knew he had a cash-flow problem.

'Ah,' gasped Takes.h.i.+. 'Baby! That's the way. That is very, very, very good!'

There was hallucinogenic music on in the background that sounded like a migraine, and a woman being tortured by tickling.

Feeling I'd phoned at a bad time I said goodbye and hung up.

And still only 11 in the morning.

Koji was the cla.s.s egg-head at high school, which made him an outsider, too. He should have gone to a much better high school, but until he was fifteen his dad was always being transferred so it was never that easy for him to keep up. Koji was also diabolically bad at sport. I swear, in three years I never saw him manage to hit a baseball once. There was one time when he took an almighty swing, the bat flew out of his hands and hurtled through the air like a missile, straight into Mr Ikeda, our games master who idolised Yukio Mis.h.i.+ma even though I doubted he'd ever got through a whole book by anybody in his entire life.

I was doubled-up laughing, so I didn't realise n.o.body else was. That cost me school toilet-cleaning duty for the whole term, with Koji. That's when I learnt Koji loved the piano. I play the tenor saxophone. That's how I got to know Koji. A winded games teacher and the foulest toilets in the Tokyo educational system.

One of our regulars, Mr Fujimoto, came in during the lunch hour. The bell rang and a gust of air rustled papers all around the shop. He was laughing as usual. He laughed because he was pleased to see me. He put a little parcel of books down on the counter for me. I always try to pay for them, but he never lets me. He says it's a jazz disc consultancy fee.

'Mr Fujimoto! How's work today?'

'Terrible!' Mr Fujimoto only has one voice, and that is very loud. It's as though his greatest fear is to not be heard. And when he really laughs the noise almost pushes you backwards.

The shop is smack bang between the business district of Otemachi and the publis.h.i.+ng district around Ochanomizu, so our salaryman customers usually work in one or the other. You can always tell the difference. There's a certain look that mega-Money bestows on its handlers. A sort of beadiness, and hunger. Hard to put your finger on, but it's there all right. Money is another of those inner places, by the way. It's a way to measure yourself.

The publis.h.i.+ng salarymen, however, often have a streak of manic jollity. Mr Fujimoto is a prime specimen. He puns regularly and appallingly. For example: 'Afternoon, Satoru-kun! Say, couldn't you get Takes.h.i.+ to give this place a new coat of paint? It's looking kind of run down.'

'Do you think so?' I can smell the pay-off approaching.

'Definitely! It's positively seedy!'

Uh?

<script>