It was a dreary, monotone morning when Yoshi pulled up late outside the Hiroo Citibank branch early on yet another Sunday. I jumped down off the planter box when I saw him, my stilettos tapping on the wet asphalt as he motioned for me to walk out into traffic to get into the front seat of his car. ‘Good morning, ma chérie! How are you?’ he beamed as I tossed my bag next to the Louis Vuitton luggage in the back seat of his impeccable Mercedes.
‘Just take me to the spa,’ I laughed. ‘I’ve slept one hour, and I’m wrecked.’ But Yoshi wasn’t. He was alert in black Gucci and Prada. He turned up Norah Jones. He checked his watch. And then, just as we were speeding through the deserted streets of Roppongi, Yoshi nonchalantly put forth his disclosure. ‘We have to make it to the train station by ten o’clock. The typhoon has destroyed small island, so we are going to Kyoto.’
‘Shut up, Yoshi,’ I protested blandly. ‘We are not going to Kyoto,’ but he grinned wildly and I bolted upright in my plush leather seat. ‘WHAT? Are you serious? No, you’re not. Are you? Oh my God. Kyoto? Yoshi! You’re kidding! How the hell did this trip go from a small island to Kyoto?’
Yoshi’s smile widened. ‘Because, late last night the hotel call me: “Small island is badly damaged so cancel all reservations.” I called my friend in Kyoto and he arranged everything for me.’
‘But it’s a long-weekend holiday. Kyoto will be packed!’
‘I know, but don’t worry. You are lucky girl. My friend has ways of getting things — nice hotel, nice dinner — so sit back. Relax! You will luuhv it. Go to sleep, ma chérie, you look tired. I wake you up at station.’
At this point I realise that many would have demanded to get out of Yoshi’s car, but I found the idea of fleeing to Kyoto on a whim terribly exciting. It was the city of Japanese dreams, the spiritual soul of the country, and what better way to experience it than with Yoshi? Hell yeah. How could I not?
The platonic sleepover with the millionaire was a totally acceptable part of the hostess/customer relationship. Abie had gone to Kyoto with Grandpa. Karolina had gone with Shin to Hakone and Chiba on several occasions, and I no longer had a problem with the idea. Four weeks ago the possibility of even stepping into a customer’s car had scared the crap out of me, but since then something had changed. It was that thirteenth lightbulb. But there was something else. I trusted in Yoshi. He was familiar.
Like the man I loved deeply. Like Matt.
Not coincidentally I’d met Matt at a time in my life when my defences were down. I was seventeen, in a hedonistic spiral, experimenting liberally with drugs, drinking heavily, not sleeping for days. The ultimate party girl. Matt’s hook sunk deep — because he was clearly the alpha male in my orbit, or at least that’s what he showed me. Money. Notoriety. He lavished me with a pampering attentiveness that I hadn’t experienced in small-town British Columbia, or even in Tokyo, Paris, Cascais or any of the places I’d carried myself to in a whirlwind of reckless abandon.
After that I stabilised and we grew together. I knew that because we had developed such a strong bond, going to Kyoto with Yoshi didn’t compromise that. But at the same time here I was, although unwilling to acknowledge it, gravitating towards another reckless lifestyle, not dissimilar to the time when Matt had been forced to revert to sting-operation tactics to grab my materialistic attention. I thought I was over that, but the dark side can be awfully alluring when you’re inundated afresh with its charms — or, perhaps, if you hadn’t learnt the lesson completely the first time around.
In these past few weeks it could be said that I’d been holding on to a false sense of security. I’d chosen to mould myself back into the archetypal girl out on the town, at least within the confines of what a married woman could get away with, and I was gushed over, adored, desired and complimented six nights a week. At first I found it vile. Then it made me uncomfortable. Soon I was enjoying it, then revelling in it, and before long, like every other girl in a Tokyo hostess club, I was beginning to feel like I deserved it. Bingo! Guard dropped.
And then someone like Yoshi came along, lavishing me with attention when I was surrounded by men I couldn’t relate to. Yoshi exuded the alpha-male pheromone; he stunk of it, and in my weakened state I picked up on the vibe. Anywhere else, at any other time, it would have been easy to dismiss him, but Yoshi was the real deal; the guy could walk into Jets-R-Us tomorrow and buy one, with custom rims. He had millions at his disposal, and here he was offering it all to me on a silver platter. And I mean it all, hypothetically or not. Because he freakin’ knew what to say.
When you’re speeding cross-country at 257 kilometres per hour on a first-class ticket to Kyoto, your eyeballs have to auto-correct with incredible speed just to keep the scenery in focus. Count to eleven and you’ve gone almost a kilometre. Count with enough patience and Yoshi is pointing out his precious small island on the distant horizon, then ordering you a coffee while he eats sandwiches. One thousand eight hundred, you gulp the strong coffee. One thousand eight hundred and one, he swallows the last of the crust ... One hundred and thirty kilometres later, Yoshi is snoring loudly in your ear, his Gucci driving shoes exchanged for black suede loafers. You want to sleep, but this is too surreal to shut your eyes — you might wake up from this dream, and you definitely don’t want to. Your eyelids might flutter briefly, but you’ll be awake as the shinkansen gently descends the lush, green mountains into the Kyoto valley.
Outside the station it is a sunny thirty degrees. Birds sing. Sweat beads. A long line of taxis is queued up, but Yoshi pulls you by the hand until he reaches the front of the line, where a black Mercedes-Benz is waiting. The man doesn’t even take normal taxis.
Here, you feel both rich and famous for the way people look at you when you’re with him, and for the gallantry with which he treats you. In the slow-moving traffic, Yoshi takes to pointing out various hotels: the most expensive, the one he’d stayed in last time, the one he’d wanted to stay in this time but it was full. He wanted to make a good impression — you are his chérie. Hypothetically.
Where is the count now? Eight thousand one hundred, eight thousand one hundred and one. He makes small talk with the driver in a language that is still foreign to you, and you look out the window at yet another concrete city drifting by.
I couldn’t hide my smile when a bellhop hurried to open the taxi door and offer me a gloved hand in assistance. It grew even bigger when Yoshi took my arm and we strolled aristocratically into the lobby of the Hotel Nikko Princess Kyoto, sunglasses on and spines straight under a bevy of stares and whispers. While Yoshi undertook the task of paying dearly for a suite on the fifteenth floor, I lingered in the background, browsing through the gift shop and admiring the impeccably hospitable clerks behind reception. I maintained silence as we followed the bellhop into the elevator and down the hall, finally bursting into laughter when our hotel-room door was safely closed.
‘Oh my God. This suite is huge! I thought you said this was a last-minute room?’
‘Ugh, it’s substandard,’ Yoshi complained, throwing open the French doors from the lounge to the bedroom. ‘Not my style, but whatta can I do? At least you have your own bed, ma chérie!
I certainly did, and a bathroom larger than our tiny apartment in Hiroo — the one that Matt was asleep in right now, probably crushing my pillow beneath him. I’d have to call him soon. I had to tell him that I was in Kyoto instead of on an island, but I didn’t want to wake him up. Matt needed his sleep, the big sook, and it was pointless to make him worry before he had to. He’d remained reluctant for me to go up to the last. He’d showered in silence that morning and lain in bed while I’d packed my overnight bag with a change of clothes and the essentials. It had been sad removing my toothbrush from next to his in the bathroom, but he probably wouldn’t notice something so small.
I’d sat on the edge of the mattress and kissed him goodbye, and he’d penetrated me with those eyes. ‘You be careful. I love you.’
I’d laughed and said, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll call you from the island. I love you bubsteroo.’ Now I’d be calling him from Kyoto, but not until five, when I knew he’d be up and walking to work in Roppongi.
‘Chelsea ... hey, Chel-seeeea.’ I looked to Yoshi across the room. ‘Just let me change into casual clothes and we’ll go to Ogura, a beautiful hill with many shrines and temples in the north-west of Kyoto. The first of many places for you. You will luuhv it,’ Yoshi purred, and as he closed the French doors behind him I sank onto the couch to watch NHK television until Yoshi the Tour Guide was ready.
It is said that in Japan, God is in the details. That’s something I like immensely about the Japanese. Despite being the most fast-paced, technologically advanced nation on earth, they have retained a sensitivity to the spiritual forces of the natural world. They’ve managed to fuse daily twenty-first-century life with a reverence for divinity. It’s a very poetic way to live.
Climbing up the stairs behind Yoshi to Nenbutsu-ji Temple, I could say, God is in the sunlight that filters down to land on eight thousand stone Buddhas, and I would be right. Or I could be more concrete and say God is in the intricate simplicity of the Ghi-ohji Temple, where we went next, and still I’d be right.
The thing about beauty is that you just absorb it. In some places on earth this is a little more difficult than others, but in Kyoto it is exceptionally easy. From the moment you enter its temples and shrines you feel a tranquillity ebbing and flowing through every beam and every rock until each step taken becomes a walking, breathing meditation.
Although Kyoto is now a fragment of its former self, it’s easy to see why the Allied bombers chose to spare this beautiful city during World War II; even its enemies respected it.
And I had a new-found respect for Yoshi. It began as we wandered through the bamboo forest and along the banks of the Oi River. Whenever I looked at him, I was struck by some new light cast from his prism. Here amid the history of his ancestors, among the spirits of his gods and the regal beauty of his land, it was so easy to see: for once, Yoshi seemed at peace.
‘Hey, bubs, it’s me. Yeah, everything is fine. I’m in Kyoto. Don’t swear. The small island was damaged by the typhoon yesterday so Yoshi changed his plans. We took the shinkansen. Uh-huh. Yes, I know. C’mon, I think I know what I’m doing. All right. Have you got a pen? We’re staying at the Hotel Nikko Princess Kyoto in room 1015, and the phone number is 75-342-2111. Yes, I’ll be careful. I know. Yes, I know that too. Okay, I love you too. Uh-huh. Okay, moooooch. I’ll call you in the morning.’
‘Oh God, I am not eating this. Is this sea urchin? It is, isn’t it?’
‘Give it to me, ma chérie, you spoilt brat. This is a delicacy in Japan,’ Yoshi chastised me with a delicate glare at dinner as I slid the dish over to him. Well, he could eat it then. Fine by me. Sea urchin was positively disgusting, and I’d already had too many works of culinary art slide agreeably down my throat to ruin it with one small sea animal. The wine could have masked the slimy critter, but then I’d had too much of that as well. It was a concentrated effort just to make it to the top of the stairs in stilettos, where I gave myself a stern talking-to in the ladies’ room mirror. No more wine. Do you hear me? You can hardly walk, you bloody idiot. But when I returned to our corner table, the waiter had already refilled my glass.
I was completely impressed with Yoshi. It wasn’t all the extravagance — that was just pure opulent fun, and to him it meant nothing. It was the subtle effect of his gallantry. Not once did Yoshi press me for anything. Or insinuate or probe or demand. Not once did he step beyond the customer/hostess boundary. Not once did he even ask me anything direct. In fact, ever since we’d met, Yoshi had never really asked me anything personal, and I in turn hadn’t bothered to ask him. We simply enjoyed each other’s company, without knowing all the details that cemented a normal relationship. Maybe that was the key to being a hostess without being swallowed up by it. To be like the lights of urban Kyoto flashing by — beautiful but fuzzy, blurred by moving too fast through a dark expanse of night. Never entirely known.
‘Fuck that was a beautiful dinner. I’m sorry, did I just swear? I don’t like to swear.’
‘Fuck it, do what you want,’ said Yoshi. ‘Do whatever you want. Oh Godddd.’ He stopped to stare up at the sky outside the Princess Nikko. ‘I am so drunk.’
So am I, I thought to myself, but said nothing.
We stood pleasantly on opposite sides of the elevator. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked happy. Satiated. And I didn’t mean ‘not hungry’.
Fifteen floors up, the doors opened. We sauntered down the plush hallway. I stopped to smell a bouquet of fresh flowers on a side table. Yoshi didn’t look back. He turned the key ahead of me and quietly I shut the vault door behind us.