‘Okay desu ka?’ she asks.
‘No, no,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’ Boy pushes her hand away. Maeve was the last person he had sex with. Almost a year in New York and he’s practically become a eunuch. That’s what true obsession will do to you.
‘Dozou!’ The woman stands next to the table and begins massaging his legs. She starts with his left thigh and works her way down to his kneecap. Boy wants to talk to her but knows it’s useless. The massage therapist reaches his left foot and presses into his heel with her thumbnail. She moves to the other leg and does the same pattern.
Boy’s mind is blank now, and his body naturally responds by giving him a full-fledged erection. He tries to think the erection away, doesn’t want the woman to look up and see it. It’s starting to hurt now, starting to feel like his flesh is being pried apart by something inside him. He shakes his head. Not now. Not now. The woman naturally notices and her hand returns to his prick.
‘Okay?’
‘No, no,’ he says, not knowing why he’s depriving himself, not knowing what’s stopping him. ‘Here,’ he says, pointing back to his temples.
‘Massāji o shitaidesu ka?’
‘What?’
‘Massāji?’
‘Massage. Massage. Here,’ he says, pointing again to his temples.
‘Okay.’
She stands behind the crown of his head and drops her hands onto his skull. Wrapping her hands around his head, she begins thrusting her thumbs deep into his temples. Boy looks up at her one more time. Black olive eyes. She has them and the look on her face is indecipherable. Boy feels a wave of emotion spread from his chest to his tear ducts.
‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’
She applies more pressure and the images of his limited existence materialize. There’s nothing linear about it. One moment he’s hugging Mom as she’s crying, and the next he’s getting his blood drawn at the research clinic. He’s waking up with Salome hovering over him, he’s watching Philly Ghost disappear into the shadows, he’s on the subway, he’s reclining on an airplane, he’s being driven around in Mom’s old Ford Taurus, he’s hallucinating with Friend in the toy store, he’s getting off the school bus, he’s being attacked by Glass Wings, he’s at the border crossing nervously waiting in line. Goddamn if life isn’t a series of mishaps that have somehow strewn themselves together in a way that is both frustrating and absolutely fascinating.
His ghosts, his hallucinations, the people that have shaped him, the people that have come and gone. The Japanese woman’s fingers dig them out. They line up. Identify the assailant. They all play their part; they all carry their own luggage. He feels guilty for his thoughts, guilty that he has found success in the most offhand way, ashamed that he actually has the time to worry about the things he worries about. Not many people have the time.
‘Let it go.’
‘Penelope?’ Boy asks, trembling. The voice comes from under the massage table.
‘Okay desu ka?’ the Japanese woman asks.
‘Okay.’
‘I’m always here.’
Let it go. Boy wants to free himself from the chains that are indeed his own creation. Shatter the hallucinations.
‘What prison?’
Penelope’s right. He isn’t in prison. He’s in Tokyo. He’s getting a massage before going to his five star hotel. He has become everything he’s ever hoped to be and it happened in a year’s time. Life is a joke. A wonderful, outlandish joke that is only funny in retrospect.
Boy starts to laugh. The woman stops massaging. She hesitates for a minute as he sits up, laughing even harder.
‘Okay desu ka?’ she asks, startled.
‘It’s okay,’ he says, covering his shrinking erection with the towel. ‘Everything is okay.’
₪₪₪
‘What do I say to them?’ Boy asks. He can still feel the woman’s thumbs digging into his temples although the massage ended almost an hour. He hasn’t said anything to Oggie about the experience and Oggie hasn’t pried.
They’re walking down a polished corridor at the Keio Plaza Hotel in Shinjuku. Grapefruit Orange, Mars Black, Phthalocyanine Green. They pass a small bar. A thin Japanese woman sits by herself at a table. Tight green dress and high heels. Her face is coconut white, her cheeks sliced strawberries. They make eye contact as he walks by.
‘Just say, arigatō and move on. If you wait for them to stop thanking you, you’ll be there a while. It’s how service workers are trained here.’
The elevator door opens. A small Japanese man in a Tuxedo bows and says something to Oggie. Floors are selected and the door closes.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ Oggie says as Boy wheels his luggage onto the thirty-ninth floor.
The elevator door slides shut with Oggie inside. Take the elevator to the lobby. The woman in the bar has piqued his interest, but he’s still reeling from what just happened at the massage parlor. Boy’s first foray into the sex trade. What really happened there? Suppress and examine another day.
Boy opens the door to his hotel room. A brief foyer spreads into a rectangular space. Adjacent to the living room are a series of tatami mats under a black dining room table. A white leather couch sits in front of a wall-mounted LCD screen. Shocked by the grandiosity of it all, Boy walks to the balcony and steps outside. The humidity is worse than Houston.
Tokyo is a column of lights. Outside chundered future techie bustle. Electro-bright brilliance. Boy’s seen a similar view from Oggie’s penthouse near Central Park. Still, nothing like this. He steps back inside and the humidity tries to follow him in. He spreads his arms wide, falls backwards onto the queen-sized bed. Cloud soft whipped-cream sleeping. He lies like this until he knows he’d better get up.
What the wealthy experience as juxtaposed to what the poor experience is spellbinding. There are better rooms than this. Oggie is staying in one three floors up. Luxury is contagious, violent and wonderful in the eye of the beholder.
Boy remembers sharing all those rooms with his sister as he grew up. Funny that, change. From nothing to something and how can he say no to success? He glances again at the Tokyo skyline. Nope, he can’t.
‘Penelope?’ Boy asks aloud. Glass Wings and Lucy hadn’t visited since he started sleeping regularly, but Penelope still spoke to him from time to time.
‘Yes?’
A tingling sensation fills him, reminding him that he will never be cured.
‘You’re here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’ He peels himself off the bed.
‘Here.’
Boy turns the light on in the bathroom. A sauna-sized tub anchors the corner; a wraparound mirror and a bowl instead of a sink gives the place a galactic, contemporary feel. The Jetsons never had it so good.
‘Are you in the bathtub?’ he asks.
‘On the counter.’
Boy reaches his hand out and touches Penelope’s leg. He looks around the bathroom and sees an unopened bottle of lotion. Squirting some into his hand, he reaches to where Penelope’s face should be.
A streak of milky white lotion is now painted across her eyes like a raccoon. He spreads his hand over her lips, fills in the rest of her face. Penelope now resembles a Thalia mask, a white floating face with invisible eye holes.
‘When was the last time I painted you?’ Boy asks.
‘Over a year ago.’
‘Well, you haven’t aged any.’
‘Something on your mind?’ Her face scrunches into a confused look.
‘The only other country I’ve been in is Mexico and now I’m in Japan. I have no idea what I should be doing.’
‘Why don’t you go back to the lobby?’
₪₪₪
The activity in the lobby swells around him like biblical locusts. The high ceilings make the place seem more important than it really is. Boy turns towards the small bar and sees the Japanese woman he’d seen earlier. She’s gathering her things into her hefty green purse. He stops in front of her t
able. Confidence, something almost foreign to him, gives him a boost of much needed courage.
‘Hi, uh, hello. Do you mind if I sit?’ he asks. ‘Also, do you speak English?’ he adds as an afterthought.
‘Yes.’
‘English or can I sit?’
‘Both.’ She smiles at him in a playful way. Don’t blow it.
Her hair is black at the roots and rosewood at the tips. Apple-cheeks, large, cuttlefish eyes, small nose. Perfect symmetry reminds Boy of a well-executed painting. He suddenly feels underdressed in his pearl snap button-up with the frayed cuffs that he got from a thrift store in Crown Heights.
The waiter comes by with a menu, slides it in front of Boy and bows.
‘W-what do you do?’ Boy asks. His confidence quickly transmutes into apprehension.
‘I work as an accountant for Softbank. You know Softbank?’
‘No.’
‘It’s a cell phone company.’ Her accent shades the end of each word she speaks, adding a peculiar sharpness to her speech. She reaches into her purse and hands him her card. The backside is printed in English: Megumi Hiroguchi. ‘Don’t you have a cell phone?’ she asks.
‘I just arrived today.’
‘Are you tired?’
‘Not really. I slept on the airplane.’
The waiter floats by, anticipating an order. Boy looks at the beer page and orders a Sapporo. It’s the only thing he’s familiar with aside from Budweiser and Heineken. ‘You want something?’ he asks.
‘I suppose I’ll have something.’
Megumi says something to the waiter in Japanese. He leaves and she turns back to Boy. ‘Why have you come to Tokyo?’ she asks, her eyes settling on him.
‘I have an opening at an art gallery in Roppongi.’
It still doesn’t feel real saying that. His self-doubt is suppressed with an audible swallow.
‘You said you’re an artist?’ A light flashes across her near black pupils. He’s seen the flash before. Many people are attracted to the nature of artistic ability, but few can actually manage the extent of what it means after the rose-colored glasses have been ground into the floor.
‘Yeah,’ he says in an almost confident voice he’s still trying to master. A light rain plinks against the floor-to-ceiling windows outside the bar as Boy’s eyes dart away.
‘That’s interesting. I’ve never met an artist.’
‘I’m sure you have.’
The waiter sets a beer and a fancy looking cocktail on the table.
‘I mean a successful one. Most artists, musicians and authors I meet aren’t successful. They hang out in Shimokitazawa looking cool but hardly doing anything. Are you talented? Cheers,’ she says as they toast.
‘No, I’m horrible,’ Boy says, choosing sarcasm.
Megumi looks at him curiously for a moment. The joke registers and she smiles. ‘So you are good?’
‘Hard to say.’
‘Do you paint or, oh I don’t know the word for other kinds of art.’
‘I paint and do other things.’ Boy thinks of the Glass Wings and Penelope sculptures he’s created. In two days he will oversee the installation of the pieces. Portraits of the Ghosts that Haunt Me. Two days.
‘So you’re staying here?’ she asks.
‘Yes, the thirty-ninth floor. The view is amazing.’
‘I want to see.’
‘Well, let’s finish these and go up there,’ Boy says, in the smoothest voice he’s used in years.
‘Sure, why not?’
₪₪₪
On the elevator ride up, Boy tries to withhold the image of Megumi lunging at him as soon as he enters his hotel room. It can’t be this easy, he keeps reminding himself, even though he hopes it is. Let it happen – Friend’s words, not his.
They enter his hotel room. Megumi takes off her high heels and slips into a pair of sandals provided by the hotel. After admiring the view, she sits down onto the couch and picks up the room service menu.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asks. ‘Aren’t you going to take your shoes off?’
He looks down at his untied Converse. ‘Oh, I forgot…’ He kicks off his shoes and looks at the room service menu. ‘What’s this? Oko-no-mi-yaki? Eggs over seafood?’
‘It is delicious, maybe like Japanese pizza. We can share one. It will be very big. Sake to drink?’ Megumi asks.
‘Sure. You decide.’
As they wait for the food to arrive, Megumi watches television and translates the stories for Boy. Hundreds of thousands of people have to be evacuated in Kyoto because of a flood. Fukoshima reactor 4 is leaking again. Abenomics is in full swing. China is encroaching like an ominous shadow. She changes to a movie and inches closer to Boy.
The food comes on a silver platter. Okonomiyaki looks like a high school volcano experiment gone horribly right. Under an omelet-shell of eggs, octopus tentacles and shrimp mingle with diced bell peppers and sautéed onions over a flour bottom that almost resembles a tortilla. It smells delicious; the aroma alone makes Boy’s mouth water.
As they eat, Megumi discusses growing up in Nagoya. When asked, Boy steers the conversation away from his life, preferring not to relive the memories. The okonomiyaki disappears, doused by a small stream of constantly poured sake. Megumi’s seemingly strict posture melts into the couch. Soon, a feeling of lightheadedness fills Boy, and he too sags down to a near horizontal position.
‘The pieces you will display in Japan, do they have a name?’
‘The collection is called, Portraits of the Ghosts that Haunt Me.’
Megumi looks around the room for a second. Her voice drops, ‘So you are haunted by ghosts then?’
Boy prepares the explanation he’s practiced in his head countless times. ‘Not exactly. Over the years, I’ve experienced strange visits in my dreams, dreams only. I’ve collected these visions, some grotesque, others slightly bizarre, into a collection.’
‘You don’t see them now?’ she asks, keeping her eye trained on the corner of the room.
‘No, no. In my youth only.’
‘What about that one over there?’
‘What?’ Boy sits up. Clearing his throat, he glances in the direction Megumi seems fixated on. He can see the outline of Penelope’s face still plastered with lotion. It resembles a floating Kabuki mask. Impossible! ‘N-nope, I can’t see anything.’
‘You can’t see anything?’ Megumi asks, pulling herself to her feet. She glances back at Boy curiously.
‘No, of course not!’ He laughs it off to cover the chill of fear rattling his bones. ‘I used to see things when I was younger. It was just my mind’s response to a troubling childhood. You know, like imaginary friends. Do you have that kind of thing in Japan?’
‘What’s your name?’ Megumi asks, waving at Penelope. The expression on Penelope’s lotion-covered face curves into an odd, almost sinister smile.
‘Penelope,’ she says.
Boy’s stomach sinks.
‘Hi Penelope, I’m Megumi.’
She approaches Penelope cautiously. Megumi’s eyes move back and forth between two places: her bag, which is sitting on the adjacent sofa, and Penelope’s lotion smeared face.
‘Hi, Megumi.’
‘Will you join us?’ She gestures over to where Boy is sitting.
‘Not possible,’ he whispers.
₪₪₪
Penelope’s face hovers in front of Megumi and Boy.
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ Megumi says, sitting back down next to him.
‘Nothing to be ashamed of?’ Boy has to laugh. This is a hallucination!
‘Nothing to be ashamed of,’ Penelope repeats.
Boy stands. The sake floors him and he stumbles forward. He turns to the balcony. ‘I’m going to jump,’ he says, half-kidding, half-serious. No more hallucinations.
‘Relax…’ Megumi reaches out and grabs his wrist. Her hand is warm, and the sudden contact sends a tidal wave of gooseflesh across his skin. Penelope’s face sinks into a fro
wn.
‘I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it.’
‘Do you want me to go?’ Penelope asks, watching him pace across the living room. Her floating white face follows him as he moves.
Japanese woman can see my ghosts. Japanese woman can see my ghosts. Japanese woman can see my ghosts.
He takes a deep breath. ‘Okay, so you can see her. Okay, that’s fine. That’s fine.’ He tries to feign optimism. ‘Tell me what you see.’
‘I see a naked girl. You painted her face with lotion, right?’
‘All this time,’ Boy looks up at the ceiling, momentarily forgetting that Megumi and Penelope are in the room. ‘All this time I thought I was hallucinating; all this time I thought I was going crazy. You can actually see her form?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought I was going crazy…’
‘As long as she isn’t hurting you, you should enjoy it,’ Megumi says. He notices now that her purse is tucked under her arm and her hand is resting inside.
‘Enjoy it? Have you ever had a man with large glass wings attack you? Have you? Have you ever—’ Boy almost mentions the two times he’s had sex with Lucy. He swallows the confession. ‘Never mind. Fuck… just…’
‘—What did you call them? We call them, genkaku.’
‘Hallucinations,’ Boy says. His teeth are grinding together. He’s agitated now, shaking his head. Maybe he should feel happy, maybe he should rejoice in the fact that he’s not alone. But whether she knows it or not, Megumi only reinforces the fact that something is wrong with him. Too much to handle. Escape.
₪₪₪
Open the door. Close the door. Open the door. Close the door. Leave. Your passport is in there. Fuck it. Money. Fuck it. Laptop. Fuck it. Process what has just happened.
Boy’s twitchy, Megumi’s calling after him, Penelope is in the hallway outside his hotel room asking, ‘Where are you going?’
Boy wants to say, ‘Too much.’ He wants to scream, ‘You are my hallucination! YOU ARE MY HALLUCINATION!’
He doesn’t say it but Penelope responds anyhow. ‘I am everyone’s hallucination.’
Boy versus Self: (A Psychological Thriller) Page 25
