quit her part-time job here to concentrate on her studies, see.’
‘I see. I was hoping to get in touch with her. I’m just a friend.’
‘Yeah, I can understand that, if you’re her friend and all . . .’
‘So, might you have her telephone number? On a form or a record?’
‘We don’t keep forms or records here. And Miss Imajo was only here for a month, see.’ Donkey hums as she thinks. ‘We don’t keep files and stuff like that here, see, ’cos of space. Even our cloakroom, it’s got less room than one of those boxes what magicians put swords through. It isn’t fair. At the Yoyogi branch, see, they have this cloakroom big enough to—’
‘Thanks anyway, Miss Nagamimi, but . . .’
‘Wait! Wait! Miss Imajo did leave me her number, but only if someone called Eiji Miyake phoned.’
Kill me now. ‘Yes. My name is Eiji Miyake.’
‘Really?’ Donkey hee-haws.
‘Really.’
‘Well, really! Isn’t that a funny coincidence?’
‘Isn’t it just.’
‘Miss Imajo said only if somebody called Eiji Miyake calls. And you call, and your name is Eiji Miyake! Like I always say, see. “Truth is stranger than reality.” I saw you hit that nasty man with your head. It must have hurt!’
‘Miss Nagamimi, please could you give me Miss Imajo’s number?’
‘Right, hang on a moment, where did I put it, I wonder.’
Ai Imajo’s number is ten digits long. I get to the ninth, and feel the paralysis of fear creeping down my arm. What if my call embarrasses her? What if she thinks I’m some slimeball who won’t leave her alone? What if her boyfriend answers? Her father? What if Ai Imajo answers? What do I say? I look around Uniqlo. Shoppers, sweaters, space. My index finger presses the final digit. The number connects. A telephone in a distant apartment begins to ring. Somebody is getting up, maybe pausing the video, maybe putting down their chopsticks, cursing this interruption—
‘Hello?’ Her.
‘Uh . . .’ I try to speak but a sort of dry spastic noise comes out.
‘Hello?’
I should have planned this better.
‘Hello? Do I get to know who you are?’
My voice comes back all on its own. ‘Hello, is this Ai Imajo?’ Stupid question. I know this is Ai Imajo. ‘I, uh, my, uh . . .’
She sounds sort of pleased. ‘My knight in shining armour.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I recognized your voice. How did you get my number?’
‘Miss Nagamimi at Jupiter Café told me. Eventually. If this isn’t a convenient time to call, I can, uh . . .’
‘Nope, this is perfectly convenient. I tried to track you down at Ueno lost property office, where you said you worked, but they told me you suddenly left town.’
‘Yeah, uh, Mrs Sasaki told me.’
‘Was it to do with your relative?’
‘Sort of. I mean, no. In a way, yes.’
‘Well, that’s that sorted out, anyway. Where did you disappear to at Xanadu the other weekend?’
‘I figured lots of, uh, organizer people and music people would want to come and talk with you.’
‘Exactly! I needed you to head-butt some for me. How is your head, by the way? No lasting brain damage?’
‘No, my brain is normal, thanks. Sort of normal.’
Ai Imajo finds this funny.
We both begin talking at the same moment.
‘After you,’ I say.
‘No, after you,’ she says.
‘I, uh’ – the electric chair must be more pleasant than this – ‘am wondering if, I mean, it’s perfectly all right if not, you know’ – never commit your army without a clear path of retreat – ‘but if, uh, it’s okay for me to, uh, call you.’
A pause.
‘So, Miyake, you are calling me to ask me if it is okay to call me, right?’
I really should have planned this better.
Walking was pleasant since Goatwriter sloughed off his arthritic body in the sacred pool. The bamboo swayed sideways to let him pass, and whippoorwills wavered quarter quavers. Up ahead, he saw a house. It was a strange building to encounter in the Lapsang Souchang plateau. It would not have seemed out of place in a sleepy suburb, with its pond of duckweed and dragonflies. A stone lantern glowed on an island. A piebald rabbit disappeared amid a rhomboid rhubarb riot. Beneath the gable was an open triangular window. Whisperings filled the air. Goatwriter took the path to the front door. Its lockless knob twizzled uselessly, the door swung open, and Goatwriter climbed the lightening stairs to the attic. ‘Good afternoon,’ said the writing bureau. ‘Greetings,’ said the pen of Sei Shonagon.
‘But I left you in the venerable coach!’ exclaimed Goatwriter.