by Nick Hurst
‘Old news. This is better.’
‘The peep room with the hole in the one-way glass where the manga character tugs you off after she’s stripped down?’
‘No, but come to think of it I haven’t been there for a while …’
‘Something to do with the places you get AV and ebicon girls?’ I asked, referring to the Adult Video stars and ‘event concierge’ girls who work the stands at motor, technology and other fairs. Both had major fan bases and, for those who could be persuaded to capitalise on their popularity, fees to match.
‘You’re getting warmer, but it’s better than that.’
‘Better?’
Johnny had referred to them as the epitome of an advanced capitalist society when he first heard of their existence. He’d been half-heartedly looking for a job that would enable him to appreciate this pinnacle of marketplace evolution ever since.
‘Better. They’re just prostitutes—’
‘That kind of comes with the territory with paid sex.’
‘Not necessarily. They’re at the luxury end of the market but that’s still all they are. I’ve found something different.’
‘So you’ve said. Do you want to just tell me what it is?’
His face lit up. ‘These are like the ultimate untouchables – in the good sense of the word – a super-select group, like Japanese supermodels. Except they’re more than just models, they’re the cultural elite, I don’t know, the biggest artists, writers or musicians, that sort of thing. Obviously, they’ve got to be fit as well.’
He warmed to the theme.
‘They’re so exclusive there are only a handful in the country and it’s impossible to know who they are. But the next time you’re watching TV and you see a particularly hot actress or singer, she could be one. And if you have the money and know the right people …’
‘And I suppose you do?’
‘I might not have the money – yet,’ he said. ‘But I’m getting close on the people front.’
I gave him a suspicious look. I was pretty sure he knew no one of significance in Japan, England or anywhere else.
‘You know Tom?’ he asked rhetorically of a friend we’d met in a bar. He was reasonably senior in an electronics firm and had been transferred from the States.
‘Well, the son of some politician or other – it might even be the home secretary – he started working for Tom’s firm last month. I went out with them at the weekend and this guy got completely wasted and told us about it. The thing is, they’re so exclusive that even though he’s the stinking rich son of some big-shot, he still can’t get a look-in. That’s how special these girls are.’
‘It’s a great idea but I don’t believe a word. He’s just a drunken rich kid taking the piss or trying to impress you.’
‘No, he was for real, I promise. He swiped a business card from his dad and tried to book a girl but he got totally stonewalled. Then they got on to his dad who gave him an almighty bollocking for even knowing they exist. Don’t look at me like that.’
‘Don’t blame me. Just because you fell for it doesn’t mean I have to.’
‘I swear, it’s completely legit. He even showed us the card. Thick cream paper, super understated with just the name and phone number embossed.’
He looked away dreamily, imagining the paradise just beyond his reach.
‘Tanzen,’ he murmured.
‘What?’
‘Tanzen. That’s what it was called. I just wish I’d been able to memorise the number.’
But I’d stopped listening. Having my blood turn cold seemed to have affected my ears. The name may have been new to Johnny but it was very familiar to me. What’s more, I already had the number. I just had to hope it was for a different Tanzen, because the one I knew was where Tomoe worked.
NINE
‘Moshi moshi, Tanzen.’
‘Moshi moshi,’ I replied. ‘Is this Tanzen Cultural Consultancy?’
‘Yes it is,’ she answered in polite Japanese. ‘How may I help?’
At this point I hesitated. Confronted with the kind of voice that would greet you at a five-star hotel, I wasn’t sure of the note to strike when enquiring whether my girlfriend was an elite prostitute and, by extension, the owner of the voice a facilitator of paid sex. Who might, in fact, be the very person responsible for making arrangements for my girlfriend to sexually service men other than me.
‘Um, may I speak to Chōshi Tomoe-san please?’
‘Chōshi Tomoe-san?’
She wasn’t willing to give up even the name.
‘Yes, Tomoe-san,’ I said. ‘This is her boyfriend, Ray.’
‘Oh, hello Ray-san. It’s great to speak to you after hearing so much. I’m afraid Chōshi-san isn’t here at the moment but I’ll be sure to let her know that you called.’
In normal times, I’d have taken her friendly tone in the spirit it appeared to be offered. In the circumstances I took offence.
I’d ummed and ahhed before calling. I knew there was no chance of them opening up to me, but in the end I couldn’t think of what else to do. I could have asked a Japanese friend to try but that would have meant explaining a situation I didn’t want to think about and would have succeeded only in trashing Tomoe’s name. All in search of something too outlandish to be true. Something I desperately didn’t want to believe.
But I couldn’t sit around doing nothing so I made the call. After getting nowhere I waited and as I waited my mind ran through different permutations of what could be the truth. It dwelled just briefly on the innocuous before settling on the unsavoury. And with each new thought my stomach turned as I contemplated the sweetness of the last year abruptly going sour.
‘So why did you call my company?’ Tomoe asked while unpacking her bags. ‘What’s up?’
‘Oh, they warned you, did they?’
I’d been on edge since she opened the door and my mood hadn’t been helped by her failing to notice. She’d seemed distracted by something else.
‘What do you mean “warned me”? I spoke to the secretary and she told me you called, that’s all.’ She looked up from her bag. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘I think that depends on what you mean by all right,’ I said, building to the confrontation that had been repeatedly playing in my head. ‘Someone told me the place you work for is a front for high-end escorts. I thought it might be something we should discuss.’
This helped her get a sense of my mood. ‘What are you talking about? Who said that? Is it that pervert friend of yours again?’
She’d never been a fan of Johnny.
‘What does it matter who told me? I need to know who I’m going out with. Is it Tomoe the cultural curator? The person who’s made such a difference to my life? Or are you in an alternative line of work?’
I heard the desperation in my voice. While my fears had been dragging me towards anger, this was only to protect myself from the pain that would be released if the heart-wrenching falsehoods turned out to be true.
Tomoe had stopped unpacking and turned to face me. She looked unsure of what to say.
‘Ray, why are you talking like this?’ she managed finally, her voice quiet and pained.
‘Are you a prostitute?’ I said, also quietly, partly in an attempt to remain calm and rational. Partly to hide the waver in my voice.
‘Don’t say that!’ she cried out, her fire flaming again. ‘Take it back!’
But I wasn’t prepared to submit to her this time.
‘Help me take it back,’ I said, the jealousy and pain now clear in my voice. ‘All I want is to have to apologise for being wrong. Just tell me you don’t take money for sex.’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘What do you mean “it’s not like that”?’ I demanded, her failure to dismiss the lie as damning to my frazzled mind as an admission. ‘You either do or you don’t.’
She made to reply but I interrupted before she could. ‘I don’t believe it. I’m going out with a call girl.�
��
Her fleeting blossom had withered.
‘Ray-kun, don’t say that. You’re hurting me.’
‘I’m hurting you?’ I said, my pain revealing itself in sarcasm rather than the tenderness from where it came. ‘Here’s me thinking I’d finally found something good after one of the shittiest years of my life, that I’d found someone I could be happy with. Then I find out your job’s a front and you get paid to sleep with other men. But I’m hurting you? How insensitive – I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not like that,’ she repeated.
‘So you keep saying. Why don’t you tell me what it is like?’
‘My job isn’t a front. I’ve never wanted to be boastful but I have a certain level of expertise. I’m sought worldwide for my knowledge of ukiyo-e, my haiku have been published internationally and I advise theatres throughout Japan. None of these things is a “front”. I’m proud to have achieved what I have.’
She paused. Unfortunately, it gave me a chance to cut in.
‘That’s fascinating. I knew you were good at what you do but I never realised you were that highly regarded. It’s great, really. But to be perfectly honest, right now I’m a lot more interested in the other things I didn’t know, like how often you get paid to have sex with other men.’
She continued as though I hadn’t spoken.
‘But I come from a tradition where social entertainment has often been intertwined with the arts. You know geisha are at the pinnacle of culture but they keep their clients entertained in other ways too. They serve drinks, they tell jokes—’
‘Oh, so you’re like a geisha then?’ I interrupted, the chaos of emotions leading me to a harsher tone. ‘I didn’t realise they got paid to be fucked.’
‘Do you want to hear what I have to say, or are you just here to abuse me?’ she asked softly. ‘I thought what we have is worth more than that.’
I didn’t reply.
‘Geisha are a more recent incarnation of cultural entertainers, and if you must know, historically some of them did. But this is about their predecessors, the courtesans of Kyoto, Osaka and Edo. They appeared after the shōgun unified Japan. There’d been endless wars until then so when the fighting stopped people suddenly had time on their hands. Cities became packed with warriors and the people serving them, and without battles to wage they needed other things to do. So the shōgunate licensed entertainment quarters. It was in or around these that many of the arts you know began.
‘Before you ask, yes, physical entertainment was provided – the arts evolved as a consequence of the quarters, they didn’t form their foundations. And yes, there were women who worked as prostitutes and had nothing to do with art.
‘But the best places, the ones that defined the quarters, were grand houses owned by writers and artists, sometimes even samurai too. They were built by the best craftsmen, housed incredible art and had beautiful gardens. They were treasures in themselves. Their courtesans weren’t prostitutes. They were the intellectual and artistic elite.
‘The highest ranked were called tayū and they were the stars of their time. They couldn’t focus solely on culture – they were courtesans – but in many ways the balance of power lay with them. They picked and chose their clients, not the other way around. Theoretically, they could decline even the shōgun. If a man wanted to spend time with them he couldn’t just make an appointment and be good for the fee. He had to raise himself to their level, by proving his good character or gaining refinement in an art.
‘It would have been a waste to hire them just to satisfy physical desires and you’d have been declined if you tried. They didn’t sell their bodies because they had nothing else to offer. They were exceptional women who made the best of where they were.’
She looked exhausted by the explanation.
‘That’s the heritage I’ve been caught up in. I wish I could have remained on one side of the line but it wasn’t to be.’ Her chin jutted in an act of defiance the rest of her looked unable to match. ‘Of course I have regrets but I’m not ashamed. I’ve done the best I could in the situation I was thrown into.’
I tried to absorb everything she’d said. The journey from dream girlfriend to escort had addled my brain – and that was without trying to fit in courtesans from the past. The fine thread that had been holding rational thought together snapped and anger surged through in its place.
‘That’s very poetic, but we’re not in Olde Worlde Japan now. I don’t know why these women ended up where they were but I’m assuming they had no choice. You do. If the cultural side of things doesn’t pay for the bags, clothes and whatever else you so clearly need, you could live without them. You decided not to. You chose to become a whore.’
‘I’m not a whore,’ she said emphatically, but the fight was fading from her. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘You’re fucking right I don’t understand,’ I snapped back, voice rising. ‘One minute I’m going out with a dream girl, the next I find out I’m getting leftovers when she’s done for the day.’
‘It’s not like that at all,’ she responded. ‘I’m sorry it has to be like this and I’m sorry you found out the way that you did. But you’ve never been second to anyone. I’ve never been as happy as I am with you.’
She stopped.
‘Please don’t abandon me too.’
It seemed a strange thing to say.
‘I love you,’ she said.
She looked so deeply into my eyes with a look so genuine and at the same time so sad, that for a moment she cut through my anger. But it was just a moment. The flames were raging too fiercely to douse.
‘It doesn’t “have to be like this”. You’re not in poverty fighting for your life.’
I searched for an insult that would wound her even if it hurt me, the kind you say in the heat of the moment and regret at length.
‘You’re just a whore happy to get fucked for the latest bag or purse.’
‘Get out,’ she said. ‘I will explain but not when you’re like this.’
She was like a beautiful flower crushed, an affront to nature that hurt me as it did her. Yet something inside hankered for more insults, as though they would somehow help put matters right.
‘Get out before you say something you’ll regret.’
She stopped me before I could abuse her further. I channelled all I would have said into a look instead and stormed out.
TEN
‘Tomoe, give me a call. I want you to explain.’
It hadn’t been a good week. In fact it was about the worst I could remember. My anger had remained undiminished at first. I’d played the conversation back endlessly, becoming more cutting in the repeats, with sharper put-downs and more devastating retorts. But then uncertainty had started to creep in, just at the edges at first. Her expression as I called her a whore; her broken voice as she tried to explain. With each memory came a doubt, and with each doubt my stomach twisted a little more. But I fought them. Because I was certain I was in the right.
Yet as the week continued the sickening feeling got worse. I’d wanted her to rail at my unfairness, to shout at me, to have been so outraged she’d given me a slap. But she’d wilted. And the thought made me feel as good as if I’d kicked a new-born kitten.
My mind increasingly went to her replies and the denials that weren’t denials but intimations of a bigger picture I couldn’t see. A place I wasn’t right.
‘It’s not like that.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘I will explain.’
I still felt angry; angry at who she’d turned out to be, angry that despite the revelation I was having to struggle with guilt. But in the end it didn’t come down to rights and wrongs. It was something else she said.
‘I thought what we have was worth more than that.’
That I was going through this mental torture meant she had to be right. I needed to hear her explanation. Where we would go then I had no idea – my world view was quite liberal but it didn’t e
xtend to sharing my girlfriend with paying clientele. But I had to understand.
Having held out an olive branch I was less than delighted when it wasn’t grasped.
I texted a few days later.
‘Did you get my message? I think we should talk.’
Again, there was no response. It started to needle. I’d said some unpleasant things, but in the context I didn’t think they warranted having my explanation taken away. After another ignored voicemail, my voice now curt rather than hurt, I went to her flat.
There was no answer. It started to feel strange. I peered in the top of her foyer mailbox. It was full with what looked like a week’s worth of post. Something definitely wasn’t right.
I tried to approach the situation rationally. She might have gone away to get some space after our argument. But having just got back it would have been an odd thing to do. My mind went to the unanswered calls and messages. Running away from a problem was unlike Tomoe. She usually tackled things head on.
Unwelcome scenarios started to force their way into my head. If she hadn’t gone away, if she wasn’t ignoring my calls, what was going on? My unconscious came up with an answer I immediately tried to reject. Not Tomoe. Not over an argument with me. But there was the situation with her father to be considered and whatever had happened with the yakuza too. Then there was the fact you should never second-guess samurai types when it comes to taking their life. Perhaps it was a grand gesture of rebuke to her father’s killers. Or possibly to me.
I searched the ground floor and found the sixty-something caretaker pottering around. Despite his friendly demeanour. he had clear misgivings in allowing unknown gaijins access to his building’s flats. My increasing distress seemed to convince him I was genuine, but it was only at this point he revealed he didn’t have the keys.
‘But that whole floor is owned by one company and their offices are just around the corner from here.’
We hurried off, the caretaker now almost as anxious as me. This meant I was left to take a backseat when we reached the agent’s, leaving me little to do but fidget and try to avoid thinking of what I might find in Tomoe’s flat. The caretaker, meanwhile, tried to inject some urgency into the floppy-haired jobsworth who appeared reluctant to do anything that would take him from his daily routine.
