Tuvalu

by Andrew O'Connor

  As I neared the drop my nerves got the better of me and I had to pause, my back against a wall, to catch some air. It was the wrong country to run drugs in, a country where some judges took pride in years of service without ever handing down an ‘innocent’ verdict, and where prisons attracted the wrath of Amnesty International. I was an idiot. And yet there was my desire, bubbling below, willing me on and reminding me it would all be over in a matter of days. Without money I had nothing to offer, not even a crazy plan, and without anything to offer I had no right to expect Mami to follow me. Before starting on again I thought of Phillip, but decided I owed him nothing. Then my father came to mind. What would he make of a drug conviction? I hoped he would never know.

  I took a deep breath and, pushing myself up from the wall, rounded the corner and passed the man with dark pants, blue shirt and leather jacket. He was apathetically holding up two cheap, ugly ties and, though he gave no indication of having seen me, he put them down and started towards the men’s. Presumably he had identified me by the backpack and tight-fitting suede jacket Phillip insisted I keep on at all times.

  I entered the men’s, walked past the grimy white porcelain basins—without looking at my reflection—and took my place at the urinal beside the man with the blue shirt. He had obviously been waiting a while because I could hear a steady stream of urine. Hefting the pack onto the ledge I unzipped and took aim. This bathroom, which often had a queue, was not too busy today. It smelt of shit. I glanced behind me towards the pit-toilet stalls, then along the urinals to my left. It was only as I did this that I noticed the police officer, one of four evenly spaced men, pissing with obvious pleasure. Unsure what to do, I froze. Through the window at the end of the bathroom I heard a train pull into a platform. The announcer’s voice crackled.

  The man with the blue shirt did not look at me. He kept pissing, steam rising from his urinal. I gulped. When I tried to urinate nothing came. The man with the blue shirt, nodding almost imperceptibly, placed his newspaper on the ledge above the urinals. But at that moment two men zipped up and walked to the basins, affording the policeman a perfectly unobstructed view of all we did. He showed no sign of finishing up and kept glancing our way.

  I was now pushing so hard I fully expected to fart, but there was not even a dribble, and I was about to give up, about to zip up and flee, when the man with the blue shirt smiled, casually took up my backpack and walked out. The police officer noticed at once. He nodded towards my backpack and I dumbly averted my eyes. He shook himself dry.

  I truly had been left with my dick in my hand. Everything about the situation was terribly unpleasant. In a stall behind us someone groaned and farted. For a moment I contemplated running but something held me back. I tugged desperately at my zipper while the policeman did his own fly up without difficulty and collected his hat from the shelf above the urinal. He gave me a funny look and I was certain he was going to arrest me, but he shrugged and walked to the basins where I heard him wash his hands, humming.

  I waited until his heavy tread was inaudible and then started for the basins myself, having to double back for the newspaper.

  ‘I could walk away,’ I said in a whisper, staring at my reflection in the mirror, both hands on the basin. ‘Leave it and walk away.’

  But realistically I knew the time to do that had come and gone. I turned on a tap and watched water run into the plughole. New men came in, others exited. What if the police were waiting outside? That would be the best way to nab me—wait for me to exit with the paper. What if they already had the man in the blue shirt?

  ‘Fuck it,’ I said to myself, deciding not to think about all that could go wrong. I was not parting with the money or deviating from my plan, not now the worst was behind me. There was no reason to think it was a set-up. Hell, there had been a police officer in the toilets … And assuming there was no set-up, assuming Harry had not ratted, the police would be unprepared for me. I had to move, and move fast.

  I snatched up the newspaper and strolled out with a devil-may-care glare into Shinjuku Station proper. I passed a deli and a small supermarket and continued on towards the Saikyo Line. I hardly took a breath the whole way until I caught sight of something that calmed me considerably. Turning right to descend the broad stairs to Platform Four, I saw the policeman from the toilet. He was not more than five metres away, helping a girl up onto a stretcher with a second, skinnier policeman. The skinny one had a plastic cabinet with him, and from this he pulled a clear mask, expertly placing it to the girl’s mouth and pulling the elastic band back behind her head.

  ‘Ambulance,’ I said, feeling stupid.

  Platform Four rumbled.

  I took the stairs three at a time down to the train, slipping in seconds before the doors beeped shut. Only then, heartbeat racing, did I wonder if I had dropped the money. But there was no time to check as the train jolted and started forward. I stood with the folded paper in hand, praying I had not lost it all. It took five tense, clanking minutes to reach Ikebukuro, where I jumped out and again ran to the toilets, locking myself in a cubicle. I pulled the paper open but nothing fell out. I shook it manically and at last a small envelope slipped silently into the drop pit between my legs. Thankfully this was dry. I fished it out with a ball of toilet paper before tearing it open and removing a thin wad of 10,000 yen notes, all of which I stuffed into my wallet before dropping the envelope back in the toilet and stamping on the handle to flush all evidence.

  I let myself back out and again took the Saikyo Line, this time to Akabane where I transferred onto the Keihin– Tohoku Line for Nippori. There was probably a faster way of reaching Nippori, but I knew this route well. From Nippori I took the Skyliner to Narita, hopping off well before the international airport at the city itself. With a tourist map and considerable trudging I found the Japanese-style hotel I had booked online.

  It was a narrow building jammed between a dentist and a doctor’s office. Built in the sixties, it was now beginning to fall apart. Pulling back a heavy, wooden sliding door I let myself in and found a small office, crammed full of paper. There was a calendar with a young Japanese girl in a bikini and a desk piled high with junk. Three filing cabinets were open, revealing yet more documentation, and there was a small orange thermos threatening to fall onto the floor. Someone had slipped a note under the office door and I was about to call for assistance when I realised it was for me. The Japanese script made no sense, but my name was written in a gap with a red permanent marker, and when I lifted the note up I found a key underneath with no tag. I turned it over in my hand. There was a large 403 stamped into it.

  Tapping the key on my hip I wondered if I should have taken my shoes off at the front door, but it hardly mattered. No one was around and the corridor was all smooth, green concrete. Whatever this place was, it was not strictly traditional. Concessions had been made. There was a stark cafeteria with colourful plastic chairs, wood-veneer tables and a service counter, as well as a narrow, humming vending machine full of overpriced beer.

  There was no noise coming from my room when I finally found it, no indication anyone was inside. But I persisted in telling myself Mami had collected her key and was quietly waiting for me. I had booked for two. Surely they would have put two keys out. I slotted the small, oddly shaped key into the door and fought back disappointment when I found the room empty and untouched, two futons at the rear folded up and waiting. As a room it seemed unwelcoming and depressing. There were no chairs or tables, only an in-built bench and small beige TV. I took off my shoes and stepped onto the tatami matting. The room smelt stale, so I opened its only window.

  There was a small, laminated notice written in English sitting beside the television. It told me to make myself at home, fold out my bed when I felt tired and share the bathroom with others. Beneath it was a map indicating the way to this bathroom, which was seemingly back down on the first floor near the cafeteria. I turned on the TV to fill the room with noise, and at that moment a passenger jet, no doubt on
its final approach, passed overhead with a thunderous, rolling shhh. It set every wall rattling.

  Feeling cold, I shut the window.

  I sat on the tatami and stared up at the room’s only light—one globe with a cheap oriental frame. I could look into it without difficulty and still read the clock. In four hours it would be my birthday. It was an awful place to have a birthday, an awful time for a birthday. To celebrate I paid too much for a beer from the cafeteria vending machine, taking it back to my room and sipping at it. I thought about the money and went so far as to take out my wallet, putting it on the TV. I did not bother to count it. Not caring what happened to it I left it there and, folding out a futon, tried to sleep. There was always a chance Mami was delayed.

  Plan B

  When I woke the following morning, it was to the sound of the TV. I stared into it, into an ugly, fluorescent studio full of Japanese celebrities. Then, body aching, I stood, turned it off and noticed I was shivering. No doubt it was close to zero outside and I groped for the bar heater, clicking it on. Nothing seemed to happen.

  For an hour or two I lay on the futon listening to the rain. Then, still cold, I dressed without bothering to shower and wandered outside. The rich smell of soil and bark, stirred up by the rain, only strengthened as I wandered away from the hotel towards far-off rice paddies. Above me the sky was fogged over and hung low. The trees I passed were all leafless and skeletal, a few with tiny birds on the topmost branches, their wings hugging knot-like bodies. Cars passed, leaving a short trail of white exhaust, though there was little else in the way of people about. For a moment, wholly miserable, I wanted to wrap myself in people. It did not matter who. I wanted to drink, joke and celebrate my birthday with others. In the past it had been my habit to avoid friends on my birthday, to slink off like a cat preparing to die without giving a thought to those who might want to celebrate with me. But this year I wanted to be the centre of an enormous party.

  At some point, fed up with walking, I turned and started back towards the hotel. I thought glumly about the future now lying in wait for me. The obvious thing to do was return home, live with my father and enrol in something suitably obscure. Staying in Japan would be foolish. Where would I live? I could not return to Niigata without giving Phillip his share of the cash and I had no intention of doing that. There was always Europe or South America or a hundred other destinations, but to travel alone now seemed a gloomy proposition. The excitement had gone out of loneliness.

  Finally the hotel fell into view and something— a movement—caught my eye. I watched as a hefty rat scampered along the top of the front sliding door and slipped in behind a dented airconditioning unit. I wanted to catch it and stomp its skull flat.

  To Tuvalu

  Slotting the key into my door I did not expect to find Mami sitting on my windowsill in a red tweed coat with white stockings, strands of hair dancing in the cold, wet, midafternoon breeze. She smiled and tossed aside the TV remote.

  ‘So where are we going?’ she asked, jumping up and draping herself from my shoulders. Her hair smelt of shampoo and her skin was soft against my face when she kissed me, first on the cheek and then on the lips.

  ‘How long do we have to stay in here for?’ she asked, making it clear she did not approve.

  ‘Shit. You’re here.’

  ‘I am. Let’s get out of Japan as soon as we can.’

  ‘You’re serious? You’re planning to skip bail?’

  I was by now desperately trying to fight off a growing, very physical excitement. This apparition—which was no apparition at all—ran the instep of one soft, stockinged foot up my calf.

  ‘Bail? There is no bail. Not anymore. That was a misunderstanding. My father fixed it. Anyhow, you’re the one who suggested I flee.’

  ‘I know, but—’ ‘You’re not backing out are you?’

  ‘No.’

  She pointed to my wallet, still atop the TV. ‘I didn’t peek but it felt heavy. Are you rich now?’

  ‘A little rich.’

  She laughed. ‘Do we have air tickets?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  ‘The flight’s tomorrow.’

  ‘Going where?’

  ‘Tuvalu.’

  ‘Tuvalu? Is there such a place?’

  ‘I believe there is.’

  Mami laughed. ‘Pure madness. What’s it like?’

  ‘It’s an island. Warm, beautiful.’

  She took off the coat, revealing a figure-hugging short black dress with chiffon layers and a lace ruffle, the tweed belt hanging from her hips. Then she unzipped my pants and playfully tugged at them. ‘Sounds ideal,’ she said.

  I had not wanted her to do what she proceeded to do, had not requested it. I had not showered, and I told her to stop, but she would not listen. She told me to shut up and did as she pleased until I climaxed and dropped backwards onto the futon, clutching at my crotch. Unable to speak, her mouth clamped shut in a grin, Mami pointed frantically towards the communal bathroom map and finally shot out the door trying not to laugh.

  When she returned she put the tweed coat back on and we went for a walk, leaving my wallet on the TV without fear of theft and heading towards the same sunken, concrete-boarded paddies I had visited earlier in the day. All was white. It had started to snow and we stood at the edge of one of the larger paddies, staring across it.

  ‘My mother grew up in the country, up in Nagano. In the winter, farmers would fill these rice paddies with water and let them freeze over. Then everyone skated on them.’

  ‘I thought she was Korean.’

  Mami hesitated. ‘Born in Korea.’

  ‘And what, now she lives in Nagoya with your father?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘My stepmother, the Ice Queen, lives with my father in Nagoya. My mother’s been dead for years. She died in a plane crash, since you must know. She only ever had me. My sister, the newly married Kaketa, now a Hashimoto, she belongs to the Ice Queen. Thank God I never have to see my family again. I’ve cut up all my credit cards. There’s nothing tying me to any of them.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ I said, trying to suppress a suspicion I was being lied to. Perhaps Mami read my mind because she suddenly took off her shoes and stepped into the snow-covered rice paddy. Her warm feet melted the ice and dirt became mud, smearing the soles of her white stockings. She took them off, one leg at time, balled them up and walked awkwardly out towards the middle, bare skin bright between the red coat and snow.

  ‘My family will be worried,’ she called, turning and frowning slightly. ‘But my sister has her husband to look after her and my father … To hell with him. To hell with him for locking me up with the Ice Queen in Nagoya like that, like some sort of wild, dangerous animal, everyone watching, making sure I’m not going to kill myself. Hakodate was no better. The papers all said I’d run away, but I was abducted more like it. I didn’t get a chance to run, not until now.’

  ‘I met your father,’ I yelled to her.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He wasn’t very nice.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about your stepmother?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Why do you hate her?’

  ‘I don’t hate her.’

  ‘You called her the “Ice Queen”.’

  Mami shrugged, a far-off little movement, like a play of light.

  ‘She’s from another planet,’ she yelled, ‘and since they’ll be back for her soon, I’ve never made much effort. Never seemed worth it.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I thought it was.’

  Mami lit a cigarette and the snowy breeze carried the smell of tobacco to me. She stared about her and then started to walk. In an ambling fashion, she made her way back to the footpath, where we waited for her feet to dry, the mud peeling.

  ‘Why did you take your shoes off?’ I asked. ‘You should have left them on.’

&
nbsp; ‘No. Without’s best.’

  Later the same afternoon, framed in the light from the window, Mami was beautiful in her black dress. I kept glancing over at her and smiling. Even when she noticed and told me to quit it I did not. She was intent on smoking as much as possible and thinking about things I could not begin to guess at. She pulled one knee to her neck, rested her head on it and waggled her big toe with her free hand, watching it as if it belonged to someone else. Now and then she sighed and stretched, but mostly she seemed to want to be left alone in the windowframe, as if waiting for something.

  ‘What time do we take off?’ she asked, shortly after nightfall.

  ‘Early afternoon. I’ll check the tickets.’

  ‘No, don’t bother now. We’ll check later.’ She jumped down. ‘I have something for you.’

  She reached deep into her bag and tossed my crumpled denim jacket onto the floor.

  ‘You can keep it,’ I said. ‘Remember, I said you could.’

  ‘No, I don’t want it. I was only ever trying it on.’

  That night, probably stupidly, I tried to sleep with her, but she told me she felt ashamed and opted just to lie naked.

  ‘Ashamed?’ I asked, frustrated.

  ‘I wrote so many of those letters,’ she said. ‘It’s amazing how many I wrote.’

  ‘What letters?’

  ‘Like the one I sent you.’

  ‘You really sent more than one?’

  ‘I had a lot to be ashamed of. For a while, after I was caught stealing, I decided to be perfectly serious about being ashamed. Like most of my feelings it came and went, but not before I posted all those letters. I don’t know why I’m ashamed again now, though.’