After living in Japan for six months and thirteen days, I finally realized what a bird’s eye view of Tokyo looks like: New York after a nuclear attack.
I whisper this into a glass of Lychee, in my native Dutch, grinning at the discovery. Then I look down on the twilit city of sushi and kogyaru. How cool to sit on the sixty-first floor, sip my favorite cocktail, stare at the Eastern Capital through two-inch-thick glass, and stir the ice in my glass with my finger.
A minute later I make a correction:
A failed nuclear attack.
It’s true: there’s a mass of identical skyscraper stumps that look like the leftovers of an atomic explosion, and here and there a hundred-story tower sticks up. It makes me think of Godzilla roaring and smashing the Eastern Capital in the old Japanese blockbuster. Proud loners — just my kind. I raise my glass and tap it against the windowpane — here’s to their resilience as they wait for one more mega- earthquake, like Tokyo has been for the last seventy years. I can’t tear my eyes away from the city. I like to take my time looking at things — ever since I was a child. And thank God. That’s helped out a lot in my complex profession. After that Greek in London I’ve become even more careful. I live through my eyes. Now the sun’s going down — it always sets quickly here. The street lamps are on already. And in the west — the rosy-orange haze of the disappearing sun. In five minutes it’ll be dark — more than enough time to think about who you are and why. I’m satisfied with myself. I’m satisfied with where I am. Everything’s coming up roses — so far. Here in this megalopolis I fit in. At least for another six months. In Europe and America they’re looking for me. But for the last two years I’ve had Asian eyes, a totally altered nose, and my lips look a little different too. I shave my head like a monk. My old colleagues in the Corps would never recognize me. My regiment comrades from the Balkans wouldn’t either. Only the tattoos. It’s so fabulous that there’s a place like Asia, where you can crawl off and disappear. I’m the spitting image of a Mongol — three people have told me so. Awesome. I’m a Mongol. I make the occasional raid. A descendant of Genghis Khan. That Greek was a breeze — two bullets in the gut and one in the head to finish him off, just like the movies. And the bodyguard couldn’t do a thing. But preparing for it — a whole month of constant training — that was exhausting. Not being able to get a good night’s sleep when I’m on a case really gets me down. It’s totally exhausting. I’m skinny but I’m built, and those Japanese masseuses did a pretty good job working me over. And after three nights with two kogyaru from Shibuya I’m back to my old self. Yeah, I’m not a man of steel, like Bruce Willis in Diehard, but so what? I have my own little god to thank...
Now Tokyo’s turned on the lights. Beautiful, no doubt about it. I always go to this bar before a job. This is the third time. It’s become a tradition — a new one. Or half a tradition. The other half’s down there by the bronze dog. Time to pay up and go. To Shinjuku. Misato-san is waiting. She’s the new one. I need to buy her something...
I pay the bill and head for the elevator. A steel cabin, dropping me smoothly from heaven to earth. For some reason it always smells like melon. Grab a cab to Shinjuku. There’s a traffic jam — rush hour. It’s not far though. By the time I get there it’s night. Shinjuku’s all lit up like a Christmas tree. Seven minutes left. The girl’ll wait, I know, but I hurry anyway. I’m a responsible guy, no matter what I’m doing. In the Isetan store I pick up my standard kogyaru kit: a Shiina Ringo CD, a Titanic DVD, a Pokemon with safety pins stuck in its spiky tail, and a box of Swiss chocolates. It gets them every time. Like a Glock 18 with a silencer.
There’s Misato standing right by the bronze dog Hachiko, still waiting for its owner who keeled over after a heart attack. The Japanese put up a monument to a dog! How sentimental. Infantile. Thank God I’ve never had a Japanese client. Or a Chinese one. Two Arabs. One Greek. An Australian. The rest — Europeans. Though — there were two Russians in ’98. Where do you put the Russians — in Europe or in Asia? They’re just Russians. Those Russians turned out to be real trouble. They cost blood — a lot of blood. I got hung out to dry like never before. I had to make some serious changes. Change myself. Change my situation.
Misato’s all dolled up like yesterday — in pink down to her exposed belly button, with a blue leather miniskirt, white fishnet stockings, and white platform shoes with yellow Pokemon buckles. There’s another Pokemon attached to her wide patent leather belt and a tiny yellow one dangling from her mother-of-pearl cell phone. She’s got red and yellow highlights in her hair, snowflakes and stars on her huge fake fingernails, pearl gloss on her eyelids, and she’s wearing glittery, bright red lipstick. Not a trace of expression on her face, but her body’s excellent. And compared to the locals, so’s her height: 5' 6". A typical kogyaru: ko — young, gyaru — girl. The tropical girl style — that’s what it’s called — popped up a few years ago. Now it’s being crowded out by acid-style, with shapeless robes and wool caps like the ones the blacks used to wear. But Misato copies her older sister, a first-wave kogyaru. Their motto’s “Get wild and be sexy.” Fine by me.
“Hi, John, how are you?” Misato bares her crooked young teeth with braces.
“Kombova, Misato-san,” I smile in reply.
She speaks English (very badly) and I speak Japanese (even worse). I take her by her moist hand. Pushing through the crowd, we come out on Shinjuku Dori. We wander, talk. Misato’s platforms clomp as we go. Japanese women have a weird way of walking. Most of them are pigeon-toed. A whore in Sapporo told me it comes from thousands of years of sitting on their knees.
Misato’s navel doesn’t have any piercings, but that’s no surprise: she’s only in tenth grade, and it’s still against the rules. The families and the schools here really put the pressure on. So the kids dress up in these bright, crazy outfits to compensate. In the evening, Misato’s a kogyaru; in the morning — a schoolgirl in a dark blue uniform and white kneesocks. She walks briskly and cheerfully on her clopping platforms. I name a place where we can settle in. It’s OK with her. Everything’s OK. It’s cool to go out with a European. Though of course I’m half Mongol. But I’m a specialist in cargo transportation. I even have a business card.
I take her to a place I know. Fifty dollars, all you can eat and drink for two hours. An hour’ll be enough for Misato and me. I order a beer and a rice vodka cocktail for her — the kogyaru’s favorite drink. We stack up sushi, sashimi, chicken barbecue, crab claws, and marbled beef. The waiter lights the gas burner under a wok full of water: you get to make your own personal soup. We toss crab claws into the boiling water, eat sushi, and drink. Misato’s in a good mood. She giggles and leans back. I squeeze her knee. Misato slaps me on the forehead with a napkin wrapped in cellophane. We drink to our meeting in Shibuya. That’s the kogyaru Mecca. Their hive. There are thousands and thousands of them there.
“Why you did choose me?” Misato asks.
“You’re not like the other kogyaru,” I lie.
She laughs, sips some more of her cloudy cocktail. She likes the prestige of being with a foreigner. Gulping down sushi, she tells me about her class’s summer trip to Italy. She saw the Pope and ate tiramisu that was “better than in Tokyo.” She liked the Italians. I tell her about soccer, about when I studied in England (I tell everyone I went to school in England) and rooted for Manchester United and how I got into a fight with some Italians and ended up in jail for a month. She laughs. The sushi and sashimi are all gone; now we’re waiting for the crabs to boil. Pause. That’s when I take the stuff from Isetan out of my backpack.
“For you.”
She immediately changes from a kogyaru into a schoolgirl, slumped down, her movements angular, as she rifles open-mouthed through the bag; her silvery lips are practically slobbering.
“Kavai! Sugoi! — Sweet! Cool!” she sings out. She covers her mouth with her palm and bleats in surprise. “Wow! Wooo! Wheee!”
I sip my weak Japanese beer and let her enjoy the presents. When she gets like that, I want her. A sweet kid. Japanese women aren’t for everyone. Alex can’t stand them, Gregory isn’t very interested either. Only Serezha Labocki likes them, though he likes the Chinese better. Japanese women are eternal schoolgirls. Awkward and shy. It can be a downer for Europeans. But for me it’s a turn on. I like Japanese schoolgirls. Even when they’re forty. Plus, to go out with a white woman would be curtains here. I have to be totally free, able to lose a tail at any second. Not to mention my skin.
The crabs are ready. Misato, excited by the presents and the rice vodka, pulls them out of the wok with chopsticks. I put the beef in the wok together with meatballs and mushrooms on skewers. We break open the crab claws with scissors, dipping the snow-white meat in sauce. Misato prattles on about America, where she’s never been but really wants to go. After all, I’m an American. I really do have a decent American accent. I tell her about the Grand Canyon, about Los Angeles and Miami. The restaurant fills up with white-collar workers carrying briefcases and cell phones. They’re noisy, in a rush to relax after another day’s selfless labor. And tomorrow they’ll get up again at six, schlep their way into town on the train for an hour and a half, and lay down their lives for a company that manufactures air conditioners. For me — this would be hell. Better to kill someone every couple of months than that...
Misato’s drunk. She can’t take another bite of the boiled meat. It’s time. I’ve sobered up a little. Filled up on all sorts of delicacies. And I want to stick it to the tenth-grader. I take her by the side and lead her out. I pay at the exit. She giggles, stumbles over her own feet, and loses a platform shoe. Finds it. Giggles again. We stumble out of the restaurant. As usual, it’s stifling and noisy outside. September. But the humidity’s still way up there. The Love Hotel, that’s what they call it, is only a stone’s throw away. I’d never take a chick to my own room — not even if Gregory paid me the going rate of twenty thousand for once...
I pay and get the keys. We take the elevator to the third floor, walk down the hallway. I’m already hard. Good food and decent liquor always make me hard. In broken English, Misato asks if my wife is jealous. After all, I’m a worker, a family man. I tell her that we have an open marriage.
“How does she like Japan?” Misato asks.
“She likes it. But she misses New York.”
“Ahhh,” she nods sincerely.
I open the door, turn on the light: small room with a large bed. As always. And never anything else. I turn on the nightlight, turn off the overhead light. I give Misato a push. Like a doll, she collapses on the bed, laughing. While she lies on her back, giggling, I undress. She stares at me like an elephant in a zoo. I pull her platform shoes off, pull down the fishnet stockings. Under the silk panties is a black, slightly shaved pussy. Fresh as an oyster. Japanese pussy always smells like the sea. I spread her legs and lick her. She whimpers weakly. I stick my tongue in, pushing her knees up at the same time. Her knees have the usual bruises from the tatami mat. She whimpers. I guess she doesn’t like it. It’s not up to her though. Uncle wants to. It goes on for a few more minute, before Uncle pulls on a condom, spits on his hand, rubs the spit on his dick, and settles in.
I enter her slowly, in smooth thrusts. She’s still whimpering. I shove it all the way in. She sobs and looks away. Her face is a distorted grimace. I screw her. She moans and whimpers. Japanese girls are helpless in bed. Not like the Chinese. Or the Thais.
“Sugoi...Sugoi...” Misato whimpers.
She sucks on a fake nail. I turn her sideways and lie down next to her, pressing against her pimpled bottom, squeezing her small breasts. Her pussy’s young and tight. That’s making things go too fast. I put on the brakes. I think about work. About tomorrow’s departure. About an old hiding place in Bosnia where two drawers of bullets and three Glocks, two Berettas, and a Kalashnikov, all nicely oiled, are lying ready to go. I think about the dead Greek. About the house I’ll buy when I retire to Goa.
Japanese girls don’t know how to give head. It’s a national trait. They don’t like it. Misato tries, just like yesterday. No good.
“Get rid of the teeth,” I tell her.
She does. And gags. So I flip her on her stomach. I ram my cock all the way into her little womb. It’s like it wanted to get back in. She moans and cries into the flat pillow. Her back’s soft and white. You’ll never find white skin like this in Europe. Not to mention America.
I’m coming. It’s time. I pull out of her, tear off the condom. Grab her by the hair, push her head against the bed. I grab my dick. A few convulsive movements of my hand — and I come in Misato’s ear. She freezes, not understanding. Her ear fills with sperm. A modest little star earring sparkles through it. I hold Misato’s head down, and take a good long look at her ear, full of me. Then I lean over, give her a kiss on the temple.
“Ooo, oh, oh.” She’s scared.
But she recovers quickly. She smiles.
“Oh my god...Ha ha ha...”
You can see that no one’s ever fucked her like that. Her ear’s lost its virginity. Good. Life’ll be that much easier. So she was shocked. For me it’s a new tradition. To come into a kogyaru’s ear before a job. Otherwise it won’t come off.
VIENNA. 8:35
The target exits. Gregory and I are in the car. Gregory switches on the ignition, we move off. We take Gertnergasse to intersect with the target on the corner of Ungargasse. The Glock 18 with silencer is ready in my hand. The street’s almost empty. A bicyclist goes by. Another. We pass flower sellers. A bakery. Viennese éclairs — delicious. In a beige raincoat and a beige hat, the target rounds the corner. He’s carrying an apricot-colored leather portfolio. Always walks to his office. I press the button. The dark glass lowers. I stick the gun through window, and one, two, three, all in the head. I hear his glasses shatter on the pavement. He falls, dropping his folder and his hat, not to mention the will to live. I close the window. Gregory turns on Ungargasse. Hits the gas.
MUNICH. 10:56.
Serge got me out of Vienna in his Jaguar. A real pro. Unlike me. We say goodbye silently and I enter the airport terminal. Huge and empty. Has to be the day of the week. I look for my flight. Stockholm. 11:40. Great. Time for a mug of Munich beer. I love those unfiltered wheat beers. I pick up my ticket and boarding pass, go through security, and head straight for the bar.
“Ein Weissbier, bitte.”
A buff, tanned barman draws my beer and puts it on the counter. I take a barstool. Next to me’s a handsome old guy wearing a hat with a feather. Bavarian. I light a cigarette. Everything went well. My hand didn’t fail me; the Glock 18 was perfect. And Gregory drove just right: he’s really got a feel for how I work. We’ve been together for six years, and so far there’ve only been two screw-ups: the Swiss guy and those Russians. Doesn’t matter. Things could have turned out much worse. The beer’s in front of me. I take a first gulp through foam. Excellent. This stuff doesn’t change. It’s just like it was in 1984, when I first went to Munich from quiet Rotterdam, a pimply young man. Ayaks vs. Bavaria. 2 to 1. The battle of the Titans. I almost got my nose broken that time in the Hofbräuhaus. We rushed over there after the game to have a beer, like idiots. Before the army I was a crazy fan. And now — I don’t care. I’ve got my own game. My own penalty shots to make. And so far I’ve scored...
The old man asks for a light. I hand over my lighter. He drops it on the floor. I pick it up and help him light his cigarette. His hands shake. A gray-haired, blue-eyed Aryan type. Must have fought in the war and yelled “Sieg heil!” Old people are helpless like children. That’s what’s in store for me, too. The guy probably has a big family. Maybe I will someday. I can’t go on coming into a kogyaru’s ear forever. I drink up and board the plane. Everything’s fine. The cabin isn’t crowded. I guess Bavarians aren’t dying to fly to Sweden on Mondays. Swedish beer is truly awful. I’ll pick up the dough, knock back a few Czech Prazdrojs. I fasten my seat belt. From the net pocket I pull out a worn German car magazine, leaf through it. Curious: they rate the Mini Cooper the best car of the year. That’s a woman’s car. Not serious. Not powerful. Like the Germans after war. The best ones, our colonel used to say, stayed in the ground...he was probably right. Better not to say anything about the best Dutch. Better to keep your mouth shut...I’m the best of the Dutch. The Flying Dutchman...And what’s this? A Cooper S, 165 horsepower. Not bad. Definitely more interesting. Let’s see. That’ll do. Headlights. Six air bags. Six? One for the balls? A parking sensor. Rain sensor. Rain...That means the windshield wipers turn on automatically...and the rain...the rain can pour...or shower...like in Goa...when they’ve already hung out the nets...and the girl with the boom box has already gone...gone to get the daiquiris, waggling her butt...and the teak bench...is wet...wet, the idiot, she spilled...spilled my glass...
The magazine falls from my hands. My body lists to the right, toward the aisle. The green carpet path on the floor swims before my eyes. The legs and red shoes of the stewardess.
“What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
My arms are heavy as cast iron. I can’t move them. I try to open my mouth. I’m drooling. Spit drips on the red shoes. From the right, in my ear — an old person’s voice, in German: “Mark! What’s wrong? Oh my God, he’s sick again. I told him — better to stay at home...Fräulein, we need to get off...”
“Are you flying together?”
“Yes, yes! He’s losing consciousness again. Help me...”
The old man’s hand unfastens my seatbelt. And it doesn’t shake at all.
I open my eyes. I’m in a large room. The windows are shuttered. The ceiling’s high. I’m naked, strung up on the wall. My arms are bound with steel and rubber. My legs are tied. Two people sit across from me. One of them is the old man from the bar. The other is young, muscular. There’s a long metal case in front of them. What’s inside? I can imagine. A chain saw? I’m in for it. Seriously in for it. My head’s empty. I’m calm. I can recall the details. They nabbed me, like a rube. That old goat slipped something in my beer when I was leaning over to pick up the lighter. Very simple. I tense my muscles. Test my strength. The old man stands and approaches. He comes up close. I see his face in front of me. Brave, wrinkled, slightly tanned. His dark blue eyes study me from under swollen eyelids. There’s not a trace of expression on his face.
“How are you, Hugo?” he asks in English.
Whoa! He knows my real name. For everyone else Hugo van Baar died in Croatia and was immediately buried near Vukovar. What else does he know?
“Everything,” the old man said. “We know everything about you. You’re a hit man and you just killed a man in Vienna; then you were going to fly to Stockholm to pick up your money. Twenty thousand Euros. That’s you in the present. We know your past as well. We know, for example, that as a boy you hated your stepfather and once poured sugar into the gas tank of his motorcycle so that he’d crash. Your stepfather didn’t crash, instead he flogged you with a flyswatter. A flyswatter made of gray plastic. We know that you were afraid of hedgehogs. We know the name of your first girl — Elise. It took place in the forest, near the gulf. You were in too much of a hurry. At fifteen, that happens.”
The old man stopped talking and walked away. Who are these people? How do they know all of this? My mother? She died of cancer in 1994, and she didn’t know about Elise. Only Elise and I knew about Elise. Who told them? Elise? She’s been in America for a hundred years. What about my stepfather? Mother couldn’t have told him. Who are they?
“We are your brothers, Hugo,” the old man said. “Soon we will awaken you. And you will become entirely different. Your life will begin again. To make it easier for you to awaken, remember the dream you had as a boy on the Zaelmans’ farm. The dream about the dark blue apple. About the dark bl-lu-luuue apple. Remember, Hugo van Baar.”
And suddenly I remembered. That dream! I’d completely forgotten. For eternity! An incredibly powerful dream — it shook me through and through. I was seven. My mother was still living with my father. One time we went to the Zaelmans’ farm. They had cows and sheep, two dogs — Rex and Whiskey — and two kids named Maria and Hans. We played with the children and dogs all day long. And I was so caught up in one of the games that I got flung chest forward into an old seeding machine that had been left to rust in the burdock and weeds. I fell against it so hard that I almost fainted. The metal slashed my chest and I was bleeding. It was a serious wound, and Zaelman drove Mama and me into Assen so they could bandage it up right. In the clinic they put me on a table, gave me a shot of anesthetic, stitched me up, and bandaged the wound. I dozed off on the way back. And I dreamed that we were returning from the clinic to the Zaelmans’, riding in their old red jeep. Everything was so realistic, so tangible, like I was awake: Zaelman was driving the car, Mama was sitting in the back with me, I put my head on her lap, the wind blew through the windows, and I could smell all the smells. The car suddenly braked — I raised my head and saw that Mama and Zaelman were sleeping a deep sleep. I got out of the car, saw the Zaelmans’ house, went inside, and realized that everyone in the house was asleep, the people and the dogs, and outside the cows and sheep were sleeping, too. Everyone and everything around me was sleeping, sleeping, sleeping. It was dead silent all around and only I was awake, I could walk and look and touch everything; I entered the living room, Maria and Hans were sleeping in the armchairs. Suddenly I saw a blue apple on the table; I walked over, picked it up, and realized that it was ice cold, but it felt very good to hold it in my hand, and I held it to my chest, which ached and burned, and it felt so good, everything felt so fresh and open that I began to sob in ecstasy, because sometimes things could be so good, so terribly good, and I realized that as long as I had the blue apple I would feel good, but I also understood that it was made of ice and it was melting, and that when it melted I would never feel so good again. I held the apple, but it was melting and dripping, and with every drop I was losing the good, losing it forever, and I sobbed like I’d never sobbed in my life, and I woke up because Mama was afraid I’d make myself sick sobbing in my sleep like that, but I was sobbing because that marvelous dream was fading and it would NEVER come again.
“There now, you’ve remembered!” the old man grinned and nodded to the strong fellow. “Go ahead.”
The guy opened the long case. It contained a piece of frost-covered wood that had been fastened to a chunk of ice. An ice hammer. Roaring, I jerked forward with all my might, but the bonds held. The young man picked the hammer up, swung back, and hit me in the chest with all his strength. It hurt. I couldn’t breathe. I stiffened from the terrible pain in my chest. He hit me again and again. Then I lost consciousness. And awoke because my heart spoke:
“Noadunop!”