exoticism of "the foreigner" multiplied my natural advantage. I must have been distracted by the gaudy glamour, the tawdry delights of flesh and miasma of emotion to have not noticed it before. Looking around at the faces of the women who glancing at me surreptitiously and sometimes openly, I saw desire to match the hungry business men reflected back.
At the same time, I realized with some chagrin that I was not the only center of attention. I was one of two. A few short steps up from the glittering doors of the 109 was a pool of shadows. Within the darkness, untouched by the flare of the neon lights and surrounded by entranced beauties, a dark figure sat at a table. For reasons I cannot explain, I was drawn to that figure. As I neared, the girls felt my presence and opened a way to allow me to pass. I was a vampiric Moses in a red blood sea of women.
There in the shadows was the absolute embodiment of Oriental perfection. Surrounded by alluring women, this young man was the most bewitching creature I had ever seen. Long, sleek hair falling like synthetic darkness framed a porcelain face of decidedly vulpine cast. Angular cheekbones and innumerable other small touches contributed to this fox-like appearance, but what really put the nail in the proverbial coffin were his eyes. Large, and possessed of what I can only describe as an arcane tilt, they were the lightest of browns, a striking incandescent amber.
He was wearing a luxurious silken garb, not quite a kimono, rough textured, heavier, and more ornate. It was embroidered with skulls and bats and symbols in ancient variants of the Japanese scripts. An archaic paper lantern which had seen better days sat next to a yellowed ivory placard which read in English and I presume Japanese, "Kurodera Shouki, Fortune Teller."
Our eyes met and deep within me something recognized a kindred spirit. He was a child of the sun and I darkness, East and West, brunette and blonde, we were yin and yang, polar opposites, bound together. Frankly, it was all so very clich?d it made me a bit ill, but maybe I was just hungry.
I was about to say something, when he put his finger to his lips and looked away, breaking the connection. Languidly he waved me to the side to wait and returned to his client.
Fixing his gaze on girl's palm, he delicately traced the lines with his finger; the polished black lacquered nail a departure from his traditional image. Nodding to himself, he consulted a heavily worn leather bound book, the yellowed pages crackling between his fingers. Finally, smoothing the pages he leaned over and whispered in the girl's ear. She paled and shook, tears forming in her eyes. He continued on and she nodded and seemed to collect herself a bit. When he was done, she stood up and tottered off on acrylic heels three inches too high for her 4'11" frame. I wondered what he told her.
The youth, for he seemed no older than eighteen, stood and stretched. With a few words, he shooed his clients away. They left trailing pouts and sultry glances cast under long artificial lashes, their high heeled strut showing off curves that would have made Euclid blush.
Looking at me he said in perfectly accented English, "Want some coffee?"
"You speak English?" I blurted. I usually do not blurt, but I must admit, I was surprised, and almost disappointed that my first meaningful interaction with a native was to be in my own tongue. It must have shown on my face, as he replied quickly.
"Yes, I speaku Engrishu. You coffee, want?" He paused, a flicker of humor showing on his face. "Like that better?" I laughed despite myself. Somewhere beneath his controlled exterior lurked a trickster's soul.
"Very well, I'll join you," said I.
"Perhaps we should introduce ourselves before we go. It's the polite thing to do. My name is ..."
"Shocky! I read it off your name plate," said I, with all the enthusiasm of my apparent age. In truth, I was beginning to feel that I was actually a teenager again. The air of Tokyo seemed to have stoke the fire of my soul, and burned away the boredom of Providence.
'Shocky' gave a pained look as if he had eaten poorly prepared poison fish and continued as if I had not spoken. "Kurodera Shouki" The o sound was an elongated vowel sound, as in 'soul.' I might have near died of embarrassment, but I'm already dead and it's been long since I've felt embarrassed.
"But my foreign friends call me Shock. They have problems with pronunciation."
"How quaint," said I, feeling vindicated. "My name is Dashiell, late of Providence." I was now enjoying myself immensely and nearly giggled at my own cleverness! Ah, the joy. Can you even know what it is to giggle again? I haven't had the urge for longer than I can recall. Since alighting the bus, I'd felt a greater range of emotions than I had in seventy years!
"Very well, Dashiell, it is a pleasure to meet you," said he. My delight knew no bounds as he bowed at a most precise angle. I did my best to emulate him, and then extended my hand to him. In response his hand emerged from his sleeve, fine boned fingers reaching from hiding the folds of his garment, a trapdoor spider creeping from its den. He took my hand in a firmer than expected grasp.
Placing what I can only guess was a "closed" sign on his table he stood, we adjourned across the street. The contrast of his traditional clothing with the women surrounding us gave me the sense I was not the only anachronism stalking the streets of Tokyo. The clicking of his traditional wooden shoes sounded the tick tock of rhythm of the clock moving backwards in years.
To my disappointment, we headed straight towards the Japanese equivalent of Starbucks, a small shop titled Doutour. Instead, Shock lead me past it, up a set of stairs next to an arcade releasing a wall of sound like a thousand damned souls shrieking in electronic cells. As it turned it was just a bunch of high school toughs playing the latest games, school uniforms modeled after 18th century Prussian school uniforms unbuttoned to show off their rebellion. The sound followed us up the steps to a heavy iron bound door.
At Shock's pull the door swung open onto a dimly tea room decorated in the fashion of the court of the Sun King. The tables and chairs were carved with delicate scrollwork of mahogany and ebony and sumptuous fabrics upholstered each seat. The walls were covered in burgundy and gold wallpaper showing an intricate arabesques of painted flowers and stripes done in raised velvet.
An elderly gentleman stood by, impeccable in his tuxedo, immaculately styled silver hair and pristine white gloves. Faint music played but the caterwauling of the electronic game machines made it unrecognizable. As the door swung closed and I started, recognizing the song as Tokyo Road, by Bon Jovi.
Shouki noticed my unease and smiled in as if he knew what I was thinking. Before I could say anything, the maitre d bowed from the waist and held out a white gloved hand to show us to a dimly lit corner booth. We threaded our way through the tables, past a group of heavily muscled men smoking cigars held awkwardly in four fingered hands wearing designer brand track suits and sunglasses and sat down.
Still smiling, Shouki spoke. "Japan is not quite what you expected, is it? No, Japan is not the land of harmony that foreigners dream of. It never was. It is a land of contrasts. Two sides of the same coin, in all things. Rich and poor, criminal and lawful, liberated and repressed." He paused and looked at me with his luminous amber eyes, "All of these things we Japanese are. The line between is thin here, between all things, but particularly between the spirit world and the world of the flesh. Like life and death."
His gaze flicked away as he ran his finger along the curve of the velvet wallpaper. It was an oddly sensual gesture, very much divorced from impression of the ascetic mystic he put forth. He looked up with a raised brow, "You see? Not what you expected at all."
I honestly did not know what to make of this bizarre soliloquy, but I was delighted to entertain this peddler of counterfeit futures. This encounter encapsulated the bizarreness for which Japan was justly famous. Nothing could be further from the pedestrian grind of Providence.
"So," I began, content to brazen it out, "what did you want talk about?"
"I wanted to warn you."
"Warn me?"
; "Yes. You have come to Japan at a dangerous time. It is summer now. Summer is the time when the lines between the spirit world and the physical world are even thinner than normal. Ghosts of long dead ancestors return home, demons walk the earth, and the king of monsters calls a parade of monsters from far and near to lead them through the nights, consuming all who witness it."
"Godzilla? What does he have to do with me?" I inquired, as casually as I could. Amber eyes caught me, reminding me of the paralysis of Providence. I was overwhelmed with the sense I was teetering on the edge a mystery so profound that even one of my age and condition might shudder to contemplate. It was almost as if he, not I was the one who knew the secrets of life and death. Certainly this was new sensation for me.
From within a voluminous silken sleeve he withdrew a pack of Nat Sherman Black and Gold's and lit one with a flourish so quick that I did not even see the lighter. He took a deep drag, and exhaled slowly.
"No, not Godzilla." His stare became almost physical, holding me in their grip. "I think you know."
I did not. I was at a loss as to how to respond when my stomach growled with uncharacteristic ferocity.
Seizing on the opportunity to escape from the suddenly extremely uncomfortable discussion, In a rush I said. "I