father! I want to feel hope but I want to bawl with frustration. I hobble back to my stuff, where I find one thing more, lying in the dust between the roots of the sycamore. A library book which fell when Miriam crippled me. What book is it? I can’t read a word – it is in Korean.
In the Shibuya back streets I am lost in no time. Yesterday and this afternoon seem weeks apart. This grid of narrow streets and bright shadows, and the pink quarter of last night, seem to be different cities. Cats and crows pick through piles of trash. Brewery trucks reverse around corners. Water spatters from overflow pipes. Shibuya’s night zone is drowsing, like a hackneyed comedian between acts. My eyes begin to get lost in the signboards – Wild Orchid, Yamato Nadeshiko, Mac’s, Dickens, Yumi-chan’s. Even if I happened to find Queen of Spades, search fatigue would probably stop me seeing. I left Shooting Star without my watch, and I have no idea how fast the 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?’