It’s days like today that I really wonder what I’m doing in Japan. I hate to think that as I go to bed each morning, these men I know in the night-time are turning up to run corporations or direct hospitals. It pains me that ten hours later they will still be there, relentlessly pursuing excellence, while I wake to the daily musical broadcast that warns Minato-ku’s neighbourhood children to skip, run and bicycle home for dinner. How I loathe that unobtrusive public-service announcement. It is such a happy jingle, reduced to a sad, depressing reminder when I can’t even lift my head off the pillow.
Such is the state of my life.
Lately I’ve had no motivation to go out. I don’t want to exercise. Or to wander. I don’t even go out for Starbucks. I’m so lethargic I can’t even read, although I try every day, scanning the same three lines until finally I return Murakami to the shelf, slotting the book next to A History of Japan, Creative Visualization and Trump: The Art of the Deal. All of them dog-eared, none of them complete. Then I make a cheap instant coffee with too much soymilk, and that’s usually the time when the phone rings. Today it was ‘Shin HOME’. I was glad to get the call. I hadn’t seen him since he’d got back from his trip to China.
Late last night Shin had left me a message in that detached, endearingly screwed-up cadence I so loved: ‘Hi. I am Shin speaking. Uhh. I just back home now and I checked email. How are you now? Uh ... Okay. Uhh ... I will call you later. Bye.’ But it had been after midnight, so out of courtesy I hadn’t called him back. I knew he would call the next day.
It was such a relief to hear his voice. I needed to speak with someone who knew how to take it all in his stride. Or at least, almost all of it. China excluded.
‘Chinese people all look same!’ he exclaimed incredulously. ‘Same height, same hair. Same face. Same clothes! And no colour. I could see no colour! Everyone was staring. They could tell I am Japanese? I do not know. They don’t like Japanese.’
Shin was looking forward to our upcoming Sunday trip to Hakone’s hot springs, but he was concerned about me. ‘You must bring two towels, a big one and a small one, and ... nothing. You understand?’
I chuckled in response. Shin was trying to explain that bathing in the volcanically sourced waters of Japanese onsen was a strictly nudist affair, but I was hardly concerned. I needed to relax, swimsuit or not, and modesty ... well, a towel would be fine. I told Shin not to worry, I knew the onsen rules, and he promised to call tomorrow.
‘Tomorrow I have to play golf,’ he complained. ‘I hate. Then, if I’m not tired, maybe we can go tempura restaurant,’ he suggested. ‘But I will call you, after I buy ticket.’
‘Sure thing, Shin. I’m looking forward to it. Rest up.’
‘Okay,’ he sighed before hanging up. ‘And bye-bye.’
Thank God for Shin. My neutral ground. Now all I had to worry about was securing a decoy plan with Nori for Saturday, since even after last week’s hissy fit he’d assume Sunday belonged to him. Hah! He was so presumptuous. However, he had given me the laptop the night I’d returned from Kyoto, and in his eyes we were ‘friends’ again. I was willing to give him another chance to be civil. Of course if anyone deserved time on my one day off, it was Matt, but as he was going to be sleeping all day I didn’t see how it would matter if I was beside him in bed or hours away in the Japanese countryside.
So there it was. Another weekend as good as gone, and I hadn’t even dealt with my knight in shining armour, galloping towards me at the reins of his gleaming white stallion. I was constantly willing Yoshi to be called away to Barcelona to deal with his father’s golf course. It would make my life so much easier.
OH MY GOD I LOVE TOKYO. This is the slogan of my hypothetical T-shirt. I hold in my hands not only an exclusive invitation to meet Tom Cruise at the Tokyo premiere of Michael Mann’s Collateral but also, more importantly, the many different business cards of one Fujimoto-san, whom I so wonderfully had the pleasure of meeting tonight.
Fujimoto-san was a busy and talented man: president of a production company, adviser on film distribution and marketing/sales supervisor to the Japanese divisions of major Hollywood film studios, and president of his own entertainment company. This was all very impressive, yet, promotional material aside, it was Fujimoto-san’s joie de vivre that I fell in love with in ten seconds flat.
His timing couldn’t have been better — he’d arrived as a breath of fresh air just when my perspective was becoming stale, an uplifting reminder of how it’s possible to feel an instantaneous affinity with someone even in the most curious of settings.
‘Chelsea-san! You are not a typical gaijin,’ Fujimoto-san exuded five minutes after we’d raised our glasses in kampai. ‘This is the first thing I noticed about you!’
The first thing I’d noticed about him was his vibrant spark of energy. He virtually exploded into the air around him. He was late into his fifties, his beard handsomely dappled with grey but his hair jet black. Lean and laid-back, he was charmingly unapologetic in stating that he was ‘most famous’ in his business — the business of movies. As an internationally renowned film executive, Fujimoto-san had seen over 10,000 films in the theatre. Movies were his life’s passion and more important than anything, except health and curiosity.
I was drawn to Fujimoto-san’s uninhibited joy. It seemed that every revelation of fact or feeling was followed by a contagious thread of multicoloured laughter.
He told me that at one point an illness had threatened his life and almost forced him to abandon the movies for good. At the time he fell ill, Fujimoto-san had gone thirty-seven years without a holiday but was still shocked to discover he could have a bad liver and fatty blood. For the next nine months his days consisted only of examinations, 1500 calories’ worth of food, seeing friends and having acupuncture, all of which culminated in a triumphant return to work and a feverishly renewed exuberance. It was Fujimoto-san’s one grievance that he could now seldom eat toro — the fatty cut of a tuna’s underbelly — because he was medically limited to low-cholesterol foods.
Fujimoto-san then decided to assess my health, having talked enough about his own. After a palm reading, he asked to touch my ankle. I nervously allowed him to undertake an examination that confirmed I had good bones while he recalled the minute details — actress, movie, year, director and studio — of one of his favourite cinematic scenes of a woman’s ankle coming down a grand sweep of stairs. It was Fujimoto-san’s one quirk, so I obliged when he requested me to stand so he could observe my ankle from another angle.
And then, as all self-respecting reunion nights went (for this was a get-together with Fujimoto-san’s former colleagues), it was time for karaoke — with a couple of simple rules. ‘Chelsea-san, always you must choose two songs to karaoke!’ Fujimoto-san half shouted over the music. ‘One to warm up,’ he elbowed me jovially in the ribs, ‘two to enjoy! I have learnt this very important lesson of karaoke over many years spent chaperoning famous movie stars in Tokyo,’ he grinned. But, perhaps sensing my upcoming protest, Fujimoto-san’s lips drew tightly together. ‘It is a must,’ he said solemnly. ‘No negotiations. You can try the Beatles, if you are a shy singer. Tom Hanks sang the Beatles. But Robin Williams ... whoa! He very much enjoy, because he is good — how do you say it in English?’ Someone suggested the word actor, but no, that wasn’t it. ‘He made many voices,’ Fujimoto-san explained.
‘Oh, impersonator,’ I concluded, and the three men shared the new word around.
‘Chelsea-san. This month I am very busy. Next week Tom Cruise is coming. Michael Mann is coming, for Collateral — collaboration between DreamWorks and Paramount Pictures — and then Tom Hanks again is coming, for The Polar Express — animated kids’ movie from Warner Brothers — but next month, if you are available, I want to have dinner.’
‘Gosh,’ I was surprised at the sudden invitation, coming from a man who spent most of his time consuming restricted calories with mega-celebrities, and I said as much.
‘No, no, Chelsea-san. Please do not misunderstand. This is my obligation. It is my job! I must facilitate the schedule for every movie star coming to do promotions for the big movie, attend premieres, and entertain everybody all night long and make sure I return them safely to their hotel. It is a great job desu yo, but of course, sometimes horrible,’ he laughed, ‘and I am like babysitter! But never mind. Tonight, are you available to join us for something to eat? Can you drink? Red wine?’ he smirked, pointing at my oolong tea.
‘Red wine? I don’t know, I’m still a bit sick ...’ I protested, gesturing towards my raspy throat.
‘It is very, very good red wine,’ Fujimoto-san jousted back, so I conceded with a roll of the eyes while he called Nishi to enquire whether I was free to go. Nishi grimaced silently and then painfully shook his head in refusal. So Fujimoto-san lit up a cigarette and they talked. Then Nishi bowed deeply, and left.
‘So what happened?’ I asked impatiently.
‘Nishi-san told to me he already has your time card punched until one o’clock, but I will pay a small sum for you to leave.’ I started to complain about Nishi’s extortionate lie but Fujimoto-san shrugged. ‘Negotiations,’ he chuckled, sliding a hand under the table. ‘It is my job.’
After a brief walk through Roppongi’s hectic streets we arrived outside a short high-rise hidden quietly next to Gas Panic, a bar where budget tourists flocked for cheap drinks. Once out of the elevator, Fujimoto-san pointed to a brass plate that read ‘Petits Pois’.
‘What does it mean, petits pois?’ his colleague asked.
‘Small peas,’ I said. ‘You know the small, round green vegetable?’
‘Ahh! Kirei vegetable!’ Fujimoto-san exclaimed: pretty vegetable. ‘But this place is not a vegetable! No! It is a members-only club, and I am a member,’ he smiled, opening the heavy wooden door. ‘It is for men only, but you are my guest. Please, after you.’
Inside, we were the only customers in a French colonial sitting parlour with an aristocratic ambience. It was amazing that such an enclave could exist in a place like Roppongi. High-backed sofas scattered with ornate cushions were placed around large oak tables, a secret garden transformed the balcony and a small, curtained kitchen produced delicate dishes. Then Master, the short, round, old Japanese man who ran the club, emerged. Master had two young female assistants with skinny legs and jutting teeth who brought four enormous wine glasses and, just as Fujimoto-san had promised, a bottle of very, very good red wine.
‘This wine is very exclusive,’ he boasted with sparkling eyes. ‘Only so many bottle have been imported. In a bar this is a hundred-thousand yen. If you are lucky enough to buy it from the distributor, it is twenty-five-thousand yen, but Master has it for fifty thousand — half price.’ Master also had cheese as an accompaniment because, ‘Of course you want cheese with your wine — you are gaijin!’
‘Actually,’ I retorted playfully, more to avoid being culturally stereotyped than to disprove his assumption, ‘I like Japanese food. Specifically, natto,’ I taunted. It was a fermented soybean dish that typically scared gaijin off.
‘Oh, please, don’t eat natto.’ Fujimoto-san screwed up his face.
‘Why not? I love it, and o-kono miyake too. It’s delicious.’
Fujimoto-san looked at me in disbelief. ‘You are weird gaijin,’ he exclaimed. As we waited for the red wine to be decanted, he went on: ‘Never before have I met such a weird gaijin as you! Now please sing!’
‘Right now? But I ...’
‘You are shy!’ Fujimoto-san chuckled. ‘I know. So drink up, and then choose your song.’ A karaoke book was handed to me by one of the Japanese waitresses, and while Fujimoto-san sang ‘Greenfields’ and his friends Bob Dylan, I drank all of my wine plus three Kahlua and milks before I finally aligned myself with Tom Hanks and timidly began to sing ‘In My Life’ by the Beatles.
The song earned me eight calories. That was one of the perks of Petis Pois — Master’s karaoke system was a super-speciality version that measured spent calories as a direct ratio of one’s vocal output. Its accuracy was dubious, no doubt, and my reading below average, but I was still applauded boisterously with shouts and whistles.
‘Very gooooood! I forget your face!’ Fujimoto-san exclaimed, and I stared blankly back at him. ‘I mean, I cannot forget your face! So kirei. And your eyes, very German I think. Here is very good.’ Fujimoto-san set down his shochu and covered up the lower half of my face. ‘Ahhh! Great! On a movie screen, the audience will need to see only this. I have met many actresses, because I take them to dinner all the time, but you are up here.’ He shot his arm up wildly. ‘Much better. I love your eyes.’
As Fujimoto-san continued, I marvelled hazily at his never-ending enthusiasm, but more so at the sheer craziness of the good time I was having. I swear the smile never left my face. The karaoke calories slowly piled up. The drinks flowed. The food kept coming. And the night wore on.