by Georgia Byng
Twenty-four
Sobo’s old friend, the elderly sumo master, changed gear. Intent on the road and glancing repeatedly in his mirror to check they weren’t being tailed, he drove as fast as he could.
“OK, it’s OK,” Sobo assured Rocky, reaching into the back of the van and patting his arm with her papery-skinned hand.
Rocky nodded at her. He was still shaken from his encounter with Molly. She had been like a possessed person or a monster.
“What ’appened?” Gerry asked.
The van drove through nighttime Tokyo to an old-fashioned district. It pulled up in front of a bamboo-roofed wooden building. A sign written in Japanese and English said: RYOGOKU SUMO STABLES.
Gerry and Rocky jumped down from the van and helped the old lady into her wheelchair. With Petula trotting alongside, they pushed her up a vine-canopied path to a door. As soon as they were inside the school’s simple whitewashed hall, they took off their shoes.
They made their way up a wide passage with big doors set at intervals up one side. Noises—slaps and grunts, the sound of shuffling and thudding—came from the rooms beyond. Through the glass panels in the doors the friends could see sumo students training.
Gerry stopped to peer into one room. Overweight Japanese boys wearing nothing but white loincloths sat along the edges, watching other boys who stood inside a square that was drawn on the floor. The boys in the square were standing with their legs apart, bent forward, facing each other as if about to fight. A man in a blue kimono, who was obviously their teacher, pointed a stick at them and shouted, “Ooi!”
The boys slapped their knees and dived at each other. For a moment they struggled, grabbing at each other’s loincloths as they each attempted to knock the other over. Then one pushed his opponent out of the ring. The match was over. Gerry saw Toka in the classroom and signed to him that they would meet him back at his bedroom.
Toka’s teacher, the sensei, had agreed to allow Toka to share his room with Gerry, Rocky, and Petula. There was just enough space for three single beds. These were now rolled up. The paper shutters on the windows let in light from the street.
Rocky and Gerry were sitting cross-legged on the bamboo matting with Petula curled up beside them when Toka came in.
“So you didn’t get coin,” he guessed.
“No, I couldn’t,” Rocky said. “I tried to, but touching it hurt like hell. And Molly was horrific.”
“What shall we do?” Toka asked, sitting down. “We’ve tried your parents and Forest . . .”
“She’s so cunning,” Rocky ruminated.
“So how long was the CD she sent them?” Gerry asked.
“Long enough to hypnotize them,” Toka answered.
“Do you really think they won’t come out here, Rocky?”
“Not after she told them not to. Gerry, even if we beg Primo and Lucy to help us, they won’t listen. She’s brainwashed them. She brainwashes everyone. Her music is addictive. People listen to it once and get hooked and then they listen to it more. And each time they fall deeper and deeper under her musical spell.
Even the police are her fans. It’s really creepy.”
“Scary,” Gerry said, biting his lip.
“You got to look on bright side,” Toka pointed out. “We lucky. No Molly Moon music here. So we grow strong. We prepare. We will fight. We will win fight. We get coin.” He paused. “Sobo says the coin has evil kami in it—evil spirit. Sobo thinks we must destroy coin. But that difficult. Molly keep coin so close to her, and she surely keep bodyguards always with her, now you shock her.”
“Maybe another opportunity will crop up,” Rocky said. “There’s got to be a way to get the coin. The trouble is, it’s not exactly Molly we’re dealing with here. It’s a monster. The worst part is that Molly, our friend Molly, is locked up inside the monster. We have to help her.”
“Poor Molly.” Gerry gasped. “You’re right, Rocky. We’ve got to help her escape.”
Twenty-five
Molly looked at her watch. She was looking forward to the special tea ceremony. It was almost teatime now, and as she’d predicted, she was starting to find her surroundings tiresome and the people around her infuriating.
She had spent the last few hours looking at possible apartments to buy. None of them seemed good enough. She had ordered a new car and had some bluefin tuna sushi for lunch, and then she had opened boxes and boxes of new clothes and shoes. Now she was in a baggy green velvet jumpsuit with skeleton buttons and green satin sneakers. Around her neck she wore a gold chain with a green glass eyeball hanging from it.
“IS THE CAR READY?” she yelled to Miss Sny.
“Er, yes . . .” Miss Sny said, scurrying into the room. “It’s outside.”
“Good.”
The car drove swiftly through the city. Finally it pulled up in front of a very plain, modern-looking building.
“What’s this?” Molly demanded. “Doesn’t seem anything special. Thought we were coming to an amazing teahouse.”
“Ah, yes, it looks ordinary on the outside,” Miss Sny agreed. “But don’t be fooled! The teahouse and its wonderful gardens are inside the walls. W-w-would you like me to accompany you?”
“Certainly not. I want this experience to be as good as possible.”
Molly stepped out onto the sidewalk, and without so much as a backward glance dismissed the driver by tapping on the top of the car.
One of Mr. Proila’s men opened the door to the private space beyond. Molly had never seen him before and she was again impressed at the number of bodyguards Mr. Proila employed. The man bowed as he let her pass.
The sound of water was the first thing that Molly noticed when she stepped in. She found herself in a beautiful garden with ponds and waterfalls. There were pretty mossy areas and bamboo copses and a few small trees, each in the early stage of budding. In the middle of the ponds were strange upright stones. A white gravel path with gates led to a tiny wooden building with a winged roof on the other side of the garden.
“That is teahouse,” Mr. Proila’s man informed Molly. “And that”—he pointed to a more substantial, old-fashioned building made of stone—“that is ryokan. You go to ryokan, change for ceremony. Mr. Proila wait in teahouse.”
Molly nodded and set off toward it. On either side of the garden were tall, windowless office buildings. This gave the impression that the garden was cradled and safe.
“Now, this is interesting,” Molly said to the coin. “I was so irritated by everyone just now. But this place has made me feel better. It’s charming.”
As Molly admired the ornate gables over the teahouse’s windows, she imagined that this place was already hers. Mr. Proila was now a dumb, totally dedicated fan. She knew he would give it to her.
At the entrance of the ryokan a skinny man in a black kimono bowed low. With outstretched hands and flat palms, he presented Molly with a pair of strange glove-like socks with buttons. “These tabi,” he said. He passed her some wooden-soled flip-flops. Molly smiled. She sat down and changed out of her green satin sneakers.
A small woman in a yellow kimono appeared to Molly’s left. Also bowing, she held out a green kimono for Molly.
“Hmm—a coincidence,” Molly observed. “My favorite color. Where do I change?” Molly pointed at her own clothes and then at the green kimono. The woman nodded and curled her finger, indicating that Molly should follow her.
They made their way along a low-ceilinged passageway, Molly treading quite slowly in the traditional Japanese shoes. They passed through a sliding paper-paneled door and along a passageway with a tiny bathroom at the end.
Molly was left to change into the green kimono. She was careful to put her precious gold coin into its pocket, along with a handful of yen. Five minutes later, the woman returned and tied Molly into the kimono. She ushered her toward a stool and opened a pretty enameled makeup box. Before long, Molly looked like a traditional Japanese geisha girl, with whitened skin and rosebud lips. Black sticks in her
hair completed the picture.
Molly shuffled to the ryokan’s front door.
“When you get to teahouse, sit on seat there,” the woman told her. “Garden calm mind and senses.”
Molly walked back through the magical garden and sat on the seat. A minute later, Mr. Proila came out. He put his hand to his mouth in delight when he saw Molly. She suspected that he had been waiting all afternoon for her to appear. He was also dressed in a kimono. His was black silk, with gold coins embroidered on its lapel.
“Nice outfit, Mr. Proila,” she said.
“Thank you so much,” he said. “And you, I must say, look enchanting. Now, Molly, the first thing you must do is cleanse yourself. This stone water basin is a tsukubai. You must take some of its water and rinse your mouth and then your hands. That is part of the ceremony.”
“I love it!” said Molly, and she did as he said. Then her host led her inside.
The interior of the teahouse was a picture of simplicity. In an alcove facing the entrance was a scroll with Japanese writing on it. A simple flower arrangement stood below in a vase.
In the center of the room, in a sunken square section in the floor, was a hearth where a charcoal fire burned. Beside the hearth were two cushions, one red and one black. A woman in a light blue kimono busied herself with a kettle.
“I like the pad,” Molly commented.
“I’m so glad you do,” Mr. Proila gushed, bowing as he spoke. “This building is three hundred years old. It has been frequented by Japanese notaries, noblemen and -women, and sophisticates since it was built.” He spread his small hand out. “Please, Molly, be seated. You are in the place of honor.” He let Molly make herself comfortable on one of the cushions while he stood, and then he lowered himself onto the other like a duck onto an egg.
The woman in the blue kimono carefully laid out porcelain cups and saucers on a large tortoiseshell tray. Then she placed a small antique teapot, a gold whisk, and linen cloths beside them. Mr. Proila gazed at Molly. The woman took some powdered tea from a tea caddy and sprinkled it into the teapot. She added some hot water from the kettle and stirred it with the gold whisk.
“It is marvelous,” Mr. Proila enthused. “These things have been used for hundreds of years. That is why Miss Oko here uses them with such reverence.”
Mr. Proila poured two tiny cups of tea and then put his hands together and shut his eyes, as though praying.
“Drink down in one,” he said, nodding solemnly.
Molly shrugged. She sipped at the tea. It was warm, with an orangey tang. As instructed, she drank the cupful in one. “Best tea I’ve ever tasted. Well done, Mr. Proila! For a little person, you’ve got a lot of style!”
Mr. Proila leaned toward her. “If you are fond of tea, perhaps the teahouse could be yours.” He filled her cup again.
Molly nodded and smiled. “That is what I was thinking,” she said. “It will be one of my little treasures.” She knocked the second cup of tea back as easily as the first.
“They always say,” Mr. Proila said, “that three cups are for good luck. But you’ve probably had enough. I will pour my own.”
“No,” Molly said. “Me first. Pour me another cup.”
“Certainly.”
Molly downed her third cup. When she looked up, there were two Mr. Proilas sitting before her. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“I do,” Mr. Proila said. “He’s taller than me.”
“He doesn’t seem it,” Molly said. “And he talks at the same time as you.”
“Yes,” Mr. Proila said. “Is he talking as I’m talking? So rude!” He chuckled. “How are you feeling, Molly?”
Molly’s head swam. She felt wonderful. It was as if she were sitting in a magical grotto, for the ceiling seemed to shine, and she felt full of excitement and warmth. It was a sort of birthday feeling, but a thousand times as strong.
“Now I know why people have been drinking tea in this teahouse for hundreds of years. It’s very special,” she said.
Mr. Proila laughed. “Yes, very special. And to make one’s first experience here extra special, it is customary to give presents.”
“Oh! Lovely,” Molly gasped. “I love presents! And I deserve lots, too, seeing that I am so brilliant!”
“This one is for you!” Mr. Proila passed Molly a red velvet box. When she opened it, she found a gold medallion with the words “Thank you, Molly” engraved on the front. On the back was Japanese writing.
“That side says, ‘Thank you, Molly,’ in Japanese,” Mr. Proila said.
Molly thought how sweet Mr. Proila looked, like a cuddly mascot. The coins embroidered on his lapels were amazing. They seemed to tumble down his chest like golden water.
“Thank you, Mr. Proila!” Molly said. “And by the way, you must tell me where you got that kimono—it’s great. I want one, too.”
Molly hung the medallion around her neck. She smiled at Mr. Proila.
He looked expectant. “The tradition is that you give me a present, too—it’s for the good luck to work,” he explained.
Molly nodded. “Yes, of course. The tradition. I love tradition—handed down from age to age . . . and luck is a good thing, too.”
“Yes, you hand something to me, then the tradition is passed on. Do you have any jewelry?”
Molly shook her head.
Mr. Proila looked worried. “For the luck to work, the present must be given.”
As Mr. Proila spoke, Molly’s heart started to beat faster. The joy and wonder of the room, and of her life as it was now to be, blissful and perfect like this forever, felt like it might shatter if she did not give Mr. Proila a gift.
“Perhaps you have something in your pocket you could give me,” Mr. Proila suggested kindly.
Molly felt inside her pockets. In one there were a few bits of paper with Japanese faces on them. “Would you like these?” she said, offering the yen notes to him.
“The present has to be something more special,” coaxed Mr. Proila. “Perhaps in your other pocket?”
Molly felt about in her kimono. She pulled out a big heavy disc. It was the gold disc she’d been carrying about for . . . for what reason, Molly couldn’t remember—for good luck, she supposed. She smiled and held it out to Mr. Proila. “Here, Mr. Proila, take this. It’s jewelry of some sort. Do you think it’ll make the luck work for us both?”
Mr. Proila put his hand out. “Let me see. Perhaps it will.”
Molly watched as he took the disc. His eyes lit up as his fingers felt it, and then they shut and Mr. Proila pressed the disc to his chest. Then he quickly put it in an inside pocket. When he next looked at Molly, his eyes were cold and mean and angry. He rolled up his kimono sleeves, revealing the tattooed snakes on his arms, and stood up, pushing the table roughly so that the cups and teapot clattered against each other and a few porcelain bowls fell to the floor and smashed. “You stupid little girl,” he said.
“W-what are you doing?” Molly laughed. “The cups have all broken! And I love the pictures on your arms.”
“I’m putting an end to you!” Mr. Proila snapped. “Fun time is over, Moon. You may think the world is perfect right now, but I assure you it isn’t. When the drug that was in that tea I gave you wears off, the world is going to seem black. Black as grimy soot. But even then you’d better enjoy it, because tomorrow it’s curtains for you. And I don’t mean the stage kind. I mean the hello-death, good-bye life curtains. I’ve had enough of you, Moon!”
Molly couldn’t help laughing. “Oh, you’re so funny, Mr. Proila! You look so sweet doing your Mr. Bad Guy act!” She looked at the quiet woman in the blue kimono who was staring icily at her. “And your sidekick is so cool!” Molly was brimming with pleasure. Nothing could stop the happy feeling inside her. She had no idea what was really happening.
The door opened and two muscled men came in.
“Take her to the cell,” Mr. Proila ordered them.
The men approached Molly and carried her out of the te
aroom.
Molly began giggling hysterically. “Oh, I’m really ticklish. Stop it!”
The big men carried Molly through the beautiful water-filled leafy garden, back to the ryokan.
“Ah, home sweet home.” She sighed as they took her down some stairs there. They deposited her in a tiny room with a small window. “Oh, this is such a nice place! So calm and peaceful and simple!”
The guards gave her a look that she found enormously amusing. She burst out laughing. They left, locking the door behind them.
“Thank you!” Molly called after them. “I love this place!” She took off her wooden shoes and lay back on the floor, gazing with appreciation about her. She admired the jagged cracks in the antique plaster on the walls and the stains on the ceiling that made such pretty patterns. The light outside filtered through the tiny barred window, that to her looked like the iron pillars of a miniature ancient portico.
“Aah,” she hummed to herself. Then her eyes began to glaze over. She was exhausted. Content as a field mouse in its woven nest, Molly curled up and fell asleep.
Back in the tearoom, Mr. Proila was sitting with his feet up on the table. “When the drug has worn off,” he said to his bodyguard, “I’ll have made up my mind what to do with her. Now, one of you—go to that instrument shop on Meida Dori Avenue in Ochanomizu. I’ve ordered a grand piano. Make sure it gets delivered to my apartment. And bring the violin, the electronic keyboard, and the flute I’ve chosen here. The traffic’s bad, so get on with it. I’ll be in the retiring room on the top floor of the ryokan.”
Molly slept contentedly for about half an hour. She felt very strange, heavy-headed and bleary, when she woke up. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then she shook her head and remembered the pretty tearoom and the sweet, peaceful . . .
Molly sat up. Was this the same room she’d gone to sleep in? The one with the pretty ceiling? In a flash Molly saw that it was but that it was nothing more than a crumbling cell. In the next second she remembered Mr. Proila and the tea ceremony. Like a horrific beast rising up to greet her, the truth of how Mr. Proila had tricked her and imprisoned her was overwhelmingly clear.
