slightly inappropriate place for an interview, but it was John’s idea. ‘John – what is “Tomorrow Never Knows” actually about?’
John pulls a philosopher pose. ‘I never knew.’
We giggle helplessly. ‘But you wrote it!’
‘No, Eiji, I never . . .’ He dabs his tears away. ‘It wrote me!’
At that moment Doi lifts the tent flap and delivers a pizza. When we open the box, it contains cannabis compost. Picture Lady – it seems we are her guests – produces a cake knife with a polished stoat skull. We are each served a thin slice – it tastes of green tea. ‘Which is your favourite song by John, Eiji-kun?’ I realize that Picture Lady is in fact Kozue Yamaya working undercover – we all laugh at this.
‘“#9dream”,’ I answer. ‘It should be considered a masterpiece.’
John is delighted with this answer, and mimes an Indian deity, singing, ‘Ah, bowakama pousse pousse.’ Even the perspex whale outside the science museum giggles. My lungs fill up with laughter and I am having serious trouble breathing. ‘Truth is,’ John continues, ‘“#9dream” is a descendant of “Norwegian Wood”. Both are ghost stories. “She” in “Norwegian Wood” curses you with loneliness. The “Two spirits dancing so strange” in “#9dream” bless you with harmony. But people prefer loneliness to harmony.’
‘What does the title mean?’
‘The ninth dream begins after every ending.’
A guru is furious. ‘Why are you quitting your search for enlightenment?’
‘If you’re so bloody cosmic,’ scoffs John, ‘you’ll know why!’
I am laughing so hard that I—
‘I woke up. And there was my mother, standing in the tea house entrance.’
Ai turns her music off. ‘You giggled yourself awake? What must she have thought?’
‘Later, she admitted she thought I was having a seizure. Even later, she said that Anju used to laugh in her sleep when she was a toddler.’
‘You talked for quite a long time?’
‘Three hours. Right through the midday heat. I just got back to Miyazaki.’
‘Neither of you were exactly lost for words, then?’
‘I dunno . . . A sort of unspoken agreement happened. She dropped any “Mother” role, and I dropped any sort of “Son” role.’
‘From what you told me, you never played those roles.’
‘True. What I mean is, I agreed to not judge her against a “Mother” standard, and she agreed not to compare me to a “Son” standard.’
‘So . . . where does that leave you now?’
‘I guess we’ll start as, uh, sort of . . .’
‘Friends?’
‘I don’t want to pretend this was a summer of love and peace festival. There was a minefield of stuff we both skirted around, that we will have to face, one day. But . . . I sort of liked her. She is real person. A real woman.’
‘Even I could have told you that.’
‘I know, but I always thought of her as a magazine cut-out who did this and did this but who never actually felt anything. Today, I saw her as a woman in her forties who has not had as easy a life as the rumour machine on Yakushima reckons. When she talks, she is in her words. Not like her letters. She told me about alcoholism, about what it does to you. Not blaming it or anything, just like a scientist analysing a disease. And guess what – my guitar? It turns out to be hers! All these years, my guitar was her guitar, and I never even knew she could play.’
‘Was the hotelier from Nagano there?’
‘He visits every two weekends: not today. But I promised to go back next Saturday.’
‘Good. Ensure his intentions are honourable. And your real father?’
‘That was one of the minefield issues. Another time, maybe. She asked how I liked Tokyo, and if I had any friends. I boasted about my one friend, the genius pianist.’
‘What an élite club. Where are you staying tonight?’
‘Dr Suzuki offered to find a futon in a corner somewhere, but I’m catching a train down to Kagoshima to stay with my uncle—’
‘Uncle Money, right? And tomorrow morning you board the Yakushima ferry and visit your sister’s gravestone.’
‘How did you know?’
Urgent clouds stream across a cinema sky.
‘I do listen when you tell me about Anju, you know. And your dreams. I have perfect pitch.’
The bored horizon yawns. These tidal flats touch the Hyuga Nada Sea, south of Bungo Straits, where my great-uncle sailed on his final voyage aboard the I-333. If binoculars were powerful enough to bring the 1940s into focus, we could wave at one another. Maybe I will dream him, too. Time may be what prevents everything