Hey Mortality (3 page)

Just a one
minute walk from the Plum Ship sits the government owned legal red light district of Tokyo, Yoshiwara.

Smaller in size now compared to the olden days, and once surrounded by a black ditch of water stained by teeth dye, Yoshiwara was a place for sex slaves. The ditch was designed to keep the women trapped inside, and black because of
ohaguro
, the custom of dying the teeth black with a lead based ink so that the young women slaves of Yoshiwara could look like the black-toothed married women of Japan.

It is strange to think that the slums and the red light district are just a ten minute walk from the old town of Asakusa; which serves today as one of the most popular tourist destinations in Tokyo, and famous for a temple that is one of the biggest tourist attractions in Japan. So many people visit Asakusa each year, but are blissfully unaware of Yoshiwara or Nihonzutsumi.

Years ago, a small stream ran from the nearby Sumida River, behind the famous temple of Asakusa, Sensō-ji, and toward Yoshiwara. Boats would stop in Asakusa full of sailors stationed on the river. The sailors would tell their wives that they were taking a boat ride to the temple to pray, but instead, they would continue on, arriving at the entrance gate to Yoshiwara.

Nowadays, the women here can choose their fate. No longer slaves or sold into prostitution by poverty stricken parents. Back then, there was only one entrance and no escape. These days, the area is wide open and the black ditch is gone.

Having read the famous book
Takekurabe
by Ichiyō Higuchi
—
one of the most important female authors of the last two hundred years in Japan
—
I am aware of some of Yoshiwara’s past. Ichiyō’s story took place within the darkness of this night-time pleasure town, an area where she herself grew up before her untimely death.

I have wandered through the streets of Yoshiwara ever since I made the move to the slums. Today, I feel like really exploring the area in detail, finding out more about its history, about why the government is more interested in maintaining a legalised pleasure district, rather than protecting the old, the poor, and the most vulnerable people of Nihonzutsumi.

I wander to the Shell petrol station that sits on the same street as the Plum Ship, and is a thirty second walk from my home. There is a shiny silver plaque next to a tree. The tree grows silently in the forecourt, a massive weeping willow tree; weeping like the slaves of the past.

The plaque tells me that the tree is called Mikaeri Yanagi, which translates into English to provide the meaning:
Looking-back willow tree
. The reason for this name is that the tree marks the entrance to Yoshiwara, where the entrance gate and guard tower once sat. It is said that when people left Yoshiwara after a late night of adultery or debauchery, they looked back at the tree feeling painful reluctance at having to leave.

As I walk through where the old gate once stood, I see that even though it is broad daylight, many of the establishments have men in business suits wearing ear-pieces standing outside, and all the neon signs are lit up; needlessly wasting electricity.

“Sex?” a man outside an establishment called Silky Doll says to me with a grin. I shake my head and continue my walk.

Smaller willow trees line the length of the road. After about ten minutes of walking past the various high priced establishments, I arrive at Yoshiwara Shrine.

It is strange to think that at either side of the licensed red light district, there is something of interest that perhaps shouldn’t exist. At the entrance where the old gate used to stand, sits a police station, and at the exit, where the moat would trap the women inside, is a shrine that houses a goddess that protects women. Next to the shrine, a clinic for sexually transmitted diseases marks an ironic end to the pleasure district.

At Yoshiwara Shrine, a woman dressed in knee high boots and the shortest leather skirt I have seen in my life is standing before god, she bows to signify the end of her working day, and leaves. A regular occurrence perhaps for these women, praying for safety as they leave and return to their boyfriends or heartbroken husbands that cannot bear the thought that they are sleeping with random men for a living; if they even knew.

Inside the shrine is a signboard featuring a map of the old Yoshiwara; a grid-like area that has diminished over the years, and is no longer surrounded by black moats or guarded by watchtowers. It is interesting to see the scope of this area, how huge it was just a few hundred years ago.

Next to the sign is a strange image of a face. Black eyebrows, red cheeks, and a red mouth that depicts a frown. Eyes missing; frightening.

As I wander back through the red light district, I decide to look at a township guide map. I notice a few points of interest that I had never previously given much thought to. The first is the Toden Arakawa Streetcar, the last remaining streetcar that still operates in Tokyo. With a neon headache, I decide to leave Yoshiwara for now, and walk off in the direction of the streetcar.

After twenty minutes I arrive, following the gentle hum of silent electricity, until I see the old tracks.

At the streetcar depot nobody is waiting to ride. The only sign of life here, other than the subtle movement of old trams, is a superabundance of starving pigeons waiting for their next meal.

Opened in 1913, this streetcar somehow survived when all other streetcars were scrapped in Japan some fifty years ago. I consider taking the tram, but because there is no official timetable, I fear that if I do, I will end up in the middle of nowhere with no way of getting back. Perhaps this line was kept open to allow another way for men to access the Yoshiwara area, otherwise I can’t see any other reason for it to still be in operation.

Close to the streetcar depot is Jōkan-ji Temple, a historical site and cultural asset of Arakawa. It becomes apparent as I enter the temple grounds that this area contains some rather dark history too. The temple dates back to 1665, and with such close proximity to Yoshiwara, it became known to the locals as the
Throw-away Temple
. A place to throw away unclaimed or discarded dead prostitutes.

The building itself looks like any other temple, but beyond its shiny walls is a memorial to the unknown dead; and a hidden entrance that leads into a huge cemetery.

The 1854 Tōkai Earthquake took many lives, and amongst them were young women who had been sold by their parents to the Yoshiwara district to live a life of sex, as slaves; imprisoned by the black water. Those prostitutes were often forced into this trade, and would consider themselves as living in hell, fated to eventually die, and join the other women in a mass grave at Jōkan-ji Temple. After their bodies were used up, when the diseases became too many, when lead poisoning consumed them, when they were simply bought outright by a wealthy man, and then killed to entertain some form of snuff fetish, they would always end up here, Jōkan-ji. Throw-away, Jōkan-ji.

The dead women weren’t even privy to a proper funeral or burial, instead, they would be wrapped in a straw mat and left outside the temple gates for someone else to collect, burn, and add them to the pile of death and ash.

As I wander through the cemetery, it becomes obvious where the souls of the twenty-five thousand dead prostitutes are buried. A small tomb is littered with artefacts pertaining to prostitution. “Birth is pain, death is Jōkan-ji,” says an inscription above the tomb. Cosmetic products, hair clips, and make-up sit atop, leaving a trace of death that hasn’t been forgotten. It is even possible to see inside the tomb through an overly exposed metal grate; offering no decency to the dead. Inside, a stacked pile of white urns stretches down into oblivion.

I leave the tomb with mixed feelings. It makes me wonder why I even visited here. I should have just got on the streetcar and escaped the doom and gloom.

Also in the temple grounds, a monument to a novelist who used these dead women as a source for his satire, Kafū Nagai. It makes me wonder who would write about such a macabre subject, then I realise that I am no better than him.

I do take some solace though, as I leave Jōkan-ji Temple, that these women, somehow, despite being unnamed and sharing the same mass grave, and perhaps sharing the same men when they were of the living world, that they will perhaps be remembered somehow; by the monks of this temple, or those interested, as I, in the history of the Tokyo slums.

As I approach Minowa Station, I can hear the shrill sound of helicopters and sirens; more than one of each. In the distance, I see a pillar of billowing smoke which seems to be attracting the attention of five television helicopters as they circle around the black cloud like flies. An ambulance buzzes by at speed, its sirens adding to the cacophony of mid-afternoon racket. Around the station, there are at least fifteen fire engines. My perfect timing steals me the view of the body of a woman being carried out in a blanket.

The early morning
rain taps at my window; a rain that would have been welcome yesterday in wake of the fire. I lie for a time with my face in my pillow, thinking about her, Liar, and wondering how I so often end up so very alone. I am distracted by things at times, but they, like happiness, fleet away, and my deepest love for that person comes back to my head.

It feels now, that I have nothing to live for. Waking up is about as exciting as the nightmare that preceded the day of exploration; lonely drinking and paranoid thoughts. Maybe, it is the fault of Japan, a country that has completely broken me. Ripped me up and chewed me and spat me in the direction of the slums. For the moment, just listening to the rain, my only comfort when my life doesn’t feel worth living. Things begin to become too much again. I feel trapped, used, and worthless. I am in need of escape and new distractions. Right now I am empty, all used up, like an empty jar; the lid screwed on tighter than ever before; letting nothing inside, not even hope.

And with all of that loneliness flooding back to me, I hear an unexpected knock at my bedroom door. Opening it, I see one of the Japanese men that lives in my house. Baseball Man. He is carrying with him a white carrier bag full of bread. Now, I would normally find this unusual, a man at my door giving me bread, but as I have said, my house is full of strange people. The man gets his name because he often sits up late at night in the uncommon area, watching a baseball game on television. This is how he was named by Canadian Guy, and it kind of stuck. Baseball Man is always smiling though, which is quite pleasant to see when life is so full of wretched misery.

Two weeks ago when I first arrived, he gave me a box of laundry powder for no particular reason. It is apparent too that he also thinks I am fluent in Japanese. Not once has he spoken English words in my direction, always Japanese, always to my silent reply of nodding. This morning he motions for me to take a loaf of bread, so I do, smile, and close my door.

Awake, and consumed by thoughts of a lost love, I head down to the steps for a cigarette. It is just before ten, and time for the sushi restaurant to open its doors. I watch as the Fat Man takes out his sign, pulls up the shutters, and changes closed to open. He then enters the restaurant ready for another day of business. Another day of no customers.

It makes me wonder if the restaurant is a front for something else, some sort of illegal activity. It is these thoughts that fuel my paranoia about the red box. The red box that will sit there later tonight, idly; a piece of the scenery, as if discarded. Nobody seems to notice it, people always walk past it without giving it a second glance. It doesn’t exist in their world, it has no reason to.

I go back upstairs after smoking to change clothes, eat some of the loaf of bread, before leaving for work.

I walk along with thoughts of laundry powder and bread. It is no secret that since being in Japan I have lost an extreme amount of weight. Week on week I find myself becoming skinnier; previously I didn’t think such a possibility could even exist. Perhaps that offers an explanation for the bread. But, my clothes are in no way dirty and in need of additional laundry powder; maybe Baseball Man confused me with Yakuza Guy. I contemplate spending less money on cigarettes and wine, and more money on food, a thought that often collects in my skull, but one that I never seem to act upon.

I never mentioned my job, so I will explain it here. But first, I wander the five minutes to my workplace, the Kangaroo Hotel. This area doesn’t offer a lot, and like the statue of the boxer, the hotel is very much out of place. Not only in name, but in location too. There is nothing around here. It is adjacent to the old shopping arcade that after darkness falls, becomes home to the hordes of sleeping homeless. The red light district perhaps the reason for the Kangaroo Hotel being here; for foreign tourists looking to sleep with a Japanese woman for the first and only time. There is also its close proximity to Minowa Station, for the Tokyo Metro Hibiya Line; which is my escape route to the rest of Japan. And then there is nothing else.

I have quite often thought that people stay at the Kangaroo Hotel by mistake, not for its cheap rooms. Perhaps for some people location isn’t important, or they don’t realise that they will be staying in the slums of Tokyo. More often than not though, the guests that stay here are tourists from overseas. Fortunately, the hotel is only a twenty minute walk from Asakusa, so that’s maybe another reason people choose the Kangaroo Hotel.

My one and only job here is cleaning. I suppose the place is more of a hostel than a hotel; dormitory rooms and cheap accommodation. I make the beds, clean the toilets, the showers and sinks, and vacuum, dust, wipe. Three hours of a morning, five days a week. Wages are low, but I can afford my rent, my wine, my cigarettes, and not a lot else.

For some reason, one of the two leaders of the cleaning staff at the Kangaroo Hotel has taken quite a shine to me; I guess it is because I am quiet and work hard. Eighty percent of my shifts are dictated by him. He is only four years older than me and always wears the most interesting of shirts; a dog in a space suit with the words
Laika Virgin!
is my personal favourite.

When the group of cleaners group up at five minutes to eleven, he assigns daily tasks that will fill the next three hours of our lives. Twenty beds and four bathrooms. The dreaded sixth floor, with its ten bed dormitory rooms and biggest common bathroom in the building. The irritating
tatami
floor shift, with its annoying mats that refuse to be clean no matter how many times you vacuum. Everyone sighs at whatever they are assigned; never happy. But me, I like the distraction. Some might call me an obsessive cleaner. If I am given a list of tasks, I want to complete that list as fast as possible, so much so, that in the previous weeks of cleaning the Kangaroo Hotel, I have often finished all of my daily duties with thirty to forty minutes to spare. Whereas, the other staff will deliberately work slowly, as to try to shy away from any extra work. I actively want it, I need it.

Extra work at the Kangaroo Hotel is often mockingly described as a reward. If you finish early, rather than being told to go home or to take a rest for the remainder of your shift, the team leader will instead assign you more work. Not really a reward, but my obsessions have led me to this fate on almost every occasion I have worked here.

What eventually happened after my first week was that I would finish so early so often that I would be assigned these
special
tasks. Air conditioner unit cleaning, drain cleaning with a powerful spray, cleaning the highest of mirrors, fitting carpets and painting walls. Once, I was ordered to go around each of the shower rooms with bug spray and kill every insect I found; I killed just two.

It has become a fun job, and after finishing early ever since I started, sometimes, instead of starting the day with a usual assignment of four rooms and two common bathrooms, I would instead start the day with extra work. I became the leader of odd jobs, the expert in the extra. Because I had learnt to do every small, and seemingly irrelevant job in the hotel, I was now relied on to do this on a regular and almost daily basis. This was except for when the other shift leader was running the day. I don’t think he liked me, and would always give me the sixth floor, with its mixed dormitories; cheap beds for cheap people, and the dirtiest bathroom in the world. Despite this, I can’t really complain. I have been enjoying my work at the Kangaroo Hotel, and it is sufficient enough for my survival.

After my three hour shift, I have time to explore or stare at boxes, or think about Liar and what I wish I had said to her in the thousands of conversations trapped in my memory; the conversations that I know word for word, verbatim.

Last week I was at home after an extra work shift. I was sitting, sipping a beer on the steps to the Plum Ship, when the ground began rattling like teeth. The noise of skyscrapers singing the chorus of concrete scraping together, pulled apart and in directions against their will. Another earthquake, and the strongest one I had felt in a year. Then, everything stopped. Moments later, as I began to drift away in thoughts of her, hoping to return to whatever fleeting memory remained in my dream-filled head, the shaking reoccurred. It lasted for just a few seconds longer, but was enough to shatter whatever it was in my imagination that I was desperately seeking to remember.

A homeless man that lives in a cardboard box outside the entrance to the Chinese restaurant was stirred awake by the shaking ground; despite sleeping in the summer afternoon and doused in light rain. He coughed and groaned, before looking around and noticing me. He approached me, and in his broken English, he began to ask me the usual stagnant questions about where I was from, and how long I had been in Japan, and whether or not I had met the Queen of England. I of course didn’t answer any of his questions and offered him only a smile. He then went on to give me his life story.

It turned out that he was once in a famous rock band, a drummer. Aged sixty-five now but looking perhaps twice that, I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. Not knowing his circumstances though, I decided it would be rude to judge him any further. He told me that there was something happening at the end of the month in the arcade that runs alongside my house. With its worn out shops and shutters, it might well be the first activity this area has seen for months. A festival of sorts, which will occur four days from now.

The man eventually left, but I was somewhat pleased by the meeting. I am really interested in these people. Even though my life has become so shattered of all meaning, I cannot be in any worse a situation than the drummer of a lost time. It is perhaps wrong to think this way, but it does put things into perspective, that as miserable as my life is, I have a job that I mostly enjoy. I can drink and smoke my life away without a problem. I might be shattered and broken, but I at least have something, which is more than nothing.

It is with the memory of the homeless man, that as I leave my shift today, I decide to print out a notice at my local Family Mart. It reads:

“If you can speak English, I want to hear from you. I will buy you food or alcohol in exchange for a ten minute interview. Leave me a note. Plum Ship Building, Room 405.”

I pin it to the lamppost at the entrance to the arcade, and return to my usual silent step posture, and wait. I wait for a long time. I venture out once to buy a bottle of wine, and again, later, to buy more cigarettes, before waiting for nightfall to engulf the sky.

Prostitute arrives home from a day of sleeping with married men, and stops before me and lights a cigarette. Again, one of those slim cigarettes I have never seen in a shop.

“You look so lonely,” she says to me, her English a welcome surprise. I give her my warmest smile to help wipe away any sense of lost joy. We endure a long silence, and after she extinguishes her cigarette, she says, “Come on.” She takes my arm in hers and leads me to room 404; her room.

She sits me on her small single bed of pink sheets featuring Japanese characters from a comic book or television show. Her room is a little smaller than mine, but has a wealth of boxes and bags, make-up and beauty products, and boxes of condoms of various sizes.

“We have to supply our own condoms,” she tells me. I never knew. “Some of the girls complain about it, but they pay us well.”

I study the other objects in her room and see comic books littering shelves and scattered on the bed. She looks barely twenty and reads comic books; barely a woman.

“Check this out,” she says, reaching over to scoop up something from the bedside table, “my hobby.”

She stands up and slides open the window, then with her hand motions me to join her side.

“I do this every night,” she says, “I have orange, green, and blue; all the colours!”

Her hobby turns out to be the strangest I have ever seen. Laser pointers. She blasts coloured dots of light into the distance, and from her window she can illuminate the sky in a thin stream of light, or shine on unsuspected people in the many windows of the nearby skyscrapers.

“I like to confuse people, really freak them out.”

In the distance a man is smoking on his eighth floor balcony. She shines the light vaguely in his direction, but he doesn’t react. She continues to light up the metal bars of the balcony with a tiny green dot, until after a time, the man finally notices. As he turns his head in the direction of the Plum Ship, she stops shining the light. The man continues to look around in a state of confusion. She begins to laugh. I stay quiet.

“You don’t speak, do you?”

I shake my head.

“Come,” she says, taking my hand and leading me to once again sit on her bed. She sits by my side, and after a few seconds, her arms are wrapped around me.

She begins to rock me back and forth, singing a song in Japanese; it sounds like a nursery rhyme and ends with her hands slightly twisting my head to the side. It repeats, and as it does, and in her embrace, I begin to sob, silently. I feel something better wrapped in her, a comfort. A comfort long lost. And in this embrace an amount of time passes that can’t be measured. I could stay like this for days, her singing, me sobbing. Like her, like a child; I am barely a man.