‘Irashaimase!’ Tehara pitched forward as two men entered through Greengrass’s one and only door. They bowed stiffly in return, allowing him to stow their briefcases in a hidden closet and sit them next to the karaoke machine. There he presented steaming oshibori and lit cigarettes from one knee. Drink preferences were vocalised. Tehara’s head dropped slightly. It was the same practised charade that had brought the club to full, and so by the time Tehara started to back away in a succession of miniature bows, I was aware that his next call of duty was to bring the hostesses. Alone at the powwow table, there was only me.
Nishi came. He motioned for me to stand, shuffled across the floor and indicated my place with a downturned hand. I breathed in deeply. Here we go. Wiping the perspiration from my palm as discreetly as possible, I sat nervously with a big, friendly smile.
‘Oh! Sagoi!’ Saliva landed on my face. Glasses were quickly taken from a shirt pocket so that two narrowly slit eyes could inspect my face.
‘Komban wa. Watashi wa Chelsea desu. O-namae wa nan desu ka.’ I held out my name card as I introduced myself and asked his name.
‘Oh! Sagoi, sagoi! Berry beautiful and berry crever. So smart-o! You are like my boss! Smart man, over there!’ The foreign face pointed across the table to a man engrossed in conversation with a blonde and then snatched up my card to study it intensely, inches from his eyeballs. ‘I am so sorry. You are most beautiful, I forget my name. Therefore I will now introduce myself to you.’ He pulled out a proper business card of his own and presented it to me. ‘I am Shio. Over there, that is my boss, Takori-san. He rikes girls, but you do not need to know him.’
‘Shio-san, it’s very nice to meet you,’ I smiled.
‘Yes! Do you know, shio mean salt in Japan? I am Mr Salt, but that is not important. What country do you come from?’
‘Canada.’
‘Oh! Canada! Your Engrish berry good! Takori-san, Takori-san!’ Shio shook his boss’s kneecap jarringly. ‘You must meet Chelsea-san! She come from Canada. Engrish berry good!’
Takori smiled, swiping away Shio’s hand to grab mine firmly.
‘Sorry, I cannot speak English. Shio-san speaks berry good English. Shio-san my number-one boy. Tonight is my celebration to him. This is because he recently making big company achievement!’
Shio-san beamed from ear to ear.
‘Oh, really, is that true?’
‘Yes, I am number 1, but not boy! I am man. Guess how old you think I am?’ Shio assumed a serious expression and pointed at his face. He looked like he might be in his early thirties, so I guessed 30 to humour him.
‘No! Berry wrong! Forty-two!’
‘No, come on. You look amazing. You can’t be 42!’
Shio obviously delighted in what must have been an often-played guessing game.
‘Sank-you berry much. However, I am 42.’ As he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, I held up my lighter, poised in the shelter of a cupped hand. He leant forward casually and sucked the flame up into his cigarette. ‘How long you have been in Tokyo?’
‘Five days.’
‘Whoa!’ Shio was astonished. ‘Only five day! Honto?’
‘Honto?’ I repeated. ‘What does honto mean?’
‘Rearry. Honto mean rearry. Don’t worry. I teach you Japanese, one-thousand yen, one hour. But,’ he paused, springing up an index finger, ‘you teach me Engrish, two-thousand yen, one hour.’
I laughed and made him shake hands. ‘It’s a deal.’
‘What does it mean, “it’s a deal”?’ Confusion revealed the faintest wrinkles.
‘It’s like an agreement. We both agree to something, like we are making a trade. “Okay, let’s do it — I agree.” Do you understand?’
‘Ahhh, it’s a deal. Wakarimashita. Okay. You come from Canada. Do you rike ski?’ Shio thrust his arms back at the elbow, pumping them side to side.
‘Skiing? Oh yes, I like skiing. Is that one of your hobbies?’
‘Yes, I rike ski berry much. But no time. No holiday for me.’
‘What about Sunday? You don’t work Sundays, do you?’
‘Yes, unfortunately I have berry difficult job. My business sound and lightning.’
‘Lighting,’ I corrected without thinking.
‘Yes, lighting. So long hours! Everybody need sound and lightning, so bad time for hobbies. It is so difficult. However, next year is berry big job. Famous new hotel coming: Ritz Carlton. Ritz Carlton people do not know Japanese wedding, but I am expert. Therefore I must organise for them. I will have no time for movies. I want to see Michael Moore.’
‘Fahrenheit 911? The movie about the war in Iraq?’
Yes, yes. War in Iraq. President Bush berry stupid man,’ he spat. ‘Japanese businessmen do not rike Bush. But that is another matter, not for beautiful young rady. What does it mean, fairy height?’
‘Fahrenheit. It’s a way to measure temperature, like ten degrees Celsius, only Americans use Fahrenheit, like, “It’s ten degrees Fahrenheit outside”.’
‘Oh yes. I see. I want to see it but no time. Movies are too long for Japanese people.’
While I continually topped up Shio’s whisky, sipped on cranberry juice and lit his cigarettes, he and I talked more about skiing, which led to a discussion of the 1998 Winter Olympics and whatever else struck his fancy until Takori-san asked for the bill. When it came, I got my first lesson in Japanese hierarchy; Takori-san refused to acknowledge its existence, and Shio obligingly paid hundreds of dollars to celebrate his own recent achievement. Out at the elevator, I handed over Shio’s briefcase and bowed.
‘Thank you very much for coming, Shio-san. Arigato gozaimasu. Have a good night! I hope to see you again soon,’ I said, and Shio shook my hand with vigour.
‘Okay!’ he beamed back. ‘It’s a deal!’ Oh God. Matt was going to love hearing about this. This game was a cinch. It was so much easier than I thought.
Nishi didn’t even let me catch my breath. One heel back in the club and he had me by the elbow, gently guiding me to an overflowing, noisy jukebox of a table that immediately magnified the lack of alcohol flowing through my veins. I gave Nishi a long, sideways look and he patted me paternally on the shoulder. ‘No probrem, Chelsea-san. More smile.’
‘Are they Japanese?’ I whispered. They didn’t look Japanese, and the disciplined politeness that Shio had displayed despite his own drunkenness was nowhere to be seen.
‘Korean,’ muttered Nishi, and I was left alone in the middle of a wild pop song with no one to introduce myself to. Everyone was engrossed in a slideshow on a digital camera, and the man next to me gave more attention to the cigarette lingering from his lips, half-burnt to ash, than to me. At least he knew it was there. I felt like an idiot, waiting to be noticed.
‘Who’s that guy? Wait, go back. That dude! Hah hah, that’s Akira, you scoundrel!’ The camera was thrust towards a man who had one hand casually draped over Jamie’s shoulder. The table was littered with shot glasses. Sucked-out lemon sagged in ashtrays.
When my neighbour finally decided to introduce himself, I wasn’t paying attention. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m Christopher,’ he repeated, flat, distant and uninterested.
‘I’m Chelsea.’ He nodded and lit another cigarette. I looked over at Jamie, and thumbed the crisp edge of a name card I’d painstakingly written out. ‘Should I?’ I mouthed. She shook her head and motioned to put it away. Good call. It probably wouldn’t have gone over well anyway: ‘What the hell is that? You wanna give me a business card? Does it look like we’re doing fucking business?’ He gave me that impression.
I wondered what Christopher was doing in a hostess club. Sure, my reference point was severely limited, but he wasn’t even in the same ballpark as Shio. He was completely Westernised. His mannerisms. His lingo. His arrogance, virtually imperceptible in the Japanese. But maybe I was just biased. As the conversation turned to movies, budgets and healthy profit margins, Akira leant across the table, pointing a politely accusatory finger at Christopher. ‘Do you know who this man is?’
‘C’mon, man, stop it. Do you know who this man is?’ Christopher countered.
‘This man is the number 1 movie producer in Korea,’ Akira continued. ‘He is a very successful man.’
‘Yeah, well this guy is one of the biggest movie producers in Japan. He is a very successful man.’ Raucous laughter ensued, and a toast was declared.
‘What are you drinking?’ Christopher asked. ‘Is that juice? You gotta be kidding.’
‘Yeah, it’s orange juice. I don’t drink.’ I could hear my voice, aristocratic in tone.
‘And how long have you been in Tokyo?’
‘Five days. This is my first night.’
‘Jesus! Your first night? And you got us Koreans ... and you’re not drinking? Now that’s madness, holy shit.’ Christopher’s frozen wall of ice suddenly thawed as he realised I was human. Then, distracted by the opening notes of a familiar song, he quickly stood. ‘Oh, oh, that’s my song, that’s my song!’ Someone passed a microphone and he began to sing ‘Desperado’ by the Eagles. Everyone cheered. He was better than I expected, and surprisingly alluring.
In the mayhem, someone forced another microphone into my unwilling hands between verses. It was Christopher. He looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Sing with me.’
‘I don’t sing. Christopher, really, you don’t want me to sing,’ I pleaded, as he tried to pull me to my feet, but luckily Don Henley came to the rescue. I sat down in relief, but as I listened to Christopher’s soulful voice against an eclectic murmur of backup vocals, my entire impression of him changed. He seemed accessible. Tender. Radiant. Maybe it’s the second impression that counts more sometimes.
As the last notes rang out, the table exploded in applause. The drunkest one stood, only to fall back down. Christopher nudged his stool closer to mine. I was smiling ear to ear. ‘Next time I come, you’re going to sing,’ he said. Tiny beads of sweat glistened along his hairline.
‘Next time? I thought you lived in Korea.’
‘I do, in Seoul. I produce movies, Korean movies. That’s what I do, but we’re coming back in October for the International Film Festival.’ He reached out to grab my thumb. Why my thumb? It was such an odd gesture. ‘That’s when I’ll see you again.’
‘How will I know when you’re coming? Do you have an email address?’
‘Yeah, hey Jodie! Do you still remember my email?’ Christopher shouted to the blonde belting out a Stevie Wonder hit. Jodie gave a thumbs-up. Her mouth was open so wide you could see the stud through her tongue. ‘I gave it to her last time. I want her to come to Korea, she’s an absolute ...’ Christopher stopped to squint at me. ‘You know what, I’ll tell you my email. If you can remember without writing it down, you can come to Korea. Maybe you can come with Jodie. I’ll send you a ticket and show you around for a couple days. It’ll be great.’
Gradually I became less anxious in anticipation of what might be said or done next. I still had an iron rod in my back and a tentative pitch to my laugh, but I almost felt like Christopher and I were old friends reunited after years of absence — familiar, but with that edge of formality. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked at one point. ‘I mean, are you comfortable? Are you enjoying yourself? You’re really calm, very relaxed.’ I shrugged in response. ‘I don’t know, you just seem in this whole other realm from everyone else here.’
But I was in a whole other realm. I was in it for the money and the story, and in every way I viewed myself as the detached observer, thinking I could integrate into a foreign culture and learn all about it without getting too involved. As a model I’d been accustomed to decadence and absurdity under the privileged umbrella of fashion — everything for free, earning extravagant money for virtually nothing but a smile — so it might be fair to say that I felt myself slightly untouchable. I had seen it all before — the wealth, the power players. I had received the superficial adulation. But apart from that, I wasn’t on the market, and I wouldn’t be falling under any spells, because I was already married with exuberant happiness to a man I adored. Matt is my best friend, and marriage is just the sprinkles on our ice cream.
Besides, this job was like acting; I was starring in my own three-month Broadway show, and I wanted to make it as interesting as possible. I could deal with a few Japanese men. I could deal with a warped reality. It might be puzzling, but that was all it was. I was in control. I could stay in control.
And so I answered: ‘I’m fine, thanks. Everything is fine. Things are crazy here, but I’m happy. I have a lot of peace in my life right now. Things are good.’
Christopher contemplated my face. He looked around. People were falling off stools, shouting and slamming back tequila. A grown man sat in a trance, studying the songbook. Girls of all nationalities were singing along to highlighted lyrics and shrieking with laughter. Nowhere was there calm. Slowly Christopher turned back to me. ‘I can see that. But you know ... three months in this place is a long time. You’re going to need to drink to be on the same frequency as them.’ He waved a hand across the drunken riot around us. ‘Otherwise you won’t survive.’