In the Miso Soup (12 page)

“No, please, wait just a minute.”

“Now what?” she sighed, and plopped back down. As I translated, a sense of foreboding came over me.

“I’m grateful to you,” Frank said.

“Don’t mention it. It’s my job, you know.”

“As a token of my appreciation, I want to show you something really interesting. It has to do with mental energy. Okay? It won’t take a minute. Watch my two index fingers.”

Frank pressed his palms together, like you do before a Buddhist altar.

“See that? My left and right index fingers are the same length. Only natural, you say? But in thirty seconds, the right finger will be much longer. Watch carefully, now.”

Frank shaped his hands into a gun—his two index fingers were the barrel—and pointed it midway between Noriko and me.

“Watch closely. My right index finger will slowly start to grow, longer and longer, like in the story of Jack and the beanstalk. It’s actually growing now, but if you don’t watch carefully you won’t be able to see it. . . .”

I was on Frank’s right, and Noriko was across from us. Frank had pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and jacket, and from where I sat I had a clear view of his left wrist and the back of his right hand. There wasn’t much hair on the inside of his left wrist, and I could see that he’d applied makeup there, like a flesh-colored foundation. What was he covering up, I wondered. Frank was recounting the story of Jack and the beanstalk, and as I translated for Noriko I peered at his wrist. Beneath the makeup I could see these raised lines that at first I thought were a particular sort of tattoo—like Hell’s Angels often give themselves, scraping the skin to make a swollen wound and then injecting ink. When I realized what they really were, every hair on my body stood on end. Suicide scars. I know a girl who has three scars like that on her left wrist. But Frank’s scars were beyond belief. There were dozens of them, more than you could count, within a space of about two centimeters, and they went halfway around his wrist. How many times had that wrist been slashed, then allowed to heal, only to be slashed again? Just thinking about it made me feel like throwing up.

“Kenji, where are you looking?” At the sound of Frank’s voice a shudder ran through me, and I looked up at him. “Never mind,” he said, “just translate what I’m saying for your friend here.”

Something was wrong with Noriko. Her eyes weren’t focused, and a thick vein stood out on her forehead, throbbing gently.

“You will forget everything,” Frank told her. “Do you understand? The moment you step out on the street, you will forget everything that happened here.”

I didn’t translate this faithfully. In fact I told Noriko the opposite of what Frank had said: that she’d remember everything.

“Kenji, you weren’t watching my fingers,” Frank said.

He gave Noriko’s shoulder a squeeze and said “I love you,” raising his voice a little, and Noriko’s eyes came back into focus. She excused herself politely and walked out.

Frank grinned at me. “What were you looking at?”

Noriko had disappeared out the door long before I found my voice. Nothing, I told him, trying to sound calm, but it sounded more like a frightened yelp. I’ve always hated the occult and the supernatural, and as far as I’m concerned, putting people into a trance ranks right up there with the worst of that stuff. It disturbs me even to think about someone losing control of their own will. This was the first time I’d ever actually seen it happen.

“I was watching Noriko. I’ve never seen that kind of thing before.”

My voice was quaking. I figured I’d just have to make it seem as if I was shaken up not because Frank was scaring the shit out of me but because I was so surprised to see someone be . . . I didn’t know the word in English.

“Hypnotized,” Frank said, pronouncing it with a strange British accent I’d never heard him use before.

“Frank, I don’t get it,” I said.

“Get what?”

“If you can do that sort of thing, why pay a woman for sex? You could have any woman you wanted.”

It’s not that easy, Frank explained. “At this time of year, when it’s cold outside, forget about it. It doesn’t work if they can’t concentrate. Get one to concentrate, and, yes, she can become very . . . suggestible, let’s say. But it’s no fun having sex with a woman who’s like a zombie anyway. No, I prefer prostitutes.”

The waiter with the pierced nose and lip brought the replies from Ladies #1 and #2 back to our table. Each of them had put a check mark next to
Let’s have a drink here and see if we hit it off!
If we’d like to join them, the waiter told me, we would each have to pay an extra table charge and buy the ladies’ drinks. I asked Frank, who muttered: “Not much choice, I guess.” We all moved to a table for four.

Lady #1 was named Maki and #2 Yuko. Maki said she’d dropped in here just on a whim, because she had the night off from her job at a “super-exclusive members’ club” in Roppongi. Just to sit down it costs you sixty or seventy thousand yen, she said, clearly expecting us all to be impressed. I knew right away she was lying. Her face and figure and fashion and manner of speaking and carrying herself didn’t fit the picture she was painting. I figured her for a hostess at a girlie bar who only dreamed of working in a super-exclusive club.

Yuko said she was a college student and was on her way home from a party with a group from her school. It was the first get-together for the members of this activity circle she’d joined, she said, but it was boring so she left early but felt kinda lonely and didn’t have anywhere to go, and since she’d never been to an omiai pub before . . . Yuko looked old for a college student. I wondered why all the people you meet have to be such liars. They lie as if their lives depended on it. She couldn’t speak a word of English. Wasn’t there an English test among her entrance exams, I wondered but didn’t ask. I was in no frame of mind for wasting my breath on stupid questions. “So—no English, huh?” Frank said, not making much of it, but Yuko reacted by looking down at her hands and very meekly saying that actually it was just a vocational school. This was probably the truth. The waiter came, and Yuko ordered an oolong tea and Maki a whiskey-and-water.

“Places like this never have decent whiskey,” Maki said after sipping her drink. What that meant, of course, was that she herself normally drank super-exclusive whiskey in super-exclusive clubs. She was chattering away in Japanese as if it were the only language in the world.

“What do you usually drink?” Yuko asked me to ask Frank. Bourbon, he said. That was news to me.

At least I was able to get my mind off my worries to some extent by concentrating on translating back and forth. But I couldn’t wipe out the images of Frank’s scarred wrist and Noriko’s hypnotized eyes. Frank had pushed his sleeves back down, and his wrists were hidden beneath his black sweater now. As for Noriko, some part of her had gone missing. The girl who walked out of here wasn’t the same one who’d walked in.

“Oh,
baa-bon
?” Maki said. “What kind do Americans drink? Turkey and Jack and Blanton’s, I suppose, right? Isn’t that what they drink?”

It wasn’t so much a question as an attempt to let us know how knowledgeable she was. Frank hadn’t even registered that she’d said “bourbon,” however. It’s a difficult word to pronounce, and the Japanese version doesn’t come close. When I first started doing this work, Americans never understood my pronunciation of it. One guy even thought I was trying to say “Marlboro.”

“The ones you just named are the ones they ship out. Down south, where bourbon comes from, they keep the really good stuff for themselves and don’t export it. J. Dickens Kentucky Whiskey is probably the best example. An eighteen-year-old Dickens tastes like the finest cognac. You know, people often have a bad impression of the South, but there are a lot of good things about that part of the country.”

Neither of the ladies had any idea what “the South” meant. Nor, incredibly enough, had they ever heard of the American Civil War. Frank was astonished that anyone could be familiar with several different brands of bourbon and not know about the Civil War, but Maki didn’t display any embarrassment. “Who cares about that?” she said.

I glanced at my watch and realized I’d been with Frank for nearly fifty minutes and hadn’t called Jun yet. I asked Yuko if it was all right to use my mobile phone in this place. “How should I know?” she said in a tone that meant
I’m not a hostess here, Mister
. Maki said: “It’s all right, everyone does it, I talk on my mobile here all the time.” Which of course told me she was a regular and probably at least a semipro. Frank and I were sitting side by side on a sofa, and the ladies were across the table from us. I don’t know much about furniture, but I could tell the table and sofas and chairs were pieces of crap. There was a dismal aura of cheapness about them, which was only magnified by the tacky attempt to make everything look high-class. The sofas were too small, for starters, and the upholstery was unpleasant to the touch. You felt as if the dirt and grease and dead skin of all the previous horny, lonely customers were rubbing off on you. The table had that unmistakable sheen of particle board, but the surface was imprinted with a wood-grain pattern, as if that could fool anybody. I haven’t seen much really good furniture in my life, but I know crappy stuff when I come in contact with it because it brings me down. Yet the sofas and tables matched the two ladies across from us so perfectly that I found myself coming up with a new proverb:
The ghosts of sad, cheap souls live on in sad, cheap furniture
. Maki carried a Louis Vuitton purse. It didn’t suit her, but I couldn’t blame her for trying. When you’re using the genuine article—not just designer goods, but anything that’s made really well—it never brings you down. It’s not easy to know what’s genuine and what isn’t, though, so unless you’re willing to go to all the trouble of refining your taste, you need to rely on brand names. I think that’s why girls in this country are so obsessed with Vuitton and Chanel and Prada and the rest.

The sofa had these oddly shaped armrests that made it impossible to sit sideways or even cross your legs comfortably. I pressed my knees together, but my thigh was still plastered against Frank’s. And I couldn’t extract the mobile from my jacket pocket without my elbow and forearm coming in contact with his body. “You calling your girlfriend?” he asked. Yuko pushed a napkin and ballpoint pen across to Frank, saying: “Name, name, you, name.” He absently wrote FRANK, then lifted the pen off the napkin and said: “Kenji, what was my last name again?” He smiled as he asked me this—a smile that would have given anyone the willies. Just then Jun answered the phone.

“Kenji! Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” I was about to expand on that when Frank said, “Let me talk to her,” and reached over and took the mobile from me. Instinctively I clutched at it, but he easily ripped it from my fingers. Like a hungry gorilla stripping a banana from a tree. What the fuck are you doing, I nearly shouted, but the survival instinct kicked in, and I shrank back down in my seat. If I were a dog I would have tucked my tail between my legs and rolled on my back. I was on Frank’s right and had been holding the phone in my right hand when I saw his left arm stretch out in front of my eyes, all but covering my face. He grabbed hold of my wrist and pulled my hand away from my ear, then used his other hand to wrench the phone from my grasp. I thought he was going to tear off a few fingers along with it. It had been a very violent act, but it happened so quickly that the ladies must have thought we were just horsing around. “Oh, stop it!” they squealed with pseudo-girlish glee. Frank’s strength was off the chart, and his hand felt the same way his arm and shoulder had the night before, when I was leading him out of the batting cage. Metallic. I was afraid he was going to crush the phone in his fist. Mind you, he’d done all this without any visible effort. It wasn’t as if he was straining.

“Hi! My name’s Frank!” he shouted into the phone, loudly enough to drown out the background music playing over the speakers—a song by the Ulfuls—but his tone was cheerful and friendly. Like the super-salesman type you often see working the phones in American movies. “You’re Kenji’s girlfriend, aren’t you? What was your name again?”

I prayed for Jun to act as if she didn’t understand English.

“What’s that? I’m sorry, I can’t hear very well—the music . . .”

“Hey, Frank,” I said. I wanted to tell him Jun didn’t speak much English, but he gave me an icy look and growled: “Shut up, I’m talking here!” The Face made a brief appearance, and it was scarier than ever. Maki wasn’t looking, but Yuko happened to glance up and see it, and the smile froze on her lips. Even a dim-witted vocational school student with zero English could sense something abnormal in the Face. She looked like she was going to burst into tears. I, for my part, was learning this much about Frank: the angrier he got, the cooler he became. As his rage grew, his features seemed to sink and contract and his eyes would glint with a colder and colder light. Expressions like “boiling mad” didn’t suit Frank at all.

“What’s that? I’m asking what your name is! Your name!”

Frank was all but bellowing into the phone now. Apparently Jun was doing a good job of pretending not to understand.

“Kenji,” Frank turned to me, “what’s your girlfriend’s name?”

I didn’t want to tell him. “She’s not used to talking to foreigners,” I said. “She’s probably . . . confused.”

I wanted to say she was probably intimidated, but couldn’t think of the word.

“What’s to be confused about? I just want to say hello. After all, you and I aren’t just a guide and his customer now, we’re—”

The intro to a karaoke tune blasted over the sound system, several times louder than the background music had been. The civil servant guy started singing, and there was no possible way to carry on a telephone conversation. Frank spread his hands palms up in a disgusted shrug, then handed the mobile back to me.

“I’ll call again, don’t worry!” I shouted to Jun and shut the thing off.

“Why don’t they turn down the music?” Frank said. “The noise is
brutal
.”