Year of the Talking Dog: A Hana Walker Mystery (The Hana Walker Mysteries Book 2) (13 page)

He slumps into his chair and wheels it round to look out the window.

It’s time to take a chance.

I breathe deeply. “All I can tell you is what I know. My fiancé, Steve, was crushed by a train on a Friday night in Shibuya. The day before, he painted a picture of a man asleep in a prison cell with your daughter’s name written on his painting. The next day all his possessions were thrown out on the street. Since then, my life has been turned upside down. My life was going to be in London. Now, that is over. I’m stuck here. I’m stuck leading a life I don’t have any hand in. This is not what I wanted or expected, or deserved. We are no different in that way. All I want to know is what you know of the disappearance. If there is anything that you can help me with, I’ll help you with what I know.”

“There is nothing that I could tell you, even if I wanted to, that could possibly be linked to your fiancé.”

“How do you know if you don’t tell me? I might know something that could help you find Aoi, if she’s still alive.”
 

“She’s still alive.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t. It’s just a feeling.”

“Then why won’t you tell me about her? You give me a little information and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

“If I knew anything, I wouldn’t be here today. There’s nothing I can say. I wish you good luck. Goodbye.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Why so down in the dumps, Hana?”

We are no closer to finding Aoi, Steve or the masked man. There’s nothing really connecting Aoi to Steve or Ishihara to Steve. Or anything except an address and a crazy grandfather and something from the past called Unit 731. If Aoi’s father doesn’t want to open up then I have nothing to go on. But I feel like I’m missing something that’s staring me right in the face. And something doesn’t make sense about Ishihara.

“I’m fine. Uncle Kentaro, can I ask you a question?”

“You just did. But ask away.”

“Have you heard of Unit 731?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I wanted to know what you think.”

“What I think? They experimented on Chinese and Koreans. Thousands died. The doctors would cut patients’ arms off and sew them back on the other side. They’d freeze people alive just to see what happened. At least, that’s what they say. But who knows the whole truth? The less we dwell on the past the better for the future. You’ve been moping around so much you actually did your Japanese homework without me pestering you. I know it’s hard to change direction, but sometimes that’s all we can do. And I think you’re doing the right thing, looking for a future here in Japan. Have you had any responses about your academy?"

"Oh, that. Yeah, two. One old man who wants help translating Carpenters’
 
lyrics and a Chinese mother who wants daily lessons for her two-year-old daughter at her manshun. I haven’t replied to either.”
 

“You should check any leads and get back to them as soon as possible. Get started building a reputation and you could forge a career before you know it.”

Forge a career. “Yes,” I find myself saying, but I can’t stand The Carpenters and I have nothing to say to a two-year-old. It’s not the career I had in mind or that my Dad would have wanted for me. He wanted me to do better than he did, and this is exactly what he got into, and look where he ended up. I belong in London, but London is fading from my dreams. What is the Japanese dream? To work for the company? To make a killing in the pachinko halls? And then I remember.

The Liberty Pachinko leaflet. There was one in Steve’s post box and one on Dr Ishihara’s desk. But what could it mean?
 

“What about that Japanese boy you’ve been seeing?”

“Firefly? He’s just a friend.”

“I see.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen the way he writes everything you say onto his computer. I think he’s more than a friend.”

“Really. We just bumped into each other and he’s helping me out and I’m helping him out. That’s all it is.”

“OK. Glad to hear it. Whatever it is, I think it beats moping around the house thinking about World War II atrocities. Here.”

“What’s that?”

“¥10,000. It’s yours on one condition. That you take him out and have a good time.”

“Really? What’s the catch?”

“That you use your Japanese and get a proper meal.”

“I know just the place.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I hate first dates. Not that I would really know: this is only my second first date in my life. I hadn’t been interested in it all when I was in school. And now that I’ve come of age, I’m not that interested in it, to be honest, but boys sometimes seem interested in me. What are you supposed to do with them? I don’t want to watch a movie. That’s like paying to watch an advert. And you can watch television for free, or go to a library and read a book for free. It’s harder work actually going to a library because you have to make the pictures yourself in your own head and they usually don’t match the pictures in anyone else’s head. Unless you go to a manga library, but I figure that Firefly has already lived in a manga library and you are supposed to do something memorable on a date, not just go to the supermarket or wash the dishes.
 

The great steel and glass doors slide open automatically and my head is filled with the stink of stale tobacco, the deafening noise of steel balls rolling, electronic beeps and the pop music sung in Japanese and English. “I want you” are the only words I can make out. I peer in through the cigarette haze and bright flags of anime girls in short skirts. The walls are flashing neon.
 

“Come on, let’s go in,” I shout. Firefly has an unreadable expression on his face, but he follows me in.
 

In the entrance a woman screams a welcome at me. She’s wearing a green miniskirt, green T-shirt and green headband. She’s holding a torch like an ice cream. She’s mouthing something. Rib-ba-chi? Was it English? Live the tea? Then I get it. “Liberty”.

Liberty Pachinko.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Japanese.”

She smiles and hands me a packet of tissues wrapped in a plastic cover with “Liberty Pachinko” written in English and an address in Japanese and Korean.
 

Down the row of pachinko machines sits a slim, lone, old man with tough, leathery skin, staring at the metal balls as they drop down, scooping them back up and, occasionally taking a drag on a cigarette, but showing no interest in me or Firefly.

Firefly keeps looking over his shoulder.

“Are you OK?”

He shrugs. He means don’t worry about it. Or he means worry about it. I can’t tell. Like whether he wants to kiss me, or work out an algorithm. I’d prefer the algorithm. He sits down at a pachinko machine. A screen in the centre of the board filled with pins is playing an anime. Firefly laughs as a cartoon girl and boy shout at each other. He looks over at me. I look at him. I unfold the ¥10,000 note Uncle Kentaro gave me. I hand it to Firefly and he feeds it into a slot behind the top of the machine.

Hundreds of shiny ball bearings fill the tray and he begins dropping them into the machine and turning a handle with his right hand. It shoots the balls out at different speeds. If the balls fall through the right holes, they win points; if they fall through the wrong ones, they don’t. Then you get paid in the same balls. Firefly is pretty good at this game, I think, as, within five minutes, our tray is overflowing with little ball bearings and he has filled a bucket. After another five minutes, he’s filled a second bucket and looks to be going strong. I’m beginning to regret putting the whole ¥10,000 in. I get up and wander around. The noise, lights and smell of tobacco are getting to me. I tap Firefly on the shoulder and point to a red sign and arrow pointing up that reads “Restaurant” in English. He shrugs his shoulders, and keeps playing.

I climb the steps. There is a flying horse beside the door, but it’s like nothing English or Japanese that I’ve ever seen. The smell of garlic and cabbage is strong. The room is as big as the whole of the pachinko parlour on the floor below.
 

The decorations are all out of date, but well kept, like Aunt Tanaka’s noodle shop. The carpet is a shade of orange. The walls are a greyish purple but the tables and lighting are super-grand. Each table is a great round thing where 10 people can sit around and not talk to each other like at a wedding.
 

Only there’s no one in the room but me. I hear shuffling and turn around. It’s Firefly. He waves a receipt at me from the pachinko. He’s smiling. I guess he won.

We sit at a table closest to the counter at the far end of the room. Each table has a low-hung chandelier. Firefly yelps when he bumps his head on a chandelier as he sits down. A waitress appears from behind the counter. She doesn’t apologise or even say anything to us. It’s like she has other things on her mind than serving and being nice to guests. She watches us closely. She studies my eyes and looks at Firefly’s jacket. It’s a jacket from Sankus convenience stores. Perhaps she’s trying to work out what nationality I am. People always see differences first, not similarities and I guess I must seem somewhat confusing. Though maybe she clocks straight away that this is a first date, the way I’m making stupid comments and he’s just shrugging. Our waitress is dressed in a flowing dress that looks traditional, but I don’t know what tradition; it just looks heavy, uncomfortable and hot.

She stands next to our table, but says nothing. None of the usual welcomes and formal, meaningless expressions you usually get in restaurants. We stare at the menu. If Firefly understands it, he doesn’t let on. The only things I can read are the prices in yen. I pick two cheap dishes and two medium dishes. I point at the items and then hold up my hand and made a V sign. Two of each. Who needs a translator when you have fingers?

The waitress flounces away without a smile. We sit and don’t talk. We continue to not talk. When she comes back, she slams the dishes on the table.

Firefly cocks his head. But none of us speaks and she disappears through a door behind the counter.

Firefly sniffs the four dishes she’s brought. He types on his phone and shows me the translations.

“KIMCHEE PICKLED CABBAGE. SOUP OF THE DOG.”

“You mean soup of the day?”

He smiles, but pushes the soup away.

He takes out a pad of paper and draws a manga dog. The dog has a limp. The way he has done it makes it look like the waitress. He draws differently from Steve. Like he has learnt one template and just copies it each time. Steve was more child-like, but imaginative.  

Something is bothering me though about the waitress. The way the waitress took our order was weird. Sure, she has flowing traditional clothes on, I guess they make it hard to write down our order, but she had a very untraditional electronic order pad in her right hand. So she had typed with her left. Only, the way she held her left hand was wrong. Instead of rolling her sleeve up out of the way, she had gone out of her way to use the folds of her robe to cover her actions as she typed the keys. Why?

Also, why is Firefly in such a strange mood? He’s looking over his shoulder again. Against the wall, high up close to the ceiling are three paintings of three fat men in uniforms. They look like passport photos of a grandfather, father and son. Why anyone would want to make them into oil paintings, I have no idea. Perhaps they’re meant to encourage you not to eat too much in the restaurant. But wouldn’t a restaurant want you to eat a lot? Anyway, all three are staring at us and it’s a bit off-putting, so I look elsewhere. There is a calendar. This has a picture of a mountain with something written in Korean in it in giant red letters. It has the number 101 on it where it should have had the year.

“That’s a weird calendar,” I say to Firefly.

He shrugs.

The waitress comes by with brown water. A little spills on the tablecloth as it slops over the side of the cup. She doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

Firefly points at the calendar.
 

She speaks to him. It’s a long answer. He types something in his phone and shows me.
 

“THE YEAR IS 101 IN NORTH KOREA.”

I look at him blankly.

He points to the pictures on the wall.

“0 IS 1911. KIM-IL-SUNG CONCEIVED. 101 YEARS AGO.”

OK. So, now Firefly is telling me we have wandered into a North Korean restaurant where the years are counted from the birth of some guy. I have a hunch. I smile at the waitress. She doesn’t smile back. But I need an excuse. I take hold of her right hand.

“Please, miss, which one is the owner of the restaurant?”

I smile, again, pointing at the oil paintings.

“Which is Sung Kim?”

She raises her left hand and points.

“Ah, thank you.”

But I don’t look at which painting she points at. Instead, I look at her wrist as she points at the wall.

So does Firefly. I thank her. When she has gone off, I lean low over the table.

“You see what I saw?”

He didn’t shrug. He took out a pen from his inside jacket pocket and scrawled a number on his napkin.

1159.