Number 9 dream Page 0,46

‘Ninth. Queen of Spades. I have a great idea. Let’s get married.’ Coffee giggles and presses ‘9’. ‘I accept! Queen of Spades. Like, freaky name for a bar.’ The elevator’s movement is imperceptible, but for the changing floor numbers. Coffee picks some fluff off Daimon’s collar. ‘Nice jacket.’ ‘Armani. I’m very choosy about what comes into contact with my skin. That’s why I chose you, oh my divinity.’ Coffee rolls her eyes and looks at me. ‘Is he always like this, Miyake?’ ‘You can’t ask him,’ smiles Daimon. ‘Miyake’s too good a friend of mine to be honest with you.’ I look at the four reflections of our four reflections. Spaceship-humming silence. ‘Stay in here too long,’ I say, ‘and you’d forget which one was you.’ A gong bronzes, and the elevator doors open. Me, Velvet and Coffee nearly fall over. We are on the roof of a building so high Tokyo has disappeared. Higher than clouds, higher than the wind. The stars are near enough to prod. A meteor arcs around. I see a curtain in the night behind Orion and the illusion is obvious – we are in miniature planetarium, less than ten metres across. A gong bronzes again, and a grapefruit dawn blushes up the sides of the dome from the floor. ‘Like,’ gasps Coffee, ‘totally unbelievable.’ Velvet looks quietly impressed. Daimon claps. ‘Miriam! As you can see, I couldn’t keep myself away.’

A woman in an opal kimono and full geisha make-up slips through the curtain. She bows exquisitely. She is exquisite, from her lacquer hairclip to her sunset slippers. ‘Good evening, Mr Daimon.’ A pillow-hushed voice. Her cosmetics conceal whatever is beneath, but from the way she moves I put her in her mid-twenties. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’

‘I know it is, Miriam, I know it is. I heard you were due to be going on an exotic holiday tonight – but here you are, still. Well, well. Meet my new bride.’ He kisses Coffee, who giggles but squirms closer. ‘Do tell me Dirty Daddy isn’t on the premises.’

‘Would you be referring to . . . whom, Mr Daimon?’

‘Hear that diplomacy, Miyake? Miriam is a pro. A bona fide pro.’

The woman glances at me.

‘Mr Daimon senior isn’t here tonight, Mr Daimon.’

Daimon sighs. ‘That father of mine. Off rutting Chizumi again ? At his age? Has anyone else around here noticed how fat he’s grown? Talk about excess baggage. Does Chizumi dish you the dirt on Mr Daimon senior, Miriam? Is the trysting wig on or wig off? . . . Ah, I can see you’re not going to answer. Well, if he isn’t here, I can entertain my tinkywinky wifey’ – he encircles Coffee’s waist – ‘in the Daimon clan’s private room. Naturally, the evening’s festivities go on Father Ratfuck’s bill.’

‘Naturally, Mr Daimon, Mama-san will invoice Mr Daimon senior.’

‘Why so formal, Miriam? What happened to “Yuzu-chan”?’

‘I’ll have to ask you to sign the guest book, Mr Daimon.’

Daimon waves his hand. ‘Whatever.’

I ignore a voice advising me to get in the elevator and leave right now, because I lack any kind of excuse or explanation. I am still buzzing with alcohol, but I see something dangerous in Daimon. The moment passes. Daimon sweeps us on, in Daimon we trust. ‘The enchanted land awaits.’

Miriam leads us through a series of curtained anterooms – I forget which way we faced when we came in. Each curtain is embroidered with a kanji too ancient to read. Finally we enter a quilted chamber, unchanged since the 1930s. Tapestries of ancient cities hang on the windowless walls. Stiff leather chairs, an unattended mahogany and brass bar, a pendulum swinging too slowly, a dying chandelier. A rusty cage with an open door. The parrot inside opens its wings as we pass. Coffee squeals like a rubber sole on varnish. A number of older men sit around in clusters, discussing secrets in low voices and slow gestures. Smoke at dusk. Girls and women fill glasses and occupy the arms of the chairs. They are here to serve, not to entertain. Alchemy has distilled all colour into the girls’ kimonos. Persimmon golds, cathode indigos, ladybird scarlets, tundra olives. A rotary fan hanging from the ceiling paddles the thick heat. In the shadow of a nightmarish aspidistra a piano plays a nocturne to itself, at half-speed.

‘Wow,’ says Velvet.

‘Like, freaky,’ says Coffee.

A powerful odour similar to my grandmother’s hair lacquer makes me sneeze. ‘Mr Daimon!’ A thickly rouged woman appears behind the bar. ‘And companions! My!’ She