Hostess, My Hostess

by Sam Pitch

"Kawasaki station . . . last stop. Ka-wa-sa-kiiii —"

The train slowed, screeching to a halt. The doors slid open, and the sardine-packed mass of commuters spilled onto the platform. Nobuhiro Matsubara, sticky with sweat, and itchy in his three-piece suit, elbowed his way through the crowd. His feet ached, gouty and swollen, though he’d been lucky that night to grab a seat on the hour express from Shinjuku, where he worked. The air was sultry, heavy – saturated with the heat of exhausted office workers, the infamous Tokyo smog, and the sweltering August summer, which had just come into its stride. The week ended sixty hours at the office, twelve straight in the last day. And for Nobu, Saturday night couldn’t come too soon.

He trundled towards the south exit, where a refreshing breeze blew along the main thoroughfare. It was crowded, but not like in the station. And he pushed his way past a gang of teens, squatting on the curb, slurping noodles – then through a clique of high-school girls in white, sailor-blouse uniforms, who giggled round a print-club booth taking pictures. At the corner a new hostess bar, Club Cowboy, was having its grand opening. Two over-tanned ganguro girls in suede vests, spur-studded riding boots and ten-gallon hats were passing out flyers – while outside the bar a pair of tuxedoed bouncers coaxed the passing salarymen inside. "Only 3000 yen a drink!" shouted one to Nobu as he went by. "How about you old man?"

Nobu walked on, his eyes fixed on his feet, his ears burning. Old man – of all the nerve. The blood rushed up his neck like a carnival test-your-strength. What business did anyone have calling him that? . . . Of all the – old man, indeed!

The crowd thinned across the smoke-black Katabira river, like an iceflow breaking up in warmer seas, and he paused to take an allergy pill – dry from a prescription bottle in his jacket pocket. The pills had the unfortunate side effect of making him drowsy, and briefly he considered postponing the evening. It might be better a week from now, he reasoned – or later in summer . . . or autumn even, when the leaves turned. But then . . . the thought of trudging all the way home to that tiny, stuffy apartment in Ebina without even seeing her –

He swallowed the pill and walked on. He had to go through with it. Besides, he was under a cloud as it was. Yamanaka, the bank manager, had "invited" the office staff to go drinking after work. Nobu refused. A bad move, even in the best of times, it was downright lunacy to snub the boss these days, since the nation had fallen into recession. ‘Downsizing’, or ‘daun-sizu,’ an unthinkable concept even six months ago, had taken root – like a bonzai tree pumped with steroids. And, despite the tradition of lifetime employment, the salaryman who fell out of step with upper management was headed for ‘restructuring’, or ‘rii-sto-ra’ – another word, unknown till recently, which had proliferated through the language, and the nation, like a virus.

Nobu turned onto a side street. His feet scuffed along the sidewalk, his neck was still buring. Old man, he seethed. Boy, that really touched a nerve. After all, he was hardly pushing forty. Was he that anxious to — ? . . . No, no, he reasoned – he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t want to. True, it didn’t look good—a single forty-something hanging around head office. But that was beside the point. He had to see her tonight. Cecilia, the hostess: his hostess he reminded himself, trying to keep a positive attitude. After tonight —

Well . . . one thing at a time.

Three corners down he arrived at Club-the-Box – a tiny, windowless, black cube of a building, shoe-horned between a pachinko gambling parlour and triple-X video store. He approached, took a deep breath, then pushed open the heavy, oak door.

"Irasshaimase!" sang a chorus in greeting.

The door shut behind him. It was a dark room. Red and white wash lights hung from the celing, and pink, plush booths ringed the bamboo-covered walls. A new fake palm tree was in the corner, Nobu noticed, next to the Karaoke machine. And the place buzzed with energy, though it was hardly half-full.

"Matsubara-sama!" a shrilly voice cheered. It was Mama-chan, the head hostess. She came over from the bar. You could tell she was the mama-chan, as she was the only Japanese woman in the place. Club-the-Box specialized in Filipinas, which had become something of a fad in recent years. Her face was thickly made-up, like all the hostesses.

Loopy, gypsy rings dangled from her earlobes. But to show her status she wore a shiny, green ‘chinese’ style silk dress, with gold tassels running across her bosom.

"How are you darling?" she beamed – a wide grin of crooked, yellowy teeth. She smelled of perfume and cigarettes. "You look like you’ve had a hard day."

"Do I?"

"You’re all red, darling. And you’re breaking out."

"Am I?"

He felt himself shivering, in spite of the heat. "Maybe I should go then— " he turned, but Mama-chan laughingly grabbed him by the crook of the elbow – like a mother holding back a six-year old, who wanted to run from the first day of school.

"Don’t go, darling," she said. "We’ll put you somewhere away from the smoke."

Like where, he thought, the fridge? . . . Nobu was allergic to cigarette smoke – not a good condition for Japan. But it was tolerable, unless anyone blew the stuff in his face directly. He coughed and rubbed his eyes, which were sore and suddenly filled with fluid. When he opened them again, blurred and sticky, Cecilia was standing before him. He shuddered, in part because he hadn’t sensed her approach.

"Nobu honey!" She took him by the arm. "How are you, dear? You look so tired . . . why don’t we sit and have a drink?" Her Japanese was liquid and sweet, and betrayed only the touch of a south-asian accent. Like Mama-chan, she was heavily made-up and perfumed; her skin was dark, even for a Filipina, and long coffee-coloured hair swayed behind her as she moved, reflecting the light like a show-curtain. She led him to an empty booth near the fake palm tree.

A youngish-looking boy in a white tux set down a litre-bottle of beer and two glasses. Cecilia poured one for Nobu, then one for herself. She rested her hand on his leg and raised her glass. "Shall we?"

Nobu raised his.

"Kampai," they said, as their glasses clinked together.

Cecilia sipped a delicate quarter-inch, while Nobu downed the whole thing in one gulp. He sighed heavily, then leaned his head against the cushion. The beer took effect.

And for the first time all week his life seemed a little less neurotic. His world a more easy-going place. Cecilia refilled his glass.

‘Now!’ his brain screamed. ‘Do it – now! . . .’ ‘Half a minute,’ he thought. . . . ‘I just got here.’

She asked about his day, and he rambled on about the office. Yamanaka was on his back, like always. Watanabe’s wife, who lived in Aomori prefecture, just had a baby. And Mitsugi, who didn’t speak a word of English beyond ‘hello-how-are-you-my-name-is—’ was to be transferred to Auckland, New Zealand for ten years. Poor bastard, he always liked Mitsugi. Nobu polished off his second beer. Cecilia, dutifully, refilled his glass.

‘Now!’ his brain screamed.

‘In a minute . . .’

‘Now!’

‘I know – just . . . a little more time. . . .’

And he resolved to do it . . . he was going to do it.

But just then, a drunk salaryman, stumbling by and puffing away on his cigarette, blew two lungfulls of smoke from his nostrils, like a dragon – and Nobu erupted in a fit of coughing.

"You all right, darling?" asked Cecilia, who drew a handkerchief from some hidden part of her dress.

Nobu rubbed his eyes. The energy seemed to run out of him, like water through a sieve, and he had this incredible urge to get out of the bar.

"Thanks, honey," he said. "Listen, we have to talk."

"Of course, darling, whatever you like."

"Not here." He nodded towards the door.

"Well, I can’t just leave, lover, I’m working."

"It wouldn’t be long."

"Lover . . . I’m wor-king. . . . Why not tomorrow? I’ve got the day off. We can go for dinner if you like. . . .You can take me to that seafood place in Asakusa. You know, the one with the big crab over the door. Afterwards we can ––"

"It can’t wait," said Nobu, his teeth clenched. Actually, that wasn’t such a bad idea – spending the day in Asakusa. Dining under the crab. But then . . . what a struggle it was to get this far. . . . He couldn’t back out now. "It can’t wait," he repeated. "Please. . . . "

Cecilia was silent for a moment, then smiled disarmingly and patted him on the hand. "Well then," she said. "If it’s as important as all that, let’s talk to Mama-chan."

Money had to change hands and the beer had to be paid for, but after some persuasion Mama-chan agreed to ‘lend’ her out for an hour – one hour, no more. They hurried across the street to a Mister Donuts outlet, where Nobu bought coffee for the two of them and took her upstairs.

"OK, Nobu," she said, once they’d settled in. "What’s this matter of life and death you had to drag me over here for?"

"Cecilia," he said, relaxing the muscles in his throat, "we’ve been seeing each other for a long time, haven’t we? . . . He paused, expecting her to agree, but she said nothing. He cleared his throat and continued. "And I know I’m not your only client – but I like to think you look forward to seeing me, yes?"

She paused again, then smiled. "Of course darling. You know I do."

"And I know what a hostess makes,’ he said. "Do you . . . do you send all your money home?"

"Well, not all of it, darling. I need enough to live on, bills and such. But I send home as much as I can."

"They must really appreciate it," said Nobu.

"Sometimes they do," she said. "Sometimes . . . well, you know how family members can be."

"Yeah . . ." he cleared his throat again. "The thing is, I’m not getting any

younger. And you can’t be a day under thirty."

"I’m twenty-eight," she said, with just a touch of frigidity.

"What? . . . oh. Your polaroid says you’re thirty."

"Well, it’s wrong, then, isn’t it?"

"Yeah . . . anyway, what I mean is . . . being a hostess isn’t exactly a high-status job. You shouldn’t have to do this your whole life – "

"What are you getting at?" she interrupted. "Are you saying you want to marry me?"

Nobu nearly fell out of his chair. His hand knocked against the table, and his coffee spilled all over the tray. Awkwardly he grabbed a wad of napkins from the dispenser and mopped up the table. What a mess! She had completely taken the wind out of his sails. He’d prepared so much lead-up material. . . . But now . . . what could he do? "Yeah," he mumbled, "that’s pretty much it. . . . " He felt like such a dribbling idiot.

Cecilia smiled in her typical disarming way, then patted his hand again. "Oh, Nobu," she said, "you’re so cute."

His heart fell into his crotch.

Of all the responses he’d steeled himself against . . . this one cut right through his innards — like a samurai sword through squash.

"Nobu, it’s not that I don’t love you," she said. "It’s just . . . I couldn’t marry you, even if I wanted to."

You mean you don’t even want to? he wanted to say, but only stared dumbly.

"Darling, you know I’m fond of you," she said. "But – and maybe I should’ve told you this earlier – I’m leaving for the Philippines soon."

His eyes bugged. "You are?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"I’m going back to Manila."

"When?"

"Next week."

"Like . . . forever?"

"No – I mean . . . I don’t know. I might come back someday."

Some day! . . . His heart leapt from his crotch to his throat. That sounded like a long time . . . or, like a nice way of saying ‘never’ —

"I’m sorry, darling," she said. "I never intended to live in Japan so long. . . . Just a while to help support my family back home. It’s been three years already. I didn’t tell you . . . I mean, I had no idea you were going to propose to me."

Nobu was speechless. The beer began to wear off, and he felt more deflated than ever. They sat in silence for what felt like a long time. It was unbearable. He was almost relieved even, when she said she had to get back to the club, though it was well before Mama-chan’s deadline.

"Are you coming?" she asked.

"I’ll be in shortly," he said. "Just . . . give me a minute."

"All right." And she headed down the stairs, her shining, black hair swaying behind her. But they both knew he wouldn’t return to Club-the-Box. Or – at least he knew. I can’t be responsible for what other people think, he thought. And he counted ten after she disappeared, before he stood up and headed back home – where, alone in his apartment, he downed whisky sours till he passed out dead-drunk.

"Next! . . . Next in line, please!"

The queue shuffled forward. It was taking forever. And Nobu knew he had no control, but it still drove him crazy. He slouched, exhausted, his luggage weighing him down: suitcase in one hand, cardboard box in the other, awkwardly balanced against his torso. Outside the rain fell in heavy tropical torrents. It delayed their landing into Ninyo

Aquino airport, but not long. In one way he was lucky. A week later would have been the middle of August – vacation week for all Japan, and the busiest travel time of the

year. His ticket would have been twice what he paid, if he could get a seat at all on such notice.

"Next please! . . . Next in line."

Nobu shuffled forward, and found himself facing two young, but tough-looking customs officers. They asked the purpose of his visit. For some reason the truth felt too embarrassing, so he whipped up some cock-and-bull story about a business trip – which technically wasn’t a lie. After all, he reasoned, on this trip his business was none of theirs. But then they asked what was in the box. And Nobu, nervous with his poor English, said they were samples for the president of the company. What samples? they fired. What president, what company? . . . Who are you, and who do you work for? ––

"OK, OK." He took a deep breath. "I lied. I’m not really here on business. I’m looking for a girl. The box is full of presents. I asked her to marry me – she said no. She doesn’t know I’m here. I don’t know if I can find her. I’m missing at least two days of work for this, and I’ll probably get fired. If you know anything about Japan – that’s like the death penalty."

His face went pink; his eyes fell on his shoes. It was so pathetic – and sounded even worse in English. But it was true. . . . The week after Cecilia left he was frantic – making preparations, getting his VISA in order. Somehow he managed to get Cecilia’s family address in Manila, after needling Mama-chan for over an hour. She demanded no less than 20,000 yen for the information, half the price of the plane ticket itself. Extortion, but what else could he do? . . . So there he was – no hotel reservations, no contingency plans, and, worst of all, no green-light from Yamanaka. Essentially, this was AWOL. How in hell was he ever going to explain it to the boss?

But he tried not to think about that now. The officers looked at him with stone-cold seriousness, then—simultaneously, as if they both had the same mind—erupted in a fit of laughter. Nobu didn’t know whether to feel relieved or humiliated. It felt like everyone in the lines was laughing at him, too. Although he knew that probably wasn’t

the case. He could have been arrested for lying, detained, or even deported. But the officers stamped his passport without further ado, and blithely waved him through.

"Good luck, Romeo," one of them joked as he passed by.

He ploughed through the arrivals’ foyer, then outside into the pouring rain, where he hailed a taxi. The air was hot, heavy and sticky. A taxi approached from the far end of the platform, and Nobu hurried out from the shelter. Within five seconds he was thoroughly soaked. The box he was balancing tumbled out of his arm and splashed in a puddle. The cab jerked to a halt, and the driver rolled down the window. "Sorry, mac—oh, Japanese—you speak English? I’ll open the trunk." Nobu sourly picked up the box.

The driver was a gaunt, goat-faced man with dark, baggy eyes, like he’d been up all night watching the stars spin. A cigarette hung limply from his lip. Nobu dumped his luggage in the trunk, then got in the back seat. His hair dripped with rainwater, his clothes stuck to his skin like cellophane. The meter, he noticed, started at twenty pesos, and in a panic he realized that in all his preparations he’d neglected to exchange his money.

"You take yen?" he asked.

"No, no, no yen," said the driver, like he was popping balloons with a pin.

"How about dollars?"

"U.S.?"

"Traveler’s cheques."

"Twenty pesos a dollar."

In the distance the sky thundered. Nobu put on his best poker face, or tried to anyway. He still had currency leftover from his last business trip to America, which he never cashed after the yen went into a tailspin that winter. He was certainly glad he had it now – but . . . was 20-1 a good rate? Somehow he suspected it wasn’t. He knew it was 120 yen to the dollar, and something like two or three yen to the peso. And he tried to do the math in his head. . . . But the rain, and the humidity – his wet clothes sticking to his skin, and that goat-faced driver staring him down. . . . He couldn’t do it.

"OK," he said.

The driver smiled and pulled away from the curb. "Where to?"

Nobu dug a wrinkled, slightly waterlogged scrap of paper from his front pocket.

It was the address he’d whittled out of Mama-chan.

The driver looked at the paper, then looked at Nobu in the rear view mirror. "You sure you want to go here?"

"Why, what’s wrong?"

He shrugged. "Whatever you say, mac."

And they were off.

Nobu leaned back against the cushion. He loosened his tie and rubbed his eyelids. The wipers swished furiously against the driving rain. Despite the shady exchange rate, he was glad he took the cab when he did. They drove along the expressway, then into the city, under a highway overpass, where the traffic backed up. It must be the financial district, he guessed. Giant glass office buildings towered over the streets, crowding older, stone-worn structures, which had a crumbly, low-to-the-ground-quality, as if a giant had done them over with a nailfile. Pedestrians scampered between torn, limpy awnings, or hustled in and out of alcoves with newsprint over their heads. Eventually they pulled onto another expressway, one that ran by the sea. Nobu rubbed his eyes constantly. He wished the driver would quit his damn smoking, or at least open a window. But the rain pounded so hard, that was impossible – and whenever the driver finished a cigarette, he just mashed it out in the ashtray, pulled another from his shirt-pocket, and lit up. It was infuriating.

After an hour they came to the edge of a neighbourhood with a heavy brick-wall running alongside the road. Not much could be seen beyond it: the tips of palm trees, some mango branches, the tops of chimneys, some terra-cotta roofing. It looked classy. Nobu began to wonder if a mistake had been made. But he kept that to himself.

The driver turned a corner and pulled up to a gated entrance and security check-point. He rolled down the window and spoke to the guard in Tagalog, the language of the Philippines, then turned back to Nobu. "Do you have an appointment?" he asked.

"What? . . . No."

"He says he can’t let you in without an appointment."

"That’s crazy," said Nobu. "Let me talk to him."

He leaned over and shouted through the noise of the pounding rain. "Hey you, you speak English?"

The guard, a skinny, pock-marked old man with a scraggly goatee, slowly turned his head and said in flawless Japanese, "not only that, my friend, but it’s your lucky day –

I lived three years in Osaka."

"You have to let me in," Nobu pleaded. "I came all the way from Tokyo – " And he ran through the whole story right from the top, no lies. When he finished the man laconically cracked a smile, the way a baobab tree might crack a large stone under the earth. "That’s a touching story, Romeo," he said, then slowly shook his head. "No dice."

"Why not?"

"It’s against the rules."

Rules rules rules, thought Nobu. Everybody’s got so many rules. My whole life is rules, I’m sick of rules. "Look," he said. "This isn’t a game of cricket. You’ve got to let me in – it’s a matter of life and death."

The guard stood motionless, like a gargoyle. Then, lethargically, he shrugged and said, "fair enough. Two hundred dollars. American. I assume you have American dollars on you. Japanese tourists always do."

His eyes bugged. "I have to bribe you to get in? . . . What kind of security guard are you?"

"Give me what I want, and you’ll get what you want. You Japanese like to do business, yes? . . . Small price to pay for true love. My mother was a ‘comfort woman’ during the war. Just thank your lucky stars this ain’t Korea."

Nobu’s head fell back against the cushion. The rain rapped against the roof of the cab, like a drumroll at the circus, and he could feel his pulse thumping in his temples. Why should he give anything to this guy? He thought of all the money he’d wasted on this trip already –– But then . . . did he have a choice? . . . And what the hell did any of this have to do with Korea?

He sighed, then pulled out his wallet and signed over two hundred dollars in traveler’s cheques. The guard smiled. With the money in hand, he opened the gate and waved them through.

It had to be a mistake, Nobu thought. Mama-chan must’ve given him the wrong address. Even in America, supposedly the richest country in the world, he’d never seen a neighbourhood like this. The houses were three, four stories high – pastel coloured with stucco wainscoting, like the old, Spanish colonial mansions. Well-manicured lawns out front, and gardens blooming with eldorados and snapdragons – mangos blossoming between the lots, and palm trees erect at the corners, like streetlamps. They arrived at the dip of a cul-de-sac, in front of a cream-coloured mansion – a winding cement path led across the front lawn to a set of enormous, brass-knockered oak doors.

"Here we are," said the driver, jerking to a halt.

"I’ll be a little while," said Nobu. "Wait here."

In a way the rain was a blessing. It spurred him on – from the car to the trunk, from the trunk to the street, and from the street to the shelter by the door. He didn’t have time to think, or reflect, or give himself an excuse to chicken-out.

The brass knockers were shaped like lions’ heads. Nobu stood and collected his nerve. He thought about all the money he’d spent on this trip–– how this was probably the wrong address, how Mama-chan had probably suckered him, how the security guard had taken advantage of him, how the cab driver was milking him right now. He thought about Cecilia and how badly he wanted to see her and spend the night with her. He thought about Yamanaka who . . . well, who knows what was in store for him back at the bank. And for the next ten seconds he tried hard not to think of anyone or anything and clear his head and not be so damn nervous.

He knocked three times.

Nothing. Then . . . footsteps. A catch pulled back. The door opened, and a heavy-set, serious-looking man in a loose silk shirt stood at the threshold. He was completely bald, except for a brush of grey at his temples, and had a wide, pointy mustache, like the old shoguns used to have.

The man narrowed his eyes, as if to ask ‘how’d you get through the gate?’ but said nothing.

"English OK?" asked Nobu.

The man nodded stiffly.

Nobu coughed and cleared his throat. "I’m Matsubara," he said, "a friend of Cecilia’s. . . . Uh . . . does she live here?"

"She does," said the man, coldly.

"Oh . . . great . . . that’s great. You must be her father."

"I am."

"Right. . . . well, it’s nice to meet you. . . .Uh . . . is Cecilia home?"

"No."

"I see . . . look, I said I was her friend, but . . . did she ever mention me?"

"No."

"I see – " he paused and cleared his throat again. "She and I – " he stuttered, "we’ve been seeing each other for some time. I asked her to marry me, but she told me she had to return here. . . . I’m hoping . . . well, that is . . . I hope I can change her mind. I bought some gifts – jewelry, some dresses, a discman, some chocolates I know she likes – "

The man nodded at the box. "Is that for her?"

"Yes," said Nobu. "I’d like to present it to her if I may. Could you tell me where I could find her, or when – "

The man reached over and took the box, then dropped it roughly on a shelf in the vestibule. "She’s with another Japanese now," he said. "Sorry, Romeo." Then he stepped back and slammed the door.

Nobu stood for almost a full minute, immobile, like that statue of MacArthur in Yamashita park. He was about to knock again, but didn’t. Eventually he trundled back to the taxi through the rain. The driver wordlessly lit another cigarette. Nobu popped an allergy pill. "Let’s go," he said.

And they were off.

"Stand clear of the doors! . . . The doors are opening. . . . Please let passengers off the train before boarding."

A handful of commuters elbowed their way onto the platform, then headed down into Nishi-Nippori station. A refreshing updraft blew in the stairwell. The summer was ending, and as the sun dipped behind the cityscape a cool shadow washed across the city. Nobu passed through the exit wicket. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d come to this part of Tokyo, but he received the flyer in a tissue package that afternoon from some ganguro girls near his office in Shinjuku. And for some reason he felt he had to follow up before the weekend.

He passed a bank, a pachinko parlour, then stopped at a red light on the corner. A swirl of dirt collected at his feet. It had been a month since his disaster in Manila. One consolation: he missed only a day and a half of work, and Yamanaka, surprisingly, didn’t ask any questions. But Nobu knew he was in the soup. It would take at least six months of impeccable behaviour to get back on his good side. Naturally, he planned no vacation that year.

The light turned green, and he crossed the street. He’d seen her – he’d even spoken to her. It was in Takashimaya department store one Sunday, near his apartment in Ebina. He was wandering through the home appliance section, when he heard ‘Nobu!’ He turned, and there she was. She was wearing a green-and-yellow pineapple dress – the same dress he’d brought in the gift box to her parents’ house. A tall, Japanese man, with crisp, handsome features, was holding her hand, while a three-year old half-fu girl in pigtails, scampered behind them.

"Oh . . . hello," said Nobu, feeling foolish – an avalanche of emotions tumbling through him. "How are you?"

"I’m fine," she said. "How are you?"

"I’m fine. How are –– I mean . . . you’re back in Japan. . . . I didn’t think you would be."

"Well, I said I’d come back someday."

"Oh ––"

"I never got a chance to thank you for the gifts," she said. "You haven’t been to Club-the-Box lately. I’m sorry my father was so nasty – but he deals with a lot of nasty people. He’s a policeman, you see. She nodded towards the tall man. "This . . . this is my husband."

"Nice to meet you," said the man, tersely.

"Likewise," said Nobu, equally terse, with a stiff, quick bow. "I’m with Sakura bank," he said. "What’s your company?"

"I’m daun-saizu," said the man.

"Oh."

"And this is Yumi," said Cecilia. She knocked the girl lightly on the head. "Say hello."

"Ha-row—," the girl chirped. A pause. Then, "bye-bye—"

And they were gone.

Later he wondered if that actually happened, or – had he imagined the whole thing? . . . His memory was hazy. But life was funny that way, he reflected. In a city of thirty million people, you’re bound to run into someone you don’t like. Either way it didn’t matter. He never did return to Club-the-Box, nor gone within ten kilometers of Kawasaki station, if he could help it. That’s why, in part, he’d come to Nishi-Nippori tonight.

He paused to check the map on the flyer, then walked on. He passed a ramen shop, a seven-eleven, a bakery, a bicycle shop. He turned a corner. And there it was.

Club-the-American-Girl.

He went in.

"Welcome!" shouted a chorus of hearty American voices.

Four tinny bars of Dixie played as the door shut behind him. A huge, American flag was on the wall, along with posters of various Hollywood movie stars. There was a disco mirror ball hanging from the ceiling, flashing red, white and blue lights across the room. A tall, leggy blond, in a white dress and stiletto heels stood up from a nearby booth.

"Hi there, honey," she said in English – for the flyer in the tissue pack read: ‘Club-the-American-girl. English Only: practice it to perfect!’ She took him by the arm. "My name’s Whitney."

"Nice to meet you," said Nobu.

"I’m from Toronto," she said.

"That’s great . . .wait a minute – Toronto – that’s in Canada."

"Oh, you’re so smart!" she said. "But you look tired, honey . . . why don’t we sit and have a drink?"
"Sure."

She led him to a booth in the corner, where a litre-bottle of beer and two glasses were waiting.

"What’s your name, honey?" she asked, pouring his drink.

"I’m No – " he stopped. An enormous black-and-white poster of Leonardo Dicaprio was directly in front of him. Suddenly the image of Yamanaka’s pink, fat face jumped in front of his mind – then dissolved into Cecilia, her father, her husband, the security guard from Manila, the goat-faced driver. . . . With sheer force of will he swept them from his consciousness.

"Don’t you want to tell me your name?" she asked, her hand across his knee.

Nobu looked her in the eyes. She had beautiful eyes, he thought. Round and glassy – big, blue eyes, like Marilyn Monroe. . . .

"My name’s Romeo," he said. "Romeo Matsubara."

She giggled. "Romeo, that’s sweet. You’re so cute. And you speak English so well."

"I practice," he said. "And I travel a lot on business."

"Of course . . . you must be a very important man."

He blushed.

Whitney raised her glass. "Shall we?"

Nobu raised his. This was a good place, he thought. She was such a sweet girl. He hadn’t felt this relaxed and comfortable for the longest time. He wanted to ask if she was married, or had a boyfriend – but . . . well, one thing at a time. After all, they’d just met. Anyway, this was a good place.

"Kampai!" they said, as their glasses clinked together.

THE END