Harajuku Sunday (25 page)

"Think he went home with the Japanese girl," repeats
Antony
, still looking thoughtful, and I shrug, and we walk over to Shibuya Station but part ways once inside.

Four or five days after the night the
Kyoto
cohort visits, I'm standing on the platform in Shinjuku Station when Melanie and Julian and two Japanese friends come skipping down the steps on the next-over platform.
 
Melanie sees me and says "Hey there Ritchie!"
 
The group starts walking over closer to a corresponding area nearer me.

"Hey there Melanie! Hey Julian!" I say, waving.

At this moment, Julian looks surprised, but friendlily asks "Where are you going, Ritchie?" and I respond, "Over to Kinokuniya to get my culture fix."
 
Perhaps my voice trails off at the end.
 
The smile on Julian's face definitely does.

"Um, what's that, Ritchie?"

In that instant half-second of reaction, I keep up my smile, although I'm wondering whether the slang "culture fix" is the problem.
 
"Kinokuniya, you know the bookstore, I'm making a joke that I need a fix of English language culture like a junkie needing a fix …"

The smile on Julian's face is definitely gone, and as if by cue, Melanie becomes subdued, and the two Japanese, dressed out in hiking gear, one a dyke-ish looking girl, the other a non-descript boy, remain silent.
 
For about fifteen seconds we stand there silent and awkward, until a train pulls into my platform, and through some fortunate coincidence, a coworker of mine happens to be right there on the car I'm about to board and he greets me friendlily, which serves, I suppose to establish for the record that I'm not the one acting weird.
 
In any case, the next day at work I find myself at my desk trying to puzzle out what exactly occurred, but it´s all beyond explanation.
 
Maybe in this way the ice between me and the 'auteur' is broken, even if neither of us wish to ever become friends; maybe in this way it's back to being a normal person again, a certain unknown cost settled and finally laid to rest.

X.

“See you’ve come from all corners of the world; you’re being paid to ‘produce art’ through the idealism of some rich Japanese foundation.”

“Yes…”

“But you yourselves are the work of art.
 
Ironically all of you are rich—at least middle-class—Americans and Canadians… New Zealanders.
 
You want all your life to be artists, but by definition, you are too young and too innocent to produce really deep art.
 
All everyone is doing is producing minor works of beauty, without that tragic sadness that is necessary to produce truly deep art—it’s true, this theory; I believe it now.
 
But as a result of the path you are following, eventually you will fall further and further behind your classmates who are pursuing professional careers—and finally, at the end of your life, you will have reached genuine tristesse and the ability to produce truly moving art.”

Melanie smiles, faintly; most of the rest seem to at least somewhat agree with what is said, although there are looks of resentment.

“I consider my film a genuine exploration of the Blair case, because I think a lot has not truly been explored. I think the truth has been suppressed.”

“But it’s still a rich kid’s take on a working class situation, see?”

“I’m not so wealthy as you think I am.”

Like walking into a summer evening in the glorified perfection of small-town
America
, there is a buzz in this place, a profound sense of peace and future hope.
 
There is nothing remarkable about living in
Ginza
.
 
There is nothing remarkable about being twenty-four years old.
 
There is nothing remarkable about having a blackmailing hostess girlfriend or to support people even if you’re twenty-four if you have the money, however ill-gotten.
 
What is strange, bizarre, psychology-wrecking is to have all of these things simultaneously.
 
Tossing over trash cans in a group walking around Tokyo in the evening, the intervening police come to address not me (financier, non-Fellowship holder), but one of the older potters, apparently in his thirties and older looking still from outdoors work.
 
“Excuse me sir, aren’t you supposed to have your group under control?”
 
I ghost in and out of the studio; I observe with profound understanding that every single person present is doomed.

“This is my art-rock project, Ritchie.”

“It’s good.” (doomed)

“Check out my wood carvings, Ritchie.”

“Nice.” (doomed)

“Do you think maybe we can do found-art/installation art, mixed-media?”

(Doomed.)

Nnot a Fellowship holder; I am not subsidized into art.
 
But there is that moment—click—when a sudden geography of one city block falls into place, and this is a moment invested with meaning.
 
Of the seven hundred rock groups playing west
Tokyo
, maybe one, possibly none will last another five years.
 
We will learn the name of that one, but the six hundred ninety nine others will become insurance salesmen and housewives, that is the numerical reality.
 
Why can’t people be satisfied with drear lives from the beginning?
 
If they could, so much effort need not be wasted.

Three years pass in this fashion. Hisako’s features become more settled, womanly.
 
I work in my indifferent job and the topography of our apartment becomes altered; I begin to sleep in the guest bedroom.
 
The fragrant rosemary tinge of a pot roast—that is a Sunday’s effort.
 
In afternoon’s sunlight, Julian, welcome in our apartment, resting from a hard weekend’s filming, nursing a beer. Lowing light, a clink of dishes from the neighboring flat.

“The creation of art is not itself is not necessarily about success.
 
In the end, I don’t really care if Shibuya Gray becomes commercially successful; I just want people to understand what happened.
 
That there were consequences.
 
That a member of our own group could be led to die.”

“And kill…”

“But that’s just what the media sold it.
 
Jim was also a victim.”

“I’m a bit more of mixed feelings.”

Jim, that Marine who drifted into the Fellowship so many long and haunted years ago, was a killer.
 
This cannot be denied.
 
But he was also cheap, of bad background, and unable eventually to find solace even in what possibilities existed with the friendship of the Aoyama Fellows and his scribblings.
 
I feel suddenly askance at Julian himself, his obsession.

“Julian, if you feel so sorry for Jim, maybe you’re making the wrong film?
 
Film in Texas, show the dustiness of his past life; show how he was always forced into one career or another until he ended up in Tokyo and took his own life and that of his hooker girlfriend.”

“Possibly.
 
Possibly there’s far more in the moment of the now, with all past history merely implied.”

Hisako is back to hostessing; her earnings are enormous, and she will peak in about five years. There is in one sense an expiration date on our relationship, then; you cannot get used to a certain way of living and then suddenly scale back when the income drops off.
 
The crash, when it comes, will be sudden and dramatic—unless; unless, that is, there is one chance, and one chance only.
 
It is time to set into motion certain projects of my own.

“Information! I have cash.”

“Ritchie! Ritchie Ufuo! I thought you had left
Japan
?!”

“Think again. There is information I need, and I am willing to pay.”

“Oh God. This.”

Two hundred foreigners brought over once a year on two-year Fellowships; thirteen million USD a year total administration costs plus the eighty-million dollar gallery under construction (now in its eighth year, yes, but still taller and taller every month).
 
Where is the money coming from?

“Okay, so it’s the Moriyama family.
 
Toshio is the last descendent, and he’s spending the family inheritance on what he sees most important—East/West artistic exchange.”

“Thirteen million a year important?”

“Yeah. Basically. These people are on a completely different level than us.”

“Vulnerabilities?”

“One of the cousins, who might otherwise stand to inherit, is doing everything left and right to stop Toshio, but unfortunately, the laws are quite clear.
 
As rightful heir to the fortune, Toshio—or Roshi-sensei as everyone calls him—can do whatever he wants.”

“Any other exploits?”

“Well…there is one matter…”

LeFauve, the old Republican commissioner and source of all evil in earlier dramas, now a rising star in national politics.
 
Always bureaucratically powerful but cash poor, sealed an unholy alliance with a real estate broker in Japan, cash for favors, and US support behind a popular real-estate ownership initiative proposed in the Diet.
 
The idea is to raise middle-class ownership of land, but the means by which to accomplish this—low interest loans—plays directly into the broker’s hands.

There is one, perverse, complicated, planned-out way to interfere—and I will set it into motion purely for the asinine chance value of it.
 
Broker will be at the gala dinner; with a known weakness for attractive women, Hisako is a chance to gain leverage into the situation—destroy Fauve, involve all other individuals into a complicated drama, and lay bare hearts for all to see.
 
The question is of timing—and information gathering.

“How does it involve baseball players?”

“The brother of the current World Baseball Classic MVP owes an old club promoter friend of mine a favor. I have just enough pull—and I mean I’m exhausting all old favors—to get him there; this makes my table the center of action that night; that pulls in the broker; he gets introduced to Hisako, and then I broker terms to LeFauve, probably to include complete withdrawal from political life.”

“And this is all for…”

“Face it; everyone we know is smallest of all possible beans.”

None of them can see it.
 
None of them are willing to face facts simply as they are.
 
Caught up in the lie of their own creation, they define themselves as “artists,” but fail to understand their own incapability.
 
It’s not just a matter of actual talent—although this is a valid concern as well.
 
Nor is it simply something about situation (though again this applies rather strongly in certain situations).
 
It’s about the choice they made being exceedingly common—they just being too simple to understand this.
 
One walks into a beer garden in
Queens
,
New York
City, and sees hundreds of hipsters from
Oklahoma
wearing chops and ironic nerd-rock glasses.
 
Um, this itself is an affectation?
 
Doing so won’t generate genuine originality?

“You’re making a film about a murder because your own life itself lacks that drama.
 
You were born wealthy, now you are on a rich kids’ junket, and all of this is insulating you from life itself.
 
If you really want to make a film, how about living in a squat for ten years?
 
Then you’ll see it all.”

“Who are you to say anything?
 
Aren’t you living off a girl?”

“The difference is that I make no pretense to be an artist.
 
I understand that social trends, numerical odds are unfolding in a certain way.
 
My girlfriend is a hostess; she blackmails upper-middle class Japanese for financial support.
 
Things will peak in five years, and then there will be a sudden crash.
 
If I can pull off a larger score of blackmail, we’ll be set.
 
Politicians; donors and benefactors—they are the ones who control.
 
You take your three million, you don’t be greedy, and then everything is set.”