CLUB GANYMEDE

Antoinette

 

The exile asked the Empress, “How would you have me love you?"

 

She wasn't avoiding her husband; it was the curtains she couldn’t stand. It was the lights snapping on and the kettle’s anxious rumble. It was the silk cord being drawn down, closing the curtains on the night. Because then the apartment would return to its true dimensions. It would become another golden box overlooking the embassies and designer outlets of Roppongi, no longer a piece of the sky. 

Before leaving that night, Antoinette Kutsuki had been occupied with thoughts best suited to the dark. Of late, this contemplation had become a habit. According to John, her husband, the habit was now a concern, and the concern warranted amateurish diagnoses. Much as she loved him, Antoinette did not desire a repeat of their earlier conversation.

“Depression,” he had proposed. 

“L’appel du vide,” she’d countered.

He knew enough to translate ‘the call of the void,’ but without nuance. He knew her moods well enough to understand she would not explain.

He said “A-na,” stretching the second syllable into a rebuke. As though she were incapable of compromise, which was unfair when even her name was a compromise. 

Antoinette had readopted ‘Ana’ since their return to Tokyo. After all, 'Antoinette’ was a word in dancing handwriting; ‘Antowanetto’ was a mouthful of alphabet blocks. So she was 'Ana'. But she wasn’t depressed. Depression was for inert shut-ins. Ana was fine. She was out on a Saturday. It was near midnight and she was waiting on a wet sidewalk to catch up with John’s younger sister.

Overhead, ‘Club Ganymede, 4F’ was illuminated in lime. Rain, delicate as mist, caught the neon and cast halos from this and neighbouring signage: ‘Pachinko’, ‘Host Club’, and ‘Shinjuku: friendly town’. With dull spots in its lettering, Club Ganymede beamed down on Ana like a broken smile. Night air slunk around her neck. 

The rain spread the city’s colours, smearing them outside of their rightful borders onto pavements, service vehicles, passing umbrellas. Shinjuku Ni-chōme was particularly colourful; several street-level bars were flanked by rainbow flags, flicking in protest at the weather. The lights were ugly and vivid, painterly and gorgeous. Ana considered her own recent order of fluorescent tubes, nestled in packing beads somewhere in a Shanghai depot. Unlike the blinking logo of the nightclub, they would maintain a strong, steady glow. They would bewilder exhibition attendees with the bluish-purple light of an Arctic summer. Her bulbs had plans. She just needed to get through the night.

When a catch-up was due with her sister-in-law, Natsuko, Ana would propose meeting spots like galleries hosting fellow students, new bistros in Naka-Meguro, or bookstores that served to launch poets and jazz musicians. By contrast, Natsuko would choose locations like an owl cafe, a basement bookseller of boys’ love comics and, that night, a genderbending host club. The hosts, Natsuko had explained, were just girls dressed as guys—it wouldn’t be like hanging out with the creeps from Kabukicho. Natsuko was nothing if not original. Antoinette adored originality.

On a menu board at street level was an introduction to Ganymede’s hosts, who, at a glance, might have been mistaken for a J-pop band. With eye and hair colours ranging from natural to fantastical, they were captured in poses of bashful joy or hopeless melancholy or almost hostile brooding. Perfectly contrived. The menu wasn’t so different from the laminated cards of call girls found tucked into old phone booths. Shodo calligraphy identified each host, listing masculine pseudonyms, birthdays, hobbies and character traits by reference to blood type. Ana enjoyed that quirk of Japanese culture, using blood type like star signs. Something in it, like the passing of inherited torment, felt more accurate than personality determination by celestial movement. 

‘Blood type A—I understand people’s feelings easily. I love Armani. Visit Ganymede to experience the Princess treatment!’

There were six similar statements, six shaggy haircuts, six pastel suits. It was only the last photo that stopped Ana. The face was familiar. The listing for ‘Kai - Top Star 2012–2017.’ Despite the strangeness of bleached hair and blue contact lenses, the person looking back appeared serene. The host appeared to be about Ana’s age—late twenties. Perhaps someone from school? A face from a painting? It would be unheard of for a graduate of her high school to have ended up as—

 “A—na!” The inimitable cry carried from down the road. 

Natsuko, in a pink PVC raincoat, terminated her splashing sprint by pulling Ana into a haphazard embrace. Wet. Ana patted her gingerly on the back.

 “There was a band at the train station. I recorded it. So good! I’ll show you before we get up there. They block reception inside. Privacy or whatever. Hah. Sorry I’m late, but—ah! No! It’s gonna die...No. Noooo! Dead. So dead...ah...” 

There was a moment’s silence while they watched the blackened screen of the phone and Natsuko attempted some version of CPR with her thumbs. She finally relented and tuned in again to the wider world. “Tonight is Vam-puri.”

“Excuse me?”

“Vampire Prince theme!”

“I thought the ‘theme’ was crossdressing?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s lots of things. Theme nights once a month.” 

Natsuko took a moment to look up and around. She twirled once. Twice. Sometimes she seemed more of a pixie than a woman. Her zeal was infectious. Ana looked up too, narrowing her eyes slightly so that the colours of the lights relaxed, smudging into one another. 

“Let’s go, let’s go!” Natsuko bobbed her head towards the elevator. 

Ana followed her into the grimy little box plastered with posters and pressed the button for the fourth floor. Her outfit did not complement her sister-in-law’s. Ana’s beige coat, belted at the waist, was one of the few things that fit well. Although money was no object, Japanese fashion presented a long-standing difficulty. It came with having her mother’s shape and her father’s reserved nature. She had grown up attending schools where girls debated eyelid surgeries and bust and butt implants, but Ana’s features required no such modification. Even worse, her mother, a Montrealer who shared her warmer colouring and hourglass figure, had not taught her how to inhabit such a body. How to enter public baths without feeling like a spectacle, for instance. Even a trite scrap of advice would have been enough. ‘All the prettiest girls have their own body issues,’ or ‘Once you’re old enough, you’ll love your curves.’ But she’d offered nothing. The voice was a pastiche of imagined cadences.

The elevator opened with a ding. Natsuko bounced out and pushed open the door painted with the club’s insignia. They were met by a volley of ‘Welcome, welcome, welcome!’ from Club Ganymede’s hosts. True to the Vampuri theme, there were lace sleeves, velvet coats and the occasional flash of plastic fangs. Weirder than the Owl Cafe. Ana’s husband would be appalled. From the threshold, she tried to match faces to menu listings as Natsuko worked out their booking with a stern madam at the desk. There was some difficulty with Natsuko’s phone in its post-mortem state.

A vampire dressed in white appeared.

Ana looked up at their face, from the right contact lens to the left and back again. It was Kai, as advertised, smiling slowly. It was the kind of cocky expression that accompanied ‘it’s been a while,’ or ‘I knew you’d be back.’ But that made no sense. The conceit, presumably, required guests to think of their hosts as male, but Ana couldn’t with this one. This was a face she knew. She just couldn’t place it. In the club’s dark interior, there was something particularly unsettling about the brightness of Kai’s hair and shirt and suit. 

“May I take your—?” She extended a gloved palm. What? Coat? Handbag?

Kai gently plucked, lifted, and flipped her left hand palm-side up and pushed back her sleeve in order to apply the club’s entry stamp. 

Ana watched as the worm of an old purple scar was revealed on her wrist. It was more prominent in the cold. She felt Kai pause.

 “Perhaps you are like us?” Kai flipped her hand over again, applying the ink just below her knuckles. “One of the undead.”

Dark humour. Ana looked up, daring further explanation.

“Your hands are so cold. Terrible weather tonight,” Kai continued. “Perhaps you are our Vampire Princess. Your booking is just being located. Please, follow me.”

Vampires had proliferated. They were manning a well-stocked bar, attending a karaoke system, and delivering silver trays of drinks. One was scrutinising a roll of receipts. Ana scanned them each for signs of femininity: the telltale smoothness of a feature, a particular unshakeable modesty, a quickness in response. 

The space was larger than she expected, the ceiling mirrored and strung with chandeliers. Nooks and carefully positioned beams between booths obscured the identities of other clientele. There was also a back section separated by heavy curtains. 

“My name is Kai,” came the confirmation as they reached the designated table. “I expect your friend may be a moment longer at the front desk. New system. Please accept our sincere apologies.”

 “What is time?” Ana took her seat. “Don’t vampires live forever?”

Kai followed, sliding in opposite and lacing her fingers. “Time is everything. I promise yours won’t be wasted at Ganymede. This is your first visit?”

For an extended moment, Ana began to doubt herself. Was it a conversation she had had before? 

 “It is,” she said finally.

 “Most of our guests are regulars.” There was an irksome hint of amusement in Kai’s tone, a challenge in her eyes.

 “And private, it would seem?” said Ana.

 “They can be. You are booked for the Empress Package. Your friend has selected the nomihōdai all-you-can-drink option.”

 “Of course she did.”

The music playing, loud enough to obscure the conversations of strangers, was frenetic J-pop. Not Antoinette’s preference, but apt for the location.

“The gold pamphlet outlines our services and includes the beverage list. You will meet each of our hosts over the course of the night.”

“Sounds elaborate.”

“It can be.”

Kai paused for a moment, cocking her head as she watched Ana. There was a naturally sullen set to the host’s mouth that she seemed to consciously compensate for. The perfect subject for a portrait. “Do you have a name you would like to go by?” Kai said.

“My name?”

“Some prefer pseudonyms.”

“Do you?” Antoinette straightened. Kai copied her movement, seeming to wait for something before she leant in.

“Perhaps I can guess your name. Give me your hand. I’m studying palmistry.”

Ana shrugged and offered her the right. 

Kai watched it intently then grazed her fingertip along the uppermost crease on Ana’s palm. “You married young. It’s a good marriage to a good guy. You have fun together.”

“You saw my ring.”

The finger continued tracing the arc down from her thumb. “You are successful in your pursuits.”

“That’s a matter of perspective.”

“Objectively successful,” said Kai.

 “Perhaps.”

“You find beauty in strange places.”

“Perhaps.”

The finger ran up and down a few more times, as though the language of her hand was becoming less decipherable. Without comment, Kai looked back up, a flicker of something like sadness passing over her face.

“My health? My longevity?” Ana tried, “Nothing to speak of there?”

“Both look fine.”

“Well that’s a relief.” She took back her hand. She felt Kai watching her.

“Your heart is still broken, Mrs. Kutsuki.” Kai stood.

Ana recoiled. The thrum of her pulse overwhelmed the noise of the bar. 

Natsuko, who had evidently sorted out their booking, took the vacated seat. 

Kai bowed deeply, adopting a sweeter tone to acknowledge Natsuko’s arrival, then struck up a quiet conversation

Had they met before? Was there something familiar in her eyes? Her mouth? 

Antionette inhaled deeply and recalled herself. She was being caught up in a parlour trick. A piece of nonsense delivered by a common con-woman.

 When Kai began reciting the rules of the bar, whatever might have seemed familiar became obscured. “My colleague will be over shortly to explain more about what we do. We like to recommend pink champagne to begin with. May I arrange a bottle for you?”

“Sure can!” Natsuko said, tucking away her purse as he withdrew, then turning to Ana.

“Cool, huh? That’s, like, their top star. He’s called—”

“Kai.” Ana finished. “Did you use my name on the booking?”

“Che. I don’t know. Might have. Like, we usually get better service with your name.”

“My father’s name. But fair enough.”

“I think it was that one—Kai—who left the flyer at our table when I was out for drinks. The culinary students are such fogeys. No way they would check out somewhere like this. I knew you would.” Natsuko shuffled through the menus excitedly. “So? What do you think?”

“I’m not sure. Is it classy or trashy?”

“Both! Like Vegas!”

As the first host approached with glass flutes and a silver bucket, Ana hissed, “Isn’t she underage?”

“He,” Natsuko responded. “You call them ‘he’ here.”

Host-number-one wore a silk vest and ruffled shirt and had a habit of smoothing and re-smoothing a lock of hair behind his right ear. He introduced his more senior colleagues, repeating their advertised qualities and pointing from face to face on a laminated card. The words “cool”, “chic” and “romantic” featured often. Ana drank steadily. This poor child. Host-number-one explained he was from a small town and had started working at the club within the last two months. He hadn’t engaged any one-on-one clients yet—those being women who paid for a ‘boyfriend experience’: a shopping excursion, a trip to DisneySea, or sharing dessert at a cafe. They might hold hands. The client paid for the host’s time—and for everything else. Host-number-one was anxious to develop relationships.

“I don’t suppose anxiety is a natural aphrodisiac.” Ana offered at the end of her second glass. The host looked bereft, bobbed his head and slipped away. 

Natsuko laughed, “You’re so, like, French. I love it!” 

The second and third hosts—a Laurel and Hardy pair in matching velvet jackets—arrived at their table with a second bottle of champagne and a challenge. Were the honourable Empress Package guests prepared for a janken championship?

“Hell yeah!” Natsuko accepted.

“What is my reward when I win?” Ana asked.

The host-double-act looked at each other, then back at her. The taller stuck out a finger gun.

Through a mouthful of plastic fangs he asked, “Whath would entherthain the Empreth?”

The Empress. 

There was a fable or a folktale—something about an Empress—that had been swimming around the edges of Antoinette’s recollection all day. Some half-swallowed dream. What was it? Something her mother had said?

“A story,” Ana said. “If I win.”

The hosts whispered something to each other, then glanced in the direction of the bar, where Kai’s white-suited figure was leaning in to talk to the bartender. After a moment, the two appeared to sense the attention, looked back and smiled like guilty schoolboys. The bartender, who appeared to be genuinely male, gave a little salute.

The janken championship ended as soon as it began, thanks to Natsuko’s merciless winning streak: scissors, scissors, paper, stone. She shrieked in delight. They all celebrated with shots. The hosts were brilliant, listening intently to Ana’s explanation of ‘light as memory’. How it was impossible to write a thesis. That in moments when the theory made sense to her, it all came in a rush, then left as quickly. Like a train missing a stop.

They nodded. “Ah.”

They cocked their heads. “Oh.”

“I think it’s because I have these—“ the more Ana drank, the more her words swam away—“these blanks—voids—in my memory. From a certain age. I had an episode. It doesn’t matter. But light, you know? Truth? It's still an artefact. It’s a remnant of an event. Like the beauty in a star that has already died. Something lightyears away that is deceptively immediate. It’s something like that. I’m trying to say something like that. With art.”

Ana almost didn’t register Natsuko’s absence. It was only when a burst of laughter It was only when a trill of laughter rang out from across the room that Ana noticed her sister-in-law was up at the bar. Worse, she was gripping Kai’s arm, participating in a particularly friendly conversation with the bartender. There appeared to be a business card shared. Natsuko, honestly. 

The fourth host was more seasoned, a toothpick chewer who invited the table over to a karaoke machine. By that point in her sobriety, Ana believed that she may, in fact, be the next Edith Piaf. And if she wasn’t, peu importe! Natsuko took charge of the song selection, which is to say, her hand slipped on the console fudging it all. They landed on a song which flicked up onto the screen, some fifty-year-old crooner who had a register that left both members of the Empress package crying “too low, too low!” Their host took the mic. Ana and Natsuko took up back-up dancer roles. They were joined by host five. This host, it turned out, also liked to bop along to a warbling soundtrack that played over footage of some K-drama. It was ridiculous. It was marvellous—all of it. That is until Natsuko quite off-handedly said, “My brother’s worried about you.”

“It’s fine.” Ana waved her off. “There’s this app. Therabot. We’ve compromised. It’s fine.”

But it was enough that Ana took a break and returned to their table alone. She realised her calves were burning. Her head was spinning. Kai materialised with a glass that appeared to contain water.

“My friends said you wanted a story,” said the final host.

On Sunday morning, Ana awoke to another glass of water and a pair of aspirin on a dish that her husband had left. A note on Kanto Electric stationary read:

For your head. You can’t trust my sister. Also, you told me to remind you in the morning that you need to “find out what the Empress answered.” I’m sure it will make perfect sense.
x, J

It did not.

Another night of moth-eaten memories.

Ana picked up the water glass. There was a card stuck to its base—a Club Ganymede business card. Of course. Perhaps she had convinced Natsuko to surrender it. The front had the logo, gold embossed on black. On the rear, in a gap above opening hours, were five lines of tight handwriting. Not her own script, but a style she had certainly seen before:

The exile asked the Empress, “How would you have me love you?
As a pilgrim loves the Buddha’s feet?
As a scholar loves his rival?
As a confidant loves whispered truths?
As a husband loves a wife?”