Audition (2 page)

    Shige interrupted this train of thought.

    ‘Why,’ he said, ‘don’t you find yourself a new wife, Pops?’

Shige went to a friend’s house that night, and Aoyama had dinner alone. Rie-san had left a pot of steamed rice, and he walked to a delicatessen near by, a place specialising in imported foods, and bought roast duck from France along with some smoked salmon and mushrooms. He wasn’t particularly fond of cooking, but neither did he consider it a chore to prepare a meal for himself. He boiled the mushrooms and placed them on a Ginori plate, laid the salmon on top of them, sprinkled them with tinned capers, ground some fresh pepper on top, and added a squirt of lemon and a dash of soy sauce. There were more than a dozen different varieties of beer in the refrigerator – something that would have been unthinkable in the old days, Aoyama was thinking as he selected a Belgian brew and popped it open.

    When he’d gone to meet the pipe organist, he’d spent three weeks in a little town called Wittenberg, in the former East Germany, about halfway between Leipzig and Berlin. Food and goods were scarce there, but it was on the River Elbe and the scenery was dumbfoundingly beautiful. Unlike bigger cities, the town had no food markets that catered to foreigners, and every morning he’d line up with the townsfolk to buy bread and to bargain with farmers for vegetables and meat and home-made beer. It was three weeks of an unwonted sort of monotony, devoid of any flash or dazzle whatsoever, and yet he’d never felt bored for a moment. Each afternoon at the same time he’d call on the elderly pipe organist, who lived in a simple stone house on top of a hill at the edge of town, and chat with her in his broken German about things that had nothing to do with the proposed concert. The rest of the time he’d walk stone-paved streets along the swollen, slow-moving Elbe or gather shell casings left behind by Russian soldiers in World War II, and every evening he made dinner for himself. The gas burner in the little house he rented was a relic, and just getting it lit was a major undertaking, but it produced a mysterious, pale-blue flame at which he never tired of gazing. Aoyama had experienced a real sense of fulfilment in those days. And that sense of fulfilment had truly changed him. The satisfaction he’d got from planning and realising the concert became the standard, the measure, for whatever he did from that point onwards in his life. Not even when making TV commercials or PR videos would he ever again settle for mediocrity.

    Partially because of this meticulousness his business flourished, but the wildish lifestyle he’d maintained when Ryoko was healthy had lost all appeal for him. Which is not to say that he went without sex. There were always bars and clubs where one could find female companionship, and he had plenty of opportunities to meet women through his work; but he hadn’t got involved in anything one could call an affair, or even a romance. At one point, friends and acquaintances had been all over him about remarrying. Even Ryoko’s father had come to him one day, bearing a photo of an elegant-looking lady in her early thirties and saying, ‘I know it’s highly irregular for me of all people to suggest this . . .’ But Aoyama declined all such offers, and eventually they tapered off. He came to be regarded as fiercely loyal to the memory of his wife, and though he didn’t protest this assessment the truth was that he simply couldn’t be bothered. He might have considered remarrying if he’d been too unattractive or too poor to get his sexual needs met, but that wasn’t the case. The two goals he’d set for himself after Ryoko’s death had taken more time and effort to accomplish than he’d ever imagined they might. He’d ultimately succeeded at both of them, solidifying his company’s reputation and status into the bargain, but he had no desire to expend that sort of time and energy on a woman.

    At least not until Shige asked the famous question, and added, ‘You seem pretty down in the dumps lately. Seriously, Pops. What if you thought about getting married again?’

Yoshikawa, an old friend and colleague from the ad agency, had been doing TV work for something like twenty years but was now involved in film. Although their career paths had diverged, he and Aoyama still got together often. They had a certain deep-seated respect for each other, which precluded the semi-antagonistic back and forth that makes some friendships so tiresome.

    That a talented man like Yoshikawa had moved from television to film was decidedly not because movies themselves had regained anything close to the power and influence they’d once wielded. It had more to do with advances in digital technology. Private, digital-based viewing systems demanded film-quality software. High-definition TVs were easily obtainable, but camera technology was lagging behind, and it wasn’t financially feasible to make high-budget films solely for the ancillary markets. Negotiations with studios and backers were complex, and that was where a man with Yoshikawa’s skill and experience was indispensable.

    They usually met in the bar of some hotel or other. Yoshikawa had designated one in Akasaka for tonight, a fairly pretentious place with a lady playing a harp.

    ‘What happened to all the real bars?’ Yoshikawa said. He had arrived five minutes late and was tossing back a sherry on ice as he surveyed the room. ‘The places where a couple of real men could relax over a real drink. Look around you – nothing but incomprehensible couples in this joint. Check out the pair slurping their Bloody Marys. Shit. They wouldn’t recognise a really delicious Bloody Mary if they fell face-down in one. Ah well, let it go. But look at the two office girls baring their gums to the world as they yuck it up over whatever that is they’re drinking. Gimlets? I’m telling you, give it five more years and every bar in the country will have the atmosphere of a beer hall.’

    ‘I don’t know,’ Aoyama said. ‘I’m not one who tends to think bars were so much better in the old days. There was more discrimination back then, for starters, and that’s never a good thing. And the belief that the cocktails in those snooty places were the gold standard is probably just another delusion.’

    ‘Something’s changed, though. Everything’s all mixed up. And it’s not only because the rich are poorer and the poor are richer.’

    ‘It couldn’t just be that we’re getting older, could it?’

    Yoshikawa thought about that for a moment.

    ‘One thing I can say for sure,’ he said. ‘Everyone assumes that in ten years the world will be more or less the same as it is now, right? We all think, Well, I’ll be ten years older, but we assume we’ll be alive and carrying on as usual. In spite of the fact that an earthquake or an act of terrorism, or any number of other things, could wipe us out in the next heartbeat.’

    ‘So?’

    ‘So we act as if there’s no hurry to get things right, or to do the things we want to do. And when I say “we” I mean everybody – from the average teenage punk agonising over whether to ask a girl for a date to the politician contemplating reforming the tax code. No reason it has to be right
now
.’

    Aoyama had noticed that this doleful sort of tone was becoming increasingly common in his conversations with Yoshikawa. They were both in their early forties but sounded almost senior-citizenly at times. A few years ago they’d often joked about not understanding ‘the kids nowadays’, but this was different.

    The conversation turned to music. Yoshikawa said he and his son, who was about Shige’s age, listened to the Beatles together sometimes.

    ‘You’d think that anyone who likes the Beatles would have no use for the crappy Japanese bands of today,’ he said, ‘but I guess that’s not necessarily true.’

    He told Aoyama about a video made by one of the younger members of his staff, documenting a female pop singer’s concert at a stadium in some provincial city. Yoshikawa had happened to see parts of it, without sound, during a rough edit.

    ‘At first, I swear to you, I thought it was a ceremony for some new religious cult. Tens of thousands of kids, all dressed and groomed exactly alike, packed into the stadium in orderly rows, all rising to their feet or screaming or bursting into tears at the same time. But none of them – not one – actually seemed to be enjoying themselves. They all had this look of blood-chilling loneliness about them, as if they were stranded on the dreariest planet in the universe. What the hell happened to those kids?’

    As if on cue, the harpist began to play ‘Eleanor Rigby’. ‘Great song,’ Yoshikawa muttered, and Aoyama nodded. The two of them listened in silence awhile. Aoyama had bought the single back in the day, and he tried to remember what had been on the B-side. He was thinking it must have been either ‘Taxman’ or ‘Yellow Submarine’ when Yoshikawa grinned at him and clapped him on the shoulder.

    ‘So you’re finally ready, eh?’

    On the phone, Aoyama had mentioned the idea of getting married again.

    ‘That’s great,’ Yoshikawa went on. ‘Everyone’s going to be glad to hear this. I might be a little pissed off if she’s too young and beautiful, but . . . Tell me about her.’

    ‘Haven’t found her yet.’

    Yoshikawa gave him a narrow look, then flagged a passing waitress and ordered another sherry, telling her to make it a double. There were four waitresses, all clad in long red velvet skirts, all young and all stunning. They were probably students working here part-time, which would make them twenty or twenty-one. Too young no matter how you looked at it, Aoyama thought as he watched those red velvet hips undulate towards the bar.

    ‘You haven’t found her yet? What are you talking about, then – an arranged marriage? Not that you couldn’t find somebody nice that way, but—’

    ‘Not
omiai
, no. Yoshikawa, you ever done
omiai
?’

    ‘Hell no.’

    ‘Me neither, but we know the drill. You meet the woman over dinner with the go-betweens, and then if you like each other you start dating. Which is fine, but once you’ve started dating it’s not as if you can arrange an
omiai
with someone else, is it?’

    Yoshikawa shrugged. ‘You got me.’

    ‘I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to stick with one woman at a time. But who has time for that? I’m a busy man.’

    ‘What sort of woman are you looking for? Younger, I suppose?’

    ‘I’m not that particular about age, but nobody too young. Preferably someone who has a career and who’s been trained in some discipline or other.’

    ‘Discipline? You mean, like, bondage and shit?’

    Aoyama laughed.

    ‘Idiot. I’m talking about, you know, classical music, or ballet, something of that sort.’

    ‘Ah. Shades of Ryoko?’

    ‘Not necessarily. I just happen to think that nothing gives a person self-confidence like being classically trained. A person without self-confidence is incapable of being independent, and people who are dependent on their partners always create unhappiness. Always.’

    ‘Aren’t you being a little too picky?’

    ‘You think?’

    ‘A classical musician or a ballerina? I don’t care how good a catch you are, that’s asking a lot. You’re not exactly Onassis, you know.’

    ‘She doesn’t have to be successful at it, or even a professional. Just someone who’s seriously studied something.’

    ‘So she could be an actress, or a popular singer, say?’

    ‘I wouldn’t want anyone who’s been contaminated by the entertainment industry.’

    ‘Can’t blame you for that. It’s an industry where people are bought and sold like cattle, after all. But you’re setting the bar pretty high.’

    ‘It would be nice to have a chance to really check her out before getting involved, too.’

    ‘What, hire a detective?’

    ‘Get serious. I mean talk to her, ask her a lot of questions about herself. Of course, the ideal situation would be to meet and interview as many different women as possible in a relatively short period of time. As for age, let’s say from about mid-twenties to early thirties. I think if—’

    ‘Wait a minute,’ Yoshikawa said. He took a sip from his new glass of sherry, then leaned his chin on his fist, thinking. ‘There’s only one way,’ he said finally and took another sip. ‘Let’s hold an audition.’

2

‘Trust me on this. Have I ever let you down? When it comes to holding auditions, I’m a pro, you know. Just leave the details to me.’

    Yoshikawa got strangely fired up that night. Not content with quiet drinks in the hotel bar, he’d loaded Aoyama into a taxi and taken him to what he called his ‘special place’, a club in Roppongi. The hostesses here wore gauzy evening gowns, and the décor was in the Italian style, with leather sofas and etched, frosted-glass partitions separating the tables. Curious, temperamental-looking potted plants were strategically placed throughout the room, and inorganic Eurojazz played over the sound system. Though Aoyama knew that a place like this might be shockingly expensive, he couldn’t see what was so unique about it. It was crowded, with men sitting even at the bar, but Yoshikawa was greeted by the staff as if he were some sort of celebrity. They were shown to an L-shaped sofa set in the corner by a waiter who was of a type one never used to see in upscale watering-holes like this: a dude in his late twenties with chiselled features, piercings in his ears and nose and lip, and a greenish-brown suit. He set a bottle of thirty-year-old Ballantine’s on the round table, along with an ice bucket, a siphon of soda water and glasses, and expressed a hope that they wouldn’t mind waiting ten or fifteen minutes. Meaning, of course, that all the hostesses were occupied at the moment.