Audition

by Ryu Murakami

  ‘We’ll begin the interviews next Monday,’ Yoshikawa said. ‘It’ll take at least a couple of days. I’ve got the conference room reserved, and I assume you’ll be available?’

  ‘Do you think we’ll really end up making a movie?’

  ‘I don’t know. The script is done, but if what little I’ve read is any indication, it stinks. And we’re not getting anywhere with the search for backers. In this country, as you know, getting a cast or director is of secondary importance – the only things that are absolutely essential are a script and money.’

  Aoyama frowned. ‘So it doesn’t look good,’ he said.

  ‘Look, our main goal is to find you a wife, isn’t it? Don’t tell me you’re starting to feel guilty. There’s no going back now, pal. Anyway, what’s so terrible about what we’re doing? We’re looking for your bride, your wife, the woman you’re going to care for for the rest of your life. I mean, if you were just trying to find a mistress or whatever we might have to worry about divine retribution, but . . .’

  Divine retribution. Aoyama repeated the words under his breath with a grim half-smile.

  ‘Don’t trust the photos, by the way,’ Yoshikawa warned him. ‘In a photo, even one that hasn’t been doctored, the same woman can look stunningly beautiful or shockingly ugly. So if you get any sense at all that it’s someone you’d like to meet, slide her into the file.’

  Aoyama nodded and began sifting through the résumés. Judging by the photos, as he’d just been warned not to do, most of the girls were knock-outs, but he gave preference to those whose background included some sort of classical training. The essays covered a wide range of issues, though most of them said things like I just feel I would make a good actress or I know I was born to act or I believe that acting would offer me the best means of expressing my talents and ended with a plea to be given a chance. Aoyama couldn’t fathom why so many of these girls would think they had an aptitude for something they’d never even tried. All it meant, surely, was that they were dissatisfied with their present circumstances. Rather than actually aspiring to the profession of acting, they simply wanted a new, more exciting life. It was impossible for him to imagine a woman like that as a life partner. Some of them were breathtakingly gorgeous, and many claimed to be accomplished at music or dance or foreign languages, but there had to be something wrong with any woman who dreamed of being an actress. Didn’t there? In which case, maybe this whole idea had been ill-advised. Such were Aoyama’s thoughts as, mechanically leafing through the résumés, he came across a photo that stopped him.

  Name: Yamasaki Asami

  Age: 24

  Weight: ? kilos

  Bust: 82 cm

  Waist: 54 cm

  Hips: 86 cm

  Place of birth: Nakano ward, Tokyo

  Employment history: Recently resigned after two years at a major trading company

  Hobbies: Music and dance (twelve years of classical ballet)

  Special talents: Dance, piano, baking

  . . . After leaving the company I was thinking that maybe now was the time to pick up and head for Spain, where I’ve long dreamed of living. But then I happened to hear about this audition on the radio. I can’t say I’ve ever thought I had a particular talent for acting, and I don’t really expect my application to be taken seriously. But I was so drawn to the story that I felt almost compelled to respond. The story of a dancer whose career has been ended by a back injury . . . It so happens that I studied ballet for many years but had to stop when, at eighteen, I injured my hip. I don’t suppose I really had what it takes to become a ‘prima’ in any case. But the injury occurred just as I was making preparations to enroll at a ballet school in London, and it felt like the end of the world. It took me years to recover from this disappointment. At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, it was a process not unlike learning to accept death. That’s how powerfully the injury affected my life, and why I felt so much empathy for the main character . . .

  Aoyama stopped to peer at Yamasaki Asami’s photo a number of times as he read and reread the essay. It was just a snapshot, but her direct, up-from-under gaze was riveting. There was something powerful in those eyes, and her strong nose and sensuous lips made him think of Ryoko.

  In the end, he selected thirty-one candidates for interviews, though Yamasaki Asami was the only one who really interested him. When he returned to his office that day, he told some of his staff about the audition, naturally omitting the bride-search angle. He explained that a friend and colleague from his agency days had asked permission to base a movie script on one of their documentaries.

  ‘I myself might end up with a producer credit,’ he told them, ‘but at absolutely no risk to our firm. If the film does get made, however, we’ll receive payment for the story idea, and I’ll try to get video rights as well.’

  He didn’t expect anyone to object, and no one did.

  Even as he was speaking with his staff, Yamasaki Asami was much in his thoughts, as she was when he returned home that evening and took Gangsta out for a walk. He could scarcely believe it himself, but he’d already decided that she was the one. The decisive factor wasn’t her beauty, or the fire in her eyes, or her background in ballet, but rather those words in her essay: it was a process not unlike learning to accept death.

  Being a beagle, Gangsta had one great passion in life: exploring smells. On their walks, he tended to spend more time sniffing at things than ambulating. Normally Aoyama would be tugging on the leash, urging the dog to move on, but tonight his head was full of Yamasaki Asami, and it was Gangsta who did most of the tugging. Aoyama was imagining an entire scenario . . .

  Shige has eaten supper and is upstairs in his room, on the computer. Down in the living-room, where he sits sipping cognac, Aoyama can hear a faint tapping of the keyboard and soft electronic bleeps. Asami walks in from the kitchen, carrying a glass. She’s finished washing the dishes, and now they have a chance to spend a little time relaxing together. She puts ice in her glass and sits down next to him on the sofa, smiling.

  ‘I think I’ll try a little bit of that,’ she says. ‘Is it all right to have it on ice? I suppose it’s hopelessly gauche to drink such expensive brandy any way but straight?’

  ‘Not at all. Good spirits are good no matter how you drink them. Mix it with cola and it would still be delicious.’

  ‘I’m glad Shige seems to be accepting me. When I think about how I felt at fifteen, I know he must be going through a lot of conflicting emotions. But he doesn’t even seem shy about calling me “Mum”.’

  ‘The truth is, he’s the one who suggested I remarry.’

  ‘You’re teasing me.’

  ‘No, it’s true. You know, I’m pretty proud of that kid. For all he suffered as a child, he’s maturing into an incredibly thoughtful and compassionate young man. Do you remember what you wrote in that essay, the part about learning to accept death? Well, all three of us have been through something very similar. Which I think is why you and I were able to understand each other so completely, right from the start.’

  Asami nods and smiles and lifts the glass of cognac to her lips . . .

  A yank on the leash brought Aoyama back to earth. They’d crossed paths with a female poodle, and Gangsta had made an aborted dash for her. Now he looked up at Aoyama as if to ask what in the world was wrong with him tonight. It wasn’t until he noticed Gangsta goggling at him that Aoyama became aware of the goofy smile on his own face. Just thinking about Yamasaki Asami had caused the muscles to relax into a grin.

  And yet he still knew nothing about her, really.

  ‘Sorry,’ Yoshikawa said to the girl he’d chosen to receive the applicants, ‘but would you ask the next person to wait just a bit? We’ll take a five-minute break.’

  They were in a drab meeting room that Aoyama remembered well from his years at the agency. They’d begun at one p.m. and had already seen seven candidates. The interviews were scheduled at ten-minute intervals, but most of the candidates arrived so
mewhat ahead of time and were asked to sit in the corridor, where chairs had been placed, and wait for the girl to call them.

  Yoshikawa, feeling that it was best to make things as stressful as possible for the applicants, had chosen ‘the hottest young lady in Marketing Section Two’ to act as receptionist. A male staff member worked the video and Polaroid cameras, and Yoshikawa and Aoyama conducted the interviews.

  ‘Yokota wanted to be here, too, but I turned him down,’ Yoshikawa had said earlier, as he handed Aoyama a printout of the time slots and names. ‘I assumed you wouldn’t want a third party joining us.’ Aoyama had looked at the printout, but his eyes registered only the name Yamasaki Asami. She was number seventeen, scheduled for three-fifty p.m. His interest in the others was minimal, a fact which after seven interviews hadn’t escaped Yoshikawa’s notice.

  ‘Aoyama, listen, you’ve got to ask some questions too. If only for appearances’ sake.’

  The applicants all bowed deeply before entering the room, and most were so nervous that you could see their fingertips – sometimes even their shoulders – trembling. The receptionist led them to the chair facing their inquisitors, and again they bowed before sitting down. Yoshikawa’s coldly businesslike manner towards them was probably intentional, and he varied the questions seemingly at whim.

  Your name?

  Age?

  Height?

  Ever worked in films or television before?

  What do you like to do in your spare time?

  Do you go to discos and clubs?

  Seen any interesting movies lately?

  Which actresses do you like, or would you like to emulate?

  What would you do if you were handed ten million yen?

  Who designed that dress?

  What do you think is your best attribute?

  Do you like Korean barbecue?

  Can you smile for us?

  May I ask you to stand up and walk across the room and back?

  What if you got this role and your boyfriend was opposed to your taking it?

  May I ask what your father does?

  Do you like to read?

  Who’s your favourite novelist?

  Do you read a newspaper every day? Which section do you turn to first?

  What foreign country would you most like to visit?

  Which do you like better, cats or dogs?

  What type of man do you particularly dislike?

  What sort of music do you listen to?

  Do you like vintage rock?

  Which do you prefer, the Eagles or the Stones?

  Do you listen to classical music as well?

  Do you know who the three tenors are?

  Which is your favourite, Carreras, Domingo or Pavarotti?

  Can you describe a vivid dream you’ve had recently?

  Do you ever experience sleep paralysis?

  Are you interested in UFOs?

  Do you consider yourself beautiful?

  As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?

  What are your views on marriage? And adultery?

  What’s the first thing you order at a sushi bar?

  Have you ever considered working in the sex industry? Or as a bar hostess?

  Have you ever been tempted to experiment with drugs?

  ‘Why are you making me ask all the questions?’ Yoshikawa was saying. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve lost interest now that we’ve reached the moment of truth.’

  Yoshikawa seemed genuinely pissed off, and Aoyama decided it would be best to tell all. He asked the photographer to step outside for a moment so they could confer in private.

  ‘Good lord,’ Yoshikawa said with a wry chuckle after hearing about Yamasaki Asami. He found her résumé and essay and read through them, then peered at the photo.

  ‘You can’t tell anything from this, though,’ he said. ‘It’s dangerous to base your decision on the application alone.’

  ‘I know that. But I just have this feeling about her. Besides, all the others leave me flat. What can I do?’

  ‘Intuition, eh? Is that what you’re telling me? “Trust your intuition, and the universe will guide you”?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘An old saying, isn’t it?’

  ‘Whose old saying?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Yoshikawa sighed. ‘Look, you need more information. You have to talk to the other women too, if only for comparison’s sake. Isn’t that what we’re here for? I’ll admit there’s something strangely attractive about this Asami-chan of yours, but . . .’

  His flippant use of the diminutive ‘chan’ was all it took to stir Aoyama’s own anger.

  ‘Yoshikawa, I think you know damn well how serious I am about this.’

  ‘I’m serious too, you ass. So don’t expect me to be thrilled that you’ve made up your mind on the basis of a photo and an essay.’

  ‘You’re the one who said the essays give you the best sense of who a person is. The written word doesn’t lie. You can always tell if it’s coming from the heart or not.’

  Yoshikawa was silent for a moment.

  ‘That’s bullshit,’ he said softly. ‘But all right. I’ll pay special attention to her too. Just please ask a few questions of the others as well. I called in a lot of favours to get that programme on the air – and even to secure this room.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  The candidates represented a variety of types. One was a 28-year-old who’d graduated in French studies from a national university, spent three years in Paris as a member of a project team for a major trading company, become a clothing designer on her return to Japan, opened a boutique in Los Angeles and lived another three years in Malibu, then got bored with it all and began drawing illustrations for children’s books. She was built like a fashion model and was wearing an outfit of woven hemp dyed in primary colours that she attributed to some Moroccan designer. She was also trained in classical ballet and said she felt that she alone was capable of undertaking such a ‘sensitive and nuanced’ role. Aoyama was sure there was no way he could keep up with a woman like this. Another applicant had appeared in over thirty ‘adult’ films, had twice tried to commit suicide, had been institutionalised three times and was now, at thirty-three, a yoga instructor. She showed them the scars on her left wrist as if displaying her most valued treasure. Several of the women came with their managers in tow. One of the managers literally got down on his hands and knees, prostrating himself. ‘Please favour us with your consideration!’ he screeched, as if begging for his life. One of the women claimed to be psychic and offered to describe the guardian spirits attached to both of them: Aoyama’s turned out to be a painter who’d died young, and Yoshikawa’s was a flying squirrel. A number of the women insisted on dancing for them, and one began shedding clothes as she did so. Aoyama wanted to stop her, but Yoshikawa overruled. She ended up completely nude, right there in the drab meeting room, and left saying she felt like a new woman. A girl still in her teens spoke at great length about her tumultuous sexual history. There were several women in their thirties. One had taken an aeroplane all the way from Hokkaido just for this audition, and proudly told them that she was known as the Queen of the Discos in Sapporo. ‘Men have made a fuss over me ever since I was a little girl,’ she said, ‘so it seems only natural to have them flocking around me at discos, but I make a point of never giving my heart – or my body – to anyone. When people ask why that is, I tell them it’s because I’m an actress. Not that I’ve ever done any actual acting per se, but I know in my heart that I was born to be a star.’ One explained that she was eager to start an acting career because her husband had caught her cheating and was threatening divorce. Another, who’d shrugged off her trench coat to sit before them in a string bikini and high heels, said she’d appeared nude in a number of magazines but never got a true sense of fulfilment from that and realised when she heard about the audition that destiny was calling. A few brought portable karaoke sets and sang for them. They saw a nurse, a poe
t and a vocalist in a band, a woman with a seventy-year-old sugar daddy, a nursery-school teacher, a very tall African-Japanese, a baton-twirler and a rhythmic gymnast.

  And then, at exactly three-fifty p.m., she made her appearance.

  4

  ‘Next, please,’ came the voice of the hottest girl in Section Two, and Yamasaki Asami materialised in the doorway.

  Silhouetted against the off-white walls, she walked to the chair, bowed with modest grace and sat down. That was all, but Aoyama had a very distinct sensation that something extraordinary was happening all around him. It was like being the millionth visitor to an amusement park, suddenly bathed in spotlights and a rain of balloons and surrounded with microphones and flashing cameras. As if Luck, normally dispersed in billions of tiny, free-floating, gemlike particles, had suddenly coalesced in a single beatific vision – a vision that changed everything, for ever. He was aware of an indescribable, fizzy sort of feeling in the pit of his stomach, and of the voice of Reason in his own head chanting the refrain: This can’t be right, it doesn’t make sense, things like this aren’t supposed to happen. But the voice grew weaker as the fizziness seeped into his bloodstream and spread through his system.

  She was even more beautiful than her snapshot had led him to believe. And when she smiled as if to herself and shyly looked down at the floor, all his worries seemed to dissolve and leave him afloat in a warm bubble of bliss. He felt like a deaf man whose ears had been healed with exquisite music, and it almost struck him as odd that music didn’t begin playing: in a movie, this was where the poignant love theme would have swelled. He glanced at the hottest young lady in Section Two and wondered how she was managing to maintain her composure. Faced with such beauty, she should have swooned with shame and slumped to the floor.

  Yoshikawa began the questioning.

  ‘You’re, let’s see, Yamasaki Asami-san?’