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Authors: David Mitchell
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school, falling in love for the first time.
The phone rang. “It’s Takeshi.”
“Hi, boss. Are you having a good day?”
“I am not having a good day. I’m having a very bad day.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I am a fool. A bloody fool. A bloody, bloody fool. Why do men do this?” He was drunk, and me still on my morning tea. “Where does this impulse come from, Satoru? Tell me!” Like I knew but was refusing to grant him enlightenment. “A sticky wrestle in ananonymous bedroom, a few bite marks, about three seconds’ worth of orgasm if you’re lucky, a pleasant drowse for thirty minutes, and when you come to you suddenly realize you’ve become a lecherous, lying sleazebag who’s flushing several million sperm and six years of marriage down the toilet. Why are we programmed to do this? Why?”
I couldn’t think of an answer that was both honest and consoling. So I went for honesty. “No idea.”
Takeshi told the same story three times in a loop. “My wife dropped by to pick me up for lunch. We were going to go out, talk things over, maybe sort things out.… I’d bought her some flowers, she’d bought me a new striped jacket she’d seen somewhere. Hopelessly uncool, of course, but she remembered my size. It was a peace pipe. We were just leaving when she went to the bathroom and what did she find?”
I almost said “a nurse’s corpse,” but thought better of it.
“What?”
“Her bag. And dressing gown. The nurse’s. And the message she’d written to me, in lipstick. On the inside of the mirror.”
“What was the message?”
I heard ice cubes crack as Takeshi poured himself another drink. “None of your business. But when my wife read it she calmly walked back into the living room, poured vodka on the jacket, set it alight, and left. The jacket shriveled up and melted.”
“The power of the written word.”
“Damn it, Satoru, I wish I was your age again. It was all so bloody simple back then! What have I done? Where does this myth come from?”
“What myth?”
“The one that plagues all men. The one that says a life without darkness and sex and mystery is only half a life. Why? And it was hardly like I’d been rooting Miss Celestial Beauty Incarnate. She was just some stupid slag of a nurse.… Why?”
I’m only nineteen. Graduated from high school last year. I don’t know.
It was all pretty pathetic to listen to. Luckily at that moment Mama-san and Taro came in so I could leave Takeshi’s unanswerable questions unanswered.
• • •
If Mama-san were a bird she would be a kind, white crow.
Taro would not be a bird. Taro would be a tank. For decades, long before I was on the scene, he has escorted Mama-san everywhere. Their relationship has depths to it that I’ve certainly never sussed. I’ve seen old photos of them from the sixties and seventies. They were a beautiful couple, in their way. Now they make me think of a frail mistress and a faithful bulldog. Taro, the rumors go, used to do odd jobs for the yakuza in his youth. Debt collection, and suchlike. He still has some versatile friends in that world, which is very useful when it comes to paying protection money on The Wild Orchid. Mama-san gets a sixty percent discount. Another of those friends with connections at city hall managed to obtain my full Japanese citizenship.
Mama-san brought me my lunch box. “I know you overslept this morning,” she crackled, “because of all the bloody racket.”
“Sorry. What time did the last guests leave last night?”
“The Mitsubishi men: 3:30 A.M. , or so … One of them has a real thing for Yumi-chan. He insisted on a date next Saturday.”
“What did Yumi-chan say?”
“The Mitsubishi men pay on time. They have a whacking entertainment budget they need to use up every month. I promised her a new outfit from somewhere plush if she said yes. Besides, the man’s married, so it won’t get complicated.”
“Go out with Koji last night?” Taro
The phone rang. “It’s Takeshi.”
“Hi, boss. Are you having a good day?”
“I am not having a good day. I’m having a very bad day.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I am a fool. A bloody fool. A bloody, bloody fool. Why do men do this?” He was drunk, and me still on my morning tea. “Where does this impulse come from, Satoru? Tell me!” Like I knew but was refusing to grant him enlightenment. “A sticky wrestle in ananonymous bedroom, a few bite marks, about three seconds’ worth of orgasm if you’re lucky, a pleasant drowse for thirty minutes, and when you come to you suddenly realize you’ve become a lecherous, lying sleazebag who’s flushing several million sperm and six years of marriage down the toilet. Why are we programmed to do this? Why?”
I couldn’t think of an answer that was both honest and consoling. So I went for honesty. “No idea.”
Takeshi told the same story three times in a loop. “My wife dropped by to pick me up for lunch. We were going to go out, talk things over, maybe sort things out.… I’d bought her some flowers, she’d bought me a new striped jacket she’d seen somewhere. Hopelessly uncool, of course, but she remembered my size. It was a peace pipe. We were just leaving when she went to the bathroom and what did she find?”
I almost said “a nurse’s corpse,” but thought better of it.
“What?”
“Her bag. And dressing gown. The nurse’s. And the message she’d written to me, in lipstick. On the inside of the mirror.”
“What was the message?”
I heard ice cubes crack as Takeshi poured himself another drink. “None of your business. But when my wife read it she calmly walked back into the living room, poured vodka on the jacket, set it alight, and left. The jacket shriveled up and melted.”
“The power of the written word.”
“Damn it, Satoru, I wish I was your age again. It was all so bloody simple back then! What have I done? Where does this myth come from?”
“What myth?”
“The one that plagues all men. The one that says a life without darkness and sex and mystery is only half a life. Why? And it was hardly like I’d been rooting Miss Celestial Beauty Incarnate. She was just some stupid slag of a nurse.… Why?”
I’m only nineteen. Graduated from high school last year. I don’t know.
It was all pretty pathetic to listen to. Luckily at that moment Mama-san and Taro came in so I could leave Takeshi’s unanswerable questions unanswered.
• • •
If Mama-san were a bird she would be a kind, white crow.
Taro would not be a bird. Taro would be a tank. For decades, long before I was on the scene, he has escorted Mama-san everywhere. Their relationship has depths to it that I’ve certainly never sussed. I’ve seen old photos of them from the sixties and seventies. They were a beautiful couple, in their way. Now they make me think of a frail mistress and a faithful bulldog. Taro, the rumors go, used to do odd jobs for the yakuza in his youth. Debt collection, and suchlike. He still has some versatile friends in that world, which is very useful when it comes to paying protection money on The Wild Orchid. Mama-san gets a sixty percent discount. Another of those friends with connections at city hall managed to obtain my full Japanese citizenship.
Mama-san brought me my lunch box. “I know you overslept this morning,” she crackled, “because of all the bloody racket.”
“Sorry. What time did the last guests leave last night?”
“The Mitsubishi men: 3:30 A.M. , or so … One of them has a real thing for Yumi-chan. He insisted on a date next Saturday.”
“What did Yumi-chan say?”
“The Mitsubishi men pay on time. They have a whacking entertainment budget they need to use up every month. I promised her a new outfit from somewhere plush if she said yes. Besides, the man’s married, so it won’t get complicated.”
“Go out with Koji last night?” Taro
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