I found myself alone. In a crowd.
What I mean to say is that Kohana wasn’t with me—there was a surprise—but this didn’t mean I had time to sit and twiddle my thumbs.
I was forced to dodge waves of pedestrians on a very busy main street, definitely still in Japan.
Judging from the walking wardrobes, the advertising, neons, and signage, I’d say I had again been deposited in the ’60s, but also going by these surroundings and the hive of activity, you’d never have guessed only twenty years had passed since the Second World War hobbled the place.
‘Wolram!’
I turned on my slippered heel.
Kohana was seated in a white, convertible sports car, with sleek lines, that she had idling at the curb. She was dressed in a powder blue one-piece, with a matching silk scarf over her hair that lightly held it back.
‘Don’t dawdle,’ she called, as she leaned over and opened the passenger door. ‘Hop in.’
‘And why would I do that?’
‘I’m going to take you to see my elite ninja training school.’
‘I’m in no mood for juvenile quips. The one thing my esteemed mother taught me long ago was never to get into a car with a strange girl.’
‘Suit yourself—but Tokyo, in 1964, wasn’t the cleanest city in the world. You’ll find the pollution is aromatic.’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, you’re driving a vehicle that doesn’t have a roof. I’m sure I would suffer either way.’
‘What is your problem with cars?’
‘None to write about. I think the Jaguar E-Type is a most stunningly designed mechanical gizmo—and, by the way, that’s a charming Toyota 2000GT you have there. But sitting in the things, driving about on dangerous, overcrowded thoroughfares, is another kettle of fish.’
‘Relax. I won’t kill you,’ she laughed.
‘This is my second life. I’d like to hang on to it.’
Kohana tapped the open door. ‘You only live twice, deshō? Come on, Wolram. Trust me. I have something special awaiting—lip-smacking martinis.’
My left leg moved forward, in spite of better judgment, but I kept its right-hand partner in check. ‘What kind of martini?’
‘A Vesper.’
‘Ah.’ My right leg started to give.
‘C’mon.’ She had a twinkle that suggested more high jinks were afoot.
Damned woman.
I finally did as instructed, and got in.
Once I was seated, Kohana hit the accelerator and we shot out into the traffic, weaving past several cars. I clenched the door handle.
The car flew past massive construction taking place over a river.
‘One of the new expressways they’re finishing, in preparation for the Olympic Games,’ Kohana said. ‘It seems part of their mission to modernize is to make the city hideous.’
‘That’s progress.’
‘So they claim. By the way, you might want to brush up on your Japanese with this.’
The woman casually tossed a small book onto my lap.
Turning over the tome, I read the title aloud. ‘Instant Japanese: A Pocketful of Useful Phrases, by Masahiro Watanabe and Kei Nagashima. Do I really need it? I thought I had this God-given gift of international gab.’
We cut a corner, and in the process very nearly collected a street sign. ‘For Heaven’s sake, keep to the road!’
‘Loosen up, dearie. Here we are.’
With no finesse whatsoever, Kohana stuck her foot on the brake pedal and I came close to careering through the windscreen. The English–Japanese dictionary ended up on the bonnet, pages dancing in the breeze.
‘I am never, ever, setting foot in a car again,’ I decided.
‘Come on. We’re late—for a very important date.’
I followed her, grudgingly I must confess, from the automobile. ‘You never learned the art of parking in a straight line, flush with the footpath?’
‘No need.’
‘I’m inclined to think a police officer, or two, might argue the point.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s against the law.’
‘When you’re gorgeous like me, you don’t need to concern yourself with petty things like the law.’
‘Well, now. You have tabs on yourself.’
‘I’m ribbing you. Boy—you sure take the bait.’ Kohana pulled open a big wooden door. ‘After you, my dear fellow.’
‘It seems you are always holding doors for me, ushering me into places I don’t want to be.’
‘The martini…?’
‘Oh well, that’s another matter.’ I promptly pushed past her. We entered a large, cavernous space filled with chatter, and people drinking and smoking far too much. Compared with the dancehall where we had met the gangster Shashin, however, this was a more upmarket establishment. Now, the only crystal-clear crooks were the framed ones on the wall, from Japanese movies.
From out of the crowd, the actor Shimada sidled straight up and kissed Kohana on the cheek.
‘You’re just in time to see two more refugees from the kaiju classics,’ he said, as he motioned to a small stage on which two pretty vocalists, who looked like twins, were singing a duet that sounded like it was affected with reverb.
‘Ahh, Emi-chan and Yumi-chan,’ Kohana spoke up. ‘The Peanuts. They were in Mothra and sang the theme song. A giant butterfly tale. Mothra also battled Godzilla. Did you ever see it?’
‘No, I can’t say I have.’
‘You should watch. ’Tis fun. Now—that Vesper martini I promised you?’
‘Never thought you’d ask.’
‘That was stirred, not shaken?’
‘Ahem. The other way round.’
‘Excuse me a moment, Shimada-san.’ Kohana lightly touched the man’s shoulder, and he blushed.
I followed her through the crush.
‘I expect Shimada is enamoured with you.’
‘Nonsense. Are you referring to his scarlet complexion just now? That’s just the alcohol talking—I’ve seen it before.’
‘When you’re present.’
‘Well, obviously. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to see it.’ Kohana stopped at the counter and caught a bartender’s attention. ‘A Piranha, and a dry martini,’ she told the man, ‘in a deep champagne goblet.’
‘Hai.’
‘Just a moment.’ She leaned over in order to be closer to his ear. ‘Three measures of Gordon’s, one of shōchū, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it’s ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon peel. Got it?’
‘Hai.’ Dispatched, the man set about his task.
‘That was very professionally done,’ I admitted.
‘I must’ve read it somewhere in a book.’
‘Strikes me as something Ian Fleming would have appreciated.’
After a minute, two drinks presented themselves for our approval.
I lifted the martini and took a long sip. ‘Excellent,’ I said after, ‘but if you can get a vodka made with grain instead of rice, you will find it better.’
‘We are in Japan. Rice is a popular ingredient.’
‘Indeed. But isn’t this around the same time they were faking the rice in the saké? Anyhow—what are you having?’
Kohana held up her drink. It had a blood-coloured cocktail in it, with shards of ice arranged like sharp teeth around the top.
‘It’s a house speciality: The Piranha.’
‘Ahh, of course. Well, bon appétit !’
‘Kanpai.’
We clicked glasses.