Tokio Whip (15 page)

***

It's a story of a story being taken over by another story. You move West, bringing the East with you, making the old West the new East.

***

–
How much? How many again?

–
502 pages, seven chapters, thirty-nine sections and areas, four four-stars (Kabuki-za, Sensōji, the National Museum, and Meiji Jingu), 24 three, 43 two, 53 one, and three with question marks, and 527 years. I've read it two and a half times now, and made my way through – visited the sites, that is – more than half of it, it's become my “bible.”

–
What's it called again?

–
Tokyo Now & Then, An Explorer's Guide
. Paul Waley. But then I have to wonder about tourism in Tokyo. I've read a couple of proper guide books – Waley – yes, he's a relation – is too deep, too brief even, to qualify; Judith Connor's first edition is wonderful, but of so precise a time; the others – what do they amount to? On one hand they all admit that there isn't really much to see in Tokyo, the sites being so new; and those worth seeing are all in the old part of the city, and old in Tokyo equates with boring, so skip those, for the “real” Japan you'll be going to Kyoto anyway. I mean just look at the four-stars: Kabuki is hours and hours long, so skip it; Sensōji is just a temple, which means better Kyoto; the National Museum is old and musty and in the city's only proper park, but in
shitamachi
, so skip it; and Meiji Jingu will also be bettered by Kyoto. There is no Ryoanji or Golden Pavilion or great stroll garden here. So, what's left? Ginza, but it's glorious name has long faded. Shinjuku, but with all the new skyscrapers, it resembles New York or any other anonymous big city. Where's that leave us? All the neon, I suppose. And the Shinkansen, but it too will soon be dated as other countries have their own versions. (Of course I'm leaving out students here, of architecture, for one, or people who come here for a specific purpose, a conference or a business deal.) So, in a word, there's nothing to see here, and there go the tourists.

–
Strange idea, Lang.

–
On the other hand, there is everything to do. And so any decent Tokyo tour-guide would skip all the normal front-section stuff, all those sites, and only keep to the back-section stuff: where to stay, how to get around, what to eat, and especially where to shop, hell, even where to get laid, or where to take your partner to make love, even where to get drunk, and where next to get drunker, and where to take a bath, and where to whatever.

–
Maybe not so weird.

***

“I can't believe I'm still wearing long-sleeve shirts.” That's the only phrase I remember now from that evening before the scandal broke and I quit her. She and I had walked home in a rather quiet rain a Friday night wondering just when summer would arrive. The rainy season had gone on as far as the end of July, the longest in 55 years; the sun had not been seen in Tokyo in 18 days; and over the weekend there were scores of earthquake tremors centered around Izu, and quite palpable in the city. When we awoke Saturday, summer had arrived. Hot, bright, clear, hot. Summer in Tokyo. I had to wander Ginza that day, paying some bills, picking up a Tokihiro Satoh photo, one of his rare color views of all the hideous building projects that were going on in Tokyo Bay, and getting a few books for her. She'd chosen to stay home and listen to the Japanese Punk stuff that didn't really interest me. That Saturday was also the night of the annual fireworks display on the river and we hoped to see them. By early afternoon my shirt and jacket were sweat-soaked. I finally finished my errands and, in the heavy heat decided to head home, far too west of the river. As much as I would have enjoyed myself alone at the fireworks, for this occasion, I wanted to be with her, to see them with that child of the city I was then just discovering and letting go, as I am now discovering it all anew and all alone. The reduced amount of clothing, the constant secretions, the general abandon: the feeling that your body had abandoned you, that it really was not your own reminded me of E. G. S.'s phrase: “The eroticism of summer nights in the great city.” (And what's that other phrase: “Lost his collection of erotica, and so, they say, came the eccentricities of old age.”) I thought I should be alone because I wanted to go over the argument I'd had earlier that week with Cafferty about nostalgia for the city. He defended it; I said it was antithetical to the nature of the city. He said that if we consider ourselves a living part of the living thing, well then, what is memory about? I had to finally concede that he was right. (And now I was beginning to have a sense of the past, too. Just look at me and my own nostalgia for the Eighties, hardly one of the more exciting or creative of the city's decades.) Not only did I want to review the talk, I was already bolstering his arguments like any new convert. I had told her that I had learned so much from him about how to write about the city and she took me to mean a manual. “Well, you begin with the seasons and with what has been lost; don't forget the legends and place-names; the women, the fashions ...” What could I say? Perhaps she was right; perhaps it all does read like a manual. But before such thoughts could develop any further, the heat had come in full force, though it did not dissipate those late rains.

Nor has her heat and rain left my bones. She was as much an early morning surprise as a typhoon that I was not prepared for except in my best moments, moments that are leaving me by now as I find myself moving ever deeper and willingly so into the past, the city's heat – wet, lingering, exhausting: and purifying: if you are prepared to surrender yourself to her.

***

Dolls without hair

cracked fingers

faded brocades

their lonely eyes

blessed

ablaze!

***

Roberta and Lang: arm in arm, hand in hand, eye to eye, mouth to mouth.

***

SCENE FIVE: A HOME

She is in Kichijoji, just outside a typical family home: stucco, blue roof tiles, shutters on some windows, the others
shoji
. No doubt, a “Western room” (chairs) and a “Japanese room” (tatami), appliances and comic books piled high, some cheap gee-gaws here and there (Edo courtesan in glass box; Roccoco ceramic copy, young woman at piano, lap-dog, suitor). She'll be greeted, be persuaded to stay, served tea and
sembei
, and all the while lose the scent. But enter she must. Suddenly, it is vast, palatial, huge! – she'd never expected to find such a place in Tokyo. Has she confused outside and in, did she judge the building's size right? Is this a dream, a movie, a drug experience? Endless rooms, like Lubitsch, Busby Berkeley, Jean Arthur in
Easy Living
. Men all over the place: sipping champagne, seducing women; half a dozen tongues, and she can speak them all.

On the steps she admires the doorman's livery, those ever-so-tight tights. In the foyer, she hands her fur to a maid, asks for a light, and immediately a Spanish grandee appears. In a drawing room she has a brief tête-à-tête with a French diplomat from whom she declines another glass. In the library she rebuffs the overture of a Czech businessman. In the grande salle, and sipping another champagne, she tells the Argentine beef billionaire that she is on the side of the children, and if she were Eva Peron, why she'd knock his block off! He exeunts ever so politely, all the while complimenting her ankles, while whispering to an aide to “shoot that woman!” The aide approaches her and offers to shoot his boss in exchange for – . In the dining room, a woman holding in one hand a long mother-of-pearl cigarette holder, and in the other yet another glass of champagne, and a fox slung over her right shoulder, unsuccessfully attempts to seduce her with the promise of “explosive passions” which comes out as a spluttering burst of sibilants and plosives. She merely replies that the local fireworks are probably more exciting. Seated at dinner, the gentleman next to her, a Malay refugee millionaire, shows her his “ring,” and confides in her that should she join him the ring will reveal to her the “unutterable secrets of love.” She says she'll “consider it.” In the smoking room, a retired Japanese general lights her cigar. He says nothing to her. Could this be her man? But what of the Malay millionaire? On the verandah, an overly smart girl of twelve tells her she knows who she is looking for. “I doubt it.” In the garden, she overhears two exquisitely dressed lesbians cooing. Back in the foyer, the Japanese general and the Malay millionaire are wondering who is to escort the “ever so charming” young lady home, when suddenly she sees a car driving off, and glimpses, in the window – her Man!

She bids them all a heartfelt goodnight, quickly slips the liveried doorman her address, and has her car “follow that man!”

***

Tokyo tires me out; can't figure out why people think it's so thrilling, Kaoru typically complains.

Chapter 6

HARAJUKU–YOYOGI

It wasn't easy but eventually Roberta had to ask Lang to leave and he was glad to, glad to get out, glad to get away from her for a while at least, at least to clear the air; so he found himself a place in Kichijoji, which he didn't like either, all those foreigners, the discomfort of the easy living of it all, he thought (at first), at first he thought he'd be west of everything she or at least her Tokyo represented, but eventually, soon enough really, he came to like it, came to praise the place's “charms” as he said – god he can be so condescending! – he came to see something of what all she'd been telling him: ha!, Lang came to like Tokyo – Tokyo was alright.

***

doo lang

doo lang

doo lang

***

Loves the city, does he? And they all call him insane for it? Perhaps. But look at me. My love has always only been modest and from a distance. I'm sure I've only survived the way I have because I've never allowed myself to become absorbed in and by the big bertha, the great mother, the enormous uterus we call Tokyo. No, I've worked rather relaxed, I've gotten out and come back. Time and again. Shall we call that love? Perhaps. A certain fidelity. But again, to be distinguished from he and his claims. But we are kin in our ways. There was a time I was close to what he feels; but I didn't allow myself to go that far. I figured that if it is a true love then we must mutually get to know and respect one another's habits and rhythms and thus maintain a love to last – as it has, these decades already. Yes, he and I are kin; along with a few others whom I have known, lesser men and women and greater too whom the city has, well, not destroyed, we should not say they were destroyed so much as ... well, they were forever transformed in ways that they had not only not anticipated, but in ways they had never wished for, never imagined the possibility of. Now there's another story to be written: the wasted in love, the failures. Who are these people for whom love – is, does such different things? The ones who just did not have enough, once having declared their love, to respond to and to match their partner's own responding love. Cafferty wishes Lang well.

***

When I was young I
could
feel the earth revolve under my feet the sky above, center of all what beauty and why should no one believe me? I stride forward amongst the unbelievers.

***

Ah, this city, Hiroko thinks for a moment, how to get from home to Roppongi, much less Shibuya, and worse, Van Zandt's Shimokitazawa? Shit! (oops!), but it
is
hard to get around. Well, maybe I'm complaining. The trains are alright. They just don't run long enough, you can't always afford a taxi, they aren't what you'd call cheap, and only an idiot would walk all the way home. And if I don't find a nice guy – oh, where was that hotel, it wasn't that far? But I really do thank van Zandt for what he calls his “contributions” – anyway, why couldn't the trains run all night like I've heard they do in Paris?

***

Faye's idea of a “Post-Whip.”

***

–
Gorgeous!

–
Wonderful!

–
Marvelous!

–
Smashing! – Would Audrey say that?

–
Don't you mean Arlene?

–
No, Audrey. I watch the classics, you know.

–
Oh. Yes, yes, I think she would.

–
45?

–
No.

–
Sadistic?

–
Guess again.

–
Pimpness?

–
Oh, you're too smart! Smashing!

–
That'd be a nice name for a line.

–
“Smashing.” Ooohh, it would. I wonder if we can copyright it.

–
We'd better act fast. The walls have ears, you know.

–
Don't they?

–
Don't you love Van Zandt's ears?

–
God, they're so small and squiggly. My tongue ...

–
Oh, I know, and one hand … and the other ...

–
Oh god. I can see him now. And those rough hands.

–
Terrible on my nylons. But then he always buys me extras.

–
Yes, he is a considerate boy.

–
Man. Don't forget, those westerners like those adult names.

–
Right. Man this and woman that. Why can't they settle down?

–
Or why can't we grow up? Oh, what a laugh!

–
So, how's Arlene?

–
Oh, you know, she really is so square.

–
Oh, comeon! She may be, but isn't that her charm point? I happen to think that she's also a sensitive and intelligent woman. Whether or not she wants to go out and have fun with us.

–
Well, you can have her. Actually, I don't think she likes me.

–
Well, you are rather pushy, Mona.

–
Yes, but it's always served me well, so far.

–
Perhaps, but she is a westerner, after all.

–
Yes, but I've done alright with VZ.

–
But that's not saying much. And besides, he hardly talks, not the way Arlene does.

–
But I don't want to talk with VZ.

–
I do. I like a little conversation. Have you ever talked with Roberta?

–
Talked with Roberta? You mean the Holy Nun of Mount Yanaka?

–
Mona!

–
Well, she's hardly ever said a word to me. And besides, do you know that there is a Salon de Mona in Yanaka? So who needs nuns in my pleasuring district?

–
I don't – .But, in fact, she's hardly said a word to me either. But that's not what I'm saying. She does speak; the trouble is, when she does, no one listens.

–
Oh? And what does she say?

–
Oh, she speaks about many things. About her neighborhood mostly. She even told me how she and Lang first met. And she cooks! She makes a better
hiyayakko
than you or I.

–
That's not really an accomplishment, Maxine.

–
That's not the point. She's told me a lot about herself and Lang; and why she likes Tokyo so much, especially
shitamachi –
I can say she's even given me some appreciation of the place I come from.

–
But not, pray, the place you want to end in.

–
I really don't know, Hiromi – uhn, sorry, Mona.

–
Has she told you about the big crisis with Lang? How he came and couldn't stand her and dumped her?

–
Really, Mona! I wouldn't put it so harshly. And yes, she did tell me. I can't understand why.

–
Maybe she just needed to speak, and thought I wouldn't listen. Which I did. How did she put it? Oh yes, she said that he didn't like her friends and after a while he moved out. But there was more to it than that. She said, that
it wasn't easy but eventually she had to ask Lang to leave and that he was glad to go, glad to get out, and to get away from her – for a while at least to clear the air. And then he found a place for himself in Kichijoji, which he didn't like either – all those foreigners, and the discomfort of the easy living of it all, you know – or so he thought at first – thought he'd be west of everything, even of her, or at least the Tokyo she represented, but eventually, soon enough really, he came to like it, he even came to praise what he called Joji's “charms” – god he can be so condescending! – and in the end, he came to see something of all that she'd been telling him. Yes, she said that in the end, now, that is, Lang came to like Tokyo – it was cool being here.

–
Roberta told you all that?

–
More or less, yes.

–
Gee, so now he's in Kichijoji.

–
Yes.

–
Can you imagine anyone
not
liking Joji?

–
Not really. Or, maybe only Lang.

–
Should we visit him?

–
I don't really think so.

–
Why not?

–
Really, Mona. You can't have every man you want.

–
Oh, I don't “want” Lang. I'd just like to “have” him.

–
Well, tell yourself “no” this time, ok?

–
Must I?

–
Yes, “Dear.”

–
Stop it.

–
You!

–
You!

–
No, you.

–
But, I didn't say anything.

–
Oh yes you did. Really, you're not in a movie, you know.

–
Yes, I am. VZ says I am.

–
Well, that's VZ. And you are Mona. Maybe she's the one in the movie.

–
Right. Thank you. So, what should Mona do?

–
Do? Why, do nothing.

–
Nothing?

–
Can't you see? It's like a comedy in its own way.

–
I suppose.

–
And the “nothing” we do is our “everything.”

–
Huhn?

–
I mean, we just talk and walk like normal people.

–
Really, Maxine!

–
Oh, really, you!

–
No, really – you!

–
You!

–
Us. Yes, let's walk, and talk, as you say. Saunter. Practice the finer arts – after all, we are artistes, are we not?

–
Talkers –

–
– and walkers.

–
To the Max –

–
-ine!

–
My arm –

–
My Dear.

***

All degraded and shameful practices collect and flourish in the capitol.

– Tacitus

***

–
Take that long walk down – short by anyone else's standards.

–
A few streets more and my history gets lost and confused here.

–
Bamboo kids, new-human kids, remember, Marianne.

–
They came in from the country for a few hours on the street, to dance and laugh, the chance to get some cheap geegaw that'd wow 'em back home –

–
And it would, I've been to Gumma –

–
They came to see – some boy, some girl, a style they didn't have in the rice towns; they came to be seen: and seduced, or at least a quick kiss, a feel, enough to keep country conversations going for a week or more.

–
Nothing's changed; Japan's always been like that; read the classics; country bumpkin wowed by the big city; the provincial bringing back the latest styles only to discover they're long gone.

–
To-ki-yo!

–
But that was then and it was never me. Yoyogi-Harajuku. What did I want from it, what did it give me? Cambodian food, architecture books. No, maybe the warrens and alleys; the concrete kids' playground –

–
Concrete kids?

–
– the retro postwar apartment building, dirty stucco. You know, on the Champs Elysses.

–
No one would think of going near it in the 80s, but now it's all boutiques. Oh, that memory of a sort of
shitamachi
here in what was making itself out to be the fashion capitol of the world.

–
That's that Tokyo contradiction.

–
There was a style, you could see it, sure, but behind it lay centuries of peasant indigo. What's a Tokyoite? A rice farmer. Pigeon-toed, feet clumping as they walk, sloppy at table, sloppy in bed. “Tokyo style” – those kids are just magazine articles. Concrete kids, pulp kids. Give me something severe.

–
So, Shibuya doesn't live up to its name?

–
Would that it would.

–
Severe.

–
Astringent Valley.

–
A highwayman's name, wasn't it?

–
Or, there's an assortment of derivations. But that sounds about right, what with all the would-be pimps trying to pick girls up – pucker up – all over the place.

–
Yes, there's more history here than one would think, ancient names, Shoto Tea, but no, not the elegance of
shibui
, something more out of town.

***

Why!? Ya' fuck 'em 'cos they're there, man.

***

Rich and strange, Hiro in a rare contemplative moment says to himself, an address book filled with bars and girls, and here I am spending the night alone. She had to cancel, alright a legitimate excuse, and she did say she wants to meet again soon. Half accepted. And then Kaoru-san had an important meeting, so I had to stay late in the office. Could've gone alone to a bar, but that would make it three nights in a row taking a taxi home. A night alone. That is definitely not rich, but it is certainly strange. Better be careful to not let it happen again.

***

Spent an hour choosing paperclips. Tokyu Hands, a sort of bliss.

***

Arlene's going dancing! Someday. Or, actually, she is dancing, with herself, for herself, perhaps even to herself. Remember that scene in
The More the Merrier
when Jean Arthur puts on a rumba record and dances to it alone there in her room, and Joel McCrea's in the hallway and he hears it, and he starts to dance himself to it, and then later they're at the nightclub, and Charles Coburn's arranged it so that they can flirt together – and all those girls (“eight to every fella!”) flirting with McCrea – and that short chorus line, that first blonde girl with that wonderful smile, and the woman drummer in the background, all those extras, all that flirting ... and Arlene thinks now of Roberta's party, how after the fight about the music – what was it they wanted, Jazz or Country? Who wanted which? Never can figure out their taste, their secret codes. Maybe that's what love is. But I thought the Wiener was into American music, and Roberta strictly modern; she was listening to Berg and Webern for ages, I recall. – Lang had to up the ante, had to!, damn him, and that only made Roberta even more angry, disappointed; jeez, it was her party for him and VZ and he
so
ungracious; and how he started flirting with everyone, even poor Kazuko – Kazuo was so good, so clear and steady, Kazuko's little samurai ready to strike at the precise moment, and none sooner – the two girls went along with it, they hadn't a clue, though Hiroko stood a bit off, Hiromi all too ready to dance with Lang in a tatami corner, stumbling – he even made a pass at me, but I set VZ after him. Let them both know their place – it was enough with all those Japanese guys ogling me. Enough to watch out for Roberta. He walked all over her; hope she got hers back. If not that night, later sure enough.