‘Fugu,’ says the man next to him.
Chris’s reaction, an almost unconscious Japanese-style expression of exaggerated wide-eyed shock, draws a chuckle from the speaker. Chris is, in fact, genuinely shocked. The poisonous pufferfish is fatal if not prepared correctly, and only served legally at qualified restaurants of the most expensive and exclusive kind. Yet despite these precautions, there are fatalities every year. It’s his first taste. He focuses on his lips and tongue, anticipating the sensation of numbness that announces a fatal dose of poison and the untreatable onset of paralysis. It doesn’t come. He takes the whole glass of sake at one shot. There’s another laugh.
Noble Dawn announces: ‘At the end, we have the Night Train’s little brother.’
The Aaaahs emitted are of relief as much as anything; his presence now makes some sense. His neighbour tops up his glass. Bowing, Chris says, ‘Thank you, sir, for this great honour. My brother always spoke of you in the highest possible terms.’
Noble Dawn says into the silence, ‘The praise of one great man is worth the censure of many common ones.’
There is uncertain laughter.
‘You are too generous, sir,’ Chris says as meekly as he can while remaining audible.
‘The Night Train can’t be here, so you must eat in his place,’ says Noble Dawn. ‘We will eat fugu. Eat like it’s your last meal.’
It’s a toast the table embraces. Glasses are raised but Chris dares not raise his. He sips humbly instead. Conversation breaks out, wrestling talk, and the tension created by his arrival dissipates. Those at the other end of the table, the most senior of the party and the most important, can speak freely as long as they speak quietly. The sake kicks in. He’d like to loosen his tie but it’s too soon for such a familiar gesture. The path for his apology must be cleared diligently. The next dish is a stew in which the fugu is noticeable as a texture among the vegetables and broth rather than a taste. Again he checks for a creeping numbness, a tingling, in his mouth and lips.
The mention of the Night Train at the other end of the table sharpens his ears. The speaker is one of the judges, an ex-wrestler who looks about the same age as Patrick and Noble Dawn. ‘It’s murder. Not completely surprising considering his history. I hear he’s been taken in for beating up women in the past.’
Chris feels his face flush and busies himself with his chopsticks. On an empty stomach, the sake has him reeling.
‘Yes, he was arrested in Japan too,’ says Noble Dawn loudly, to expressions of surprise. ‘But it was hushed up.’
‘Arrested?’
‘For fighting in Fukuoka. More than once. He was a great favourite of the Yakuza of course. That’s why he got away with what he did.’
One of the older men he met previously at the VIP door speaks up. ‘It’s odd that the Yakuza would favour a foreigner given their rabid nationalist sentiments.’
An unknown voice. ‘Come on. They’re all Koreans!’
The table laughs at length.
‘He beat up a woman?’
‘On more than one occasion, I heard.’
‘But murder? Is this in keeping with his character?’
Noble Dawn wipes perspiration from his forehead with a napkin and regards the other judges, the two ex-wrestlers, but remains silent.
‘Well,’ says the first judge, ‘I don’t mind being carried out of the ring by my belt—yes, it happened once or twice—but I don’t like being unnecessarily upended on the way down. I popped a shoulder and the tournament was over for me.’
When reaction to this has passed, the second judge says, ‘Despite some flaws, let’s say unavoidable flaws, I believe he was the wrestler of his generation. Only our host here had any consistent success against him.’
One judge against the Night Train, one judge for. Noble Dawn dabs at his forehead with the napkin before casting the deciding vote on his brother’s character. The black eyes in his fat head find Chris. ‘I visited his home recently and spoke to his mistress, the whore Tanaka. She told me she often feared for her life. Furthermore, she said he made her carry their bastard child.’
‘Ah!’
The sashimi arrives on three great plates, cut in fine overlapping translucent strips and arranged as a rising spiral.
‘I feel sorry for his younger brother,’ continues Noble Dawn when the plates have been placed, ‘because despite everything, the Night Train was like a father to him.’
All Chris can do is bow where he sits.
‘He is where he belongs,’ is the closing comment on the subject of his brother. Compliments fly on the artistry of the chef.
Driven by the sake, Chris stands and bows. ‘Please forgive me. I came to deliver my brother’s wish, in effect his dying wish, that his anger be forgiven by—’
‘Enough,’ snaps Noble Dawn. ‘Come here.’
As Chris makes his way down the table, full of trepidation, Noble Dawn gestures to a waiter to bring him his jacket, from which he retrieves a white envelope. Casually, without making eye contact, he holds it out to Chris. ‘For your family.’
‘I can’t accept that, sir.’
‘Take it.’
‘Sorry, but no. It’s simply impossible.’
‘Take it.’
To refuse twice is polite; to refuse the money a third time would be a gross insult. ‘Thank you, but I have no family left to give it to, sir.’
‘Get out, then!’
‘Throw this dog out.’
Curses rise from the table and two men spring up, small men, who take hold of him roughly and escort him away.
Noble Dawn calls after him in his fat man’s voice. ‘I can’t help you if you can’t help yourself.’
Three waiters stand over him as he puts on his shoes in the reception area. The attendants are horror-stricken. Leaving, he expects a kick or at least a shove from the largest waiter following him. It doesn’t happen. He’s free on Empress Street, swept along with the crowd of Japanese diners and clubbers. He stops at a tiny hole-in-the-wall hamburger place, the type popular with drunks and teenagers. At one of the three barstools near the door, he angrily devours his Godzilla and chips and watches people stream by. Noble Dawn’s attendant hurries past, or someone very much like him. As he finishes the burger, one of the waiters who ushered him out passes by in his black uniform, craning his head, looking intently up the street. His first guess is that they want to give him the money. How good would that make Noble Dawn look, he thinks: thanking his minions as they return to the table with the news that they have located little Ipswitch in a bar, who was very grateful and full of regret for his arrogance—a family trait. Either that, or they mean to do him physical harm. If so, they’ll be armed. He sighs and wipes the grease from his fingers. How many more are looking for him? How many he’s never seen before? He notices a taxi stand just up from the window, previously invisible to him. Kiwis only take taxis on their wedding day. In a moment he’s reclining in the back seat, being borne away to safety.
At the guesthouse, in the quiet luxury of his room, his impulse to flee fades. He feels he has already got away, that perhaps his plan to leave Auckland immediately was a little rash, given that he’s already paid for the night. Then again, Noble Dawn is a two-faced scumball who may well decide to have him murdered. Unsure whether to stay or leave, he leaves his key in the locked door and turns on the shower. As he waits in the bathroom for the steam to build before disrobing, he hears the door to his room rattle. He acts quickly: locks the bathroom door, and climbs out the large window into foliage. The shower continues to run, quieter, as his bare feet settle on damp earth. His car’s right there; the keys, he knows, are in his pocket. In a flash he’s across the cold concrete, into his car and away.
Chapter 27:
The hit
He gets lost several times in the tangle of roads leading out of the city, and his fury briefly transfers from Noble Dawn to the signage. When he eventually finds himself on the motorway heading south, he cries out, ‘I’m coming, br
o! Now we know who we’re fighting!’ He is ready to drive all night and make the early morning sailing from Wellington.
Three hours later, after the realisation that the morning ferry no longer runs, and the stress of being waved through a checkpoint, he stops by the side of the road. He’s on the plateau north of Taupo. His bare feet are cold. The air pinches his ears and he breathes steam as he pisses. The pine forest has been recently logged. The land is stumped and ugly, ravaged, the timber on its way to Britain via Ireland, the money to Japan. The country is being bled dry. A wave of weariness comes over him and he knows he must sleep. But an hour after taking a motel room in Taupo and watching a Japanese baseball game on mute, he realises he won’t be able to sleep and quietly leaves. For a while, back on the road, the thought of seeing his brother invigorates him. By the time he gets to Bulls he’s flagging badly. His cries of ‘I’m coming, bro!’ won’t clear away his exhaustion anymore. Just a couple of hours of sleep will do. Waiterere Beach strikes him as a good place to rest, if not in the bach with Hitomi, then in the car in a secluded place under pines.
When he pulls up in the driveway the bach is dark, as is number 3 over the road. There’s no sign of anything amiss. He takes the gumboots outside the door, creeps over muddy grass down the side of the house and taps on the bedroom window. No reply. She must have left. He pushes the window and it slides up. Suddenly he’s wide awake. Breaking in will not be conducive to sleep. He slides the window back down.
‘Huh?’
‘Hitomi?’
‘Chris?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, one minute.’
She’s looking for her wig, he thinks. Indeed, her wigged head soon appears at the window. She’s wearing a T-shirt and knickers. She lifts the window hard and it bangs alarmingly.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You can use the door if you like.’
‘No, now I’m here.’ As he heaves himself in, her hand taps impatiently on his back. A solemn kiss and then she hugs him hard. Pulling back, she says, ‘I’m glad you came.’
‘Me too.’
He’s woken by the smell of a Kiwi breakfast under his nose. The boiled eggs and toast she’s prepared are oddly touching. It’s already late in the morning. He’ll have to leave at around 8 pm for the late sailing to Lyttelton. She curls up and watches him eat. ‘It’s delicious,’ he tells her, more than once.
When he’s finished she says, ‘It’s cold today.’
He lights the fire and enjoys the process: splitting the logs out the back with the axe, splintering kindling with the hatchet, building a tepee frame over a ball of newspaper in the grate, lighting it in four places, watching it take, building it up. He pulls up two armchairs and they warm their feet. Neither of them say much. They drink tea. An hour later Chris is woken by the cold to find Hitomi sleeping in her armchair beside him. He relights the fire.
They cook dinner together, a dish they call Kiwi-Japanese fusion: lightly fried balls of tinned tuna. He ends up eating all but one of them. Back in the glow of the fire, bracing himself to leave, he says, ‘I found out who is behind my niece’s murder.’
He waits for her to reply, but she just watches the fire. She’s watching it so intently he decides she hasn’t heard him. ‘I found out who—’.
‘Yes. Who is it?’
‘An old opponent of my brother’s, who holds a grudge for some reason.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Noble Dawn.’
‘Oh, the great Noble Dawn. Huh.’ She’s flushed red.
‘You know him?’
‘Sorry, but he’s famous for beating your brother. He’s a living legend in Japan for that.’
‘Why would he hate my brother?’
‘I don’t know. When it came to your older brother, people forgot sumo was sport, a show. People who never cared about sumo became passionately involved. For some people Noble Dawn’s victories over the Night Train saved Japan’s pride and honour.’
The fire burns.
‘I’ve enjoyed hanging out with you today.’ He smiles. ‘Perhaps we should talk more?’
‘Yes, but it takes time.’ She nods emphatically. ‘It should take time to find the right words.’
Chris watches the fire’s steady combustion.
‘I’ve been accused of getting my relationships back to front,’ she adds. ‘You’re supposed to talk first—’
‘And then go to bed.’
‘Right.’
He feels that they’re finding a new level of intimacy in front of the fire, talking and being silent. He thinks it might be a good time to confess he has visions of Johnny Lennon, and that the second vision saved him from death by hypothermia in a freezing river. He retrieves a couple of cassettes from his car. Back inside, he rewinds the first studio album, Long Johnny Silver, and opens the remaining bottle of wine. He finds he’s anxious at what she will think as he pushes play.
‘I’ve heard this before. Is he a Kiwi?’
He wants to say yes. ‘He came from England as a little kid on a Compassion ship during the famine of ’46, when the Russians were expected to invade. Occupied New Zealand was seen as a better bet by some. There was food.’
‘Oh.’
‘Actually, his mother didn’t want him to come. His father secretly took him to the dock, intending to sneak away. But Johnny’s mother and her boyfriend turned up just before they were about to leave. There was this big argument by the ship and Johnny’s father forced him to choose. He was five. Can you imagine that? And he chose his mother twice, but as his father walked up the gangplank he started to cry and followed him.’
‘Poor kid.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are these his songs?’
He’d like to say they are. ‘No, it’s mainly covers on this album, covers of songs by American musicians. Chuck Berry, Bob Dylan. This one’s a Paul McCartney song though.’
‘Is he a Kiwi?’
‘No, he’s English, from the same town as Lennon, funnily enough. McCartney actually covered one of his songs a few years back, which is pretty major.’
His desire to tell her about his visions retreats as side one plays itself out ineffectually in the oddly formal setting with its red wine, real fire, and this older woman listening conscientiously. The lyrics on the rock ’n’ roll tracks seem mundane, embarrassing. It occurs to him that the visions of Lennon came only when he was extremely stressed or wasted. The first visitation, in the cell in Christchurch, came after he hadn’t slept for twenty-four hours, when he feared for his life. There was still a lot of hashish in his system the second time. Lennon was clearly a product of his subconscious.
‘I like his later stuff better,’ he says. It feels like a betrayal.
‘Put it on.’
‘Not right now,’ he says tersely and pours himself another wine.
The phone rings. Hitomi holds her fingers to her lips and takes the call in the bedroom.
‘The owner,’ she says when she returns. ‘Can I have a glass of wine?’
‘I thought you were allergic?’
‘I am. I can have one.’
She seems nervous about drinking it though. Not long after the first sip, her face is pink.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happens if you have two glasses?’
‘My face swells up. Ha. And gets very red. My eyes too.’
She finishes the glass somewhat heroically in his eyes. It takes a toll. He’s touched by her willingness to share a moment with him. He doesn’t want to leave to catch the ferry. He wants to spend one more night with her before the trials that wait in Christchurch.
‘I’ll be in the bathroom,’ she says apologetically.
New Hokkaido Page 18
