forty-five minutes late. That way, I thought, I could slip into the background and easily make my escape.
When I arrived at the station written down by the mother, I walked out into the street and found myself inside a honeycomb of unmarked alleyways. Streets forked this way and that on every side of the diverging railway tracks. Narrow lanes led off into the distance. Signs were nonexistent. I looked for the nearest phone.
“
Moshi-moshi
,” came an excited voice at the other end, up to its neck, I assumed, in children and chaos.
“
Moshi-moshi
. This is Pico Iyer.” There was a silence. “The man you met in Tōfukuji Temple?”
“Ah, hallo. How are you? What place you now?”
“I’m not sure. I’m just outside the station.”
“What name street?”
“I don’t know. I came down the stairs, and I’m standing outside a coffee shop called U.C.C.”
“U.C.C.?” she repeated, incredulous.
“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s the name of the coffee they’re advertising. Anyway, I’m near the stairs.”
“Stairs?” She giggled nervously. There was a long silence. “You come here my house?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought it was your daughter’s birthday party.”
“I think maybe you no come. Now three o’clock.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry.”
“Please you wait station. I come.”
Two minutes later, a small and pretty figure bounced up tome, long hair tumbling over her shoulders, a bright turquoise scarf over her black shirt, and leg warmers covering her acid-washed jeans. I was not quite sure who this was, but I assumed it must be the funky teenage sister of the woman I had met at the temple, maybe ten years younger than that elegant matron with the severely swept-back hair and the long brown dress. As she flashed me a dazzling smile, though, I recognized the look, and the soft, melodious voice — and realized that this was the same woman, remade now in a different role. She led me down the station stairs and, breathless, filled me in on the plans.
“Other person little telephone my house. They little late. Maybe five o’clock.”
“Oh fine. Well, if it’s easier, I can come back then?”
She looked at me, confused. “You no want come my house?”
“Either’s fine really. Whatever’s easiest.”
“You not want come
ima
now my house?”
“Sure — if it’s no trouble.”
“Maybe other person come five o’clock. Maybe six. Are you okay?”
“Oh yes. No problem.”
She led me through a sliding door, and I found myself inside a compact modern flat. The main room was utterly silent. It had the look and feel of a teenage girl’s bedroom. On the walls were two posters of the teen-idol pop group a-ha (a latter-day Osmond family from Norway, so far as I could tell) and one of Sting, in all his open-shirted glory. Album covers of Sting hung from the doors, and more beefcake posters of a sultry-eyed a-ha. From the ceiling, an upside-down sea otter chuckled down at me, and all along the gleaming bank of high-tech stereo and video equipment that were the room’s main decoration were stickers from Tokyo Disneyland. The teenage artifacts sang out strangely in the quiet of the room on this sleepy afternoon.
“Please you sit,” offered Sachiko-san, motioning me towards her small paisley sofa. “You like Sting?”
I felt I could hardly admit that I found him one of the moredisagreeable creatures on the planet. “Oh yes.” With that, she gave me a pretty smile of delight, pressed a few buttons on the stack of gleaming black consoles, and disappeared. I sat alone in the silent, empty room and listened to the maestro sing dirges about Quentin Crisp and Pinochet.
A few minutes later, Sachiko-san reappeared, bearing two cups of Twining’s tea on a tray (I recalled that I had mentioned,
en passant
, at the temple that I preferred English tea to Japanese). She sat down beside me and smiled shyly.
“You seem to like the West,” I began.
She nodded gravely. “My brother go Kansas City
When I arrived at the station written down by the mother, I walked out into the street and found myself inside a honeycomb of unmarked alleyways. Streets forked this way and that on every side of the diverging railway tracks. Narrow lanes led off into the distance. Signs were nonexistent. I looked for the nearest phone.
“
Moshi-moshi
,” came an excited voice at the other end, up to its neck, I assumed, in children and chaos.
“
Moshi-moshi
. This is Pico Iyer.” There was a silence. “The man you met in Tōfukuji Temple?”
“Ah, hallo. How are you? What place you now?”
“I’m not sure. I’m just outside the station.”
“What name street?”
“I don’t know. I came down the stairs, and I’m standing outside a coffee shop called U.C.C.”
“U.C.C.?” she repeated, incredulous.
“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s the name of the coffee they’re advertising. Anyway, I’m near the stairs.”
“Stairs?” She giggled nervously. There was a long silence. “You come here my house?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought it was your daughter’s birthday party.”
“I think maybe you no come. Now three o’clock.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry.”
“Please you wait station. I come.”
Two minutes later, a small and pretty figure bounced up tome, long hair tumbling over her shoulders, a bright turquoise scarf over her black shirt, and leg warmers covering her acid-washed jeans. I was not quite sure who this was, but I assumed it must be the funky teenage sister of the woman I had met at the temple, maybe ten years younger than that elegant matron with the severely swept-back hair and the long brown dress. As she flashed me a dazzling smile, though, I recognized the look, and the soft, melodious voice — and realized that this was the same woman, remade now in a different role. She led me down the station stairs and, breathless, filled me in on the plans.
“Other person little telephone my house. They little late. Maybe five o’clock.”
“Oh fine. Well, if it’s easier, I can come back then?”
She looked at me, confused. “You no want come my house?”
“Either’s fine really. Whatever’s easiest.”
“You not want come
ima
now my house?”
“Sure — if it’s no trouble.”
“Maybe other person come five o’clock. Maybe six. Are you okay?”
“Oh yes. No problem.”
She led me through a sliding door, and I found myself inside a compact modern flat. The main room was utterly silent. It had the look and feel of a teenage girl’s bedroom. On the walls were two posters of the teen-idol pop group a-ha (a latter-day Osmond family from Norway, so far as I could tell) and one of Sting, in all his open-shirted glory. Album covers of Sting hung from the doors, and more beefcake posters of a sultry-eyed a-ha. From the ceiling, an upside-down sea otter chuckled down at me, and all along the gleaming bank of high-tech stereo and video equipment that were the room’s main decoration were stickers from Tokyo Disneyland. The teenage artifacts sang out strangely in the quiet of the room on this sleepy afternoon.
“Please you sit,” offered Sachiko-san, motioning me towards her small paisley sofa. “You like Sting?”
I felt I could hardly admit that I found him one of the moredisagreeable creatures on the planet. “Oh yes.” With that, she gave me a pretty smile of delight, pressed a few buttons on the stack of gleaming black consoles, and disappeared. I sat alone in the silent, empty room and listened to the maestro sing dirges about Quentin Crisp and Pinochet.
A few minutes later, Sachiko-san reappeared, bearing two cups of Twining’s tea on a tray (I recalled that I had mentioned,
en passant
, at the temple that I preferred English tea to Japanese). She sat down beside me and smiled shyly.
“You seem to like the West,” I began.
She nodded gravely. “My brother go Kansas City
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