Tokio Whip (4 page)

“Don't cry, please. Here, have a cigarette.”

***

We may not find happiness, but we have a right to live.

– Sylvia Sydney,
You Only Live Once
(Fritz Lang, 1937)

***

Triumphant, tripartite Tokio, we are one. – Lang to himself.

Chapter 2

YURAKUCHO–SHIMBASHI

Roberta was already here, you know; she'd lived in America, had done Europe, she and Lang, they were going nowhere standing still and falling – he couldn't see it– she needed a change – there was a job available – here – maybe: and so she came.

Cafferty'd spent the morning at the German bakery in Ningyōchō, stocking up on breads and cakes. The
pot au feu
simmered the afternoon; it would be easy later to prepare the
daikon
steak, as well as his favorite, steamed, young eggplant smothered with purple Osaka
miso
. He had a quick sandwich – salmon and tuna, double lettuce, no mayonnaise – and espresso at Doutor, then stopped to pick up some “traditional Japanese ice cream.” Home, he cleaned house, an easy job as he was such a neat man, always picking up after himself – and no, the moral irony was never lost on him. He had four wines, two white, two red, and a few beers available in case his guest preferred that. Candles? Why not? At ten minutes to eight he remembered the
genkan
; he hurriedly cleared the area of his shoes and slippers, straightened the umbrellas, made the pile of old newspapers into a neat stack, and just as he was about to place a “fresh” flower (amazingly real-seeming) in the bamboo holder, the bell rang. He froze, could feel the sweat begin, froze again, and then relaxed because he knew it was all a signal that all was well, the old flame held, and it'd be a fine evening after all. He was ready to be witty, sympathetic, obscene, whatever his old friend needed, wanted. As he opened the door he briefly recalled Roberta telling him about her famous party, how she'd just finished dressing but hadn't quite finished her hair – and wouldn't have a chance the night long – when her doorbell rang, and how that nagged at her all evening and only got worse as the party got worse. He remembered her telling him so sadly, “Oh, Cafferty, I knew that if only my hair had been right, the way I wanted it, it would have been an entirely different evening. It should have been such a nice party, Lang and I should have been so happy – but ohh!”

***

The nun carries a Prada bag.

Melmoth-Lang roars Tokyo.

***

The costs of confusion notwithstanding, Roberta has never really felt confused here – maps make sense – bus maps a bit confusing – but hey, what confusion? – feels like home – a system, maybe – I've made my own.

***

SIR WILLIAM RUTLAND, MATCHMAKER

As most Asians, the Japanese are known for having an especial respect and fondness for their elders, whether they be ancestors, wise men, or teachers. An English teacher or an ecologist, a military strategist or an instructor of Western table manners – whomever – if they share with the Japanese something of their special knowledge and skills, they are never forgotten. Examples abound in Japan: Dr. William S. Clark who encouraged the young men of Meiji, “Boys, Be Ambitious!” (his statue can be found in Sapporo); W. E. Deming, the creator of “Quality Control,” which method revolutionized Japanese industry and proved no small contribution to the Japanese “economic miracle” (and who, it needs be said, died a near-forgotten man in the West, while in Japan he was universally mourned when he passed away in 1993). The list could easily go on.

Another such gentleman was Sir William Rutland of Great Britain who was there at the beginning of Japan's – and the world's – electronic revolution, that is, the invention of the transistor. He was a dear “friend of Japan,” and after having made his crucial contributions to the nation was always received carte blanche whenever he visited his much beloved second home. (The reader might think here of Nixon's later visits to China.)

A serious and dedicated businessman – whose later life was spent representing a major cosmetics firm – Sir William – we'll call him “Rutland” from here – was also something of a wit, a bon vivant, and an incurable romantic. (He shaved before showering.) His more than readable memoirs tell us less about his scientific researches than the amusing episodes and events of his much-blessed life. Among his many visits to Japan, he recounts one particularly memorable event: that time when he was inadvertently forced to spend a week as a boarder in the home of a resident foreigner, and was cast in the unexpected role of matchmaker – and almost instigated an international incident.

It was October, 1964, only a few days before the Tokyo Olympics were to begin – that event that Japan took such great pride in, symbolizing as it did the nation's post-war recovery (and the symbol of the symbol of which became the Shinkansen). Rutland's reservation at the Hotel Okura was for opening day; it hadn't occurred to him that the city would be over-filled with visitors. In a word, the ever-accommodating hotel was reluctantly forced to inform him that they were fully booked: there was no room at the inn. Checking at the British Embassy (where he was rudely interviewed by the Second Secretary of Protocol, who did not recognize Sir William until after the bad impression had been made), he chanced upon a notice board advertising a room to let. The room in which the apartment was located was being rented by a Christine Easton, a young woman working for a local firm. Rutland drove over immediately, announced himself, charmed his way in, and before Miss Easton knew it – she had a roommate. At 6,800 yen a week. (A comparably-sized apartment would cost six or seven times that amount three decades later.) If the attractive and charming Miss Easton could be said to have had one fault it was her being overly fussy and precise. She informed Rutland that she would shower from 7:15 to 7:20; that would be followed by breakfast; at 7:32 she would then brush her teeth for two minutes; and then the bathroom would be his; but from 7:42 to 7:54, she would need it again to put on her make-up and do her hair. Complications reminiscent of a Mack Sennett comedy ensued the following morning.

The next day (keeping to the memoir, we revert to the present) is filled with the usual business appointments and conferences; in passing we are informed that Rutland was working on remote control devices. Leaving his host (most likely Sony), Rutland observes a young man taking photographs of the corporate headquarters. This is Steve Davis, an American architect, who is accompanied by a Russian friend Yuri (recall, this is during the Cold War). And here again we have prophecy in that Davis seems to be keenly aware of what would become that other – and far more valuable – Japanese “miracle,” its great architectural achievements of the 1960s and 1970s. Davis is, as it also happens, an Olympic athlete. Rutland takes a liking to the young man. He writes, “He reminded me of myself quite a few years ago, only I was much taller.” Moreover, they have something else in common: Davis, having arrived early in order to look at the city's architecture, is without a room.

Accordingly, Rutland rents half of his apartment to Davis, unbeknownst to Miss Easton (who, incidentally, had an inclination to end sentences with prepositions, for example: “you don't have half to sublet a half of”). She is also a bit nervous over sharing her rooms with two men, who soon discover that she is engaged to no one less than the proper Julius D. Haversack – the smug, officious and obnoxious Second Secretary who'd earlier offended Rutland.

Rutland obviously sees Miss Easton as being rather repressed (that tight schedule) – and that she will only become moreso if she goes ahead with her plans for marriage to Mr. Haversack. He also sees what she cannot: her own real, and physical, attraction to Davis. (At their first breakfast together, Davis stares intently at her. Taken aback and uncomfortable, she asks, “What are you gawking at?” His answer is simple, American: “You. You look nice.” Flustered, she can only respond with a weak, “Oh.”) And so he decides to play matchmaker.

However, things go wrong when the two men return home drunk one evening and, like two nasty schoolboys, they spot Miss Easton's diary and Rutland begins to read it, while also speculating on her sexual experience. She overhears them; hurt and offended, she asks them to leave the next morning. The next afternoon, Miss Easton returns home to find Rutland already gone and Davis packing. He hands her a present from Rutland – a prototype of a new moving-image viewing device. It is accompanied by a note from Rutland, explaining that the fault is entirely his, and that Steve had nothing to do with the nastiness. “How do I know he wrote it?” “You don't,” Steve answers. “Well, if he wrote it, how do I know it's the truth?” Davis's elegant answer: “You don't – only it's the truth.” She is genuinely touched, and knowing that without a room – the Olympic Village hasn't opened yet – Davis might very well be sleeping in Shinjuku Gyoen – she offers him his old room for the night.

He gladly accepts, and goes so far as to ask her out that evening. “But what about Mr. Haversack?,” she faithfully wonders. On their way home, he makes affectionate overtures, a caress here, a stolen kiss there. She wonders about the women in his life: “Who was next?” “Jane Alice Peters.” “What was wrong with her?” Nothing, except ...” “Except what?” “She wanted to get married.” “Well, what happened?” “She got married.” Meanwhile, unbeknownst to either of them, Rutland has reintroduced himself to Haversack, and is pretending great interest in
his
Japan memoirs. Haversack takes the bait. Meanwhile how- and moreover, the ever-vigilant KGB have seen Yuri and Steve with their small tape recorder and cameras; the agent Dimitri takes Yuri, and informs the Japanese police, and suddenly Steve and Miss Easton – as his landlady – are up before a judge. Some phonecalls are made, and Rutland, accompanied by Haversack (rambling on – “I would think it devastatingly paradoxical if I opened chapter five with my arrival in Japan!”) – who discovers that his fiancée has a handsome roommate – testifies to everyone's good character. However, Haversack also smells scandal, and – after more complications – it turns out that the only way out is for Steve to sign a waiver, and to marry Miss Easton. Steve meanwhile has disappeared in preparation for his Olympic event the next morning: the fifty-kilometer walk.

And walk he does. But how to avoid the ensuing scandal? Steve must sign the papers. But he'll be walking for hours! Rutland is inspired. He gets into a cab, locates Davis on his long route, undresses, and joins him in the race – in his white boxer shorts! (Steve comes in tenth place.)

Exhausted, Steve and Chris marry. Haversack thanks him, and shares a glass of champagne with Rutland, who leads him away to hear more of his memoirs, and then just leaves him – and Steve and Chris – and his life in the movies.

Oh, why continue this charade? No doubt, the reader who has not fallen asleep or turned to the next section long ago guessed that no Sir William Rutland ever existed, no such memoirs were ever written, and
certainly
no such silly story ever transpired. What I have done, however – and here I offer no apology – is given a précis of a mediocre film called
Walk, Don't Run
, a film which is set during the 1964 Tokyo Olympics (though it was not released until 1966), and whose only real distinction lies in its being the seventy-second and final film of Cary Grant.

Walk, Don't Run
was directed by Charles Walters (?), and costars Samantha Eggar and Jim Hutton, two small blips on the 1960's screen. Besides being Grant's last film,
Walk, Don't Run
is also a remake of the far superior
The More the Merrier
, directed by George Stevens in 1943, and starring Jean Arthur and Joel McCrea (no blips they!), and with Charles Coburn in the Cary Grant role, and who won that year's Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor.
Walk, Don't Run
tries to be funny – it is mildly amusing – while it also takes the best bits from the original (that lovely seduction scene, Jean Arthur all nervous and innocently sexy, for example) but never surpasses them. (The movie's trailer even boasts of “The Land of the Rising Fun”! There are a few good things in the film: it's nice to see the actual locations, while the set – at 2-35 Osaka Road!? – tries hard to be real; good fun is made with the presence of two children as Rutland's shadows; Rutland takes a deep breath and coughs from the pollution.)

It does, however, try to make something of its being Grant's sayonara song. There are allusions to his earlier films: for example, twice he whistles the popular theme from
Charade
; in another scene he sings of a “love affair,” and even mention marriage “in name only” (regrettably, the only film he made with Carole Lombard). In yet another, Hutton comes across as trying to imitate James Stewart (with whom Grant was paired of course in
The Philadelphia Story
):
“
Hey now, wait just a minute you” – complete with typical Stewart gesture. More important is the end, Cary's departure. He says goodbye to Steve and Haversack; he gives Christine a glass of champagne and kisses her hand. He leaves the apartment. He glances down the stairwell – and all we see is his shadow. That would have been a perfect and poignant moment to end the film. Instead, Walters distastefully plows on and has Rutland get into his car – where his driver offers him a sayonara present: a statue of the god of fertility.

***

–
Hiromi says the Pam-Pam girls used to give the GIs blow-jobs for a quarter here.

–
What? Where, here –
outside
? Under the tracks?

–
Here? These tracks?

–
VZ calls it “yakitori-dori,” good food, cheap.

–
That's a dumb joke, a foreigner's joke.

–
It's funny how you get all these run-down joints and those old geezers hauling those wooden crates collecting paper like they were attached to their backs, and just next to it all, these big, expensive department stores and restaurants –