at her. ‘What?’ Ai semi-snarls. ‘Do you have to smoke?’ 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 snarls, full on. ‘How could it not bother me? Since I was nine my arm has been a pin-cushion, just so my pancreas doesn’t kill me. I endure a hypo twice a year while you line 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 advertland mock me with their minty smiles. Ai says nothing. 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. 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 minced 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.’ From the tunnel an approaching train wolf-howls 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. She never even saw.
Shit. That, I think to myself, that is life.
My Nero rat-run shrinks every evening. The inferno gets hotter. Sachiko says nothing about Ai. Wednesday 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 third-millennial 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 – nose-picking doesn’t suit a hippie of your years.’ Doi scratches outside his nose: ‘Muzzle the grizzly, man . . . ain’t you had an intra-nasal zit before?’ Tomomi stares at him. ‘I have an intra-nasal zit right now. Its name is Doi. That delivery to the spine doctor’s wing-ding 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 inwards. ‘Do you want me to tell Mr Nero about the aromatic substances in your scooter hotbox?’ 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