Number9dream

by David Mitchell

  At seven-forty I suddenly know where I am: Omekaido Avenue. That zirconium skyscraper is PanOpticon. I walk a little farther toward Shinjuku and get to the intersection with Kita Street. Jupiter Cafe. The morning is already shallow-frying. I check my money. If I walk back to Ueno, I can afford my submarine back to Kita Senju and buy a light breakfast.

  Jupiter Cafe is air-conned soggy cool. I buy coffee and a pineapple muffin, sit at my window seat, and examine my ghostly reflection in the window: a twenty-year-old Eiji Miyake, hair matted with sweat, smelling of pot and, apparently, sex, and sporting—I see to my horror—a love bite the size of Africa over my Adam’s apple. My complexion has completed its metamorphosis from Kyushu tan to drone paste. The waitress with the most perfect neck is not working this morning—if she saw me in my present condition, I would give a howl, age nine centuries, and desiccate into a mound of dandruff and fingernails. The only other customer is a woman with a toolbox of makeup studying a fashion magazine. I vow mentally never to stroke another woman again, ever. I savor my muffin and watch the media screen on the NHK building. Missile launchers recoil, cities catch fire. A new Nokia cell phone. Foreign affairs minister announces putative WW2 Nanking excesses are left-wing plots to destroy patriotism. Zizzi Hikaru washes her hair in Pearl River shampoo. Fly-draped skeletons stalk an African city. Nintendo proudly presents Universal Soldiers. The kid who hijacked a coach and slit three throats says he did it to stand out. I watch the passing traffic, until I hear a hacking cough. I never noticed Lao Tzu appear. He takes out a pack of Parliament cigarettes, but has lost his lighter. “Hello again, Captain.” I lend him my lighter. “Morning.” He notices my love bite, but says nothing. In front of him is a flip-up video game screen, book-size but designed in the twenty-third century. “Brand-new vidboy3—ten thou by ten thou res, four gigabytes, wraparound sonics, Socrates artificial intelligence chip. Software was launched only last week: Virtua Sapiens . A present from my daughter-in-law”—Lao Tzu shifts on his stool—“on doctor’s orders, to stave off senility.” I slide the ashtray between us. “That’s nice of her.” Lao Tzu flicks ash. “You call getting my cretin son to sell off my rice fields to a supermarket owner nice? So much for filial duty! I let the brat have the land to stop the tax wolves attacking when I die, and this”—he prods the machine—“is how I get repaid. I got to go shake the hose— you get leaky at my age. Care for a test drive while I’m gone?” He slides his vidboy3 over the counter toward me and wanders off to the rest room. I take off my baseball cap, plug myself in, and press RUN. The screen clears.

  Welcome to Virtua Sapiens [all rights reserved]

  I see you are a new user. What is your online title? >eiji miyake

  Congrats for registering with Virtua Sapiens, Eiji Miyake. You will never be lonely again. Please select a relationship category. Friend, Enemy, Stranger, Lover, Relative. >relative

  Okay, Eiji. Which relative would you like to meet today? >my father, of course

  Well, excuse me. Please hold still for three seconds while I digitize your face. An eye icon blinks and a microlens built into the screen frame blinks red. Okay--now hold extra still while I register your retina. One wall, a floor, and a ceiling appear. A whirlpool carpet bitmaps the floor. Pinstripes unroll up the walls. A window appears, with a view of plum blossoms tossing in a spring storm. Curtains of rain blur the glass. I even hear the rain. The room is gloomy. A lamp appears on the left and glows cozy yellow. A see-through sofa appears under the window. The sofa is inked in with zigzags. And in the center of the sofa appears my father, right foot folded on left knee, which looks cool but cannot be comfortable. The program has given him my nose and mouth, but made him jowlier and thinned his hair. His eyes are those of a mad scientist on the eve of world domination. His wrinkles are symmetrical. He is wearing a black dressing gown—he sort of glows, as if he got out of the bath five minutes ago. My father leans over to screen right, where a wine bucket appears—he slides the bottle out and reads the label. “Chablis, 1993.” A crisp, clear, even voice, perfect for weather forecasting. He pours himself a glass, makes a great show of savoring the bouquet, and sort of snorts it through his lips. He winks. An enamel smile flashes. “Welcome home, son. Refresh my memory, will you—how long has it been?” >never, actually

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Such a long time? Time flies like an arrow! What a lot of news we have to catch up on. But you and I will get on like a house on fire. So tell me about school, son.”

  >i left. i am 20

  He sips his wine, sloshing it around his tongue, and runs a hand back through his hair. “Is that so, son?” He leans forward toward the screen between us—the resolution is amazing—I flinch backward. “So you must be at university, right? Is that a cafeteria I see in the background?” >i didn’t bother applying for university. no parents to pay and no money

  My father leans back and lounges a lazy arm over the back of the sofa. “Is that so, son? That strikes me as a pity. Education is a wonderful thing. So how do you spend your time, exactly?”

  >i am a rock star

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Is that a fact, son? Tell me. Are you a successful rock star, with fame and fortune, or are you one of the unwashed millions still waiting for your lucky break to come along?”

  >very successful. all over the world

  He winks and flashes an enamel smile. “I know meeting your old man after all this time is tough, son, but honesty is always the best policy. If you are such a big noise in the entertainment world, how come I’ve never heard of you in Time magazine?”

  >i perform under an alias to protect my privacy

  He knocks back the rest of his wine. “It isn’t that I don’t believe you, son, but could you tell me your alias? I want to boast about my rock star son to my buddies—and bank manager!”

  >john lennon

  My father slaps his knee. “The real John Lennon was assassinated by Mark David Chapman in 1980, therefore I know you are pulling my leg!” >mind if I change the subject?

  He comes across all serious, and puts down his glass. “Time for a father-and-son heart-to-heart, is it? We don’t have to be afraid of our feelings anymore. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  > who are you exactly?

  “Your father, son!”

  >but as a human, who are you?

  My father refills his glass. Lightning fuses the sky, the plum blossom scratches the windowpane, and the purple on gray is transformed to black on titanium white. I guess the program needs more time to respond to unlikely or general questions. My father chuckles and places his feet together. “Well, son, that is one big question. Where would you like me to begin?”

  >what sort of man are you?

  My father rests his left foot on his right knee. “Let me see. I’m Japanese, fifty next birthday. By profession I am an actor. My hobbies are snorkeling and wine appreciation. But fear not—all these details will come to light as our relationship unfolds—and I trust you’ll be visiting again soon! I would like to introduce you to a special person. What do you say?”

  >ok

  The screen pans to the right, past the wine bucket. A woman—in her late thirties?—sits on the floor, smoking, humming snatches of “Norwegian Wood” between drags. She is wrapped in a man’s shirt, and black leggings hug her shapely legs. Long hair flows down to her waist. She has my eyes. “Hi, Eiji.” Her voice is tender and pleased to see me. “Can you guess who I might be?”

  >snow white?

  She smiles sideways at my father and puts out her cigarette. “I see you have your father’s sense of humor. I’m your mother.”

  >but mommy dear, you haven’t seen daddy for 17 years The program processes this unexpected input while the storm head-butts the window. My mom lights another cigarette. “Well, we had a few fences to mend, I admit. But now we get on like a house on fire.”

  >so you finally ran out of suckers to give you money?

  “That hurts, Eiji.” My virtual mother turns away and sobs alarmingly like my r
eal one, a sort of dry, hidden quaking. I am typing in an apology, but my father responds first. He speaks in a slow and threatening thespian lilt. “This is a home, young man, not a hotel! If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, you know where the door is!” What a pair of virtual parents the program generated for me! They are thinking, “What a virtual son reality generated for us.” The plum blossoms suffer wear and tear in the unseasonal weather.

  “Hello? Wakey! Anybody home?” A man in Jupiter Cafe shouts so loud he drowns out the sound of the virtual rainstorm. “Wrong change, little lady! If you never learned to add up they shouldn’t let you on a register!” I unplug myself and turn around to see what the fuss is about. A grizzly drone in a stained shirt snarls at the girl with the most perfect neck in creation—when did she get here? She stares back, surprised but unfazed. Donkey is washing dishes, staying out of trouble, while my girl struggles to be polite with this human hog. “You only gave me a fivethousand-yen note, sir.”

  “Listen to me, girlie! I gave you a ten-thousand-yen note! Not five! Ten!”

  “Sir, I am quite sure—”

  He rears up on his two hind legs. “You saying I’m fibbing, girlie?”

  “No sir, but I am saying you are mistaken.”

  “You a feminist?”

  The line of customers ruffles uneasily, but nobody says anything.

  “I—”

  “I gave you a ten thousand, you abortion bucket! Correct change! Now!”

  She pings open the register. “Sir, there isn’t even a ten-thousand note in here.”

  Hog slavers and twitches his tusks. “So! You steal from the register as well!”

  Maybe I am still semistoned from the hash, or maybe Virtua Sapiens reshuffled my sense of reality, but I find myself walking over and tapping the guy on his shoulder. He turns around. His mouth is one bent sneer. Hog is larger than I thought, but it is too late to back out so I attack first and hardest. I douse his face with coffee and headbutt his nose, really really hard. Christmas lights flicker in my eyes—Hog backs off, leaking a bubbly “Aaaaaaaaa” noise. Blood trickles from his nose through his fingers. I steady myself and my hand gropes for something to brandish. The pain in my forehead crushes my voice jagged. “Get out right now or I’ll smash your fricking teeth into tiny fricking splinters with”—I look at what I’m holding—“this ashtray!” I must look deranged enough to mean business—after wheezing about police and assault in a beaky voice, Hog retreats. The customers look on. Lao Tzu pats my shoulder. “Neat work, Captain.” Donkey comes over to her coworker, all concern. “Are you okay? I didn’t know what was going on . . .” The waitress with the perfect neck slams shut the register, and glares at me. “I could have handled him.”

  “I know,” I reply. The Christmas tree lights fizz dangerously.

  “But thank you, anyway.” She gives me a cautious semismile, so when the Christmas lights fuse I have something to take my mind off the pain. I sit back down and pain buys up my head.

  I wonder if my mother drank at Jupiter Cafe during her time in Tokyo. Maybe after Anju and I were born, maybe in this very seat, waiting for a summons from Akiko Kato. PanOpticon drones work Sundays, too. A steady stream files in and out of the building. Nearly two weeks have passed since my abortive stakeout, and my father is still lost in Tokyo. Could be in a distant suburb, could be that guy reading the sports pages on the next table. Lao Tzu is two stools along, plugged into his nutty game. “Hi.” The waitress with the most perfect neck holds a coffee jug. “Refill?”

  “No more money, I’m afraid.”

  “Times must be hard. But this is payment in kind for security services rendered.”

  “Then I would love a refill. Thank you.”

  She pours. I watch. She asks, “How is your head?”

  I lean on my elbow and cover my throat to hide my love bite. “Fine.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Anything else?”

  “Another muffin? I’ll pay for it.”

  “What I would love, if you wouldn’t, uh, mind”—my pain makes me braver than I would normally dream of being—“is your name.”

  That cautious smile never comes quickly. “Ai Imajo.”

  “Ai Imajo.” What a cool name.

  “And yours?”

  “Eiji Miyake.” Not so cool.

  “Eiji Miyake,” says Ai Imajo, and I feel loads, loads better. She studies the bash on my forehead. “Doesn’t it hurt like crazy when you headbutt somebody?”

  “Not if you know what you’re doing. Apparently.”

  “So you don’t go around headbutting people every day?”

  “That was my first headbutt.”

  “A historic occasion.” The intersection lights go green and the traffic buzzes and swarms into the haze. “Where else have I seen you, Eiji Miyake?”

  “The day of the storm. Two weeks ago. You thought I was—well, I was, I suppose—listening in to your phone call. At the end of your shift. I was sitting here for a couple of hours. But don’t worry. I am completely stable.”

  “Yeah.” Ai Imajo thinks back, nodding. “I remember.”

  “Damn damn damn bioborgs!” Lao Tzu swears at the vidboy3.

  “I’m on my break. Mind if I sit here?”

  Do I mind? “Sure.” And to my joy and mortification—I am so gunked up from a night with a stranger in a love hotel—I find the girl with the most perfect neck in creation sitting beside me, engaging me in conversation. “So. Did you meet up with whoever?”

  “Who?”

  “Whoever you were waiting for, on the day of the storm.”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  I work from the abridged version and leapfrog Akiko Kato. “Relative.”

  “How long have you been looking?”

  “Three weeks . . .”

  “Three weeks since you arrived in Tokyo?”

  “How do you know?”

  Her cheeks dome and her eyes crescent. I love smiles like this. “Your accent. You’ll lose it in six months. Where are you from?”

  “You won’t have heard of where I’m from.”

  “Try me.”

  “Yakushima. An island off—”

  “—southern Kyushu where the jomon cedars grow, the oldest living things in the eastern hemisphere. Of course I’ve heard of Yakushima. So how are you finding Tokyo, this difficult town?”

  Tokyo, this difficult town. How cool is that? “Full of surprises. Sometimes lonely. Mostly weird. I can’t walk in a straight line. I keep bumping into people.”

  “You have to stop thinking about walking. Like catching peanuts in your mouth—think about it, you miss. How do you know your relative passes by here?”

  “I don’t, really. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “Is he a distant relative?”

  “I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

  “Do I sound bored? Why not look in the telephone book?”

  “Dunno his name, even.”

  Ai Imajo frowns. “And does he know your name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Place an ad in the personal columns. ‘Relatives of Eiji Miyake— please contact this PO box.’ That kind of thing. Most Tokyoites read the same three or four newspapers. Your relative might not read it himself, but somebody else might. You’re looking dubious.”

  I think hard.

  Ai Imajo studies me. “What?”

  Oh, I love being studied by this girl. “I have no idea.”

  That smile again, slightly bemused now. “I have no idea what?”

  “No idea why I never thought of that. Which newspapers?”

  “O Wild Man of Kyushu,” says Buntaro back at Shooting Star, “your eyes are a pair of piss holes in the snow.” My landlord is eating a blueberry-blooded Popsicle. On the video screen a man in a black suit walks through a desert. A bottleneck guitar swirls with the tumbleweed. The black suit needs a dry cleaning and the man needs a shave and a shower. “Morning. What’s t
he movie?”

  “Paris, Texas, by Wim Wenders.” Buntaro piles in the last of the Popsicle before it collapses down his hand. I watch for a while longer. Not much happens in Paris, Texas. “Sort of slow, isn’t it?”

  Buntaro licks his hand. “This, kid, is an existentialist classic. Man with no memory meets woman with huge hooters. So. How was your night? No memory or huge hooters? You can’t fool me, y’know. I was young myself, once. You are a quick worker, though, I got to grant you that. Two weeks in the big bad city and already harvesting the more fragrant sex.”

  “I sort of ran into friends.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Speaking of friends, I saw a monster cockroach earlier.”

  “Take it up with my landlord.”

  “Seriously, I thought it was a hairless rat. Then it twitched its antlers. I tried to splat it, but it took off and flew up the stairs. Vanished under your door quicker than you could say ‘In the name of all that is holy, what is that thing?’ Maybe your starving cat ate it. Maybe it ate your starving cat.”

  “I fed my starving cat before I went out.” Good to see Buntaro getting used to the idea of Cat living in my capsule.

  “Aha! So your tryst was planned!”

  My head throbs. “Leave me alone,” I beg. “Please.”

  “Was I knocking you? Empty what’s full, fill what’s empty, scratch what itches. But what is that unidentified red patch covering your throat?”

  Attack is defense. “Your fly is way open.”

  “Who cares? The dead bird does not leave the nest.”