Number9dream - By David Mitchell Page 0,114

with eight howls of mute grief. He pounded the rock until his fists bled. And suddenly, our early ancestor was calm. He picked the sticky burrs from his hair, and climbed the rock face until the overhang browed. He counted to nine, which was as high as Goatwriter could teach him, and dived for the spot between the bodies of his friends. A beautiful dive, a perfect ten. No thought bothered his head as Pithecanthropus entered the sacred pool. Serenity was never a word he knew, but serenity was what he felt.

‘Good afternoon. Jupiter Café. Nagamimi here.’

Donkey. I think. ‘Uh, hello. Could I speak to Miss Imajo, please?’

‘Sorry, but she isn’t working today, see.’

‘Oh. Could you tell me when her next shift is, then, please?’

‘Sorry, but I can’t do that.’

‘Oh. For, uh, security reasons?’

Donkey hee-haws. ‘No, not that. Miss Imajo’s last shift was Sunday, see.’

‘Oh . . .’

‘She’s a music student, and her college term is starting again, so she had to quit her part-time job here to concentrate on her studies, see.’

‘I see. I was hoping to get in touch with her. I’m just a friend.’

‘Yeah, I can understand that, if you’re her friend and all . . .’

‘So, might you have her telephone number? On a form or a record?’

‘We don’t keep forms or records here. And Miss Imajo was only here for a month, see.’ Donkey hums as she thinks. ‘We don’t keep files and stuff like that here, see, ’cos of space. Even our cloakroom, it’s got less room than one of those boxes what magicians put swords through. It isn’t fair. At the Yoyogi branch, see, they have this cloakroom big enough to—’

‘Thanks anyway, Miss Nagamimi, but . . .’

‘Wait! Wait! Miss Imajo did leave me her number, but only if someone called Eiji Miyake phoned.’

Kill me now. ‘Yes. My name is Eiji Miyake.’

‘Really?’ Donkey hee-haws.

‘Really.’

‘Well, really! Isn’t that a funny coincidence?’

‘Isn’t it just.’

‘Miss Imajo said only if somebody called Eiji Miyake calls. And you call, and your name is Eiji Miyake! Like I always say, see. “Truth is stranger than reality.” I saw you hit that nasty man with your head. It must have hurt!’

‘Miss Nagamimi, please could you give me Miss Imajo’s number?’

‘Right, hang on a moment, where did I put it, I wonder.’

Ai Imajo’s number is ten digits long. I get to the ninth, and feel the paralysis of fear creeping down my arm. What if my call embarrasses her? What if she thinks I’m some slimeball who won’t leave her alone? What if her boyfriend answers? Her father? What if Ai Imajo answers? What do I say? I look around Uniqlo. Shoppers, sweaters, space. My index finger presses the final digit. The number connects. A telephone in a distant apartment begins to ring. Somebody is getting up, maybe pausing the video, maybe putting down their chopsticks, cursing this interruption—

‘Hello?’ Her.

‘Uh . . .’ I try to speak but a sort of dry spastic noise comes out.

‘Hello?’

I should have planned this better.

‘Hello? Do I get to know who you are?’

My voice comes back all on its own. ‘Hello, is this Ai Imajo?’ Stupid question. I know this is Ai Imajo. ‘I, uh, my, uh . . .’

She sounds sort of pleased. ‘My knight in shining armour.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I recognized your voice. How did you get my number?’

‘Miss Nagamimi at Jupiter Café told me. Eventually. If this isn’t a convenient time to call, I can, uh . . .’

‘Nope, this is perfectly convenient. I tried to track you down at Ueno lost property office, where you said you worked, but they told me you suddenly left town.’

‘Yeah, uh, Mrs Sasaki told me.’

‘Was it to do with your relative?’

‘Sort of. I mean, no. In a way, yes.’

‘Well, that’s that sorted out, anyway. Where did you disappear to at Xanadu the other weekend?’

‘I figured lots of, uh, organizer people and music people would want to come and talk with you.’

‘Exactly! I needed you to head-butt some for me. How is your head, by the way? No lasting brain damage?’

‘No, my brain is normal, thanks. Sort of normal.’

Ai Imajo finds this funny.

We both begin talking at the same moment.

‘After you,’ I say.

‘No, after you,’ she says.

‘I, uh’ – the electric chair must be more pleasant than this – ‘am wondering if, I mean, it’s perfectly all right if not, you know’ – never commit your army without a clear path of retreat – ‘but if, uh, it’s okay for me to, uh, call you.’

A pause.

‘So,

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