Ghostwritten (8 page)

‘Don’t let – no, you’re not. Erm, I. Take your time. Please. Come in.’

‘Thank you.’ The her that lived in her looked out through her eyes, through my eyes and at the me that lives in me.

‘I—’ I began.

‘This—’ she began.

‘Go on,’ we both said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘You go on. You’re the lady.’

‘You’re going to think I’m a nutcase, but I came in about ten days ago, and,’ she was unconsciously rolling on the balls of her heels, ‘and there was this piece of music you were playing . . . I can’t get it out of my head. A piano and a saxophone. I mean, there’s no reason why you should have remembered it or me or anything . . .’ She trailed off. There was something odd about the way she spoke. Her accent swung this way and that. I loved it.

‘It was two weeks ago. Exactly. Plus a couple of hours.’

She was pleased. ‘You remember me?’

I didn’t quite recognise my own laugh. ‘Sure I do.’

‘I was with my revolting cousin and her friends. They treat me like an imbecile because I’m half-Chinese. My mother was Japanese, you see. Dad’s Hong Kong Chinese. My home’s in Hong Kong.’ Nothing apologetic about the way she spoke.
I’m not pure Japanese and if you don’t like that you can stick it.

I thought of Tony Williams’s drumming in ‘In a Silent Way’. No, I didn’t
think
of it. I felt it, somewhere inside.

‘Hey, that’s nothing! I’m half-Filipino. The music was “Left Alone” by Mal Waldron. Would you like to hear it again?’

‘Would you mind?’

‘’Course I wouldn’t mind . . . Mal Waldron’s one of my gods. I kneel down to him every time I go to the temple. What’s Hong Kong like, compared to Tokyo?’

‘Foreigners say it’s dirty, noisy and poky, but really, there’s nowhere like it. Not anywhere. And when Kowloon gets too much you can escape to the islands. On Lantau Island there’s a big buddha sitting on a hill . . .’

For a moment I had an odd sensation of being in a story that someone was writing, but soon that sensation too was being swallowed up.

The cherry blossoms had come and almost gone. New green leaves, still silky and floppy, were drying on the trees lining the back street. Living and light as mandolins and zithers. The commuters streamed by. Not a coat in sight. Some had come out without their jackets. No denying it, spring was old news.

The phone rang. Koji, calling from the college canteen. ‘So. Who is she?’

‘Who?’

‘Stop it! You know perfectly well who! The girl at Mrs Nakamori’s last night who sat there swooning on your every note! Let me see . . . Her name began with “Tomo” and ended with “yo”. What was she called I wonder? Oh yes, that’s right. Tomoyo.’

‘Oh,
her
 . . .’

‘Don’t give me that! I saw you two making eyes at each other.’

‘You imagined it.’

‘You
were
making eyes at each other! The whole bar saw. A sea-cucumber would have noticed. Her father definitely did. Taro noticed. He came up to me afterwards and asked me who she was. I’d hoped that he could tell me. He said to grill you. And what Taro wants he gets, so I’m grilling you.’

‘There’s not much to tell. She came into the shop four weeks ago. Then she came in again last week. We got talking, just about music, and we went out on a date or two last week. That’s all.’

‘A date or seven you mean.’

‘Well, you know how it goes.’

‘Not that I want to be nosey or anything, it’s just that I didn’t get the chance to interrogate her last night. But, er, so have you, y’know, snipped her ribbons and unwrapped her packaging yet?’

‘The girl’s a lady!’

‘Ah, yes, but every lady is a woman.’

‘No. We haven’t.’

‘You always were a slow worker, Satoru. Why not?’

‘Because . . .’ I remember her body wrapped inside my duffle-coat as we walked along, sharing the same umbrella. I remember spending the whole movie holding her hand. I remember her eyes scrunched up in laughter as we watched a street performer who stood motionless on a pedestal until you left a coin in his urn, when he changed his expression and pose until the next coin was dropped in. I remember her trying not to laugh at my bowling alley disasters. I remember lying on the blanket in Ueno Park as the cherry blossom fell onto our faces. I remember her in this room, in this chair, listening to my favourite music as she did her homework. I remember her face as she concentrated, and that strand of hair that fell down, almost touching her notebook. I remember kissing the nape of her neck in elevators between floors, and springing apart when the doors suddenly opened. I remember her telling me about her goldfish, and her mother, and life in Hong Kong. I remember her asleep on my shoulder on the night bus. I remember looking at her across the table. I remember her telling me about the ancient Jomon people who buried their kings in mounds, on the Tokyo plain. I remember her face at Mrs Nakamori’s when Koji and I did ‘Round Midnight’ better than we’ve ever played it before. I remember . . . ‘I dunno, Koji. Maybe we didn’t do it because we could have done it.’ Was that true? It would have been easy, just to slip into a love hotel. My body certainly wanted to. But . . . but what? ‘I really can’t say. Not because I’m being coy. I don’t know.’

Koji made the sage noise that he always does on the rare occasions when he doesn’t understand something. ‘So, when do I get to see her again?’

I swallowed. ‘Never, probably. She’s going back to international school in Hong Kong. She only comes to Tokyo every couple of years with her father to visit relatives for a few weeks. We have to be realistic.’

Koji sounded more depressed about it than I did. ‘That’s terrible! When’s she going back this time?’

I looked at my watch. ‘In about thirty minutes.’

‘Satoru! Stop her!’

‘I really think . . . I mean, I think that—’

‘Don’t
think
! Do something!’

‘What do you suggest? Kidnap her? She’s got her life to get on with. She’s going to study archaeology at university in Hong Kong. We met, we enjoyed each other’s company, very much, and now we’ve parted. It happens all the time. We can write. Anyway, it’s not like we’ve fallen longingly in love with each other, or anything like that—’

‘Beep beep beep.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, that was my bullshit alarm going off.’

I dug out some old big band Duke Ellington. It reminds me of wind-up gramophones, silly moustaches and Hollywood musicals from before the war. It usually cheers me up. ‘Take the “A” Train’, rattling along on goofy optimism.

I looked gloomily into the murky lake at the bottom of my teacup, and I thought about Tomoyo for the fiftieth time that day.

The phone rang. I knew it was going to be Tomoyo. It was Tomoyo. I could hear aeroplanes and boarding announcements in the background.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Hello.’

‘I’m phoning from the airport.’

‘I can hear aeroplanes taking off in the background.’

‘Sorry I couldn’t say “goodbye” properly last night. I wanted to kiss you.’

‘So did I, but with everyone there, and everything . . .’

‘Thanks for inviting me and Dad to Mrs Nakamori’s last night. My dad says thanks too. I haven’t seen him nattering away like he did with your Mama-san and Taro for
ages
.’

‘I haven’t seen them nattering away like that for ages, either. What were they talking about?’

‘Business, I guess. You know Dad has a small stake in a night club. We both loved the show.’

‘It wasn’t a show! It was just me and Koji.’

‘You’re both really good musicians. Dad didn’t shut up about you.’

‘Nah . . . Koji’s good, he makes me sound passable. He phoned about twenty minutes ago. I hope we weren’t too gooey at the bar last night. Koji thought we were a bit obvious.’

‘Don’t worry about it. And hey! Dad even implied, in his roundabout way, you could visit during your holidays. He might manage to find a bar for you to play sax in, if you wanted to.’

‘Does he know? About us?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Takeshi doesn’t exactly give me holidays . . . At least, I’ve never asked for one.’

‘Oh . . .’ She changed the subject. ‘How long did it take you to get so good?’

‘I’m not good. John Coltrane is
good
! Wait a sec—’ I grabbed a copy of John Coltrane and Duke Ellington, playing ‘In a Sentimental Mood’. Smoky and genuflective. We listened to it together for a while. So many things I wanted to say to her.

There was a series of urgent rings. ‘I’m running of out money – there’s something – Oh, damn, ’Bye!’

‘’Bye!’

‘When I get back I’ll—’

A lonely hum.

At lunchtime Mr Fujimoto came in, saw me, and laughed. ‘Good afternoon, Satoru-kun!’ he jubilated. ‘Blue skies, just you wait and see! Tell me, what do you think of this little beaut?’ He put a little package of books on the counter, and straightened out his bow tie, arching his eyebrows and acting proud.

A grotesque polka-dot frog-green bow tie. ‘Absolutely unique.’

His whole body wobbled with mirth. ‘We’re having a disgusting tie competition in the office. I’ve got ’em licked, I think.’

‘How was Kyoto?’

‘Oh, Kyoto was Kyoto. Temples and shrines, meetings with printers. Uppity shopkeepers who think they have a monopoly on manners. It’s good to be back. Once a Tokyoite, always a Tokyoite.’

I started my rehearsed speech. ‘Mr Fujimoto, when I told Mama-san about your kind offer to help me get an interview at your office she gave me this to give you. She thought you and your co-workers might enjoy it at a cherry-blossom party.’ I heaved the huge bottle of rice-wine onto the counter.

‘
Sake!
My word, that
is
a big boy! This will last awhile, even in an office full of publishers! How extraordinarily kind.’

‘No, it was kind of you. I’m sorry I’m too ignorant to accept your generous offer.’

‘Not at all, not at all. No umbrage taken, I promise you . . . It was just a passing . . .’ Mr Fujimoto looked for the right word, blinking hard, and laughed when he couldn’t find it. ‘I don’t blame you in the least. You wouldn’t want to end up being like me, would you?’ He found that a lot funnier than I did.

‘It’s not my place to say this, but I wouldn’t mind ending up being like you at all. You’ve got a good job. Unforgettable bow ties. A great taste in the world’s finest jazz discs.’

He stopped smiling for once and gazed out. ‘The last of the cherry blossom. On the tree, it turns ever more perfect. And when it’s perfect, it falls. And then of course once it hits the ground it gets all mushed up. So it’s only
absolutely
perfect when it’s falling through the air, this way and that, for the briefest time . . . I think that only we Japanese can really understand that, don’t you?’

A van roaring the message
Vote for Shimizu, the only candidate who really has the guts to fight corruption
screeched past like a drunken batmobile.
Shimizu never betrays, Shimizu never betrays, Shimizu never betrays.

Mr Fujimoto trailed his fingers through the air. ‘Why do things happen the way they do? Since the gas attack on the subway, watching those pictures on TV, watching the police investigate like a crack squad of blind tortoises, I’ve been trying to understand . . . Why do things
happen
at all? What is it that stops the world simply . . . seizing up?’

I’m never sure whether Mr Fujimoto’s questions are questions. ‘Do you know?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know the answer, no. Sometimes I think it’s the only question, and that all other questions are tributaries that flow into it.’ He ran his hand through his thinning hair. ‘Might the answer be “love”?’

I tried to think, but I kept seeing pictures. I imagined my father – that man who I had imagined was my father – looking out through the rear window of a car. I thought of butterfly knives, and a time once three or four years ago when I was walking out of McDonald’s and a businessman slammed down onto the pavement from a ninth floor window of the same building. He lay three metres away from where I stood. His mouth was gaping open in astonishment. A dark stain was trickling from it, over the pavement, between the bits of broken teeth and glasses.

I thought about Tomoyo’s eyebrows, her nose, her jokes, her accent. Tomoyo on an aeroplane to Hong Kong. ‘I’d rather be too young to have that kind of wisdom.’

Mr Fujimoto’s face turned into a smile that hid his eyes. ‘How wise of you.’ He ended up buying an old Johnny Hartman disc with a beautiful version of ‘I Let a Song Go Out of My Heart’.

A mosquito blundered its way into my ear, suddenly there, loud as an electric blender. I pulled my head away and swatted the little bugger. Mosquito season. I was scraping its fuselage onto a bit of paper when Takeshi’s estranged wife marched in, pushing her sunglasses up into her bountiful hair. She was accompanied by a sharp-dressed man who I immediately sensed was a lawyer. They have a look about them. When Takeshi offered me this job I’d spent a whole evening over at their apartment in Chiyoda, but now apart from the curtest of nods Takeshi’s wife ignored me. The lawyer did not acknowledge my existence.

‘
He
,’ Takeshi’s wife pronounced the pronoun with the unique bitterness of the ex-wife, ‘only leases the property, but the stock is worth quite a lot. At least,
he
was always boasting that it is. The real money’s in the hair salons, though. This is just a hobby, really. One of
his
many hobbies.’

The lawyer demurred.

They turned to go. Takeshi’s wife looked at me as she was stepping through the door. ‘You can learn something from this, Satoru.
Never
make a big decision which will alter the shape of your life on the basis of a relationship! You may as well take out a mortgage on a house made of sponge cake. Remember that.’ And she was gone.