they’d said: here was a pitifully crippled man, naked except for a garland of marigolds, sitting dejectedly on the banks of what I decided must be the Ganges, there were young Filipino men nailed to crucifixes, vultures gathering for human flesh on the incredible Towers of Silence at a Parsi funeral. I even recognized the prayer flags and smouldering juniper of a sky-burial charnel ground outside Lhasa because I’d done Tibet in a module at university. But, I thought, looking at a photo of a wide plume of smoke shooting from an indistinct shape on a platform, the words ‘Varanasi funeral pyre’ scrawled below it, there was something oddly beautiful about all this, a sense in this room, like a scent, of a vivid curiosity. When at last, unnoticed, I stepped quietly out into the corridor, I had decided that the Russians were wrong. Jason wasn’t odd or morbid, he was fascinating.
He was supposed to be a waiter at the club, but all week I’d barely seen him lift a tray. Sometimes he’d stop at tables and chat amiably for some time with the customers, just as if he, not Strawberry, was the owner. ‘He’s waiter but he don’t do nuh think,’ murmured Irina. ‘He don’t need to do no work because Mama Strawberry lurve him.’ She seemed to like the cachet that a gaijin waiter gave her. And then there were his looks. The Japanese hostesses all giggled and blushed when he walked by. Often he would sit at Strawberry’s desk, sipping champagne, with his waiter’s tuxedo all open and showing off his body, while she simpered and adjusted her dress straps, sometimes leaning back in her chair and running her hands down her body.
He didn’t spend much time in the house - and finding his room open like that was unusual. Ordinarily the door was shut, we all had locks on our bedroom doors, and often he’d lock up and leave early, before any of us woke, or he’d take a taxi from the club and not come home until the following night. Maybe he was out in the parks, looking for women asleep on benches. But there were impressions of him everywhere - a pair of moccasins lying
79
on the staircase, lime-scented shaving cream drying in rings on the bathroom shelf, business cards in pale pink propped up against the kettle, with names like Yuko and Moe in feminine script.
I pretended not to be fazed by all this, but I was. Secretly I was completely dazzled by Jason.
I bought a diary from Kiddyland, a schoolgirl’s shop in Omotesando. It was pink, with a clear plastic cover containing a sparkling gel that moved round and round. I would hold it up to the window and marvel at the way the light caught the little specks of glitter. I had scratch’n’sniff cream-cake stickers, and every day that passed I placed a sticker over the space in my diary. Some days I took a train over to Hongo and sat in the Bambi restaurant, watching the sun playing on the big Akamon gate as the students came and went. But I didn’t see Shi Chongming. There were five days to go, four days, three days, two. He had said a week. That meant Sunday. But Sunday came, and he didn’t call.
I couldn’t believe it. He had broken his promise. I waited the whole day, sitting on the sofa in the living room, the shades all drawn against the heat, a pile of my books scattered around me. I stared and stared at the phone. But the only times it rang it was for Jason. I’d snatch it up and it would be a Japanese girl sighing plaintively down the line, refusing to believe it when I told her he was out.
That Sunday I took five messages for him, all from different girls. Most of them were sweet and sad, some were rude. One took a shocked breath when she heard my voice, and screamed at me in shrill Japanese, ”Who the fuck are you? What the fuck are you doing answering the phone? Put Jason on the fucking phone.
now:
I spent some time listing all the names. I doodled faces next to them, trying to imagine what they looked like. Then, when that got boring, I sat
He was supposed to be a waiter at the club, but all week I’d barely seen him lift a tray. Sometimes he’d stop at tables and chat amiably for some time with the customers, just as if he, not Strawberry, was the owner. ‘He’s waiter but he don’t do nuh think,’ murmured Irina. ‘He don’t need to do no work because Mama Strawberry lurve him.’ She seemed to like the cachet that a gaijin waiter gave her. And then there were his looks. The Japanese hostesses all giggled and blushed when he walked by. Often he would sit at Strawberry’s desk, sipping champagne, with his waiter’s tuxedo all open and showing off his body, while she simpered and adjusted her dress straps, sometimes leaning back in her chair and running her hands down her body.
He didn’t spend much time in the house - and finding his room open like that was unusual. Ordinarily the door was shut, we all had locks on our bedroom doors, and often he’d lock up and leave early, before any of us woke, or he’d take a taxi from the club and not come home until the following night. Maybe he was out in the parks, looking for women asleep on benches. But there were impressions of him everywhere - a pair of moccasins lying
79
on the staircase, lime-scented shaving cream drying in rings on the bathroom shelf, business cards in pale pink propped up against the kettle, with names like Yuko and Moe in feminine script.
I pretended not to be fazed by all this, but I was. Secretly I was completely dazzled by Jason.
I bought a diary from Kiddyland, a schoolgirl’s shop in Omotesando. It was pink, with a clear plastic cover containing a sparkling gel that moved round and round. I would hold it up to the window and marvel at the way the light caught the little specks of glitter. I had scratch’n’sniff cream-cake stickers, and every day that passed I placed a sticker over the space in my diary. Some days I took a train over to Hongo and sat in the Bambi restaurant, watching the sun playing on the big Akamon gate as the students came and went. But I didn’t see Shi Chongming. There were five days to go, four days, three days, two. He had said a week. That meant Sunday. But Sunday came, and he didn’t call.
I couldn’t believe it. He had broken his promise. I waited the whole day, sitting on the sofa in the living room, the shades all drawn against the heat, a pile of my books scattered around me. I stared and stared at the phone. But the only times it rang it was for Jason. I’d snatch it up and it would be a Japanese girl sighing plaintively down the line, refusing to believe it when I told her he was out.
That Sunday I took five messages for him, all from different girls. Most of them were sweet and sad, some were rude. One took a shocked breath when she heard my voice, and screamed at me in shrill Japanese, ”Who the fuck are you? What the fuck are you doing answering the phone? Put Jason on the fucking phone.
now:
I spent some time listing all the names. I doodled faces next to them, trying to imagine what they looked like. Then, when that got boring, I sat
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