leaps in, flumphing off a chair, rolling on to the carpet. Ai and I take a step back, afraid, but curious. Great evil might follow, but so might great good. The bird struts and peers at the decor with the critical eye of a potential buyer. It finally roosts on a wedding cake, and says – its voice is Doi’s – ‘The cat in the wig on the ceiling will have to go, man, and that is just for starters. Dig?’
‘You again, Miyake!’ says Ai, but she sounds pleased. ‘I saw on the news, Kagoshima has a typhoon warning. Are you there already?’
‘Not yet. I have to change trains at’ – I read the sign – ‘Miyakonojo.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Only train drivers know it. Am I interrupting anything?’
‘I was smooching with a very sexy Italian called Domenico Scarlatti.’
‘Just to make me and Claude jealous.’
‘Scarlatti is even more dead than Debussy. But wow, his sonatas . . .’
‘I had this dream: you were in it, with this scabby turkey—’
‘Eiji Miyake and his killer charm. This is why you called me?’
‘No, actually I called you to tell you that, uh, when I woke up I realized I am probably in love with you, and that I thought it was the sort of thing you ought to know about.’
‘You are probably in love with me? That must be the most romantic thing any man ever said to me’
‘I said “probably” because I was afraid of seeming too forward. But if you insist, uh, yes, I am definitely in love with you.’
‘Why tell me this now, when you are a thousand kilometres away? Why didn’t you make a pass at me when I visited your capsule?’
‘Did you want me to?’
‘You thought I trekked out to Kita Senju for your pre-dinner conversation?’
An egg cracks on my head and yolky happiness dribbles. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘You are the man. You have to take your dignity and self-respect to the pawnbrokers.’
‘That is so unfair, Miss Imajo.’
‘Unfair? Try being a woman some time.’
‘This has crept up on me. I didn’t know about it when you visited. I mean, I certainly wouldn’t have thrown you out if, uh . . . but then I went and showed you the letters, and . . .’
‘It took a dream of a putrid turkey.’
‘Scabby, not putrid. And it was sort of cute, too. Do you mind?’
‘I have Scarlatti’s permission to play you K.8 in G minor. Allegro.’
Ai performs until my phonecard dies. I think she likes me.
The train pulls into Kagoshima JR under an end-of-the-world evening sky. Ghosts of K.8 in G minor tango, waltz and chicken-dance inside my head. Every time I think of the girl my heart sort of squid-propels itself. The conductor announces that owing to typhoon eighteen, all train services are cancelled until further notice – tomorrow morning, at the earliest. Half the passengers groan in unison. The conductor adds that bus and streetcar services have also been suspended. The other half groan in unison. I have an immediate problem that love will not fix. Uncle Money lives over the ridge of hills to the north of Kagoshima – it takes two hours on foot. I call him, hoping to blag a lift, but the line is engaged. I guess I should walk to the port and doss down in the ferry terminal. Powerful gusts of wind kick-box across the bus square. Palm trees take the strain, banners flap, cardboard boxes run for their lives. Nobody is about, and businesses are closing early. Turning the corner into Port Boulevard, I nearly get picked up and free-kicked to Nagasaki by a juggernaut wind. I lean into it to walk. Sakurajima the volcano island is there but not quite real tonight. The dark sea is crazed with waves. A hundred metres later I see I am in serious trouble – the electronic signboard says the entire terminal complex is closed. I could get a taxi to Uncle Money’s – too embarrassing, as he would have to pay. I could stay in a hotel – and then not be able to pay in the morning. Being poor sucks sometimes. I could beg for mercy in a police box – no. I could shelter in an arcade doorway – maybe not. I decide to walk to Uncle Money’s after all – I’ll be there by about nine o’clock. I take a short cut across the school pitch where I scored the only goal of my short career, nine years ago. Grit