Oh my Buddha, I am trying. This is something my customer Kenji says to me. It is one of two things he says every time he comes in to drink sake mixed with soda and lemon and sing Bob Dylan or Bob Marley or even ‘Bob the Builder’ — God knows, he would sing it if we had it. Kenji sings so many songs, and he makes me sing them too.
The first thing he habitually says is right after I ask how he is and he is always ‘very bad’. The second is when I say ‘oh my God’ and he echoes ‘oh my Buddha’ very quickly, like a chaser after Early Times whisky, which he never drinks but sometimes one of his friends does when they come in together. I think his friend’s name is Zushi, but no, maybe Zushi drinks Suntory. I can’t really be sure. I would usually remember but I was too busy trying to guess what Kenji did for a living. ‘You can have five guesses at my profession!’ he shouted. ‘If correct, then nice dinner. But if wrong ... LOVE HOTEL!’
But oh my Buddha I am trying.
I am trying to soften up the sadness so it doesn’t hurt every single day. I languish over so many things. That maybe I am having an emotional affair, or that maybe I am not. This environment is just so fucked up I can’t even tell any more, and that kills me. Every day that just kills me.
I am trying to add sugar to the bittersweet taste that is Yoshi, but every time I think I’ve made it better I realise the recipe is only becoming more and more unsalvageable. And still I add another cup. I am trying to medicate the uncertainty and the confusion and depression that come from not having figured anything out yet but only fucking things up more and more as I try.
This is not an easy project. What do they call those people — social commentators? Am I a social commentator? Is that what this book is about? I don’t know. I am trying to be academic about it all but that thing called being a human being keeps getting in the way. I am trying to be the worker and the supervisor and the CEO and the eight million shareholders all at the same time. I am trying to trade stocks in a foreign market but there are too many of them and I am unlicensed and they just don’t equate and I am coming up short and red and flying by the seat of my pants, just hoping that the JASDAQ won’t come crashing down all around me. Oh my Buddha, this is not just a project any more.
Oh my Buddha, this is my life.
Esther sat down next to me and started to ask about my visa. When did it run out? When was I leaving? Would I consider staying? ‘They really like you, Nishi and Mama-san. They want you to extend it,’ she said. ‘They really do.’
‘Yeah, I know. I just don’t think that I could.’ I didn’t want to come back to Tokyo fourteen times like Esther had. She was thirty years old. Between three-month stints spent hostessing in Tokyo, Esther travelled to India, where she studied holistic therapies with the goal of opening her own practice in Israel. She was only planning two or three more trips.
Esther had saved her money, and she knew how to maximise her potential. Every night Esther came in on a dohan, and when Greengrass was quiet she donned a long black coat and brought customers in off the street. By some miracle she’d figured out the Japanese psyche, and she honestly enjoyed being a hostess. The first few times had been tough, she said, but she could find something good to say about everyone, even the foulest of customers.
‘But tell me about Yoshi,’ she prodded. ‘I have known him a long time. Maybe five years now. I used to be good friends with his friend, Suzuki. They were crazy men together. They came here so often. They went everywhere. Partying, partying. The drugs. The alcohol. The women. They couldn’t get enough. They were real playboys, both so handsome.
‘You know, Suzuki is one of Yoshi’s only friends. It’s difficult being in his position. He can never trust anyone’s intention. He has so much money, but you know it wasn’t all given to him. He took over from his father but Yoshi has grown the business so much. He’s really worked hard. But now he feels so isolated. I haven’t seen Suzuki in a long time. He doesn’t come any more. But occasionally I see Yoshi. When he gets lonely, I think. Chasing the girls that don’t belong. The unobtainable ones. How do you think he feels about you?’
‘I don’t know. He’d have me believe that he loves me, but it’s just a big lie.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Esther said. You know, I don’t think Yoshi falls in love very often, but when he does I really think he means it, in his own way. I think he really cares about you. I can see that when you’re together. You’re what he wants. A light at the end of his tunnel. He’s just been doing this so long I think he’s lost, that’s all.
‘He has an unusual life. He’s addicted to the drugs but I wouldn’t say he can’t love you. Don’t take that away from him. You have your husband, I know, and he’s a beautiful man. He has a beautiful soul. I think that’s right for you. You’re so young, but what you’re going through, it has its place too. Life is so much more complicated than we’d like it to be.’
‘I don’t want it to be complicated,’ I whispered.
Esther grasped my hand. ‘I know. But just keep your heart open. You’ve got so much love to give.’
Oh God, I don’t know what to do. I thought life would be easy if I didn’t call Yoshi, but I was wrong. Postponing the inevitable hasn’t made the feelings subside. It’s just brought them to critical mass. What if Yoshi didn’t come to the club again? I only have three nights left. I’d turned him away, but now I couldn’t just leave. Rationally, would seeing him solve anything? Or did I even want to see him? Maybe I just wanted the high of being what I was to him.
This bullshit craziness going on in my head isn’t fair. Not to Matt. Not to me. And I have to confess I did the worst thing in my life the other day. I did a Google search. It said: Australian divorce law.
But doing that didn’t solve anything either. I just felt violently ill. And then I knew. I wanted to see him for sure, and I wanted the choice to be mine. One way or another, this had to stop. So I went to the internet cafe on my way home. I opened a new message. I typed:
Yoshi, my Yoshi ...
I know you are very busy. So am I. I know I hardly ever call you. You have your reasons and I have mine. Even so, I would love to see you before I go. Even if it’s just for breakfast.
If you wanna call me, you know my number.
Love Chelsea
I stopped to consider that I was drunk again. But then I thought, fuck it.
I pressed SEND.