‘Hepatitis, typhus, lice, scabies, HIV – remember, guys, it’s all here. You’ve come to help, but you always, always, always look after yourself first. Okay?’
There was a murmur of orison before the volunteers donned colourful T-shirts and turned on their Christian smiles. Buns were slit open and cups of lemonade poured.
On Crocker Street Iwata reached his destination. The Sanctuary was a modernist structure with pale salmon-coloured walls, corrugated-metal panels and a copper chapel. The line snaked around the block, a sinfonietta of coughing, swearing and trembling. Iwata joined it. Nobody looked at him twice.
An hour later he reached the front. Those without ID were being turned away by a burly man with Virgin Mary tattoos on his forearms. Those that got through were given bed tickets for five nights on the proviso that all bags were to be checked in. One hygiene bag was allowed in, as was one book.
Once inside Iwata was sent down a corridor lined with framed photographs of celebrity volunteers. Miss America 2011 was serving teriyaki chicken, Harrison Ford was shaking hands with a homeless woman, Mayor Villaraigosa was slicing Christmas turkey.
Iwata joined another line into a side room. There, his scalp was checked thoroughly for lice by a Filipino woman listening to jazz on the radio.
‘Go with God,’ she said, almost angrily, before signing off on his bed ticket.
Iwata was then ushered into a large chapel. A Brazilian man with a thick moustache was instructing those in the pews to remove hats and earphones. Then the sermon began. A small white man in his sixties with a yellowish beard looked around the room. He could barely disguise his disgust as he spoke, for the next hour, of the fire that awaited the addicted – far beyond any cold turkey or suffering found on the streets of Skid Row. He barked and snarled, the chains of darkness, the second death, the weeping and the gnashing of teeth.
After the sermon, it was lunch. The pews were called forward, starting at the front, and Iwata realized now why there was practically nobody sitting in the back rows. When it was his turn he surreptitiously shared out his sticky rice, fish stew and pomegranate juice to those around him. It was taken without question or comment.
Iwata tried to ask around for Joseph Clemente, but there was no time; the volunteers were rounding everyone up for the mandatory shower. Thirty or so men, some still chewing their food, were marched into a changing room, where they were told to undress. They complied, automatically, many wincing as they peeled off blackened socks or pulled away dirty denim from their bloodied kneecaps. Clothes and bed tickets were put in small plastic bins and soap was handed out.
Iwata followed the men into a long shower room with slimy walls. As the torrents of hot water came on, groans could be heard. The warm human stench was almost overwhelming. Like the others, eyes on the floor, Iwata began to lather his body. As if reading his shame, the elderly man behind him began to weep.
‘Mom,’ he mewled, his long grey hair plastered over his eyes. ‘I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.’
Tokyo – 1975
Nozomi woke early to a perfect blue sky. Getting out of bed and stretching in the warm sunlight, she decided that today would be the day – no more waiting. Once showered, she put on her indigo blouse with the fashionably large collar, her yellow tartan dress and her brown sailing shoes. She cleaned the sunglasses which best matched her short bob, then telephoned Hisakawa.
Faithful Hisakawa. Loyal Hisakawa. But dull dull dull Hisakawa. Poor boy. Some people are born into so much wealth they’ll never know which way is up. Still, Ryoma Hisakawa knew a thing or two about literature, particularly western literature, and given who his father was, it could hardly be a bad thing to show her face around Jinbōchō with him in tow.
Feeling bad, Nozomi reminded herself that Hisakawa was her friend. A good friend, even if he had made that one clunky marriage proposal at university. Within half an hour Hisakawa was outside, leaning on the bonnet of a brand-new white Mazda Cosmo. As she opened the front door his face spread out into a wide grin.
‘What do you think of her?’ he asked, adjusting his white leather driving gloves. He was a tall but chubby man with sparse eyebrows and full lips which he had a habit of chewing. Though he had gone grey early, he looked younger than his thirty years.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Nozomi replied, though secretly she was disappointed they wouldn’t be walking in the sunshine.
It was a short drive to Jinbōchō, an area north of the palace known for its myriad bookstores and publishing houses. Its alleys teemed with students, intellectuals, liberals and curio-hunters. Nozomi loved the smells and sounds of Jinbōchō: the roasting coffee, musty old pages, megaphones blaring with earnest political appeals.
As he drove Hisakawa talked about the pressures of work now he was a director in his father’s company, how hard it was to stay interested in the same girl. It was the usual ground that Hisakawa would traipse over, eager as he was to impress upon her the evidence of his life as a big shot. Nozomi listened intently as ever, like a babysitter indulging tall tales.
Arriving at the print shop, Hisakawa insisted on paying for the eight copies of her novella and made a big show of demanding that the employees bind the pages carefully. When they had finished, he told them to put the books in the trunk of his car.
Getting back into the Cosmo, Hisakawa finally asked what The Mannequins was all about anyway. Nozomi’s cheeks burned as she opened up to him. It was something she had never really done before, but she felt she couldn’t be cagey, considering the trouble he was going to.
Abruptly, he pulled over. Before going any further he insisted on hearing the rest over coffee. Embarrassed, Nozomi agreed. Hisakawa listened to her eagerly as he chewed on baby sardines, little scales falling between the folds of his red Argyle pullover. When she was finished he shrugged, as though she had been talking backwards. ‘Well, way over my head, but sounds interesting nonetheless!’
Hisakawa then drove them from publisher to publisher, demanding that The Mannequins be delivered directly to the senior editor. Most of those he addressed seemed to recognize him or, if they didn’t, they at least recognized the air he had about him. Nobody argued with Hisakawa, though Nozomi worried that the minute they left, her manuscript would be going straight in the bin. Still, she couldn’t very well ask him to leave her to it at this stage.
After a few hours of delivering copies they returned to the car and he slapped his stomach.
‘Okay, I’m starved. Let’s eat.’
‘I’m not sure I can, Ryoma.’
‘The nerves, eh? No need, no need at all.’ He winked. ‘I bet you’ll have messages waiting for you when you get home. I have a good feeling about this.’
Two months went by and Nozomi heard nothing back. She printed off more copies of The Mannequins and tried the smaller publishers. When that failed, she delivered them by hand at the third-rate places. Nozomi was thrown out on several occasions. None of the magazines wanted to know, not even the student titles.
And it was on one simmering afternoon towards the end of summer as she was turned away by a tiny pulp publisher with the circulation of a corpse that Nozomi decided she had had enough. Though she was never one to express her emotions freely, she found herself standing in the doorway, crying.
She couldn’t have been there for more than half a minute when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned to see a man, a slight smile on his lips conveying a cocky embarrassment that she couldn’t quite read. He was young, probably not even her age, and good-looking. He had sideburns, long hair, a roguish quality about his face, yet he wore tasteful clothes: a chocolate-coloured suit, an olive tie.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ she snapped.
‘Why are you crying?’
‘It’s nothing.’
He nodded at the building behind her. ‘Have they fired you?’
‘No. I don’t work here.’
‘Then where do you work?’
‘Not t
hat it’s any of your business, but at a bar.’
‘Which bar? I know all the good bars in Tokyo.’
‘Well, you don’t know this one.’ She pulled herself together. ‘I have to go.’
‘Come for a drink with me. We’ll have fun. Dance a bit. Laugh. You need happiness.’
‘I am happy,’ she answered, trying not to sound offended, though she was.
‘Why don’t you start living your life, Nozomi?’
‘What? How do you know my name?’
He nodded down at her unwanted manuscript. ‘Meet me tonight at ten.’
‘You’re crazy. I don’t even know you.’
‘Well, I know your name. And I’m Kimura. We can work the rest out tonight.’ He handed her something. Nozomi looked down and saw a little matchbook from Club Hedonia in Akasaka. When she looked back up Kimura was walking away, hands in his pockets.
Back at home, Nozomi dropped her manuscript on the bedroom floor and opened a beer. She drank it in silence and looked out of the window. Not even the passing trains could lift her spirits. The grey, rainy evening depressed her even more.
Later, when the phone rang, Nozomi expected it to be her father. His simple, unflustered way of talking would make her feel better, she knew it. But it was Hisakawa.
‘Nozomi, darling. How are you? I was wondering if you felt like going to see a movie.’
She let herself drop back against the wall and closed her eyes. For some reason Hisakawa was the last person she felt like talking to. ‘That’s … nice of you, but I’m not really in the mood.’
‘Are you sure? It’s a James Caan sci-fi movie. Meant to be good.’
‘Maybe another night.’
‘Well, how about something to eat? I know you’re always in the mood for –’
‘Ryoma, I said no.’
‘Oh.’ She could hear the hurt in his voice. ‘Okay, sorry. I guess.’
‘No, it’s fine. Don’t be sorry.’ She sighed with guilt she was too tired for. ‘Look, I’ll call you in the morning or something, all right? I’m just – I don’t know. I’ll call you.’ Hanging up, Nozomi felt utterly inert. Not so long ago, she had felt that her life was on the precipice of something exciting, something wonderful. Now she felt absolutely sedentary.
Fed up, she decided to steal one of her father’s cigarettes. He didn’t smoke but he kept a few American packs and sold them under the table for a reasonable price. Nozomi figured he wouldn’t miss one. Fumbling around for a light, she took out from her pocket the matchbook the strange Kimura had given her. Nozomi Iwata struck the match and, as she looked at the little flame, decided to do something reckless.
Club Hedonia had only opened a few months ago yet long lines snaked around the block every night of the week. Inside, great clouds of cigarette smoke swirled pink. Glimmering disco balls, strobes and mirrors made it seem as if the room itself was spinning, while the dance floor throbbed like a school of fish changing direction.
Kimura smoked languidly and poured them champagne. From their table they had a great view. ‘See him over there? That’s Pierre Cardin.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s a fashion designer. That’s the Gabonese ambassador next to him. And those guys over there making all the noise? That’s Bad Company. You know Bad Company?’
Nozomi shook her head.
‘They’re from England.’
She nodded like that meant something. ‘You never told me what you do.’
He sipped his champagne before answering, ‘I’m in the commodities business. Mainly diamonds. People in Japan know very little about diamonds.’
‘I actually happen to have some expertise in diamonds.’
‘You said you work in a bar.’
‘Well, what do you think I studied at university? Some of my papers were widely praised.’
He frowned. ‘Well, I’ve never heard of you.’
‘I’m kidding, I don’t know anything about diamonds.’
He laughed. It was a nice laugh. ‘I was going to say.’
‘So tell me something about diamonds, Mr Kimura.’
‘Well, uh, they’re very, very old. Sometimes, three billion years old.’
‘Go on.’
‘The ancient Greeks believed they were tears cried by the gods.’
‘I see.’
‘That’s not that interesting, huh?’
‘Not that interesting, no.’ She laughed.
‘Okay, how about this? Scientists have discovered a planet that they believe is composed mostly of carbon – it’s one third pure diamond.’
‘Okay, that’s a tiny bit interesting.’
He grinned. ‘Next time a pretty girl asks me about diamonds, that’s the fact I’ll use.’
She sipped her champagne. ‘Do you often do this type of thing?’
‘What?’
‘Pick up girls in the street. Bring them to fashionable clubs.’
‘I’ve tried once or twice. They usually tell me to piss off.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘They do!’
‘No, I mean about the once or twice.’ She smiled and Kimura felt like he too had discovered a diamond planet.
Nozomi and Kimura were walking along the Sumida River. It was almost 1 a.m. The smoky perfume of fireworks drifted along the black water. People had tossed empty beer cans into the flowerbeds. Kimura had given Nozomi his jacket, which hung loosely from her shoulders; she liked the faint citrus of his aftershave. She was eating a chocolate banana while he chomped on a tomorokoshi stick – corncob grilled with miso, butter and soy sauce. As they ate they discussed his poor school record, travel, music.
Nozomi was pretty sure that he wasn’t in the diamond trade; the scuffed knuckles and bruises on his forearms suggested another trade altogether. But he was nice and he was funny without trying too hard – nobody said they had to get married. Besides, she enjoyed chocolate bananas and wearing nice warm jackets.
When they had finished their food they bought two cans from a man selling beer from a cart, then sat down on the quay to watch the river boats slip by. They leaned against the metal railings, their legs dangling over the water, and spoke about their families. It turned out that Kimura didn’t have much of one either, having grown up between his seafaring father and an uncle who barely said a word to him. Nozomi in turn told him about her own mother leaving, the bar in Yūrakuchō, the degree she had no use for.
When another beer cart passed they bought two more cans.
‘Kampai!’ Kimura said, grinning at her.
‘Kampai!’ she smiled down at the little black ripples. ‘So, then. How did you end up in the diamond business?’
‘It’s a long story.’ Kimura lost his smile.
‘I like stories.’
‘Long and boring.’
‘Try me.’
‘I have a better idea.’
‘Mm?’
‘You think you’ll let me read your story? I love ghosts.’
She looked at Kimura like he had lost his mind. ‘Maybe some other time.’
They fell quiet for a while.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘Kimura, are you really in the diamond trade?’
He looked at the river and shook his head.
‘What do you really do?’
‘I work the door at a bar.’
‘Explains the bruises.’
He looked down at his forearms. ‘I just wanted to impress you, I’m sorry. It was stupid.’
‘Why diamonds, of all things?’
He laughed. ‘I really don’t know. I tried to think of something glamorous.’
‘But you knew those facts.’
‘I met a guy at my bar who told me.’
She nodded.
‘I’m sorry I lied to you.’
‘It’s okay.’ Nozomi reached over and took his hand. His knuckles were healing. ‘Listen, Kimura. I can tell you like me, and I like you back. I had a lovely evening, but I just don�
�t want to get into anything with you. I hope you understand. I’m just not really …’
Kimura’s smile was pained but he nodded anyway. ‘I understand. Yeah. I wouldn’t want to go out with me either.’
She laughed. ‘Shall we be friends?’
‘Okay, but be careful because, once I’m your friend, I’m your friend for evermore.’
Nozomi squeezed his hand. ‘Okay. Just no more lies.’
‘I swear it.’
The Tokyo skyline rose high above them, an electric parade of neon branding, watches, cameras, electronic keyboards. The moon was hard to spot at first, just another bright logotype. The Sumida River curved into the distance. All along it, where before there were squat huddles of shacks and wooden houses, now there were gleaming skyscrapers to accommodate the progress, the growth, the money.
From where she was sitting Nozomi could see the evening paper. Its headline was announcing that Japan’s per capita income had now comfortably surpassed the United Kingdom’s.
‘But if we are friends,’ Kimura said, ‘you have to let me read your story one day.’
‘Okay.’ Nozomi began to laugh.
Kimura threw the ring-pull from his beer can at her. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing, it’s stupid.’
‘Come on, what?’
‘It’s just that in my story the main character meets a strange man by chance. And I just realized that here I am, the very same thing happening to me.’
‘Well, if you won’t let me read it, tell me about it. All you said was it was about ghosts. What do these ghosts do, fall in love?’
‘No. The opposite, actually.’
Nozomi proceeded to tell Kimura the story, how it began, why she loved horror fiction so much, the thrill of being creeped out. They spoke until Tokyo’s half-dark began to lose its fuzzy pitch and the seguro-sekirei birds began to call out.
When they were tired of talking they just watched the glassy river change colour. Nozomi laid her head against Kimura’s shoulder. After a long silence he told her in a whisper how beautiful she was. ‘It makes me sad,’ he added. ‘Your decision.’
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