Chapter 37

Monday, December 23

6:30 P.M.

Yumi

Yumi checked the tweet she’d received from @rakugoactor and copied his address into her phone. The actor rented a room in one of the buildings where students and unmarried people who came to Tokyo from other parts of Japan stayed while they sought a more permanent toehold.

Ah, there it was, on the next block. From the sidewalk outside, Yumi sent Mansaku a message she’d arrived, and a few minutes later he appeared at the door, looking like an Edo-era monk in modern clothing. His hair was pulled into the same Edo-style knot he’d worn while performing, but now he was wearing a Banksy T-shirt of an anarchist throwing a bouquet, along with baggy pants and a pair of brown vinyl slippers. She left her shoes on the shelves by the door, slid into the too-large pair of slippers he set out for her, and followed him to a common room. Floor pillows were strewn about on the tatami and a large TV in the corner was tuned to earthquake news. He found the remote and turned it off.

They exchanged pleasantries, then Yumi said, “So, about tomorrow. Is it okay for me to come along?”

Mansaku nodded. “There’s plenty of room on the boat. It’s a trawler heading out to deep ocean. They’ll drop us at Odaiba on the way. Three thou apiece, to help pay for the extra fuel.”

“How did you find it?”

“My brother’s the pilot.”

“You come from a Tsukiji family? How did you end up performing rakugo?”

“My parents ask me the same question. Repeatedly.” He grimaced. “In fact, the earthquake postponed another daijina hanashi scheduled for next week.”

Yumi winced in sympathy. Men who waded too deep into their thirties without getting married and/or landing the kind of career that set them on a corporate promotion escalator were often taken aside by their parents to have an “important talk.” Inevitably, this talk included exhortations to find a bride who would take care of the negligent son’s parents in their old age, which they claimed was fast approaching. It went without saying that supporting such a woman would also require giving up whatever frivolous pursuits the son had been indulging in and buckle down to a real job.

“So are you going to do it? Trade in your kimono for some wellies?”

He groaned.

Yumi asked, “What kind of volunteer work are you planning to do on Odaiba?”

“I want to join an animal rescue team,” he said. “Looking for survivors. After the Tōhoku earthquake, nobody realized how many pets had survived the tsunami. Cats and some breeds of dogs did okay until someone got around to bringing them in a month later, but dachshunds, Pomeranians, Chihuahuas . . . dogs like that just aren’t bred for survival in the wild. I saw some really sad cases.” Then he brightened. “I also might do a few performances at the refugee centers at night. I’ve been talking to a woman there who’s in charge of entertainment.” Mansaku shifted on his cushion. “What are you planning to do?”

“I . . . I just want to help,” she said. And find a missing idol.

He nodded. “Why don’t you come with me to the refugee center? I’m sure they’ll be able to tell you where volunteers are needed.”

“Sounds good. How long are you planning to stay?”

“Don’t know exactly. I’ll stay until the restaurant where I work reopens.”

“How will you get back?”

“If the trains aren’t up and running yet, I’ll ask my brother if he can pick me up on his way back in.”

Yumi nodded. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

“The Oedo Onsen got turned into one of the refugee centers, and I’m hoping they have some futons set aside for volunteers, too. That’s what I’m planning to do, unless . . .” His pocket started buzzing. He reached in and checked the number on his phone display. “Unless the friend who’s returning my call right now knows of something better.” He pressed Answer and said, “Chiho-san, long time. How are you?”

He listened, nodding and saying “hai” occasionally.

“Whoa, that would be great,” he said finally, a smile spreading across his face. He glanced at Yumi. “Is there room for another person, too? There’s a volunteer coming with me who doesn’t have anywhere . . .” He listened. “Woman.” He nodded. “Great. Perfect. So how much stuff does this stylist have . . . ? Okay, okay, sorry, ‘image consultant.’” He listened, then answered, “Could he meet us at Tsukiji Station, Exit 3 at three o’clock? Great. Ja, ne.” He ended the call.

“Good news,” he said. “I don’t know if you remember, but I have a friend who’s a stylist for one of the big promoters. Chiho-san was in Odaiba at his studio last week working on a new promo for some band, and got stuck there after the earthquake. But some other guy she works with—he’s an ‘image consultant,’ whatever that is—sneaked back into town for a hot date Friday night and couldn’t get back on Sunday after the earthquake. Now she’s in a pinch because the promoter guy just told her he’s returning with the band to reshoot some of the video to make it into an earthquake memorial, and he’ll be pissed as hell if he finds out the image consultant guy isn’t there. She says if we can bring him and some stuff she needs, we can stay at the promoter’s place until the celebs arrive.”

“Which band?” she asked.

“Dunno. Those idol bands—they’re all the same, aren’t they?”