Tuvalu

by Andrew O'Connor

  Meanwhile, Tilly was gone. I could feel it. There had been no sign of her since the killing of the cats, and those things she would never have parted with—a photo of her mother on a plane, her passport, her leather wallet, a faulty silver watch and a Soseki novel—were all missing from the pile of belongings she had left just inside the apartment door.

  Faced with this reality, I thought about striking out for Europe, for a cheap but somewhat central city—Bratislava, say—where I could start over. But even if I could find the money and arrange a work permit, Tilly’s abrupt departure and refusal to say goodbye had rattled me. I was suddenly reluctant to be any more alone than I already was.

  Our eviction—or escape—from Nakamura-san’s apartment marked the start of colder weather. It took place on a dim, rainy day. Tokyo had pulled in all the bedding which normally hung from its countless identical balconies, and the dripping apartment blocks were hulking and drab without colourful splotches of linen. In the end it was probably our use of the amenities that was our undoing. The police appeared at our door at around one p.m. I heard the doorbell and crept to the peephole. Phillip followed, making unintelligible gestures.

  ‘Who?’ he hissed.

  ‘Police.’

  ‘Shit it.’

  The doorbell rang a second time. Outside, the two officers exchanged comments. Phillip signalled that we should escape via the balcony, then changed his mind, whispering that there might be a police unit in the alley below and anyway, it was too high. He was woozy from painkillers regardless. I agreed it was a bad idea.

  The police rang the doorbell a third time. We both pulled back from the tiny peephole. The handle moved, but luckily the door was locked.

  The officers, grumbling softly, started back down the staircase.

  ‘This is our chance,’ I said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘If they had a key they’d already have used it. More than likely they have to go to the landlord for it. We wait one minute, then we run.’

  ‘We’ve got to pack.’

  ‘We’ve got one minute.’

  Together we bundled up our various belongings, mine into my suitcase, Phillip’s into his backpack. When he dropped his passport in, however, I grabbed it back out and thrust it into my little pack, along with other essentials, mostly documents. We limited ourselves strictly to clothing, blankets and food from the fridge. Finally we hoisted it all up, dropped the keys into the sink and paused in front of the door to listen.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Is there anything left here that can identify us?’

  ‘My pills!’

  ‘Do they have your name on them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then forget them.’

  ‘No.’

  Phillip searched both the living rooms then returned, sagging beneath his backpack and out of breath already. I threw open the door and we ran. One or two people pruning pot plants stared, but no one said a word or tried to stop us. We ran for five minutes without seeming to go all that far. Reaching a large road we tried to flag a taxi. Two cruised by but neither stopped. Back at the apartment we could see a police car pulling up. One officer started towards the building without looking in our direction, but the other noticed us. They hurried back towards the car and climbed in. A second later the lights flashed and a knife-edged siren sounded. The car jolted forward out of the car park.

  ‘We’re in trouble,’ I said.

  Our situation was unfavourable but not impossible. We were standing at a T-intersection with traffic blocking our path. There was an alley ahead leading to a far larger, far busier road a hundred or so metres up. We had one chance.

  ‘If we can cross this street and cut through that alley to the main road up ahead, we might beat them through the traffic. We could get a cab before they catch up.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Phillip dejectedly.

  ‘No, it’s possible. Come on, dump your pack.’

  We both sprinted across the street into the alley, sealed off from traffic and loosely lined with wooden fences. Phillip’s voice echoed off each slat differently. ‘They can’t prove it was us, Tuttle.’

  ‘They can. The neighbours can identify us.’

  ‘Shit it.’

  Halfway up the alley I turned to see the police car stuck beside our luggage at the pedestrian crossing, and I let out a whoop. My arms felt heavy and cumbersome, and my legs began to protest. I kept having to pull the little pack up onto my shoulder as I ran. Ahead, cars, trucks and taxis flicked past, all oblivious to our flight. I could smell carbon monoxide.

  As we exited the alley, gasping for air, I ventured a quick look behind. The police were crossing the intersection, siren still blaring, and pulling up at the alley entrance. My heart sank as I grabbed Phillip by the shirt and dragged him along the busy street to a bus stop. I casually waved one arm, trying not to look desperate. But when I turned Phillip was waving with both, as though signalling a far-off plane.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Act normal.’

  The police were in the alley now, running. In the distance I heard shoes on concrete. Whoever was coming was serious.

  I was about to give up when a taxi veered sharply left and skidded to a halt in front of us.

  ‘In,’ I said to Phillip, who only nodded.

  The driver smiled. He was a young Japanese man with long oily hair—not at all the typical Japanese taxi driver. There was no comb-over, no starched white gloves.

  ‘Where?’ he asked in English.

  ‘Anywhere,’ said Phillip.

  ‘Shinjuku,’ I cut in. ‘Shinjuku Station.’

  ‘Okay.’ The driver put the car into gear and activated his right blinker. There was a steady stream of traffic and for a moment we went nowhere. I glanced back. There was no one there. Then the officers appeared, both lurching as they ran and out of breath. They stopped dead at the main road and looked left and right. One pointed towards the cab. I snapped my head back to the road, watching the driver who, with one eye on the rear-view mirror, tapped his index finger on the steering wheel. His mouth was curved in a smile, and without warning he punched the accelerator.

  I let out a lungful of air.

  For a while we worried our bags might have contained something that could identify us, but we could think of nothing inside them that did and no one tried to contact or arrest us. Not that anyone could have. We took time off work, checked into a cheap love hotel under false names— after convincing the manager we were straight—and became invisible to the authorities. Not even we knew where we were.

  From here we moved into a far smaller box, taking a room on the eighth floor of an apartment block in outlying Saitama prefecture. The elevator was broken and we were only allowed to stay for two months, filling in for foreigners holidaying in Eastern Europe. Mostly it was an awful place to live. Entering, you stepped into a dark, narrow hallway which led past a sink and bathroom to a room the width of a sedan. This room ended in a frosted window, jammed shut.

  Phillip slept in a three-foot-square loft above the hallway, a sort of tube he slid himself in and out of and derived a sense of privacy from. The loft was accessed by a ladder and Phillip, once nestled inside, would pull it up and lean it against one wall. He also had a small curtain, rarely open. As far as I could tell he spent most of his time up there high on grass—God knows where he got it— shivering on the fetid mattress.

  We both returned to work, and on my days off I tried to get out and walk. There was a factory nearby and I made it my habit to watch bored, blue-clad workers letting themselves in and out of a small gate, all punching timecards. Judging from the smell, this factory made vinegar. It was a raw smell, almost like a detergent, which sanitised the indistinct smog of outer Tokyo.

  Though I e-mailed Tilly daily, she never replied.

  In between missing Tilly I also missed Mami. I had fallen out of touch with both and, though I could not contact Tilly without another flight hom
e, it was always in the back of my mind that I could find Mami.

  One cold cloudless pre-dawn, unable to sleep in the new apartment, I commuted back to the familiar Tsukiji fish markets and wandered beneath yellow bulbs with green tin shades and alongside jobbers pulling carts, cigarettes hanging from their down-turned lips. These were men so tired of tourists I felt like a ghost in their presence. I followed the long reflections of the bulbs on the wet concrete, moving between cluttered, boxy stalls and squeaking polystyrene to the tuna bidding, where I was told to hang back by someone in uniform. I was thankful to be away from the endless sameness of square-box living, no longer surrounded by a stranger’s belongings. Here there was again that modicum of mess, chaos and clutter that I missed about the hostel.

  I found my way to Tsukiji Station—to the Naka-Meguro-bound platform, where I waited for a train and thought about the sarin gas attack of several years ago. Some foreigner had told me the story and every time I stood on the platform details returned. The train had come to a halt here a full five stops after the release of gas at Akihabara. People had collapsed from the doors. Although one passenger had kicked the deadly package from the train at the previous stop, Kodenmacho—where it killed four passengers waiting on the platform—a puddle of sarin remained inside on the floor of the carriage. Eight had died and hundreds were injured. As always, the thought made me nervous.

  I travelled on to Roppongi, wandered in the stark remnants of the previous night’s unfettered festivity, then took the Toei Oedo Line to Shinjuku. From Shinjuku, finally aware I was circling in on someone, I found my way to Tokyo Station, enduring Phillip’s unscarred face beaming down from countless JR posters. The smiling man featured bore no resemblance to the sour dope addict I now lived with. He was the old Phillip. Staring at the ad I was struck by how little I knew him. He came without a past, as if born fully grown.

  I snuck into the hotel and took the elevator to the twentieth floor. Mami at first refused to open the door. When finally she did she looked like a wrung-out dishcloth, face pale and sagging.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘I thought I made it clear.’

  ‘Made what clear?’

  ‘Made it clear I’m busy.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘What does it matter what? What do you want?’

  I had not expected this greeting, and thus had not prepared an excuse. I said the first thing that came into my head. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Phillip.’

  Mami frowned. ‘What do I care about Phillip?’

  ‘Aren’t you his nurse?’

  ‘Do I look like a nurse?’

  I shook my head, biting at the inside of my lip. ‘Can I come in for a moment?’

  ‘Do you need to?’

  ‘It’d be a lot easier, yeah.’ I gave the impression of great solemnity to aid my chances and stepped inside. I crossed to the bar, dropped my jumper over it and groped for something to say about Phillip. Again it occurred to me how little I knew.

  ‘He’s been smoking grass.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Mami asked. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’ Her voice was clipped, rude. She kept her arms folded over her chest, distancing me. Her face conveyed distrust and her eyes jumped over the room as if wondering what it looked like to another.

  ‘Well, you were interested,’ I said. ‘Now I don’t know, I, ah—’

  ‘Is that everything?’

  The room looked messy and neglected—completely unlike it had on my previous visits. Clothes were scattered about as if Mami had been putting them on only to take them off and drop them. Judging from the number of garments, this had been going on for days. I counted five or six room-service trays piled high with dirty dishes. The curtains were drawn, the ceiling lights dimmed, there were magazines open everywhere, the TV was fuzz, and there was a hole in one wall roughly the size of a basketball.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You just look—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  For a moment not a word was said, then Mami threw up her arms. ‘Oh for God’s sake, you feed a stray dog once and it really does follow you for the rest of your life.’

  ‘I don’t deserve that.’

  ‘The hell you do, Noah.’ Mami was furious with me. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Shoo.’

  ‘Not until you tell me what I’ve done.’

  ‘You?’ She laughed.

  Oddly, at the sound of this laugh, I felt compassion rather than anger. ‘Then what’s this all about? Something’s wrong. What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me, please.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘I did, you idiot!’ Mami screamed. She seemed almost like a child. Then, inhaling sharply and letting the air out in a longish sigh, she composed herself, snatched up the TV remote and turned the volume to full. The static forced me, against my will, to yell.

  ‘Please, I want to help.’

  Ignoring me, Mami began flicking through channels. On one a man with an absurdly large microphone cracked a joke and the studio audience roared. She kept flicking until the TV reached Video 2, a narrow slot of dark, expectant silence at which she threw down the remote and pressed buttons on the DVD player. She skipped chapters until Audrey Hepburn filled the screen. Regal, Audrey presided over a hall packed with people—journalists. It was Roman Holiday. The journalists were codedly explaining to the princess that, while they would treasure time spent with her, they would never print a word of it nor seek to impose again. She could resume her old life without interruption.

  ‘She escapes,’ said Mami. ‘She wanders out into the world and they pose as guides, these men. But finally they know the game is up. She has her life to think of. She hates it. But she has it all the same and people demand. People always demand.’

  ‘I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Then why am I explaining it to you? Why are you still here?’

  ‘Maybe I don’t believe you really want me to go.’

  Without the slightest hesitation Mami picked up the TV remote and threw it at my head. It struck my chin, deflecting into my shoulder. My body remained rooted to the ground while Mami relaxed palpably, letting out—of all things—a hiccup. I turned and stared at the remote, now off in a corner, the batteries askew.

  ‘Now shoo,’ she said again, softly, even sadly.

  I left quickly, wiping a little blood from my lip and carefully closing the door behind me. The maid I once yelled at was in the hall with her full trolley. She frowned and stepped back, and I unhappily nodded hello.

  I had no idea where to go. I took trains until at last I found myself outside Tsukiji-Shijo Station. I was back at the fish markets, seemingly drawn to them, as if the hostel was still home and Tilly still in reach. The jobbers had sold their fish to retailers and packed up, and the concrete was being watered by a tanker truck, front nozzles jetting white and washing away the morning.

  A typhoon struck the following day. Tired of being cooped up in the airless box I worked at getting the window open. It took me twenty minutes of hefting and swearing but it finally gave. Fresh air buffeted its way inside. Above me, clouds sped past at three or four times their usual speed, and below people lost umbrellas or had them fold inside out with a faint, far-off whoop. Stray dogs—their noses down, tails up—scurried for shelter. Buildings howled. And liberated plastic bags took off down empty streets at speed, tumbling and seeming always to look behind as if on the run.

  Halfway through this storm Phillip arrived home. He was saturated but his eyes seemed alert. ‘Look,’ he said, opening the palm of one hand. ‘Stems. I bought stems.’

  ‘For what?’

  He only grinned and, closing his hand, stretched. He looked inordinately tall and I noticed he had the beginnings of a belly.

  ‘Stems for what, Phillip?’

  ‘Grass, of course. What the fuck else would I grow in here?’ Yaw
ning through a smile, he wandered into the kitchen and I heard him open the fridge. I could picture him resting his weight on the door, eyeing my food.

  In a strange about-face, Mami invited me to the Artist’s Café high atop Tokyo Dome Hotel to celebrate her birthday. She sent the invite via work. At first I decided not to go. But her offer ate at me until I relented.

  When I arrived at dusk, having taken a glass elevator to the top of a forty-something storey hotel, Mami was smiling and holding out an ornate envelope. She handed it to me, then led me towards an elegant bar with two uniformed staff.

  ‘I’m breaking with convention,’ she said, head tilted as if asking me a question. When I frowned her smile warmed. She ordered drinks and gestured for me to take a seat at a narrow glass bench with headphones and a steel footrest. This was built against a floor-to-ceiling window and afforded me a superb view of the city. I could make out Tokyo Tower and a far-off ferris wheel even before I sat, perhaps the same wheel Mami had taken me on.

  ‘How are you breaking with convention?’ I asked when she arrived at the bench with two whiskys and a plate full of nibbles.

  ‘You haven’t opened the envelope?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘It’s my birthday and if it wasn’t for you, well, I’d still feel awful. Throwing that remote helped me somehow, even though it was a despicable thing to do. I’m surprised you even came tonight. But you did. So instead of receiving a present I’m going to give you one. That’s only fair.’

  Mami gestured to the envelope. I opened it and found a thin wad of 10,000 yen notes. I at once shut it and handed it back.

  ‘A thankyou is perfectly sufficient.’

  Mami placed it back in my hand. ‘No. I insist. Anyway, it’s not my money. It’s my father’s and he’d want me to give it to you. It’s how things need to be.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? I don’t like to be indebted to a person. My family doesn’t, either. This way we can put it behind us— as though it never happened.’