Number 9 dream Page 0,58
afternoon is passing. My feet are aching and I taste dust. So hot. I fan myself with my baseball cap. It makes no difference. An old mama-san waters marigolds in her third-storey window box. When I look back at her she is still watching me, absently.
The phone booth is a safari of porn and smells of never-washed trousers. You don’t need to buy sex mangas in Tokyo – just find the nearest callbox. Me and my cousins would have saved a fortune. All the shapes and sizes I ever imagined, and lots of others, too. Threesomes, foursomes, S&M, high-school revue, special silver service for octogenarians. ‘Directory enquiries,’ answers a woman. ‘What city, please?’
‘Tokyo.’
‘What area, please?’
‘Shibuya.’
‘And the name, please?’
Miss Manilla Sunrise pouts over two beachballs. No, surely—
‘Name, please?’
—they can’t actually be her actual—
‘Name, please!’
‘Uh, sorry. I’m trying to track down a bar. Queen of Spades.’
‘Queen of Spades . . . one moment, please.’ Keyboard taps.
Miss Whippy Cream licks the froth off her stilettos.
Keyboard taps. ‘Queens of England . . . Queer Sauna . . . sorry. Nothing.’
‘Are you sure? It was there last night. Could it be a new number?’
Mrs Mop rides a broom, speech ballooning: ‘In! Out! Shake it all about!’
‘New numbers are added to the computer as they are registered.’
‘So if Queen of Spades isn’t on your computer . . .’
‘Then it must be ex-directory.’
Weird. ‘What kind of bar wants to hide its telephone number?’
‘A very exclusive one, I imagine. Sorry, but I can’t help you.’
‘Oh well. Thanks for trying.’
I hang up. One big card is handwritten in childish letters. It has no telephone number. ‘If you want sex with me, I’m standing outside.’ I look around. She looks right at me through the glass. Sixteen? Fifteen? Fourteen? Her eyes have a damaged look. She presses her lips softly against the glass. I scuttle away, faster than Cockroach.
The police box door is stiff. I have to grind it open. Ancient Aum Shinrikyo wanted posters, Dial 110 posters, Join-the-Police-and-Serve-Japan posters. I’ll pass, thanks. Filing cabinets. The same black-and-white clock with the gliding second hand you get in all government buildings. A Citi Bank calendar, rustling in the breeze from the paddling fan. The cop is tilted back with his hands behind his head, deep in meditation. One eyelid rises. ‘Son?’
‘Excuse me. I’m looking for a bar.’
‘You’re looking for a bar?’ His words leak from the side of his mouth.
‘Yes.’
‘Will any bar do? Or does it have to be one bar in particular?’
‘I’m looking for one bar in particular.’
‘You’re looking for one bar in particular.’
‘Yes.’
A sigh as long as the end of the world. The other eyelid rises. Two bloodshot eyeballs. A long silence. He leans forward, his chair screeches, and he slowly unfolds a map on the desk. Upside down. ‘Name?’
‘Eiji Miyake.’
A long stare. ‘Not your name, genius. The name of the bar.’
‘Uh, sorry. Queen of Spades.’
The cop focuses and darkens. ‘You are a member of this bar?’
I swallow. ‘Not exactly. I went there last night.’
He frowns as if I am being evasive. ‘Somebody took you?’
I nod. ‘Yeah.’
He peers at me from another angle. ‘And you want to go back? Why?’
‘I need to speak to a sort of . . . friend who works there.’
‘You need to speak to a sort of friend who works there. How old exactly did you say you are?’
‘I, uh, didn’t.’
‘I know you didn’t, genius. That is why I asked. How old are you?’
What is this about? ‘I’m twenty.’
‘ID.’
Nervously, I open my wallet and hand over my driving licence. The cop scrutinizes it. ‘Eiji Miyake, resident of Kagoshima prefecture. In Tokyo to work?’ I nod. He reads. ‘Date of birth, 9th September. You were twenty yesterday, correct?’
‘Correct.’
‘So upon visiting said bar you were under the minimum drinking age. Correct?’
‘I went to Queen of Spades yesterday. On my birthday.’
‘You went to said bar yesterday. On your birthday.’
‘All I want is the address of this place, Officer.’
He searches my face for clues for a long time. Eventually he hands back my licence. ‘Then all I can suggest is you obtain said address by calling said sort of friend. Queen of Spades is not listed on any map of mine.’ The end. I bow and leave, struggling to slide the door shut as he memorizes my face.
I admit defeat. My legs are about to unscrew and fall off. I explored every street and alley in Shibuya, twice at least, but Queen of Spades is no longer here. I buy a can of Calpis and a packet of Seven