The door hums open. Reiner pushes herself upright. “That’s our cue.”
They wind through the house, the hallways narrow and cedar-scented, and wash up in a large hospital-white room with a lonely bed in the middle. IV tubes drip drugs into a withered man, his face the color of a spent cigar-ash, his hair in splotches, like desert sagebrush. He looks up. Slow-motion blinks. “You are?”
“True.” He’s struck by how familiar the man looks. Since arriving he’s been confusing people, faces reminding him of other faces, J-versions of friends, relatives, or cultural icons.
The man breathes slowly and shrilly. “Interesting to have a name that is an adjective.”
“Hello, Hot.” Reiner kisses his cheek. Even though his expression doesn’t change, True sees he’s delighted.
“Ah, Reiner. A pleasure. Apologies for the delay.” Hot unpricks the tube from his arm and hangs it over the side of the bed. “My youth-bearing injection, a concoction of hormones, really. It’s hard to believe I’m so old. But on the inside I feel as young as you. That’s the greatest injustice.”
“The earthquake must have been frightening.” Reiner leans on the bed’s edge.
“As you can see, this house is well-constructed. There was a moment when I worried, but then it was all over. Quite exciting.” Another breath. “Reiner, what is it you wish with me?”
“Some weird things have been happening. First of all, a company called MedTekton has begun marketing untraceable plastic for assassinations weaponry. You know of any Japanese companies with access to this technology?”
“Phaseplast, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“But it is not possible to know which companies. I have heard many things regarding this plastic. It can’t be traced, ne. Every weapons contractor in Japan wants the technology, not only for casing, but for other products, such as self-destruct spy tools for corporate espionage.”
True steps forward. “But you can’t say who has it?”
“No.”
Reiner’s turn. “Have you heard anything about someone buying up large tracts of Tokyo land now?”
“There is an old Chinese proverb: A peasant would have to stand a long time on the side of a mountain before a roast duck would fly into his mouth. What I mean to say is that if you wish to prosper in Japan, or anywhere for that matter, you must seize the initiative. Of course someone is buying land. That is forward-thinking. Buying when the price has hit bottom. That is how my family earned its fortune.”
Reiner ahems. “I thought it was from some Filipino treasure.”
Hot’s cheeks brush the pillow. “At that time my father did not want people to know the real path to his fortune. Before he returned after the war, he had my mother purchase land right after the Tokyo fire bombing. She approached families and offered next to nothing. Then with some money our family had stashed abroad, they hired men to secure our land—they worked for practically nothing. Soon, we were the most powerful company in Occupied Japan.”
“Then someone has learned the lessons of history well,” True says.
“Corporations are as unique as people. Some shrink when forced to confront adversity, some faint, some hold their own, still others thrive. We thrived, and after my brother died, I thrived. Although no one, not even the mightiest corporation, can predict what is going to happen. Smart, aggressive corporations can adapt to anything.”
Reiner rubs her eyes. “But this land will be worthless once they move the capital.”
“Why do you feel the capital will relocate?”
“Why wouldn’t they relocate?”
Hot shuts his eyes, ponders. “Politics is money. Follow the money, Reiner, and you will understand Japanese politics. On every issue there is something at stake. Winners and losers. If the capital relocates, then it is safe to assume that the persons or people who are purchasing land will not reap the rewards of their investment. And if someone is collecting land, it is also safe to assume that he or they have extraordinary assets. There are few with that kind of clout these days.”
“You’re saying whoever this is, they’ll make sure the capital doesn’t relocate.”
“Politicians are also affected by this earthquake. They have their investments, their homes, their families. If someone were to offer them sufficient compensation, I am sure they would help block relocating the capital. And a vote of such major importance would require a two-thirds majority.”
True cuts in. “Wouldn’t other corpsters benefit if the capital moved to Osaka or Kyoto?”
Hot moves his neck. There’s a good old-style camera-shutter click. “Of course. The question, then, is, who has the greater influence? Remember: To move the capital would require many more votes, and therefore a great deal more money, than doing nothing. Will those who stand to benefit have the resources to prevent the capital from remaining here?”
“But won’t representatives from places where the capital could relocate bring pressure to bear?” True asks.
“It would depend on who provides the most money. I would assume representatives from Sapporo and Kagoshima, cities with little chance in the capital relocation sweepstakes, would come cheaply.”
True and Reiner lock eyes.
CHAPTER 16
Tokyo’s Parliament was not spared. Although constructed on solid rock, buildings heaved and ho’d with the prevailing winds, finally sighing, but not buckling, from the quake’s insistent rumblings.
Reiner rearranges the dress that hugs her as a lover. “You know, one of the reasons they didn’t move the capital before was because these government bureaucrats thought they’d be safe, so who cares what happens to the masses?”
Hutches of politicians aping concern for the nation’s plight. Already renovation is underway. Workers buzz, paint over cracks, reseal joints between the floor and walls, install glass panes, polish what’s left, replace what isn’t. Telelinks are out until power’s restored city-wide.
“Morita-san!” Reiner calls after a figure clad in black, and Morita makes a face like Reiner’s an ebola carrier. “He loves me. I’ve nailed his boss five times for corruption and the fucker’s reelected every time.” She tramps over while True stays put.
Seeing he can’t avoid her, Morita talks in pursed pitches. “Reiner. What is it now? I am extremely busy.”
Reiner answers in Japanese and True turns on his wrist-top, catching the tail of her response as displayed on his air-screen: ...it moving? And if not, why not?
True pretends he doesn’t hear. The aide answers in English. The language power play. “Really, Reiner. I can’t be seen talking to the likes of you after the last story you ran on Parliamentarian Takeshita.”
Reiner’s head dips in an unmistakable bow, albeit a shallow one. Was I not accurate in everything I reported? Because if I was not absolutely one hundred percent correct, then please accept my apologies and tell me where I have erred.
True’s struck by how different she acts while speaking Japanese. Reiner bows, her hands held delicately at her sides, fingers together in perfect symmetry. True imagines her facial expressions turning Oriental, as if she’s taking on a whole new psyche—a cultural schizophrenic.
“Many of his constituents were extremely upset at what they heard.”
I included your official statement denying the charges. Was I not objective in my approach to this video-article?
The only word True catches while listening was bee-dee-oh. “Video” in Japanese.
“You were not.”
Then you have my deepest apologies. I will review my notes and if I can rectify the situation, I will.
After hearing this last bit, True decides somebody must be impersonating Reiner.
The man grunts. True can tell he’s pleased.
Reiner dips her head a little farther, her backside brushing the hall’s wall. Now. Are there any bills that deal with the relocation of the capital?
“I can’t tell you these things in public, you know that.”
Reiner lowers her voice. Do not be concerned by other politicians or spies. Everybody has a lot of other things on their minds right now.
Morita glances around furtively, then says something softly, in Japanese. Reiner wins that battle. True boosts the surveillance levels. Of course this is so. I’ve missed you, Reiner. I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind.
What impending bills are there?
Can’t you at least acknowledge the evening we spent together was special?
Is there support to move the capital to Osaka?
The man sighs, and it hits True: He’s in love with Reiner. True almost pities him, even though it’s difficult to muster much sympathy for a politico.
You have a heart of steel, Reiner.
Don’t say such things.
And a pussy of gold.
The bills, Morita-san. The bills.
Aren’t you going to say something about my cock?
Reiner with hands on hips, top lip folded behind bottom teeth. Playfully pretending she’s shocked. Reiner acting coy. A side of her True wishes he’d missed.
I will tell you, Reiner, but only if you have dinner with me.
Is that so? But if you do not tell me, I will just ask someone else, dear.
Another heavy sigh. True can almost hear the man’s heart beating. What power is it that Reiner has over him? Morita launches into an official response, which includes numerous asides regarding the effort Japan’s politicians are undertaking to improve quality of life, the usual effluvium of pols the world over. Finally he rolls out a nugget True and Reiner can use.
There have been bills introduced to move the capital to Nagoya, another bill to relocate to Kyoto, another to Osaka and one more that would eliminate the concept of a capital all together. This is the bill sponsored by Takeshita-san. It is his feeling the country would benefit from the country’s representation being evenly distributed.
Is there any support to keep the capital in Tokyo?
Morita sputters. Look around you, Reiner. That’s preposterous.
Any idea when these bills will get acted on?
There’s no hurry. There is more pressing business. Morita takes Reiner’s hand. I’m taking a big risk talking with you, holding your hand here in public. No aide should be so compromised.
Reiner pulls her hand from his and Morita’s left holding air. Walking away, she says over her shoulder, I’ll call you.
“Reiner!”
She turns and Morita says softly, desperately, I’ll be waiting.
Outside. True sees fires still smoldering far away.
“It’s not his fault.” Reiner skips down the capitol’s stone steps.
“What do you mean? You’re so irresistible Morita can’t help himself?”
“In a manner of speaking. I needed an inside governmental source, so I invited myself over and put on a hypnotic program on his home entertainment system. I slipped the suggestion in his mind that he love me.” She winces. “I know, I know, but what can I say? Men are weak? At least I didn’t sleep with him. He’s the biggest chikan in government.”
“What’s a chikan?”
“Somebody who grabs women’s asses.”
“What did he say about Takeshita, his boss? He’s pushing for decentralization? Why would a—I assume corrupt—pol push for that? What’s in it for him?”
“Think technology. He’s funded by the electronics giants, the ones who design the computers, software, and digital office work stations that would rake in the yen if decentralization took off.”
“I see.”
“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. Listen: The whole system is bullshit. They get their cut and then govern based on their own economic interests. The bureaucracy took control years ago, even after the Ministry of Finance almost drove the economy into the ground by subsidizing exports, manipulating the market, controlling who could have stocks by keeping stocks too high for most individual investors, the real estate fiascos, forcing banks to hold the stocks of other banks. The system was predicated on corruption, but not before manufacturers had positioned themselves in world markets. You can’t take anything at face value.”
“You don’t believe Morita?”
“I believe him because there’s money in what he says.”
“What about what Hot said?”
Reiner grinds her teeth. “What he said made sense, too. Just because Morita doesn’t know, doesn’t mean there isn’t pressure to keep the capital here. We have to keep digging.”
There’s a commotion by Reiner’s car. Someone trying to slip inside and drive off, but Dog snaps at his leg, growling bestially. The would-be car-jacker limps away.
Reiner races over, pulls out a biscuit. “Good girl, good girl. What a bargain!”
* * *
True stirs at first light, watches the sun stagger over the city. He suffered dreams, memories that may have been or never were; possibilities, impossibilities, and improbabilities, painful remembrances of his life separate from Eden. The skewed double-happiness kanji twists, contorts before his eyes, inky lines consumed by fire. His kanji—his character—splits, then shatters, while Eden’s remains resplendent, nonpareil. He needs to talk with her. Only this can save him from TV memories supplanting prior reality. Wonders why he hungers and thirsts so these days, begs for ganja, pines for lost love.
Children scrounge outside Eden’s office. Meanwhile, across the street, reconstruction in progress. Another combo dance club-hotel-casino. True, inside now, sees Eden in the flesh, lazing on the downward spiraling stairs. A familiar pose, Eden sitting on steps, her chin hammocked in her hands, her elbows in turn propped up by her knees. When she was troubled or in need of time to herself, she would sit like this, let her hair hang over her eyes to shield her.
He struggles with what to say, rejecting each thought as it arises. A few false starts, a few sideways steps, then, “I’ve missed you, Eden.”
She doesn’t move. Silence unfurls uncomfortably.
“Eden? Is that you?”
From somewhere under the hair: “Go away, True. I don’t want to see you.”
Watching this, not living it as if it were happening. Two actors doing their jobs, reading their lines, collecting pay credits, yearning for fame, fortune, and hot and cold running favors.
She looks up, tears magnifying her eyes’ hazel color and size; deep circles are scooped underneath. “I can’t, True. I wouldn’t be able to go through it again. You understand, don’t you?”
He does understand, just wishes he could remember what it is. “I’m sorry, so sorry, Eden. I fell out of this world and into another. But I’m back.” He’s amazed at his blubberings, aware that at some point he’d had this very same conversation with her.
Eden rubs away diamond tears. “People here have bigger problems than you.”
And didn’t bring them on themselves. That’s what she would’ve said if she wanted to hurt him. He celebrates her compassion, but remembers an unstated thought is still a thought.
“I just want to talk.”
“Goodbye, True. Good, goodbye.”
She winds down the steps and True knows he’ll see her in his mind long after she’s vanished. He can’t bear to remain inside. Outside, he’s alone. Doesn’t know what life’s next step will be. Looks out over the dilapidation, the desperation.
Eden, through the revolving door and back, takes his arm. Says, “I have to think things through, then we’ll talk. But no promises.”
* * *
True’s out of Shibuya and in Ginza, following hastily constructed signs. He’s walking over a bridge that is, amazingly, still standing. Thousands of gas lanterns blot the landscape. True watches the moon climb over vaporous clouds.
Others are on the bridge, leaping off,
long, elastic bungee cords pulling taut just prior to impact. He stops to watch. There are a dozen or so jumpers, tying cords around their ankles, tipping back flasks, tripping on drugs, performing double, even triple flips. Taking risks because there’s precious little else.
“Psssssst.” A woman in a jacket patched together from swatches of zaggy-colored Guatemalan fabrics. “Gaijin. Tie my legs, OK?”
She’s young, maybe 20, hair tied in scores of tight braids, her skin tanned, legs strong and lithe, her face oval and iridescent like the moon overhead.
He pulls the frayed ends of her cord. The other end is knotted around a pylon.
“Tighter.” Her voice is tequila-harsh.
He pulls tighter.
“More. I don’t want to end up like okonomiyaki, you know?”
“What’s that?” True’s muscles just about to give out. Ties a knot around her finger, which turns purple as he knots a second loop. She pulls it out.
“Japanese pizza. You never had it? It’s good. Try it.”
“I will.”
She checks his handiwork. Holds her thumb, finger to her lips.
True pats his pockets as other jumpers fly, about 50, 75 meters off the ground. He finds a Reiner J and hands it over.
She pockets it in stony joy. “All right, gaijin.” High-fives him, a message of gratitude. Then she wrists out a bowie knife lodged in her belt to trim bungee frays. True realizes the end around the pylon has to be retied after each jump, as the cord gets shorter each time she cuts herself down. She hops to the edge of the bridge, clenches the knife in her teeth, turns to face True, and jumps. He watches as she speeds to earth, her body flipping downward as the cord pulls taut. When she bounces back up, she waves, then falls. She hangs a couple of meters off the ground, pirouetting upside down, the city’s lantern lights leoparding her. Finally, she cuts the cord and somersaults onto a pile of cushions.
On terra firma she celebrates, accepts a bottle from another jumper. The sky has changed color, is less moonlit-gray than quake-paint orange now. Down the other side of the bridge is the international phone bank, the only telecommunications link with the outside world. True jumps in the line for journalists and foreign diplomats. From his vantage point he sees a festival in progress. The line is long, there being only three videophones designated for diplomat and journo use, and he spends his time thinking and watching the fertility festival.