Number9Dream (49 page)

I take a deep breath—

He may recognize me—

He may not recognize me, and I may tell him—

He may not recognize me, and I may not tell him—

I knock. A pause. Then a cheerful ‘Come!’ I recognize my father from the photograph I got from Morino. He lies on a vast sofa, wearing a dressing gown. ‘Pizza boy! You overhear my telephone call?’

‘I did my best not to.’

‘Let it be a lesson to you.’

‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Remember: it costs more to keep a pony in straw than a whore in fur.’

‘I can’t imagine ever needing to remember that.’

My father grins – a grin that is used to getting what it wants – and beckons me over. There is a great view of skyscrapers in the background, but I drink in every detail. The too-black hair. The racks of shoes in his closet. The photo of Half-sister on his desk as a ballerina swan. The shape of his hands. The way he swivels upright. His body seems to be in better shape than his company – I guess he works out at a gym. ‘You’re not Onizuka, and you’re not Doi.’

No, I am your son by your first mistress. ‘No.’

‘So?’ My father waits. ‘You are?’

‘The chef.’

‘Oho! So
you
make my delectable Kamikazes.’

‘Only this week. I’m temporary.’

He nods at the pizza box. ‘Then I betcha never came across anything quite like my kamikaze, am I right?’

I place the box on the coffee table. ‘It’s an unusual combination.’

‘Unusual? Unique!’

I smell perfume and wine.

My father smiles and frowns at the same time. ‘Are you all right?’

I tell you now, or I go away for ever.

He grins. ‘You look like your night was almost as long and hard as mine.’

How you love yourself. ‘Goodbye.’

Mock-offended surprise. ‘You don’t want me to sign anywhere?’

‘Oh. Yeah. Here, please—’

My father scribbles on the receipt.

I want to smash your skull with your golfing trophy.

I want to shout and I think I want to cry.

I want you to know. Your consequences, your damage, your dead. I want to drag you down to the seabed between foot rock and the whalestone.

‘Hell-o-oo-ooo!’ My father waves his hand. ‘I said, is Doi back next week?’

I swallow and nod and leave this man who I will never meet again. I look back once – his eyes close as his jaws sink into black stodge.

Outside PanOpticon, I buy a pack of Hope, sit on a bollard and watch the traffic stop and start. Twenty years translated to two minutes. I smoke one, two, three. The cloud atlas turns its pages over. Crows dissect a pile of trash. Tokyo is a dirty eraser. Summer left town without leaving a forwarding address. Drones in Jupiter Café tuck into their breakfasts. I want to stop a passer-by, and tell the story of the last six weeks, from PanOpticon stake-out up until this moment. How do I feel? Oh, I cannot begin. But hey, Anju, I kept my promise. I wish Ai were working at the Jupiter Café today. I would ride in on my Harley Davidson like Richard Gere in
An Officer and
a
Gentleman
, and she would climb on, and we would vanish down the narrow road to the deep north. I watch the pedestrians crossing
en masse
when the green man says so. I join them. I cross Kita Street – I feel disappointment that our father turned out exactly how all the evidence said he would. I wait for the man to turn green. I cross over Omekaido Avenue – I feel shame that his blood is in my veins – and I wait for the man to turn green. Then I cross back over Kita Street – I feel sad that I found what I searched for, but no longer want what I found. I wait, and cross back over Omekaido Avenue. I feel release. I complete one, two, three circuits. I can go now. I hear my name. Onizuka has pulled up on his Nero scooter. I am immune to surprise, now and maybe for ever. I don’t know what he wants, but I rule out walking away from Onizuka in case he knifes me in the kidneys. ‘C’m here.’ He hoicks and spits. ‘Been looking for you.’

‘You found me.’

‘Been watching you walking in circles.’

‘Squares. Not circles.’

He toys with his lip-stud. ‘Want to ask you something.’

I go up to him.

He thumbs towards Nero’s. ‘Tomomi the Mouth says you’re going to Miyazaki.’

‘Tomomi the Mouth is right.’

‘Your mum’s ill?’

‘She is, yeah.’

‘Short of dosh?’

Where is this going? ‘I’m not exactly the Bank of Japan, no.’

‘My stepdad runs a haulage business. Said one of his drivers’ll get you to Osaka, then sort out a rig for Fukuoka.’ Onizuka never jokes, and he hasn’t started now. He hands me a slip of paper. ‘Map, address, phone number. Be there by noon.’

I’m too surprised – too grateful – to say anything.

Onizuka drives off even before I properly thank him.

‘You want to visit your mother in Miyazaki, but you can’t be sure when you’ll be back,’ Buntaro announces as I step into Shooting Star. My landlord folds his
Okinawa Property Weekly
. ‘As if I could say “No!”, lad! My own mother would murder me. Yes, my wife will take care of the cat. Like old times. Your rent is covered until the end of October, and your deposit can take care of November, unless you need me to return it, in which case I’ll pay it into your bank account, box your stuff and put it into storage. Call me from Miyazaki when you know what your plans are. Shooting Star isn’t going anywhere. My wife has made you a lunch box.’ He rubs his gold tooth, and I realize that it is Buntaro’s lucky amulet. ‘Go on then,’ he says. ‘Pack!’ My capsule is exactly as I left it twenty hours ago. Socks, yoghurt cartons, scrunched pillows. Weird. Cat is out, but Cockroach waits on the window ledge. I get the death spray, creep up on it, and – Cockroach is motionless. Daydreaming? I hassle him with the corner of a cookie wrapper. Cockroach is a dead husk.

Onizuka TransJapan Ltd is near Takashimadaira station out on the Toei Mita line. Through the gates is a walled yard with a loading bay and three medium-sized trucks. It is only eleven. I walk back towards the station, where the giant electronics store is opening. Inside is cold as pre-dawn February. Two identical receptionists at the helpdesk chime ‘Good morning’ in such angelic harmony that I am unsure which to speak to. ‘Uh, which floor are the computers, please?’

‘Basement, third level,’ answers Miss Left.

‘Mind if I leave my backpack with you?’

‘No problem at all,’ answers Miss Right.

I float on the down escalator. Souls of shoppers float with me. Everywhere is draped with tinselly maple leaves to announce the coming of autumn. Miniature TVs, spherical stereos, intelligent microwaves, digital cameras, mobile phones, ionizing freezers, dehumidifying heaters, hot-rugs, massage chairs, heated dish-racks, 256-colour printers. The escalator announcement warns me not to stand on the yellow lines, to assist children and old people at all times, and orders me to enjoy quality shopping. Goods sit on their shelves, watching us browse. Not a single window. In the computer section I am greeted by a tame Suga in a clip-on tie. His skin has a clingfilm gleam. I wonder if they have Vitamin B-emitting strip lights down here to compensate for the total absence of natural light. ‘You look like a man with his mind made up, sir!’

‘Yes, I’m thinking of upgrading one of my PCs.’

‘Well, I promise we can spoil you for choice. What’s your budget?’

‘Uh . . . I’ve got a research grant to burn through. My modem’s from the twenty-fifth century – now all I need is the hardware to match it.’

‘No problem. What’s your modem?’

I overdid it. ‘Uh . . . a very fast one indeed.’

‘Yes, sir, but which make?’

‘Uh, a Suga Modem. Saratoga Instruments.’

He bluffs. ‘Verrrrrrrrry nice machines. Which uni are you at?’

‘Uh, Waseda.’

I have used a magic word. He produces his card and bows low enough to lick my shoes. ‘Fujimoto – at your service. We do operate an academic discount scheme. Well. I’ll let you play – you just call me if I can assist.’

‘I will.’

I pretend to read the specifications on a few machines, gather a sheaf of brochures, and choose a machine to sit at. I click on to the Internet, and find the e-mail address of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police home page. I write it on my hand. I glance around, hoping no hidden video cameras are watching. I load Suga’s disk.
A hearty welcome to the mailman virus
! Suga made his virus more user-friendly than he ever made himself.
Do you want to enter your message to the masses via
k
eyboard or load it from
d
isk?
I press D.
Okay. Load your disk and hit ENTER.
I eject the Suga disk, insert the Kozue Yamaya one, and press Enter. The virus program takes over. The drive buzzes and blinks.
Okay. Now enter address of lucky recipient
. I type in the police home page address off my hand.
Hit ENTER
to lick stamp! The cursor pulses, my finger hovers – the consequences of pressing this key swarm – click. Too late to change my mind now.
Mailman is delivering your letter to primary addressee . . . Flash. Mailman is forwarding your letter to second generation addressees . . .
Short pause.
Third generation addressees . . .
Long pause.
Fourth generation, [yawn].
The screen clears.
Mailman will continue to generation99.
The message scrolls off-screen.
Log off now/leave the crime scene/run like hell. Beep. Bye-bye
. Bye-bye, Suga. I eject the Yamaya disk and put it into my shirt pocket. I am a plague-spreader. Only this plague might cure something. ‘Excuse me.’ An older salesman strides over. ‘What did you just download into our system, exactly?’ I grope for a plausible lie, but find nothing. ‘Uh, well. I was morally obliged to release information about a Yakuza network which steals people, cuts them up and, uh, sells the body parts. Using your computer seemed the safest way to go about exposing them. I hope that was okay?’ The salesman nods gravely, trying to figure out where I am on the harmless to knife-slashing spectrum of lunacy. ‘Glad we could help, sir.’ We thank each other, bow, and I let the escalator whisk me away. I retrieve my backpack from the helpdesk, unhassled, and walk out into the warm traffic fumes. I drop the two disks down the nearest storm drain. From a phone booth near Onizuka TransJapan I try calling Ai at home, then on her mobile, but nothing doing. Quarter to noon. I had better find Onizuka’s stepfather and introduce myself. I am so tired nothing seems real.

Eight

THE LANGUAGE OF MOUNTAINS IS RAIN

I dribble my soccer ball along a busy shopping mall in downtown Tokyo. No flashy retailing hot spot, this – the shops are all in decline, selling pan-scrubbers in bulk, blouses of thirty summers ago, flimsy exercise aids. Light clots with jellyfish from ancient seas. How or when I won possession of the soccer ball, I cannot say, but here it is – a curse, not a blessing, because the enemy goalposts could be hidden anywhere in Japan. If I pick up the ball, the referee will cut off my hands with rusty shears. If I lose the ball to the enemy, I will be spat at by schoolchildren and bitten by dogs until the day I die. But players are chosen, they do not choose. I must find the enemy goalposts and blast the ball home. Familiar faces eddy by in the stream of shoppers – a Kagoshima music shopkeeper, my father’s secretary, Genji the barber, snipping with finger-scissors – but I know that one lapse in concentration is all an enemy player needs to rob the ball. The mall descends into a swampy fog and the air cools. Jellyfish fall from the air and die. I wade through their clear bodies, kneeing the ball along in draining slurps. I know the enemy are tracking me on radar units obtained from Nazi Germany, so why do they let me penetrate so deep into their territory? Here comes Claude Debussy, walking on the swamp-surface in snowshoes. ‘In possession, Monsieur Miyake?
Fantastique!
’ He stage-whispers: ‘I bring a classified message from your great-uncle. One of our team has turned traitor! Trust nobody, not even me!’

‘Buntaro?’

‘Machiko-san?’

Shooting Star was abandoned years ago. Tatty posters hang by single pins. I bolt the door behind me – a wise precaution, I see, as enemy players unmask themselves and gather on the pavement. The derelict state of the shop is why the enemy chose to hide their goalposts in my capsule. I push the ball behind the counter, and face the problem of the stairway, which is nine times higher than I imagined it. I boot the ball up, but it rebounds back. Meanwhile the enemy batter-ram the window with a wooden statue of the god of laughter – the glass bends, but does not yet break. I grip the ball between my feet, and amphibian-wriggle my way up, step by step. I am nearly at the top when I hear glass smashing. If I wriggle any faster the ball will slip and bounce down to the enemy. The enemy roar – traffic news – the top step – the enemy boom upward – I jam the doorlatch with pool cues.

My capsule is a gloomy warehouse, empty except for building rubble.

Ahead is my glory – the enemy goal.

Mr Ikeda screams in my ear: ‘What have you done?’

I turn to face my father. ‘I came to score the goal.’

‘This is our goal, not the enemy goal! Traitor! You showed them the way!’

The pool cues snap and splinter.

An ogre shakes my knee with one hand and grips the steering wheel with the other. ‘You were dreaming, son. Mumbling, you were.’ He is a sad ogre. I gaze at my surroundings, clueless. Amulets from temples and shrines festoon the cab of a truck. Ogre’s pool-ball eyes aim in different directions. ‘Who knows what you were mumbling? Not me. You made no sense at all.’ All at once Eiji Miyake and the last seven weeks come back to me. ‘No sense in any language ever recorded, that is,’ continues Ogre, whose name is Honda, I think, but it is too late to check now. I feel a weird lightness. I met my father this morning. I feel loss, I feel victory, but most of all I feel free. And now, in a perfect reversal of the way I imagined things, I am headed to Miyazaki to see my mother for the first time in six years. At less than 5 kph. Four lanes of traffic, crawling at slug-speed. The dashboard clock blinks 16.47. I have been asleep for over three hours, but still have a hefty overdraft at the bank of sleep. If Suga’s mailman virus works the way he boasted, Kozue Yamaya’s file has already spread to every e-mail contact on every address book of every e-mail contact on every address book, etc., for ninety-nine generations. That adds up to . . . more computers than there are in Japan, I guess. Way, way beyond the ability of anyone to cover it up. It is out of my hands now, anyway. ‘Going nowhere fast past Hadano, we are,’ says Ogre. ‘Traffic news says a milk-rig overturned ten clicks downstream.’ Urban Tokyo has unfolded into zones and charted rice-fields. ‘On a fine day,’ says Ogre, ‘you can see Mount Fuji over to the right.’ Drizzle fills the known world. Rain stars go nova on the windscreen, wipered away every ninth beat. Radio burbles. Tyres hiss on the wet Tomei expressway. A minibus of kids from a school for disabled children overtakes on the inside. They wave. Ogre flashes his headlights and the kids go wild. Ogre chuckles. ‘Who knows what makes kids tick? Not me. Alien species, kids.’ Line after line of hothouses troop by. I feel I should stoke the conversation to pay for my fare, but when I start a sentence a yawn splits my face in two. ‘Do you have any kids?’