The Golden City (14 page)

“So now I’m here,” Michael said. Trying to hide his own tension, he picked up a red morsel of food that resembled a slice of watermelon. It tasted salty—like Korean
kimchi
—but he swallowed it down and forced a smile. “Why did you want to meet me?”

“For some unknown reason, you and the other Travelers have a
power that was not given to us,” Mr. Westley said. “You can escape your world.”

The three half gods stared at Michael. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. Michael took another sip of the blue liquid and tried not to smile. They were jealous of him. Yes, that was it. Jealous of his power.

“We want to cross over to the different worlds,” Mr. Westley said.

“We’ve done everything we can in
this
place,” Mr. Dash said. “All of us are bored. We want to go to the dark island and the realm of the hungry ghosts. But most of all we want to travel to the golden city.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Travelers have come here in the past and they have insulted us,” Mr. Dash said. “They call us ‘half gods’ and say that the ‘real’ gods live in this special place.”

Miss Holderness tapped her fingers on the table. “Some creatures might appear to have a higher form of consciousness, but we know how to
use
our power. It wouldn’t take much effort to make them bow to our true divinity.”

“I can’t teach you how to be a Traveler,” Michael said. “My father had the power and he passed it on to me.”

“It’s simply a way to focus and send energy,” Mr. Westley said. “I think we could duplicate the process with our quantum computers.”

Miss Holderness sipped some more of the blue liquid and passed the bowl to Mr. Dash. “Look at Michael,” she said. “He’s trying to figure out how this is going to increase his own power.”

“Help us become Travelers and we’ll show you how to take control of your world,” Mr. Westley said. “We’ll be in charge of the other five realms, but you’ll be the god of your own particular reality.”

“The Fourth Realm a big place,” Michael told him. “A lot of people live there.”

“You’re not going to be watching them all,” Mr. Dash explained. “Other people can do that job—your church militants and your guardians. However, you’ll be in charge of the system. And you’ll be become a god, just like the three of us.”

“Forget about art and philosophy,” Mr. Westley said. “There is only one truth, and we see it clearly. The permanent force in the universe is the Light held within each living thing. If you control another person, you control their Light.”

“It’s a game—only much more elaborate,” Miss Holderness said. “We make our citizens march around and fight each other. We make them weep and laugh and pray.”

Mr. Dash raised the bowl and grinned. “And after we’re done with that, we can always make them die, sometimes in spectacular ways.”

Sweat trickled down Michael’s neck. He felt as if he had just finished running a race on a warm summer’s day. “My world has different governments and armies and religions.”

“There’s no need to fight against any of these groups,” Mr. Westley said. “We’ll show you how to guide them in a particular direction. First you create a frightening story, and then you provide a happy ending …”

F
or the next few hours, Hollis wandered through the Ginza district waiting for the phone to ring. If the Tabula knew about his passport, their computers might have registered his arrival in Japan. Once his presence was confirmed, the Tabula’s local contacts would start looking him.

As the sun went down, the neon signs of Ginza began to glow red and green. An enormous video screen on the side of a building flashed pictures of young women who smiled and pointed to new products. Hollis wandered through the canyons of skyscrapers and found himself on a street that was devoted to gift giving. Each shop offered one particular kind of offering: aged sake or expensive luggage, orchids wrapped in white tissue or chocolate candies wrapped in red. Even these gifts made him think about Vicki. Would she have liked a silk scarf or a bottle of perfume? Why didn’t he buy gifts for her when they were living in New York City?

When it felt like too many people were staring at him, he wandered north to the modest buildings of the Asakusa district. As the streetlights began to glow with a dark yellow light, he entered an
onsen—a public bath that used the water from a hot spring. The small entryway had lockers for your shoes, and he found himself hopping on one leg as he untied his laces. A sliding door glided open and a short, burly Japanese man came out to get his shoes. The man’s pant legs rose up slightly when he squatted down to open his locker, and Hollis saw that he had tattoos. More tattoos were visible on the patch of chest exposed by his partially unbuttoned shirt. Hollis wondered if the man was Yakuza—a Japanese gangster. In a culture that valued conformity, you had to have a good reason to change your appearance.

After leaving his clothes in a locker, he followed a yellow line into a washroom and sat on a plastic stool. The Japanese men stared at the black foreigner as Hollis soaped himself, filled a bucket with hot water from a faucet and poured it over his head. After repeating the process a half-dozen times, he entered a larger room with four baths—each providing a different temperature. The first bath was so hot his feet and fingers began to tingle. The onsen water smelled like sulfur and was the color of weak tea. After awhile, the Japanese ignored the foreigner and concentrated on their own soaking. Am I safe here? Hollis wondered. No computers. Paid cash. Breathing in the steam, he lay back against the wall of the bath.

—

He left the onsen a few hours later and ate dinner at a restaurant where plates of sushi were served on a conveyer belt. After he had consumed the food on six colored plates, the bookseller’s phone played a few notes from Beethoven’s
Ode to Joy
.

“Do you know who this is?” Kotani asked. It sounded like he was still frightened.

“Yes. Thank you for contacting me.”

“I am sorry for my cowardly behavior this afternoon. But I was not prepared to meet you.”

“I understand.”

“Go to a bar called Chill at ten o’clock this evening. It is in the ‘Golden Gai’ near Kubukichõ …” The phone went dead as little plates of sushi continued to glide around the room.

—

Kubukichõ turned out to be a red light district for peep shows, strip clubs and massage parlors. A plastic sign with a gigantic pair of lips hung from one of the buildings. Women’s voices whispered from loudspeakers, and the sidewalk was littered with handbills for prostitutes. Hollis was surprised to find Jamaicans working as touts and bouncers for the different establishments. Wearing tropical suits in bright pastel colors, they strutted up and down the sidewalk, speaking Japanese to the businessmen that wandered through the area.

A Jamaican man with a shiny bald head stood outside a bar called the Le Passion Club. “Hey, Brother Dreadlocks—where you from?”

“The United States.”

“Is that so? Why you in Japan?”

“I’m going to study karate at a dojo.”

“Best pray to God, Dreadlocks.” The bald man laughed loudly. “Those karate masters gonna kick your black ass.”

“I can handle myself.”

“You take care, Brother Dreadlocks. Japan is a tough place for a black man. Just do your business and go on home.”

After getting lost a few times, he found the Golden Gai—a grid of narrow streets lined with shabby two-story buildings. Over twenty bars were crammed into the area. Electric cables were draped across the street as if everything were powered from a single socket. None
of the bars had windows; only a few bothered to put up signs. Hollis walked up and down the streets for ten minutes before he noticed the word ‘Chill’ written in tiny letters on a green door.

He went inside and found a staircase so steep that it looked like a wooden ladder. Using hands and feet, he climbed up to the first floor, passed through some red velvet curtains, and found himself in bar that was about the size of his bedroom back in Los Angeles. American jazz played from hidden speakers while a bartender stood in front of shelves displaying different brands of vodka.

Akihido Kotani sat at a small table against the wall. He was staring at a vodka bottle that had been frozen in a block of ice and then placed inside a brass cylinder. The cylinder was held by a steel frame that could be tipped forward whenever you wanted to pour more alcohol.

The bartender glared at the black foreigner, but Hollis ignored him and sat down at Kotani’s table. “Good evening.”

“Ahhh, you found this place. Would you like a drink, Mr. Wilson? At this bar, the sake is served warm and the vodka is always cold.”

“Sake sounds good.”

Kotani ordered some sake from the bartender, and then turned the brass cylinder on its pivot to pour more vodka into his own glass.

“Sparrow came here in the old days when this bar was called ‘Nirvana.’ Every night from nine until three, they had incense burning and a Zen master meditating over there.” Kotani motioned to one side of the room, now occupied by a tropical fish tank. “Sparrow said that the monk created a peaceful atmosphere.”

“And you were his friend?”

“I met him before he took his Harlequin name. Even in school, he was the brave one and I was the coward.”

Kotani stopped talking when the bartender served Hollis a bottle of warmed sake and a ceramic cup. The stereo system started playing a cut from Miles Davis’s “Kind of Blue” album.

“Listen, I need to—”

“I know what you want. Sparrow said a Harlequin needs ‘a horse, a scroll, a purse and sword.’ It is not wise to carry a sword in Japan unless you’re going to a
kendo
demonstration. But I think I can supply a handgun.”

“From the Yakuza?”

Kotani shook his head. “The Yakuza killed Sparrow. They work on contract with the Tabula and other powerful people in this country. They will not help a Harlequin.”

“What about the Jamaicans who work for the nightclubs?”

“Those men are
gaijin
with passport problems. Ask for a gun and they sell you to the police. What you need is someone flexible about the law. Japanese born in Peru and Brazil have come home. They look and talk like everyone else, but they see the world in a different way. My landlord, Senzo, is one of these people. He knows a man with a handgun. You can buy it tonight for 200,000 yen. Do you have money?”

Hollis nodded. “Will they come to this place?”

“We will meet them at a love hotel over in Shibuya. It is private there. No one will see us.” Kotani extended his hand. “I need my phone, please.”

Kotani dialed a number on the mobile and said a few words in Japanese. “It is okay,” he said after he switched off the phone. “They will meet us in an hour.”

Hollis sipped the warm sake and Kotani poured himself more vodka from the frozen bottle. “So why are you in Tokyo?” he asked. “There are no more Travelers in Japan. All of them were killed after Sparrow died. Japan isn’t waiting for the Vast Machine—it is already here.”

“I’m looking for someone that can talk to the dead. When Thorn was in Japan he met a spirit reader, a woman.”

“Yes. An Itako. The one Thorn met lives in the north.”

“How do I find her?”

Kotani poured some more vodka. His face was flushed and he spoke slowly, trying to pronounce each word. “Sparrow and I went to see this Itako. She said that Sparrow would die because of cowardice and I would die because of bravery.”

“And was she right?”

“Not for me. But Sparrow was killed by a coward—a Yakuza who shot him in the back.”

“I want to meet her.”

The bookseller took a sales slip and a ballpoint pen out of his tweed sports jacket. He wrote Japanese characters on the back of the slip and pushed it across the table. “Her name is Mitsuki. Take the train up to Hachinohe and show this to the people there. You will need a translator. On Sunday afternoon, we will go to Yoyogi-Kõen. That is when the different tribes—the
zoku
—are in the park. One of my old high school students named Hoshi Hirano will be there, dancing to rock and roll music. He will help you travel north if your plan sounds exciting.” Kotani smiled and raised his glass. “Hoshi is a rebel who needs a cause.”

“But you won’t come with us?”

“Never.” Kotani stood up awkwardly and almost knocked over the chair. “The Itako talks to ghosts. There are too many ghosts in my life.”

They left the bar, found a taxi, and asked the driver to take them to the Shibuya district. Kotani closed his eyes and lay back against the seat. The bottle of vodka had helped him overcome his fear.

“So what was Sparrow like?” Hollis asked. “Can you describe him?”

“In the last year of his life, he knew Yakuza were going to kill him. That knowledge made him very calm and gentle—except when he was fighting. I was a high school teacher. Sparrow used to sit in my apartment and help me correct my tests. Then we would go to the Nirvana bar and watch the Zen master try to break free of his body.”

“When did you start selling books?”

“When Sparrow was killed, I went to the hospital to claim his body. Someone took my photograph and it was in the newspapers. Underneath my picture were the words: ‘The Madman’s Friend.’ Someone cut out the photograph and pinned it up in the teacher’s room. I was humiliated. The students laughed at me. So I started selling books. I was no longer respectable so I could not get married.” Kotani made a fist and struck his chest. “I should have died with Sparrow that night, but I was a coward.”

The taxi stopped outside the Shibuya subway station, and the bookseller led Hollis up a low hill to a neighborhood filled with hundreds of love hotels. A few of the hotels had bland white facades, but most of them were brightly lit and painted with garish colors. They walked past a miniature French chateau, a Swiss cottage and a fake Greek temple with plaster nudes in wall alcoves. When cars arrived at the hotels, they disappeared down ramps into underground parking garages.

Halfway up the hill, Kotani stopped in front of a hotel designed to look like a Gothic castle. There was a moat and a drawbridge and a stucco façade that had been painted to resemble blocks of stone. Pink banners flapped wearily from flagpoles at the top of a steep roof.