you are,’ she says. ‘Will that be all, Mr Daimon?’
‘No, Miriam, that will not be all. I want some grass. Instant-karma mix. And you know how peckish drugs make me, so bring something peckable in half an hour or so.’
The room has a fusuma screen that opens on to a balcony. Tokyo rises from the floor of the night. Four weeks ago I was helping my cousin repair Uncle Orange’s tea plantation Rotavator. Now look. A six-storey can of KIRIN LAGER BEER pours dandelion neon, over and over. Across the unlit lake of the Imperial Palace I can see aircraft warning lights pulse on the crown of PanOpticon. Altair and Vega pulse either side of the Milky Way. Traffic noises ebb up. Velvet leans out. ‘Miles and miles,’ she says to herself. Her hair shifts in the hot breeze. Her body is made of curves I can feel just by looking. ‘I do declare,’ says Daimon, the friend who is giving me all this on a plate, ‘I have rolled the most perfect joint this side of the whorehouses of Bogotá.’
‘And just how would you know?’ Coffee bends down to light it.
‘I own a dozen.’ He wriggles out of his jacket and slings it into the room. His T-shirt reads We don’t see things as they are, we see things as we are, which I have heard somewhere before.
Velvet leans out farther. ‘Are those islands or ships? That loop of lights.’
Daimon peers through the railings. ‘Reclaimed land. New airport.’
Coffee looks. ‘Let’s go out there and see how fast your Porsche runs.’
‘Let’s not.’ Daimon puckers the joint into life, holds the smoke down, and exhales an aaaaaaaaa . . . Coffee kneels, and Daimon holds the joint to her lips. Uncle Money gave me a stern lecture about drugs and Tokyo which I know from one glance at Velvet I shall ignore. Coffee purses her lips as dragon smoke uncurls from her nostrils. ‘Did I tell you’ – Daimon gazes into the flame of his lighter – that this lighter is a piece of history? It used to belong to General Douglas MacArthur during the Occupation.’ ‘Like, sure it did, if you say so,’ scoffs Coffee. ‘I say so, but never mind. Get me a zabuton, my coffeecreamyhoneyhole, let your lungs soak up this beauty, we’ll drive to Tierra del Fuego and repopulate Patagonia . . .’ While Coffee is fetching a cushion from the tatami room the mobile phone in her bag beeps the Moonlight Sonata. Daimon heaves a mighty sigh – ‘Irritating!’ – and passes the joint to me. I give it to Velvet. Daimon answers the mobile in a fair imitation of the royal crown prince. ‘I bid you a splendid evening.’ Coffee dives, giggling. ‘Mine!’ Daimon scissors her to the floor between his legs. She writhes, giggling, mantrapped. ‘No, I’m terribly sorry, but you can’t speak with her. Her boyfriend? Really? That’s what she told you? How awful. I’m fucking her later tonight, you see, so go and hire a naughty video, you sad fuck. But first, listen very carefully to this – this is how your death sounds.’ And he tosses the phone over the balcony.
Coffee’s giggle has its plug pulled.
Daimon smiles wide as a stoned toad.
‘You just threw my mobile over the railing!’
Daimon dribbles giggles. ‘I know I just threw your mobile over the railing.’
‘It might hit somebody on the head.’
‘Well, scientists warn us that mobile phones can harm the brain.’
‘My mobile!’
‘Oh, I’ll buy you another one. I’ll buy you another ten.’
Coffee weighs up various factors. ‘The most up-to-date model?’
Daimon grabs the zabuton, lies back and does a gangster impression. ‘I’ll buy ya da factory, shweetie.’ Coffee does a little-girl pout and holds the champagne glass to her ear. ‘I can hear bubbles.’ Velvet takes my earlobes in a thumbpinch, seals my mouth with hers and marijuana smoke rushes in. Stolen chocolate, smeared and soft. ‘Ohohohohohohohoho,’ observes Daimon, ‘do that inside, you two. It looks like I – and my newlywed – have been overtaken by the young upstart once again.’ I open my eyes, and gasp, and cough. Velvet prods me in the chest, so I go inside.
‘You sit there,’ she says, pointing to the far side of the low table. A monk on heat, a dog in a cassock. Her forearms glisten with sweat. She blows out the candle. We take solemn turns with the joint and say nothing. Our fingertips might brush. Hers contain an electric current. Bioborg. I make out her