Audition (3 page)

    ‘Definitely a nice, relaxed atmosphere,’ Aoyama said when the waiter receded, ‘and certainly posh enough. But what’s so special, exactly?’

    ‘Very simple. No bimbos. Ever since the bubble burst, the only women in the ruined clubs of Ginza are the sorts of nitwits who look like they just climbed down from the pole in some disco, right? It’s like you were saying earlier: women who are serious about doing something with their lives avoid becoming airheads. The girls here are not only knock-outs, they’re all trying to make it as singers or dancers or actors. Hostessing in a place like this is actually a relatively wholesome way for a struggling artiste to support herself. You’d be surprised how hard it is to pursue a career in the performing arts without ending up in porn or nude modelling. I mean, do you have any idea how many women are calling themselves actresses these days? It’s an epidemic. Actresses everywhere you turn, and scarcely a face among them you recognise. It’s not as if we’re making many more movies than we used to, but the number of actresses has increased about a thousandfold. Truly a bizarre phenomenon, if you ask me. But it’s going to work to your advantage.’

    He was referring again to the audition idea. Aoyama was no stranger to auditions, having supervised a number of them for TV commercials and PR videos. Sitting in a studio, sizing up a row of fifteen or twenty swimsuit-clad hopefuls, he’d always found words like ‘slave trade’ and ‘auction block’ popping into his mind. Of course they weren’t slaves, but there was no denying that the women lined up on that little platform, posing in their bikinis, were trying to sell themselves. Buying and selling was the basis of all social intercourse, and the commodity an actor or model offered for sale was nothing less than her own being. Was it really all right, Aoyama wondered, to take advantage of such a system in searching for a wife?

    ‘What’s the matter?’ Yoshikawa said. ‘You’re not even drinking. What, you don’t like my sublime and brilliant idea?’

    ‘I’m not saying I don’t like it.’ Aoyama lifted his glass and took a sip. ‘I do have some reservations, though.’

    ‘But it’s the only conceivable way to meet your requirements! You worried about the money?’

    ‘The money’s one thing. What about the conflict of interest?’

    Yoshikawa nodded.

    ‘Point taken. But I’m not quite stupid enough to hold an audition just for you. That’d be fraud, after all.’

    ‘Fraud?’

    ‘Look. You could always take out an ad saying, “Wanted: second wife for successful 42-year-old widower”. But do you think you’d then get to choose from dozens of lovely and talented young ladies?’

    ‘No.’

    ‘On the other hand, we can’t audition women for some film we have no intention of making. That would be fraud by anyone’s standards. What I’m thinking is, we come up with an actual movie project. A love story, naturally. We need a leading lady, and she has to be a new face, an unknown. Early twenties to early thirties, say. Only aspirants with a solid background in some sort of classical training need apply. That’ll be an integral part of the story we come up with, that the protagonist is devoted to her art. So all your requirements are right there in the casting call.’

    ‘We’re actually going to make a film?’

    ‘I didn’t say that. There are dozens of film projects that fall through every year for lack of backers.’

    ‘But doesn’t that make it fraud after all?’

    ‘Hell no. There’s a big difference between holding an audition for a film you never intend to make and holding one for a properly proposed project for which you’re actively trying to come up with investors and a leading lady and a script.’

    ‘It’s possible we will end up making a film, then?’

    ‘The odds aren’t good, but you never know with films. In fact, with films, your chances are actually better if you’re just winging it.’

    ‘Really?’

    ‘No. But getting all tenacious never helps either. Until something changes about the entertainment industry in this country, things like tenacity and careful planning alone will never get a movie made.’

    ‘So I’m going to marry the leading lady?’

    ‘Why not?’

    ‘Well . . . If it’s a love story, that means that in the film she’ll be involved with some actor. To be honest, I don’t think that would sit well with me. Besides, if we actually do make a movie, the woman will become a real actress, and I have doubts about whether it’s possible to lead a peaceful life with an actress. Maybe I’m just prejudiced, but they’ve always struck me as a fairly alien breed.’

    ‘That’s not just prejudice, it’s the truth. There’s no such thing as an actress with a stable personality. Show me one and I’ll shave my head, stick a cucumber in my ass and walk on my hands along the Moruroa Atoll. So no, you’re right. It would be a mistake to marry the one who lands the part. Besides, the odds are stacked against the film getting made anyway, so how would you explain it to her when the project disintegrates? How do you tell your bride-to-be, who’s all excited about starring in a movie, that it’s not going to happen after all? I don’t care how strong her love might be, I guarantee you that’d be the end of it. Not the leading lady, no. Not even one of the finalists. What you want is a woman who survives the first rounds, the sifting of the résumés, one who doesn’t seem cut out to be an actress but who’s intriguing enough to call in for an interview. You may not realise it, but there are some real buried treasures out there. If we can get a little buzz going, so that a thousand or so women apply, we’re bound to dig up a dozen or so of this type. The type 90 per cent of men will crane their necks to check out – but who’ve also got a lot more going for them than just looks. Some of these hidden gems have graduated from the very best schools, too. Not that you care about that, but I’m talking about genuinely intelligent women, proficient at classical ballet or piano or whatever, elegant and refined, nothing cheeky or affected about them. Women who make you think, you know – If only I were twenty years younger. Well, when I was twenty years younger I didn’t have the money or status to get them anyway, but still. Women of the type I’d like to see my son marry, let’s say.’

   
Oh great
, Aoyama refrained from saying as Yoshikawa mixed himself another drink.
So we’ll be duping only ladies of the highest quality
. But in spite of his reservations he couldn’t help imagining himself surrounded by ten or twelve lovely, intelligent, refined young ladies. What man, if not homosexual or mentally ill, wouldn’t take pleasure in a fantasy like that? The male imagination is a powerful thing, and it was enough to tip the balance. And to seal his fate. He had no way of knowing the unspeakable horrors that awaited him.

    ‘Anyway,’ Yoshikawa said, ‘you probably want to hear more about how we’ll arrange the audition itself, right?’

    Aoyama nodded. He’d drunk half his glass of Scotch and soda and took a moment to look around the room. There weren’t that many hostesses, but even in the dim light it was clear they were top of the line. Nothing gaudy about their make-up or clothing, and none of the Chanel suits that were the standard uniform of hostesses these days. Nor were the customers of the pre-bubble type – the big executives, or the realtors with their Armani threads and truck-driver crew cuts. These were men who looked to be in the music business or hi-tech fields. Money to burn, yet they were subdued – not because of any adherence to decorum and moderation, but simply because they didn’t know how to enjoy themselves. The hostesses sat elegantly but attentively next to these quiet men, and Aoyama found himself focusing in on the former in a way he’d forgotten all about since Ryoko’s death. The male stare.

    ‘Depending on how you go about it,’ Yoshikawa said, ‘there’s no end to the amount of money you can spend on an audition. Buying a full-page ad in the
Asahi Evening News
or
Pia
or
Tokyo Walker
can run into millions of yen right off the bat. And the really effective media of that sort are booked solid about six months in advance. So forget that. Newspapers and magazines are powerful tools, but they wouldn’t really suit our needs anyway. How about the newer media, then, you ask, the internet or whatever? Well, that’s no good either. You think the sort of woman a hundred out of a hundred men would want for their lover, or their bride, would have any interest in media populated entirely by geeks with too much time on their hands?

    ‘So . . . This may sound a little old-fashioned, but I’m thinking FM radio. Not the kid stuff – J Wave or whatever – but Tokyo FM 1. I’m pretty tight with an executive there named Yokota. He’s an imbecile to the marrow of his bones, but he owes me big-time – he was once in danger of losing his job until I saved his ass by finding him a whole roster of sponsors. Radio’s so much cheaper than TV, it’s easy to sucker in thirty or forty sponsors just by telling them that FM is coming back bigger than ever. Advertising departments, as you know, are crawling with people whose frontal lobes are so underdeveloped that if you flatter them a bit they’ll swear shit is platinum. I’ll talk to Yokota, and we’ll hijack one of the regular time slots to create a buzz about the audition. I’ve got connections with a lot of the production companies behind Yokota’s programmes too, so assuming I bring along the sponsors there shouldn’t be a problem. Believe me, Yokota isn’t about to refuse if I ask him to devote a regular three-month programme to a theme like, you know, “Where is our leading lady?” How about
Tomorrow’s Heroine
for the title? I’ll have the copywriters in my office handle the script. Doesn’t matter who directs it, anybody’ll do, but the host of the show will have to be female. For the music interludes we’ll use famous movie soundtracks. We’ll choose a late-afternoon time slot, because you’ve got to get the students first, and you don’t want women who are working regular jobs anyway. I mean, office girls? Forget about it. It’s not that there aren’t any beautiful office girls, but get a well-adjusted woman with a regular job and it’s just not that easy to pull the wool over her eyes.

    ‘Wait. I don’t mean it like that. We’re not going to be deceiving anyone. I’m just saying that the motivation for taking the bait, for buying into the dream, wouldn’t be as strong for an office worker. Single girls living at home, that’s our real target. The euphemism is “househelpers”, but there aren’t any who actually help out with the cooking and cleaning. The longest hours for them are in the afternoon. They’re up and showered and have nothing to do. It’s too early for a movie or a concert or a date, nothing decent on TV, so instead of playing with their own nipples and masturbating they start twiddling the switches and dials on the radio. The day’s just starting for them, so they look for something light and calming. Why not listen to
Tomorrow’s Heroine
? The lady personality hosting the show has a smoky, soothing voice. “What’s more romantic than a rose still in bud?” she says. “Imagine for a moment. How do you suppose Audrey Hepburn spent her days before her acting debut? Or Vivien Leigh? Or Julia Roberts? They were just like you. Living each day unaware that soon they’d shine on the silver screen, and in the hearts of millions. That’s right. They were all just being themselves, the people they were
before
they were heroines. And today, the heroines of tomorrow are also simply being themselves, living their lives, just like you. In fact, tomorrow’s heroine just might
be
you!” ’

Summer vacation was nearly over for Shige. It had been stiflingly hot in Tokyo this summer, and what with travelling with friends, a camping trip with the ski club from school and a long visit with Ryoko’s parents, he hadn’t been home much. Aoyama, for his part, had had several presentations for TV commercials just before and after the
o-bon
holidays, so it was late August before they had a chance to travel together, as they did almost every year, to the little hotel near Lake Yamanaka. Back when he was with the agency, Aoyama had once used this hotel as a setting for photo-shoots featuring an imported whisky, and he’d liked the privacy and the quiet atmosphere of the place so much that he’d started making regular yearly visits.

    He’d gone there with Ryoko alone at first. Later Shige had accompanied them as a babe in arms, as a toddler and as a little boy. And for the past seven years, during each of which Shige seemed to have grown at least a head taller, the two of them had continued the trips on their own.

    The hotel was in a densely wooded area, about fifteen minutes by car from the lake. It wasn’t particularly luxurious, the food was nothing to get excited about and regulars weren’t given any special treatment. But the building, made of stone and wood and stucco, blended seamlessly into the surrounding woods; the two tennis courts were well maintained; and each of the rooms – of which there were fewer than twenty – was spacious and pleasant. Best of all was the privacy, and the fact that there was none of the forced interaction with other guests that you found in so many highland resorts and bed-and-breakfasts. Aoyama had countless memories of his days and nights here with Ryoko. They’d travelled a lot together in the period just before and after their marriage, but this was the only place they’d made a point of returning to every year. The car they’d taken the first time was a Bluebird 3S borrowed from a friend, and the late-summer drive down the Chuo Expressway to Lake Yamanaka was something they both enjoyed so much that it led to the purchase of their own first car, a used Audi they got with a thirty-month loan. From the used Audi they’d graduated to a new one, and then a Mercedes 190, although since Ryoko’s death Aoyama had downgraded to plain domestic sedans.