Royce, Royce, the People's Choice

by Peter Hawes

  OFFICIALDOM WAS IN deep conference. The man with the purple hair was in conference too. Harsh ‘hai’ sounds split the air, hands were waved, sometimes clenched. Royce looked dully on from the empty grandstand. All the fish, save his, had been cleared from the slats. A gridlock of carts, drays, forklifts and kogurumas bore the hacked fishes away from the stalls across the street. The great tunas of the free ocean were off to the restaurants of Tokyo.

  The musclebound auctioneer beckoned Royce. Royce stared at him.

  The possee of four officials and the man in the purple hair strode over to the grandstand.

  There was a spokesman. He pointed to one angry offical. ‘This middle management say purchase illegal. You no register.’ Then to another: ‘This middle management say purchase legal because you wearing registered cap. Why you do this thing?’

  ‘I’m taking it home,’ said Royce. ‘I’m gonna give it a burial in the sea off Westport.’

  THE PURCHASE WAS legal. By the immutable exigencies of market law, if a registered cap made a bid, it was valid. The cap had bought the fish.

  The catch was, the cap was registered in the name of the man with the purple hair, so he owed Toichi wholesalers yon hyaku sen – and Royce owed him the same amount. Payable within three days.

  Royce was calm in chaos. Surprisingly, they hadn’t asked him how he was going to pay. (He later learnt that, by another immutable law of the market, they never do ask.) But he had his answer ready, all right. Yep, simple as falling off a log. He was going to pay it back from the money he’d made on the sale of the fish – yon hyaku sen.

  It was about then – as he was falling backwards into a stupor of booze and agitation – that Royce had a back-brain realisation of the state of his inebriation.

  The next time he remembered anything sensible, it was midday.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  THIS WAS GETTING ridiculous. Mikio hadn’t been at the warehouse and nor had the fish. Being an intelligent, common sense girl Betty had immediately assumed he’d taken the fish to market, probably to try to flog it before she could get back to Tokyo. But it wasn’t there; nor was he. Ota? Too small, can’t bury yourself in there. Adachi? Only 72,000 tons went through there a year – peanuts next to Tsukiji’s 850,000 – but enough for some anonymity. She’d got a suijyo upriver to Adachi market. Nothing.

  So, four hours later, she was back where she started – Narita.

  ‘Come on, you guys,’ she gritted in Japanese, ‘someone must know where Mikio is?’ She was in the despatch office where the loaders loafed around between planes. She didn’t want to mention the fish: she wasn’t sure which of them he’d enlisted to help get it to the warehouse – or wherever the arsehole had spirited it to.

  ‘Mikio hasn’t been in today. Lazy bastard’s taken the day off.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Rokku – Block 6.’ They gave her an address.

  Damn it! It was just a bit upriver from where she’d been two hours ago! What should she do? Go there and wait? Go back to Tsukiji and wait? Where the hell was he? He’d always been reliable. They’d done at least a dozen prostitute runs in from Thailand and he been on the button every time.

  She was undecided; angrily so. Displacement behaviour – give herself time to plan. ‘Look, I want to get into the cooler in C-Tangent. I brought something in from New Zealand and I want to check it out …’

  Furtive inscrutability – can you have furtive inscrutability? Well, you were getting some of it here now; one or more of these guys probably knew exactly what she was up to. She put a big note on the desk.

  ‘It’s open,’ said someone.

  She walked out.

  C-Tangent was a twenty-minute walk from the despatch office, under low, gloomy brown concrete ceilings and sudden vaulting spaces filled with apartment blocks of containers. Maybe hitch a lift on a tanker, a flat-top or a galley supplier? Nope; none stopped. Half a dozen nearly skittled her, though.

  Air New Zealand, Lan Chile, Aerolineas Argentina. Arsehole countries of the world, stuck out here in the arsehole of Narita.

  Could be that he was sick and hadn’t moved the goods at all. Could be, but wasn’t, because they all said he’d been at work yesterday.

  Coolstore. She opened the small door in the truck-sized door and went in – held it open while she made sure it opened from the inside. Okay.

  Brr! Still, there was a chance that – for a reason she didn’t know yet – the coffin might still be in here. She walked the crisp fifty yards of storage. Nothing. Not only could she not see it, it couldn’t be hidden. These places were designed to give you all-round vision. The only way it could be in here was if it was in one of those containers. Jeez – there must be a thousand of them.

  She turned back.

  There, at the door, was the coffin.

  Beside it, two men. What a freakshow! One was a stooped beanpole and the other was Ronald McDonald!

  ‘Thanks for returning my property,’ she said levelly.

  They closed the door, picked up the coffin and walked towards her.

  ‘Are you friends of Mikio?’ she asked, standing her ground.

  They walked on. They reached her, put down the coffin.

  ‘If that thing’s not empty, you’re mighty strong men.’

  Wordlessly, the one with purple hair opened the coffin.

  Empty.

  And that’s when Betty knew she was going to die.

  ‘Good place for you, I think, no?’ said Mr Miyamoto.

  It was the tall one who had spoken. Then he stepped forward and put a hand on either side of her head.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  HE WAS IN a bed in a room that was the whole apartment minus the bathroom, being stared at by an orange-eyed cat in a basket on a dresser by a sliding window that led to a balcony filled with washing and beyond it an aerial highway at eye level.

  The room stunk of cat piss. On a mirror was a torn-out photo of the 1978 All Blacks. Across the top was scrawled ‘liar’. Oh shit, he’d pulled the old All Black story again.

  There were knickers, bras, silky red and gold pyjamas … two pairs of pyjamas. There was an unfamiliar confining sensation around his loins – hell’s bells, he had women’s knickers on! He could see his own ones dangling from the line on the balcony. Cripes, what had gone on in the depths of his alcoholic blackout?

  A quick recce disclosed evidence that his dawning realisation was right. There was Lisa in school uniform, giving a V sign. There was Marja in gym tights – leg up like it had been in the Bad Bar – giving the V sign. There was a photo of them both with Fuji in the background – giving the V sign. V for virgin, presumably. He had absolutely no memory of doing anything counter-virginal, but then there had been that night on the boat with Marjorie Shaw. What a waste to …

  There were notes everywhere. ‘Back soon,’ was the one that made him decide to hang around. He went to the tap to soften his tongue. ‘Do not use tap water – poison.’ There was water in the fridge.

  A pee. There was a note on the shower next to the dunny. ‘Do not waste water – 80,000 yen a month.’

  Breakfast. Instant noodles – just put them in a pot and boil for two minutes. Add flavour sachet. Brilliant idea – why didn’t they have them in New Zealand? Which water? Do you de-poison water by boiling it? Should he boil water from the fridge? He gave up and had a can of pears.

  There was this really advanced little tape recorder. There was a tape already in: Karaoke Favourites. He’d never heard of the Karaokes but he switched it on: ‘Wise men say …’ warbled Elvis. He fast forwarded it: ‘… dancing Queen …’ blared Abba. Christ, all this advanced technology for backward music.

  The cat was on the arm of the chair looking at him in this really creepy orange way. Then it leapt at his throat. ‘Aaargh!’ He wrenched it off, flung it onto the bed. Without hesitation it jumped back onto the arm of the chair. Hey, this was heavy. He grabbed it prudently around the middle and locked it in the bathroom.<
br />
  He went onto the balcony. His grunds were still damp – and there was no more dryness in the Tokyo air than there had been in Westport the day he’d set off on his drying drive along the Fairdown Straight.

  Jeepers, that was years ago! When he got back, all those wise bastards’d be off for another year’s worth of school wisdom. Or university. Gilbert, Jimmy, Clive …

  School had been all right, really. A party with detentions; an interesting social round interrupted by brief spells of learning.

  None of his old schoolmates knew where he was; nor did anyone – Dooley, Bob, his mother …

  He might get mentioned in assembly – old Gorps Daly getting up there and saying what a great kid he’d been. Yeah – that’d stick in the craw, wouldn’t it? Maybe he’d sneak back in disguise and listen in for a coupla days on what they said about him. It was quite good being dead – or at least missing.

  Like his father. Jesus. They were both missing. They were both in the same place – nowhere. The hairs on his neck prickled and he turned, fully expecting to see his father. He wasn’t there.

  He was three storeys up and spent half an hour or so watching cars go by on the highway outside the bedroom window. Three storeys down was another highway. You couldn’t see faces very well from up here, but over the last day he’d noticed he was getting used to them and they didn’t all look the same any more. And he was starting to see people he knew, in foreign faces. He’d see someone who was the dead spit of Gilbert or Dana – but Japanese.

  He went back in. A digital clock told him it was a quarter to two.

  His eye fell on the envelope from Minikui’s dad. Inside was a drawing, in coloured inks, of this amazing dragon, sort of caught in a net like Spiderman’s. With it came a note in English – obviously from Minikui: ‘If you ever want a tattoo, my father suggests this one.’

  There were books on a shelf. They were all in Japanese but some of them were about gymnastics and had some pretty revealing photos.

  At two o’clock there was a knock on the door.

  Well, it wasn’t Marja and Lisa, was it? They had a key.

  He squeezed to the door. Doors here had little spyholes. On the other side he could see Miyamoto. He unlocked the door. Jeepers, the man with purple hair was here as well!

  ‘Always put chain on lock,’ said Miyamoto. He and Purple Hair were doing little jigs in the corridor outside as they undid their shoes and took them off. Then they came in.

  Which wasn’t as easy as it sounds. First they had to get past this pushbike that reared up at them at the door like the Lone Ranger’s horse. Then they had to squeeze past the washing machine which was right in the doorway because there was bugger-all place to put it anywhere else.

  There was also the vile smell of cat piss.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miyamoto-san, there’s a cat.’

  ‘Yes, I smell it. Tell them, get it neutered.’ He pressed the folds of his long black coat against his scrotum, somehow turned his feet at right angles to his shins, and glided past the washing machine without touching it. His companion followed, holding up a little suitcase as if to keep it above water.

  ‘I don’t know where anything is, so I can’t offer you …’

  Miyamoto was looking at the bed: the rumpled pairs of pyjamas on each side of it. Holy shite – he was their grandfather!

  ‘Miyamoto-san, I didn’t …’

  ‘No. They good girls. Shall we sit?’

  He took the good armchair. Purple Hair sat on the only other chair, Royce on the bed. He sat bolt upright, so as not to look too familiar with its geography.

  ‘Western bed,’ murmured Miyamoto, then his voice firmed: ‘You are well, Royce-kun?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said sinkingly. Demoted to kun again.

  ‘You – how you say – pass out.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve always been a bit of a fainter, they say. I get nose-bleeds too.’

  ‘Ah. This is Mr Dembo. You know him.’

  ‘Yes – Dembo-san.’

  He nodded from the waist.

  ‘He buy tuna for Bad Bar, Fujinomiya. Yellowfin. This morning, also watch over you.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You are indebted to Dembo-san.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Dembo-san. I’m sorry if I was in an embarrassing state. Thank you for looking after me.’

  Dembo bowed, knowing something gracious had been said.

  ‘Yes, but indebted in other way, Royce-kun.’ Miyamoto was smiling – but not the friendliest version he’d ever aimed at Royce. In fact he was pretty different altogether from the Miyamoto at the market. ‘You, at present moment, indebted to Dembo-san – ah – four hunnerd thousand New Zealand dollar.’

  Royce was silent. He let his pallor do the talking.

  ‘Dembo-san knew of your story. Felt great sympathy. Dembo-san also admire dedication and devotion. He see you cry – he offer help.’

  ‘The cap?’

  ‘Yes. But he a little amaze when you double value of fish. Great deal of money.’

  Tell me about it. Holy shit, was there that much money in the Buller?

  ‘Now, we talk first of another thing. You buy fish, I think, for bury with honour in sea off Westport?’

  ‘Yes. That was my intention.’ He sat even uprighter. ‘It still is.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Admirable. You have greatness of heart and we see. You have many quality that much admire in Japan.’ He bowed. ‘Now, to destiny of fish.’

  ‘It’s not food! It was never born as food. We do that to it.’

  ‘No, destiny is not food – ugly to say.’ Miyamoto was stern – but somehow less dangerous now. He wanted Royce to understand – you could see it in the eager knots of his neck. ‘Destiny is joy. Destiny is contentment for many people. Peace. Bury fish in sea off Westport and what? Sharks, crabs. Sad destiny, lonely. Fish perhaps – you know? I know? no – have soul? We must give soul to fish by use when it no more has control of destiny. Destiny pass to us – trust of fish. We must honour fish. You have brought great honour to your fish – you buy for yon hyaku sen and all world knows this. Interested. Listen. See. Now all world give go hyaku sen. And this I offer you.’

  ‘Go?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Five hundred thousand New Zealand dollars?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Royce sat on the bed, arms jammed down into the softness for purchase. In his mind he was telling Linda Harvey that he took the money because it was the price of the honour of the fish, and only by accepting it could this be made tangible. And at the back of his mind he was agreeing in his heart.

  ‘My fish is worth half a million?’

  ‘Yes. In many way it more than single fish. You have change fishing world with your fish. Many may follow, but it is greatest. You have given this honour to fish.’

  Others may follow. He is a fisherman. He will be there if others follow; it is his right and his vocation to catch them. But there will never be another fish. Not like this one. He will never know another. This one he knew – he loved – and now he had repaid its death with greatness. That seemed fair.

  ‘Yeah. Okay,’ he said quietly.

  The silence was punctured by the snibs of the suitcase Mr Dembo carried. Inside, everywhere you looked, was American money. This was another American money scene from the movies – like the one when Betty arrived aboard the Aurora – but infinitely more.

  Royce stared into the case. Miyamoto stared too. So did Mr Dembo.

  ‘So that’s half a million New Zealand?’ It was immeasurable.

  ‘You are rich young man, Royce-san.’

  They exchanged a deep glance. He was san again.

  Miyamoto stood. He curled like a bent pipecleaner in the room beside the armchair and rocked up and down in his immaculate socks.

  ‘We have spoken something of history, yes? Of ways of old Japan. Perhaps of Owada Dogen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who rob from rich and give to Hinin?’

  ‘Yeah. The Robin Hood of
Japan, I remember.’

  Dembo was also on his feet.

  ‘Yes. Robin Hood of Japan.’

  ‘… Yeah.’

  ‘And you are rich, Royce-san,’ said Miyamoto the Hinin, quietly.

  Royce frowned. The words didn’t quite deserve the significance Mr Miyamoto was giving them. Didn’t justify the intensity of stare, the glance to Mr Dembo behind him. And then it all came home to him.

  ‘How much you should really have?’ Miyamoto had asked him.

  ‘Well, I came here to get 30,000 – for a friend’s boat I might have sunk.’

  There was silence. Not a silence of rejection – a waiting silence.

  ‘… And then I’d like to make it up to my girlfriend – 500?’

  The silence continued.

  ‘And, fuck it, I’d like 5000 to get into the Hall of Fame tonight.’

  THERE HADN’T BEEN half a million in the case. It would never have fitted. The extraordinary thing is that Miyamoto neither added to nor subtracted from the sum in that case, and yet when it was converted from US, it came to exactly $NZ35,500.

  Just showed – yer old Akshara wasn’t just for telling you when to get off trains.

  ‘RUGGAGE?’

  ‘No.’ He had a little carrybag now – toothbrush, spare undies …

  ‘You travel to New Zealand without ruggage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The conveyor belt was laden with other people’s luggage going to New Zealand. Off it grated, out the back to where his fish had been. Who’d stolen it? Was it that little guy? Had Betty had a hand in it? Probably.

  He picked up the passport she’d got him and his boarding pass. The shimmy of plastic sheeting between him and C-Tangent caught his eye as he turned away. Where was Betty? he suddenly wondered.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  HIS SEAT WAS in a middle row, as far away from the window as you could get. But compensations soon made themselves apparent. See, you got access to the drinks trolley going past down each aisle.