Number9Dream (52 page)

‘The ninth dream begins after every ending.’

A guru is furious. ‘Why are you quitting your search for enlightenment?’

‘If you’re so bloody cosmic,’ scoffs John, ‘you’ll know why!’

I am laughing so hard that I—

‘I woke up. And there was my mother, standing in the tea house entrance.’

Ai turns her music off. ‘You giggled yourself awake? What must she have thought?’

‘Later, she admitted she thought I was having a seizure. Even later, she said that Anju used to laugh in her sleep when she was a toddler.’

‘You talked for quite a long time?’

‘Three hours. Right through the midday heat. I just got back to Miyazaki.’

‘Neither of you were exactly lost for words, then?’

‘I dunno . . . A sort of unspoken agreement happened. She dropped any “Mother” role, and I dropped any sort of “Son” role.’

‘From what you told me, you never played those roles.’

‘True. What I mean is, I agreed to not judge her against a “Mother” standard, and she agreed not to compare me to a “Son” standard.’

‘So . . . where does that leave you now?’

‘I guess we’ll start as, uh, sort of . . .’

‘Friends?’

‘I don’t want to pretend this was a summer of love and peace festival. There was a minefield of stuff we both skirted around, that we will have to face, one day. But . . . I sort of liked her. She is real person. A real woman.’

‘Even I could have told you that.’

‘I know, but I always thought of her as a magazine cut-out who did
this
and did
this
but who never actually felt anything. Today, I saw her as a woman in her forties who has not had as easy a life as the rumour machine on Yakushima reckons. When she talks, she is in her words. Not like her letters. She told me about alcoholism, about what it does to you. Not blaming it or anything, just like a scientist analysing a disease. And guess what – my guitar? It turns out to be hers! All these years, my guitar was her guitar, and I never even knew she could play.’

‘Was the hotelier from Nagano there?’

‘He visits every two weekends: not today. But I promised to go back next Saturday.’

‘Good. Ensure his intentions are honourable. And your real father?’

‘That was one of the minefield issues. Another time, maybe. She asked how I liked Tokyo, and if I had any friends. I boasted about my one friend, the genius pianist.’

‘What an élite club. Where are you staying tonight?’

‘Dr Suzuki offered to find a futon in a corner somewhere, but I’m catching a train down to Kagoshima to stay with my uncle—’

‘Uncle Money, right? And tomorrow morning you board the Yakushima ferry and visit your sister’s gravestone.’

‘How did you know?’

Urgent clouds stream across a cinema sky.

‘I do listen when you tell me about Anju, you know. And your dreams. I have perfect pitch.’

The bored horizon yawns. These tidal flats touch the Hyuga Nada Sea, south of Bungo Straits, where my great-uncle sailed on his final voyage aboard the
I-333
. If binoculars were powerful enough to bring the 1940s into focus, we could wave at one another. Maybe I will dream him, too. Time may be what prevents everything from happening at the same time in waking reality, but the rules are different in dreams. I smell autumn fruit. ‘My, what a small world,’ says Mrs Persimmon. ‘Hello again. May I sit here?’

‘Sure.’ I dump my backpack on the overhead rack.

She sits as if afraid of bruises. ‘And did you enjoy my persimmon?’

‘Uh, it was delicious. Thank you. How was my dream?’

‘Had better.’ The weird old lady pulls her knitting out.

‘May I ask, what do you do with the dreams you, uh, gather?’

‘What do you do with persimmons?’

‘I eat persimmons.’

‘Old ladies also require nourishment.’

I wait for an explanation, but Mrs Persimmon gives none. A nuclear power station slides by, a frigate at anchor, a lonesome windsurfer. I feel I should make polite conversation. ‘Are you going to Kagoshima?’

‘Between here and there.’

‘Are you seeing relatives?’

‘I attend conferences.’

I wait for her to tell me what sort of conference eighty-year-olds attend – fruit farming? Stitchwork? – but she concentrates on her knitting. I think of atoms decaying. ‘Are you some sort of dream interpreter?’

Her irisless eyes are not safe to look into for very long. ‘My younger sister, who handles the business side of things, describes our profession as that of “channellers”.’

I assume I mishear. ‘You collect Chanel accessories?’

‘Do I appear to be such a person?’

Try again. ‘Channeller? Is that, uh, a sort of engineer?’

Mrs Persimmon shakes her head in mild exasperation. ‘I told my sister. This word-meddling confuses people. We are witches, I told her, so “witches” is what we should call ourselves. I have to begin this row again. This is a scarf for my grandmother. She moans if it isn’t perfect.’

‘Excuse me – did you say you are a witch?’

‘Semi-retired, since I turned five hundred. I believe in making room for the young ones.’

She is winding me up very wittily, or she is beyond mad. ‘I would never have guessed.’

She frowns at her knitting. ‘Of course not. Your world is lit by television, threaded by satellites, cemented by science. The idea of women fuelling their lifespans by energy released in dreams is as you say, beyond mad.’

I hunt for an appropriate answer.

‘No matter. Disbelief is good for business. When the Age of Reason reached these shores, it was us who breathed the deepest sigh of relief.’

‘How can you, uh, eat dreams?’

‘You are too modern to understand. A dream is a fusion of spirit and matter. Fusion releases energy – hence sleep, with dreams, refreshes. In fact, without dreams, you cannot hold on to your mind for more than a week. Old ladies of my longevity feed on the dreams of healthy youngsters such as yourself.’

‘Is it wise to go around telling people all this?’

‘Whyever not? Anyone insisting it were true would be locked up.’

I vaguely regret eating that persimmon. ‘I, uh, need to use the bathroom.’ Walking to the toilets it seems that the train is standing still but the landscape and I are flying by the same swaying speed. My travelling companion is beginning to scare me – not so much what she says, but how she says it. I wonder how I should handle her. But when I return to my seat I find she has gone.

Red plague eradicated all human life from the globe. The last crow has picked the last flesh from the last bone. Ai and I alone survive, thanks to our natural immunity. We live in Amadeus Tea Room. Satellites’ orbits spin lower and lower, and now the electronic rafts float by our balcony, near enough to touch. Ai and I entertain ourselves by going on long walks through Tokyo. I choose diamonds for Ai, and Ai picks the finest guitars for me. Ai performs Debussy’s
Arabesque
live at the Budokan, then I run through my Lennon repertoire. We take it in turns to be the audience. Ai still makes delicious salads, and serves them in TV dishes. We have lived this way, as brother and sister, for a long time.

One day we hear a meeeeeeeeep noise on the balcony. Meeeeeeeeep. We peer out, through the ajar window, and see a hideous bird strolling towards us. Pig-big, turkey-scrotumed, condor-shaggy. Its beak is a hacksaw blade. Its alcoholic eyes are weeping sores. Every few steps it vomits up an eyeball egg, and then sits on it, wriggling to push it up its butt-hole. ‘Quick!’ says Ai. ‘Close the window! It wants to get in!’ She is right, but I hesitate – that beak could sever my wrist in one snap. Too late! The bird leaps in, flumphing off a chair, rolling on to the carpet. Ai and I take a step back, afraid, but curious. Great evil might follow, but so might great good. The bird struts and peers at the decor with the critical eye of a potential buyer. It finally roosts on a wedding cake, and says – its voice is Doi’s – ‘The cat in the wig on the ceiling will have to go, man, and that is just for starters. Dig?’

‘You again, Miyake!’ says Ai, but she sounds pleased. ‘I saw on the news, Kagoshima has a typhoon warning. Are you there already?’

‘Not yet. I have to change trains at’ – I read the sign – ‘Miyakonojo.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘Only train drivers know it. Am I interrupting anything?’

‘I was smooching with a very sexy Italian called Domenico Scarlatti.’

‘Just to make me and Claude jealous.’

‘Scarlatti is even more dead than Debussy. But wow, his sonatas . . .’

‘I had this dream: you were in it, with this scabby turkey—’

‘Eiji Miyake and his killer charm. This is why you called me?’

‘No, actually I called you to tell you that, uh, when I woke up I realized I am probably in love with you, and that I thought it was the sort of thing you ought to know about.’

‘You are
probably
in love with me? That must be the most romantic thing any man ever said to me’

‘I said “probably” because I was afraid of seeming too forward. But if you insist, uh, yes, I am definitely in love with you.’

‘Why tell me this now, when you are a thousand kilometres away? Why didn’t you make a pass at me when I visited your capsule?’

‘Did you want me to?’

‘You thought I trekked out to Kita Senju for your pre-dinner conversation?’

An egg cracks on my head and yolky happiness dribbles. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘You are the man.
You
have to take
your
dignity and self-respect to the pawnbrokers.’

‘That is so unfair, Miss Imajo.’

‘Unfair? Try being a woman some time.’

‘This has crept up on me. I didn’t know about it when you visited. I mean, I certainly wouldn’t have thrown you out if, uh . . . but then I went and showed you the letters, and . . .’

‘It took a dream of a putrid turkey.’

‘Scabby, not putrid. And it was sort of cute, too. Do you mind?’

‘I have Scarlatti’s permission to play you K.8 in G minor. Allegro.’

Ai performs until my phonecard dies. I think she likes me.

The train pulls into Kagoshima JR under an end-of-the-world evening sky. Ghosts of K.8 in G minor tango, waltz and chicken-dance inside my head. Every time I think of the girl my heart sort of squid-propels itself. The conductor announces that owing to typhoon eighteen, all train services are cancelled until further notice – tomorrow morning, at the earliest. Half the passengers groan in unison. The conductor adds that bus and streetcar services have also been suspended. The other half groan in unison. I have an immediate problem that love will not fix. Uncle Money lives over the ridge of hills to the north of Kagoshima – it takes two hours on foot. I call him, hoping to blag a lift, but the line is engaged. I guess I should walk to the port and doss down in the ferry terminal. Powerful gusts of wind kick-box across the bus square. Palm trees take the strain, banners flap, cardboard boxes run for their lives. Nobody is about, and businesses are closing early. Turning the corner into Port Boulevard, I nearly get picked up and free-kicked to Nagasaki by a juggernaut wind. I lean into it to walk. Sakurajima the volcano island is there but not quite real tonight. The dark sea is crazed with waves. A hundred metres later I see I am in serious trouble – the electronic signboard says the entire terminal complex is closed. I could get a taxi to Uncle Money’s – too embarrassing, as he would have to pay. I could stay in a hotel – and then not be able to pay in the morning. Being poor sucks sometimes. I could beg for mercy in a police box – no. I could shelter in an arcade doorway – maybe not. I decide to walk to Uncle Money’s after all – I’ll be there by about nine o’clock. I take a short cut across the school pitch where I scored the only goal of my short career, nine years ago. Grit swarms and claws at my eyes. I walk past the station and push on along the coastal road, but walking is wading and progress is slow. No cars. I try to get through to Uncle Money from a callbox, but it sounds as if the lines are down now. Unaerodynamic objects sail by – car shrouds, beer crates, tricycles. Sea booms, wind wails, salt water banzais the sea defences and spray slaps me. I walk past a roofed bus shelter without a roof. I consider stopping at one of these houses and asking if I can sleep in the entrance hall. I walk past a tree with a bus-shelter roof embedded in its trunk. Then I hear a whoooooosh. I crouch on reflex, and a black animal bounds by – a tractor tyre! I am now afraid of winding up as road mush. I draw level with Iso-teien garden. I was brought here on school outings and I remember brick buildings with alcoves which I can probably shelter in. I scale the wall – the wind flicks me over the top, and I land in thrashing bougainvillea. The peaceful summer garden is now a demonic possession movie. A madwoman is banging a door, over and over. Over there – I scramble, pummel, swim – flying twigs sting my face. Up a steep slope, and I trip into the hut. Compost smell, tarpaulin, twine – I am in a potting shed. The latch is smashed, but I drag over a sack of soil and succeed in wedging fast the door. The whole structure judders, but any inside is better than outside. My eyes adjust to the darkness. A whole arsenal of spades, trowels, gardening forks, rakes. There is a narrow partition down one wall but it is too dark to see behind. First, I gather up the pots and repair the damage caused by the wind’s break-in as best I can. Second, I arrange a makeshift bed. Third, I finish a bottle of green tea that I bought at Miyakowherever. Fourth, I lie down, listen to the typhoon rhino-whipping the old structure, and worry. Fifth, I give up worrying and try to identify single voices in this lunatic roaring choir.

My bladder is outside my body – a golden embryo-shaped sac. It sags painfully off my groin. I am in Liverpool – I know this because of the mini cars and bee-hive haircuts – and I am looking for a toilet. Gravity is stronger in England – hauling myself up the steps of this cathedral exhausts me. The door is a manhole. I shuffle through on my back to keep my bladder-baby safe on my stomach. ‘One moment, Captain!’ says Lao Tzu from behind a wire grille. ‘You need an entrance ticket.’