by Georgia Byng
Hiroyuki consulted a piece of paper on the dressing table.
“He wants us to do number four, with three of the new songs, too.”
“And when do I come on?” Molly asked.
Hiroyuki looked at the paper again. “At end.”
“Wow, Molly!” Gerry said enthusiastically. “I can’t believe you’re actually going onstage to play that harmonica I got you!”
Molly shrugged. “And where is Mr. Proila? Is he going to be watching?” Molly had her hands in both of her pockets. Her fingers turned her coin and her harmonica over and over.
“Yes.” Chokichi cracked open a bottle of water. “From a special glass box on the side of stadium. He like to watch the crowd’s reaction. He hates music, but as we told you, he likes the money music make him.”
Gerry, with Petula curled up on his knees, sat in a big swivel chair. Petula stared at Molly’s pocket, where she knew the harmonica was. She wished with all her heart that Molly would leave it there. If she brought it out to play, Petula wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop herself from running at Molly and biting her hand.
“You know what?” Gerry said. “Petula feels a bit nervous to me. I don’t want to leave her all alone.”
“You sure you don’t want to sit on the edge of the stage with Molly?” Chokichi said. “Perfect view.”
Gerry tilted his head. “Maybe. OK then.”
Toka slumped down on a chair next to him. He turned his sequined costume over in his hands. “Look at this stupid outfit. I like being a pop star about as much as I like eating rotten eggs. An’ I feel so sick, Gerry—like I eaten rotten eggs.” Suddenly he got up. “Excuse me.” He disappeared through a door into the adjoining room.
“That’s the bathroom,” explained Chokichi. “He’s throwing up. By the time he gets onstage he’ll be so wiped out from being ill that he won’t be nervous.”
Molly went to the fridge and pulled out a fizzy drink. She cared as much about Toka’s problems as a hyena might about a zebra’s.
The time for the show drew closer. The brothers put on their first costumes: red winged outfits. Makeup and hair technicians came in. Molly was made up, too.
The dressing room’s soundproof door was opened. Immediately a swell of noise—the frenzied clapping and cheering of an expectant crowd—filled the air.
Molly walked behind all the boys, cool as a cool breeze.
“Good luck!” Gerry called after them.
The curtain of the Tokyo Dome stage opened and the boy band were on. Holding his sticks in the air, Toka knocked them together. TAP, TAP, TAP. The microphone picked up the sound.
“KONEECHIWA, TOKYO! And hello to everybody who isn’t Japanese, too!” Hiroyuki nodded particularly to Molly, who was sitting a little distance from Gerry and Petula on the edge of the stage. “Hope you enjoy show!”
The show was even more spectacular than the one in Ecuador. The boys sang and danced, electrifying the packed, adoring crowd. One unforeseen happening was Toka excusing himself from the stage because he felt so ill—but the audience was sympathetic and Chokichi took over some of the drumming. As they finished their last song, Hiroyuki took the microphone.
Hiroyuki thrust his arm out at Gerry, who sat on a chair with Petula on his lap, and beamed at him. “Meet Gerry, and Petula,” he said in English.
Gerry looked appalled to have so much attention focused on him. Uncertainly he picked up Petula’s paw and made her wave to the crowd. This caused a massive response.
“OOOOH!”
“AAAAHHH!”
Gerry blushed and shook as the audience clapped. He got up. Awkwardly he bowed, then he waved. But his wave wasn’t one of greeting—it was a good-bye. Walking as fast as he could without appearing to be rude, Gerry left the stage.
Hiroyuki explained to the crowd that Gerry was shy and that he’d probably gone off to see Toka. The audience clapped some more.
“And now we have surprise for you,” he said. “Our guest today! Meet Molly Moon!”
Molly stood up. She strode over to join the boys and smiled at the crowd. She dipped her hand into her pocket.
“Molly,” Chokichi explained, “is AMAZING on the harmonica. Aren’t you, Molly?”
Molly could have shrugged and said something modest, but instead she replied conceitedly, “You bet.
I’m the best!”
The audience laughed, thinking she was joking, and then she began.
She started with a huge blow, making her harmonica sound like some sort of groovy locomotive whistle. Then she stopped and leaned toward the microphone. “The music train is coming,” she said coldly.
Again the audience read her wrongly, thinking her iciness was an act. Molly started again. She blew into the instrument as though she’d been blowing it since birth. The audience began to clap and sway. Each person, without knowing it, was becoming a passenger on Molly’s hypnotic train.
As soon as Molly finished, a tsunami of awe-inspired applause crashed over her.
Hiroyuki and Chokichi beamed at Molly. She smiled back. She stepped toward Chokichi’s silver guitar and picked it off its rack.
“May I?” she asked.
With an amazed look on his face, Chokichi nodded. Molly hitched the guitar’s strap over her head and made herself comfortable with the instrument. The audience hushed in anticipation.
Molly couldn’t play the guitar, but she remembered that the Molly on the beach in her dream had been able to play the guitar perfectly. She had no idea how the frets worked, how to get a good sound from it—and yet she felt an urge to play it. The electric guitar was such a gorgeously cool instrument that it would be a pity if she could not get a good sound from it.
If her newfound musical ability didn’t stretch to mastering the guitar, that was fine, she thought. She would simply pretend that she was fooling around and then she’d go back to the harmonica. Yet she had a feeling it would work.
Molly let her finger pluck out three notes. It felt good. Her fingers seemed to know what they were doing. She plucked six more notes and then, without her thinking about it, the fingers on her left hand changed position, pressing down on the guitar’s fret board as though they had a mind of their own. Molly’s right hand strummed. The left hand moved again, and Molly’s right hand strummed faster. And then the music took off. Molly was a musical force. It was the best guitar music that anyone in the Tokyo Dome had ever heard. Molly made the guitar talk. She made it sing. She was astounding. The audience was spellbound.
She knew the end of her piece was coming. She stared out into the crowd and smiled with satisfaction, getting ready for the glory that she knew awaited her. She let her fingers fly and a crescendo of notes filled the air. Then she flung her hand away from the guitar in a gesture of finality—Molly was finished.
At first the audience was so enamored by Molly that it was stunned. Then it blew its top. The applause was so full of screams that it sounded like a flock of alien birds had possessed the stadium.
If the audience had known what had really just happened to them, their cries might well have been screams of fear, but they had no idea that Molly’s music had hypnotized them. And Molly was thrilled to see their reaction.
Molly was fast becoming a monster. She had no feelings for the thousands of people before her. She simply wanted their adoration and their money. She bowed. Then she raised her eyes to the glass box that hung at the edge of one of the stands. She could see Mr. Proila there. He was standing up, observing the crowd and puffing on a fat cigar. He looked at Molly. Molly nodded slowly at him. She gestured toward the audience as if to say, “Now do you see what I can do?” But she didn’t need to point anything out. Mr. Proila had already seen the effect she had had. Although he’d not heard a note from Molly of course, he could see the crowd’s reaction.
“She’s genius!” Miss Sny insisted, making sure Mr. Proila could read her mouth.
Back in the dressing room, Gerry and Toka were watching a martial-arts film with Petula be
side them. They had missed the performance. When Molly came back, she hardly noticed them. Adrenaline pumped through her as she reeled from her new thrilling power.
“You were great! I mean, truly great,” Hiroyuki declared. “They loved you. They definitely want to see you more, Molly. You could be really big.”
“I should be, shouldn’t I?” Molly asked.
“Definitely,” agreed Chokichi.
“You could take my place in the band,” suggested Toka. “I’d love it if you did that.”
Molly smiled. Things were moving in the right direction, she thought. But she didn’t want Toka’s place. She wanted more than that.
“Did you all play together?” Gerry asked.
Molly noticed Gerry now, rather like a cat might notice a flea on its fur.
“No,” she said coldly. “I played the harmonica and then I played the guitar. Both times on my own.”
“Can you play the guitar, too, now?” Gerry asked incredulously. “That’s amazin’. When I last saw you, you couldn’t play nothin’.”
“Well, you wondered what I’d been doing,” Molly quipped. “I’ve picked up quite a few instruments,” she lied. It struck her that other instruments would definitely work for her, too. “You’ll see.”
Gerry looked impressed. Then he sighed. “You know what, Petula’s tired. So am I. Can we go back to the hotel soon?”
Molly shrugged. The truth was, she didn’t care what Gerry or Petula got up to now.
“Sure.”
Just then the door burst open.
Mr. Proila, white-suited and smoking a cigar, stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips. He blew smoke into the room. Then he stepped in. Miss Sny trotted behind him, her eyes glowing with admiration for Molly.
“Not bad,” Mr. Proila said casually to the boys. Then, careful not to look too enthusiastic, he added glibly, “And, Miss Moon—they seemed to like you a bit, too.”
“A bit?” Hiroyuki blurted out. He stepped in front of Mr. Proila so that he could read his lips. “They loved her, Mr. Proila.”
Mr. Proila sucked at his cigar. He carelessly puffed the gray nicotine cloud of burned tobacco into Hiroyuki’s face. “They’ll forget her soon enough if she isn’t marketed properly,” he replied scathingly.
“I’ve seen kids like her—acts that thought the world was their oyster, until the oyster clamped shut, leaving ’em nothing but barnacles and mud. It’s one thing hitting the top, it’s quite another staying there. If Molly wants the big time, she needs me.”
Molly smiled knowingly.
“’Scuse me,” Gerry interrupted, tapping Mr. Proila’s arm, “but would it be all right for us to have a car now to go home?”
Mr. Proila sneered at him. “You again? The defender of the fish.” He grimaced and screwed up his eyes as he read Gerry’s T-shirt. “‘Save the Whales or Else’? Else what, shrimp?” He began to laugh, then to wind Gerry up he added, “By the way, somebody informed me that the evil bluefin tuna dealer will be at the Tsukiji Fish Market tomorrow. You want to stop him dealing it? You need to catch him!”
Gerry frowned at Mr. Proila. “What do you mean?”
But Mr. Proila had turned away. “So, boys,” he was saying, “I feel like going out tonight so get your things.”
“But we’re tired,” said Hiroyuki. “It’s been a big night, Mr. Proila.”
“No,” their manager insisted. “You need to hang out with me.”
Hanging out sounded scary when Mr. Proila said it. For a moment there was quiet as the boys hesitated. Mr. Proila was a bad-tempered man. None of them dared refuse him. Then Molly spoke up. “I’ll hang out with you,” she said.
Mr. Proila eyed Molly. “Well, if these killjoys can’t take it, it’s you and me. Come on then.”
He turned on his Cuban heels and pushed past the others. Miss Sny bobbed along behind him.
Molly shrugged. Without a word, she followed Mr. Proila out.
Fourteen
Mr. Proila’s red sports car glided, a red pearl over velvet, through the streets of Tokyo. Molly leaned back into the passenger seat. Miss Sny was cramped into the small space behind them.
Molly tapped her host on the shoulder and asked him where they were going, but he didn’t bother answering her. Molly didn’t mind. She quite enjoyed his rudeness, because, frankly, she felt rude herself. She didn’t want to talk to him either. When they turned from skyscraper-lined streets to a scruffier, neon-lit neighborhood and the streets got darker and dirtier, Molly wasn’t scared. Her hypnotism was so good that she knew she would easily be able to get out of any trouble. She’d heard of girls her age being kidnapped and sold as slaves, but she knew Mr. Proila wasn’t about to do that. It was obvious he knew that he could make millions and millions from Molly, from her music sales and her stage appearances. She could practically see the yen signs in his eyes when he looked at her. Molly put her hand in her pocket and stroked her precious coin. She would be using Mr. Proila far more than he would be using her. He was so corrupt that he had no worries about who Molly was or where she came from. He hadn’t asked. If he did she knew he’d go along with any lie she told him.
Mr. Proila pulled up in front of a dingy warehouse with a stone facade. Two mean-looking, thickset bouncers stood guarding a rusty double door.
“Now for some fun!” Mr. Proila declared, rubbing his little hands together. He and Molly climbed out of the car, Miss Sny clambering out after them. Mr. Proila’s bodyguards got out of the black Mercedes that had been following them. The bouncers opened the metal door and stood aside for Mr. Proila as though he were some kind of king. Molly ignored them, as was her way now. She felt superior to everyone.
The noise inside was a surprise. A swell of voices and shouts peppered by “GO! GO! Ikik!” filled the air. Then there was a roaring cheer. Mr. Proila led Molly and Miss Sny along a dark passage that smelled of sweat and sawdust.
Ahead were red curtains that concealed the source of the clamor. Mr. Proila parted the drapes and went through, letting them swing back to block Molly’s way. Miss Sny immediately leaped forward and opened them for her.
Beyond was a room about as wide and as long as three small trucks. In its center was a sunken square floor with platforms round it. These wide platforms went up for three steps on each side. Each had a rail along the front of it so that the people standing there didn’t fall forward into the arena, which was strewn with sawdust—sawdust that had soaked up some sort of dark liquid. The room had filthy walls and was lit by six bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. There must have been about a hundred and fifty people in the room, ranging from businessmen in shirtsleeves and loosened ties to brawny dockworkers in stained tank tops. There were a few women, too, all hard-looking with mean eyes.
An elderly man in a black shirt and wearing gray suspenders to hold up his trousers stood, feet apart, in the middle of the arena. He raised his voice to make an announcement to the crowd.
At the back of the room, along the walls, pairs of men in white shirts and blue trousers stood in front of boards with Japanese writing on them. One man in each of the pairs seemed to be in charge of changing the writing on the board, while the other wrote chits out for a line of frantic customers who waved money as though they needed to buy something that would save their lives.
They were betting, Molly realized, though on what, she didn’t know. The lowered area was surely too small for boxers.
Mr. Proila led them to a high platform at the edge of the room.
“Up,” he said to Molly, and she climbed the narrow steps after him. Miss Sny, knowing her place, stayed obediently at the bottom beside one of the bodyguards. She looked apprehensive, flattening herself against the back wall of the room as if she’d like to disappear.
The bodyguard stood aside to let a man come up the steps, and after a brief chat with Mr. Proila the man wrote a chit for him. Mr. Proila, in turn, passed him a thick wad of notes.
“What are you betting on?” Molly asked.
&n
bsp; “Tell me first,” Mr. Proila said, watching Molly’s lips to read them, “red or black?”
“Black,” Molly decided.
“OK.” Mr. Proila spoke to the man again. Another chit was written and more money changed hands. Mr. Proila passed Molly the piece of paper. “For you. I put down about sixty-six thousand yen for you. If black wins, you win two hundred thousand yen. Feeling lucky?”
Molly shrugged, and took the chit. She tried to calculate in her head. Sixty-six thousand yen was a lot of money. She was sure that two hundred thousand yen was more than a thousand pounds! Mr. Proila was obviously a keen gambler.
In front of them, the audience was starting to get impatient. People waved their betting slips and were beginning to stamp the ground.
“TATAKAU! TATAKAU! TATAKAU!” they shouted.
“What are they shouting?” Molly asked Mr. Proila.
“Tatakau means ‘fight,’” Mr. Proila replied.
Again the crowd clamored: “TATAKAU! TATAKAU!”
In the next moment there was a cheer. Two men climbed down ladders and placed metal cages on the floor in the center of the sawdust-strewn arena. Another man, a fierce-looking, bearded brute in a white tunic, came on. He held an orange flag above his head. When he brought this down, the handlers opened the cages.
Two roosters sprang out. One had a red ribbon around its neck, the other a black one.
“This is where the fun starts.. . . ” Mr. Proila chuckled.
Molly had heard about cockfighting. She knew it was illegal. Before she owned the gold coin she would have found even the idea of it horrific. But today she felt differently. Now bad things, evil things, fascinated her. She smiled in anticipation.
“Good. Glad to meet someone who has the same tastes as me!” Mr. Proila laughed, clocking Molly’s reaction.
Suddenly the birds flew at each other, pecking and clawing, shrieking and crowing.
It was a vicious spectacle but the crazed audience loved it. They took great pleasure from seeing the poor dumb roosters forced to fight. They cheered the bird they had bet on, and jeered whenever a bird showed signs of weakness.
