Look, I cleared my afternoon surgery. Can you make one o’clock? This is my surgery number.’ I scribble it down. ‘Get to Edogawabashi metro 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 metro 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 warily 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 Lennon’s Live 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 put out her dinner six hours early in case I have to go straight to work after my father. Luckily Buntaro is on the phone to the 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 women, 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. Cancelling an afternoon of appointments—’ she shakes her head. ‘Unprecedented in six years! I thought to myself, “Is the emperor visiting?” Then he said his son was visiting! – his words, not mine – and I thought, Aha! All is explained! He meant to fetch you from Edogawabashi 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-sized 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 cliente`le, so we avoid ostentatious advertising, unlike the downmarket clip-and-tuck shops.’ A mouse-sized cat crosses our path. ‘Here we are – see, you could pass by none the wiser.’ A tall, anonymous building, sandwiched by flashier neighbours. The ground floor is a jewellery 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 quick 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, name-card, the works. Ms Kato, your father’s lawyer, bled them dry in court, naturally – although I gather she’s not exactly flavour of the month, vis-à-vis 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 –