Number9dream

by David Mitchell

  Suga leaves. I finish the salad and slice a melon for dessert. I take some down to Buntaro, who nods at the ceiling and waggles his little finger questioningly. I pretend not to understand. No way am I going to make a pass at Ai. There is a sort of not-yetness between us, I tell myself. She is clearing a space on the table. “Time for my insulin. Want to watch, or are you squeamish?”

  “I want to watch,” I lie.

  Ai gets a medical box from her bag, prepares the syringe, disinfects her forearm, and calmly slips the needle in. I order myself not to flinch but I flinch. She is watching me watching her as the insulin shoots into her bloodstream. I suddenly feel humble. Making a pass at Ai would be as uncouth as yelling at a flower to hurry up. Plus, if she rejected me I would have to microwave myself out of existence. “So, Miyake,” says Ai, as the needle slides out. “What’s your next move?”

  I swallow dryly. “Uh . . . what?”

  She dabs a droplet of blood with sterilized cotton wool. “Are you going to stay in Tokyo now that you’ve changed your mind about tracking down your father?” I get up and wipe my fry pan. “I . . . dunno. I need money before I can do anything else, so I’ll probably stay at Nero’s until something better comes along. . . . I want to show you a couple of letters my mother wrote to me.”

  Ai shrugs. “Okay.”

  I brush the ice granules off the plastic—she reads the letters while I finish the dishes. She is still rereading them, so I wash my hair.

  “Long shower.”

  “Uh . . . when I take a shower I feel I’m back on Yakushima. Warm rain.” I nod at the letters. “What do you think?”

  Ai folds them and puts them back into the envelope. “I’m thinking about what I think about them.” FUJIFILM says ten o’clock. We have to leave—Ai wants to be home before the stalkers leave their bars, and I have to get to work before midnight. Downstairs, Buntaro munches cheese Pringles and watches a movie full of cyborgs, motorbikes, and welders. “Have a nice salad, young people?” he asks, so innocently I could kill him. I nod at the screen. “What are you watching?”

  “I am testing the two laws of cinema.”

  “Which are?”

  “The first law states: ‘Any movie with a title ending in -ator is guaranteed to be drivel.’ ”

  “The second?”

  “The quality of any movie is in inverse proportion to the number of helicopters it features.”

  “In a way,” Ai says as we arrive at Kita Senju Station, “I wish you hadn’t shown me those letters from your mother.”

  “Why not?”

  Ai jangles loose change. “I don’t think you’ll like hearing what I really think.” The last moths of autumn swirl around a stuttering light.

  “Hearing what you really think was the point of showing you.”

  Ai buys her ticket—I show my pass—and we walk down to the platform. “Your mother wants you in her life, and your life could be a whole lot richer with her in it. Your standoffishness isn’t helping you or her. I think it’s cruel of you to ignore them.”

  I feel jabbed. “If she wanted me to contact her, why didn’t she give me her Nagano address?”

  “She is afraid of giving you the power to reject her. Again.” Ai hunts out my eyes. “Anyway, she did tell you where she is—Mount Hakuba.”

  “Me rejecting her? ‘Mount Hakuba’ is not an address.”

  Ai stops walking. “Miyake, for someone so bright”—sarcasm from the top university student—“you are a virtuoso self-delusionist. There can be no more than ten hotels at the foot of Mount Hakuba. Compared to finding a nameless man in Tokyo, finding your mother is simple. You could find her by tomorrow evening if you actually wanted to.”

  Now she is trespassing. I know I should say nothing or change the subject but I am too weak. “And why exactly do you think I don’t want to?”

  “I’m not your shrink.” Ai shrugs. “You tell me. Anger? Blame?”

  “You have no idea what you are talking about.” I have already told her, apparently, in an angry voice. “She had eleven years to unabandon us, and another nine years to unabandon me.”

  Ai frowns. “Okay, but if you don’t want to know what I really think about your issues, then talk about the weather instead of showing me personal letters. And—hell, Miyake—” I look at her. “What?” Now Ai semisnarls. “Do you have to smoke all the time?” I put away my MacArthur lighter and slide my Parliaments back into my shirt pocket. “I had no idea it bothered you so much.” Once the words are out I know they are way too snide. Ai gives me a side glare. “How could it not bother me? Since I was nine my arm has been a pincushion, just so my pancreas doesn’t kill me. My life is this balancing act of sugar intake. I endure hypoglycemia twice a year while you fill your lungs with cancer—and the lungs of everyone downwind—just so you can look like the Marlboro Man. Yes, Miyake, your smoking really bothers me.”

  I cannot think of a single thing to say.

  The evening is in pieces.

  The train arrives. We sit next to each other back to Ueno, but we may as well be sitting in different cities. I wish we were. The jolly citizens of Adland mock me with minty smiles. Ai says nothing. The moment something becomes good its doom is sealed. We get off at Ueno, which is as quiet as Ueno ever gets.

  “Mind if I walk with you to your platform?” I ask, as a peace offering.

  Ai shrugs, obviously refusing my peace offering. We walk down a corridor as vast as the suspended-animation chamber in a space ark. A rhythmic, fierce whacking noise starts up from ahead—a man in orange is pounding something with a sort of rubber mallet. Whatever— whoever—is being pounded is hidden behind a column. We both alter our course to give the man a wide berth—we have to walk past him to get to Ai’s platform. I seriously think he is beating somebody to death. But it is only a paving tile the man is trying to coerce into a hole too small for it. Whack! Whack! Whack! “That,” says Ai, probably to herself, “is life.” What she means by that, I could not say. From the tunnel an approaching train wolfhowls and Ai’s hair swims in its wind. I feel miserable. “Uh . . . Ai . . .” I begin, but Ai interrupts me with an irritated shake of her head. “I’ll call you.” Does that mean “It’s okay, don’t worry” or “Don’t you dare call until I decide to forgive you”? Perfect ambiguity from the Paris Conservatoire Scholarship Student. The train comes, she gets on, sits down, folds her arms, and crosses her legs. Without thinking about it I wave goodbye with one hand, and with my other hand pull my Parliaments from my shirt pocket and lob them down the gap between the train and the platform. But Ai has already closed her eyes. The train pulls away, without her having seen.

  Shit. That, I think to myself, that is life.

  My Nero’s rat run shrinks every evening. The inferno gets hotter. Sachiko says nothing about Ai. Thursday night is the busiest so far. One o’clock, two o’clock spin around. Emotions are so tiring. I guess this is why I avoid them. The moment anything becomes good, it is doomed. Doi sucks ice cubes, scratches inside his nostril with his finger, and shuffles his playing cards. “Take a card,” he says, “any card.” I shake my head—I am not in the mood. “Go on! This is ancient Sumerian enchantment with thirdmillennial twists, man. Take a card.” Doi thrusts the fanned cards at me and looks away. So I take a card. “Memorize it, but don’t say what it is.” Nine of diamonds. “Okay? Replace and shuffle! Anyway, anyhow, anywhere, bury the mortal remains of your card . . .” I do so—no way could Doi have seen. Tomomi drapes herself in the hatch. “Miyake! Three Fat Mermaids, extra seaweed and squid. Doi—nosepicking doesn’t suit a hippie of your years.” Doi scratches outside his nose: “Muzzle the grizzly, man . . . ain’t you had an intranasal zit before?” Tomomi stares at him. “I have an intranasal zit right now. Its name is Doi. That delivery to the spine doctor’s wingding is due seven days ago—if they phone to complain I’m shoving the headset inside your ear and you can deal with their negative energy. Man.” Doi does a whoah! gesture. “Lady, I am mid-trick here.” Tomomi whistles inwa
rd. “Do you want me to tell Mr. Nero about the aromatic substances in your scooter box?” Doi returns his cards to their box and whispers to me as he leaves: “Fear not, man, this trick is to be continued . . .” The minutes jog up the down escalator. Onizuka takes a break after a long-distance delivery. He broods in the cage, ripping a grapefruit to bits. I box up the Chicken Tikka and minisalad for his next delivery. To hurry the night along I practice clock management: before checking the time I kid myself it is twenty minutes earlier than the time I truly believe it is, so I can pleasantly surprise myself. This clever strategy is not working tonight. Doi reappears in the cage, listening to a song on the radio in ecstasy—“ ‘Riders on the Storm,’ man . . .” He could be a songbird fancier in a deep wood. “Me on my pizza scooter.” He drinks butter-vomit Tibetan tea from a flask and practices making cards appear from his ears. He has forgotten about the unfinished trick, and I don’t remind him. “The human condition is a card game, man. Our hand is dealt in the womb. During infancy we lay a few cards down, pick up a few more. Puberty, man—more cards—jobs, flings, busts, marriage . . . cards come, cards go. Some days, you get a strong hand. Other days, your winning streaks end in bad gongs. You bet, call, bluff.” Sachiko enters the cage for her break. “And how do you win this game?” Doi peacock-tails the cards and fans himself. “When you win, the rules change, and you find you’ve lost.” Sachiko rests her feet on a box of Nero’s ketchup packets. “Nice, straightforward metaphor, there, Doi. Not.” Tomomi feeds through an order for a Satanica crisp-crust, triple capers. I lay out the base and imagine Ai, asleep, dreaming of Paris. Suga is dreaming of America. Cat is dreaming of cats. Pizzas come, pizzas leave. The stack of completed orders climbs up the spike. Another hot dawn glows in the real world outside. I peel cucumbers until eight o’clock brings the new chef, a slap on the back, and a nine-decibel “Miyake, go home!” Taking the Ginza Line submarine, I plug myself into my Discman. No music. Weird. I changed the batteries yesterday evening. I press EJECT—there is no CD inside, only a playing card. Nine of diamonds.

  A message is waiting on my capsule answering machine. It is not from Ai. “Uh . . . well, hello Eiji. This is your father.” Laughter. I freeze—the first time I’ve felt cold since March. “Hey, I said it. This is your father, Eiji.” A deep breath. He is smoking. “Not so difficult. Well. What a mess. Where do I start?” A phew noise. “First—believe me—I did not know you had come to Tokyo to search for me. Akiko Kato dealt with my wife, not me—I’ve been in Canada on a series of conferences since August—I only got back to town last week.” Deep sigh. “I always hoped this day would come, Eiji, but I never . . . dared make the first move. I never thought I had the right. If that makes sense. Second—about my wife. This is so embarrassing—Eiji—can I call you Eiji? Anything else seems wrong. My wife never breathed a word about the letter she wrote to warn you away, nor about meeting you earlier this week . . . I only found out when my daughter let it slip out an hour ago.” Ruffle shuffle. “Well, I went ballistic and I only just calmed down enough to call you. How petty! How suspicious! What right did she have to keep you away from me? And on the heels of the death of my father, too . . . I shudder to think what kind of family you must think we are. Then again, you might be right. My wife and I—our marriage, it is not exactly . . . never mind.” Pause. “Third. What is third? I’m losing track. That was the past. The future, Eiji. I want very badly to meet you, in case you were wondering. Right now, if possible. Today. We have so much to say, where do I start? Where do I stop?” Bemused laugh. “Come to my clinic today— I’m a cosmetic surgeon, incidentally, if your mother never told you. We won’t be disturbed by my wife or any hostile parties—or we could go to a restaurant if you haven’t eaten by the time you get this. . . . Look, I cleared my afternoon surgery. Can you make one o’clock? This is my office number.” I scribble it down. “Get to Edogawabashi subway station, call, and Ms. Sarashina—my assistant, completely trustworthy— will come and meet you. Only a minute away. So. Until one o’clock this afternoon . . .” An amazed sort of coo noise. “I’ve been praying this day would come for years, and years, and years . . . every time I went to the shrine, I asked . . . I can hardly—” He laughs. “Enough of this, Eiji! One o’clock! Edogawabashi subway station!”

  Life is sweet, rich, and fair.

  I forget Ai Imajo, I forget Kozue Yamaya, I lie back, and I replay the message over until I have every word, every mannerism, by heart. I get out the picture of my father and animate his face so he speaks the words. An educated, warm, dry voice that inspires respect. Not so nasal as mine. I want to tell Buntaro and Machiko—no, I want to wait. Later today, I will walk calmly into Shooting Star with a mysterious gentleman behind me and let drop a “By the way, Buntaro, may I introduce you to my father?” Cat watches me from the closet—“Today is the day, Cat!” I iron my good shirt, shower, and then try to doze for an hour. No hope. I listen to John and Yoko’s Some Time in New York City, and it is lucky I set my alarm clock, because the next thing I know it is eleven-thirty and the clock is ringinginginginging inside my ears. I dress, fuss Cat, and dish up her dinner six hours early in case I have to go straight to work after my father. Luckily Buntaro is on the phone to a distributor so he cannot pry under my halo of joy.

  Edogawabashi Station. I scan the midday crowds so intently that I miss her. “Excuse me? I’m guessing you’re Eiji Miyake, from your baseball cap.” I nod at the smartly dressed woman, not exactly young, not exactly old. She smiles with blackcurrant lips. “I’m Mari Sarashina, your father’s assistant—we spoke on the phone just now. What a thrill it is to have you visit.”

  I bow. “Thank you for coming out to meet me, Ms. Sarashina.”

  “No trouble at all. The clinic is a stroll away. Well, this is a very special day for your father. Canceling an afternoon of appointments”— she shakes her head—“unprecedented in six years! I thought, ‘Is the Emperor visiting?’ Then he said his son had come to meet him!—his words, not mine—and I thought ‘Aha! All is explained!’ He meant to fetch you from the station himself, you know, but lost his nerve at the last minute—between you and me, he’s afraid of emotional displays, et cetera. Enough gossip. Follow me.” Ms. Sarashina walks and talks unswervingly. A cat-size dog crosses our path. Oncoming pedestrians and cyclists make way for her. She navigates side streets of labelless boutiques and art galleries. “Your father’s clinic is a state-of-the-art establishment in the beautician sphere. We have a loyal word-of-mouth clientele, so we avoid ostentatious advertising, unlike the down-market clip-and-tuck shops.” A mouse-size cat crosses our path. “Here we are— see, you could pass by none the wiser.” It is a tall, anonymous building, sandwiched by flashier neighbors. The first floor is a jewelry business, viewing by appointment. Set down a short corridor is a steel door. Mari Sarashina points to a brass plaque. “This is us—Juno. Zeus turned her into a swan.” Her fingers dance over a security keypad. “Or was it a bull?” A video camera watches us. “Rather draconian security, I know, but our client list includes television stars, et cetera. You would not believe”—Mari Sarashina glares at heaven—“what the grubbier paparazzi will do for a peek. Your father reviewed security after a reporter, disguised as a health ministry inspector, tried to bluff his way into our client files. Jackals, those people. Leeches. He had fake ID, business card, the works. Ms. Kato, your father’s lawyer, bled them dry in court, naturally—although I gather she’s not exactly flavor of the month, vis-àvis yourself.” An elevator arrives. Mari Sarashina presses 9. “A room with a view.” She smiles reassuringly. “Apprehensive?”

  I nod, hollow with nervous excitement. “A little.”

  She brushes fluff off her cuff. “Quite natural.” She stage-whispers. “Your father is three times jumpier. But—relax.” The doors open onto a gleaming white reception area decked with lilies. Perfumed antiseptic. Pinstriped sofas, slab-of-glass tables, a tapestry of swans on a lost river. The walls curve into the ceiling—whorled and delicate, bones inside an ear. Celti
c harp music accompanies the air-conned hush. Ms. Sarashina jabs the intercom on her desk—“Dr. Tsukiyama? Congratulations, it’s a boy!” She shows me her perfect teeth. “Shall I send him in?” I hear his voice crackle. Mari Sarashina laughs. “Fine, Doctor. Coming up.” She sits down in front of her computer and gestures toward the steel door. “Go on, Eiji. Your father is waiting.” I move, but real time is on PAUSE. “Thanks,” I tell her. She makes a “don’t mention it” face. One door away now—go! I turn the handle—the room beyond is airtight. The steel door opens with a kissing sound.

  My arms are swung behind my back, my body is rammed against the wall, my feet are kicked away, and the cold floor slams into my ribs. One set of hands frisks me while another set holds my arms way past the angle they were designed to bend—the pain is record-breaking. Yakuza again. If I did have a concealed knife I would stick it into myself for being so stupid. Again. I consider volunteering to give up the Kozue Yamaya disk until a foot in the small of my back knocks the thought from my head. I am flipped over, and hauled to my feet. At first, I think I am standing on the TV set of a medical drama. A trolley of surgical equipment, a drug cabinet, an operating table. The edges are shadowy, with ten or eleven men whose faces I cannot make out. I smell sausages. A man is filming me with a Handycam, and on a large overhead screen I see myself. Two men with the bodies of Olympic shot-putters are holding an arm each. The camera zooms in, and captures my face from various angles. “Light!” comes an old man’s voice, and whiteness fills my eyeballs. I am dragged forward a few paces, and sat down. When I can see again I find myself at a card table. Mama-san and three men. Near enough to touch is a smoked-glass screen taking up most of the wall. An intercom clicks on, and the voice of God fills the room. “This lamentable specimen is him?”