Bicycle Days by John Burnham Schwartz Page B

cushions under his feet; the curtains were made of velvet.
    The mama-san of the establishment made a huge fuss at their arrival, grabbing Boon’s arm to lead him to a seat at the piano and chiding the supreme adviser for having forsaken her for so many weeks. “Tomorrow, I was going to close,” she announced, then grabbed his hand, too.
    Three other hostesses, all attractive young women, rushed over to the guests, taking their coats and exclaiming at the rugged good looks of the foreigners. Alec translated the compliments to Boon, who quietly warned him not to pay any attention. They sat around the piano. Bottles of imported Scotch appeared. The women expertly mixed drinks.
    Alec was sitting at one end of the piano, an empty seat between himself and the keyboard. To his left, the supreme adviser sat as though in meditation, his eyes glazed and hands on his thighs. Prospects for conversation seemed a bit dim. Alec felt a light hand on his wrist. The empty seat had been filled by one of the hostesses. Things seemed to be looking up.
    “You are from America?” she asked in Japanese.
    Alec grunted, was pleased with the way it sounded. He took a big swallow of Scotch. “Yes. From New York.”
    Her fingers closed around his arm again and squeezed; a little of his drink spilled on the piano.
    “Eh! I love New York! The Biggu Aperru.”
    Alec looked at her more closely. “The what?”
    “Biggu Aperru,” she repeated.
    “Oh. Yes. Have you been to New York?”
    “Me?” She touched the tip of her nose with her forefinger. “No, not yet. But I want very much to go. Yes, I want to go. I am an actress and singer, so I love New York.”
    He smiled. “I love New York, too. Where do you perform in Tokyo?”
    Her lower lip jutted out a little. Alec felt a wave of physical interest. He took another long drink.
    “Work is very difficult,” she said. “I work every night, so there is not much time. In one month, I will stop working here. I want to be on television.”
    Alec said, “You are very pretty.”
    She stood up, moved around to the piano stool. “I will sing now. Do you like American music?” Alec nodded. “Yes? Good. I will sing Barry Manilow.” She started to play.
    Alec stifled a groan. Why was everything always so difficult? The way Nobi had described it, all a person had to do was behave according to established social guidelines and everything would work out. Why was she playing Barry Manilow instead of sitting next to him?
    She began to sing “I Write the Songs,” mispronouncing most of the words. With the music, signs of life began to emerge around the piano. The supreme adviser drummed his fingers on the piano top. In between remarks to the other Oyama man, Boon hummed a few notes of the song, noticeably off tune. Seated at the bar by the entrance, four Japanese businessmen sang along word for word, pausing only to take quick gulps of Scotch. The mama-san bustled back and forth between bar and piano, serving, chatting, finally coming to rest on a seat next to the now exuberant supreme adviser, who allowed his hand to rub lightly over her thighs. She gave his fingers a playful slap, eyeing him with feigned innocence. Alec watched with interest as the mama-san, herself in her fifties, brought the supreme adviser to life with lively, flirtatious conversation. She seemed to know exactly when to speak and what to say, when to laugh or touch his arm. As though awakening from a deep sleep, thesupreme adviser appeared to shake himself and sit taller on his stool; he laughed loudly several times and dabbed perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief.
    The song was over, and the hostess came back to sit beside Alec.
    “I enjoyed that very much,” he said. “You have a good voice. Better than Barry Manilow.”
    She looked pleased but shook her head. “Thank you, but I do not practice enough.”
    The sounds of conversation filled the small room. Boon and the other Oyama man were the only ones speaking