a long-distance delivery. He broods in the cage, ripping a grapefruit to bits. I box up the Chicken Tikka and mini-salad 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. But tonight, even my doctored guesses are way too optimistic. Doi reappears in the cage, listening to a song on the radio in ecstasy – ‘Riders in 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 practises 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 got 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 lost.’ Sachiko rests her feet on a box of Nero ketchup sachets. ‘Doi’s metaphors always make my head spin more than the abstract idea they’re supposed to simplify.’ Tomomi feeds through an order for a Satanica, crisp crust, treble 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 wodge 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!’ Going back to Kita Senju on the Chiyoda line, 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 answerphone. It is not from Ai. ‘Uh . . . well, hello, Eiji. This is your father.’ Laughter. I freeze – the first time I feel 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. That sadist Akiko Kato dealt with my wife, not me. I was in Canada for conferences and business 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 last 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. There 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. This is 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 . . .