Chapter 16 — The bosozoku

THE TOURISTS from Wichita were looking for a good time and had no idea where to start.  They walked through the alleys and took turns peeping in the doors of small eateries and bars.  The mysterious smells were enticing and the faces friendly, but each time they backed away, too shy to enter.
    “There’s always Denny’s,” the wife said.
    “Or Mr. Donuts,” the husband smiled.  They both laughed and kept walking, hoping the neighborhood would reach out to them.
    The sun had slipped behind buildings, leaving Asakusa dappled with soft shadows.  The husband felt an evanescent stillness and smelled honeysuckle floating on the evening air.  A temple priest’s black robes sighed as he passed the wife.  She listened to his straw sandals scratch the macadam until he vanished through a distant torii gate.
    It was the dinner hour and a woman was talking and washing dishes behind a thin wooden wall.  A breeze pushed aside a curtain in an open doorway.  A small boy sat cross-legged, a father stretched on his side and an aproned-mother padded over tatami in bare feet.  Dominating the darkening room, a color TV glowed electric infield green.
    The husband squeezed the wife’s hand and pointed across the street.  Languid schoolgirls in second-story windows set down their pens and noted the touch with hopeful eyes.  “How about that place?” he suggested.
    “At least the sign’s in English,” she agreed.  “Crazy Noise” glowed in curvaceous pink neon above a green pastel palm.
    The club was too crowded and they would have backed out again if not for a middle-aged waiter standing near the door.  He welcomed them in English, talking as if they were friends.  It was the club’s opening night, he explained, gesturing at the packed tables and booths.  The customers were chatting between tables pointing as they recognized each other, laughing and drinking.
    The waiter said his name was Manny and asked if they would mind sharing a table.  Chris and Jennifer shared a look—wasn’t that why they’d come to Japan?—and he led them to a table in the front.  One ancient woman was leaning over whispering in the ear of another even older.  Both wore silk kimono and their silver hair was pinned up with glossy lacquered combs.
    “Oh, please, please, sit down,” Jennifer pleaded, as the ladies struggled to their feet and bowed.  She returned the bows solemnly, feeling helpless and embarrassed.  The older woman was the tiniest creature she’d ever seen and it was clearly difficult for her to stand, let alone bow.  She introduced herself and Chris and the ladies bowed again.
    “This is my landlady Nobuyo Kojima and this is Kimiko Nakamura,” Manny said.  “Kojima-san can speak English.”
    Nobuyo laughed shyly.  “I’m sorry, I still can speak only a little but I have a good teacher.”  She smiled at Manny.
    “You’re doing great,” Jennifer said.  “We’re the ones that should apologize.  We can’t speak Japanese at all.  In two days, all I’ve learned is please, thank you, and which way is the New Otani Hotel.”
    “That sounds like progress,” Manny said, as Nakamura-san grabbed his hand and spoke rapidly.  Unable to understand, he asked Nobuyo for a translation.
    “She wants beer, lots of beer.”
    “It sounded like she said more than that.”
    Nobuyo grinned at Jennifer and Chris.  “She also said you talk too much and don’t work enough.”
    Jennifer whispered to Nobuyo.  “How old is Nakamura-san?”
    “Ninety-seven.”   
    “And you?  If you don’t mind my asking?”
    Nobuyo smiled.  “I’m still young, only eighty-three.”
    Manny returned with three beers, one for Nobuyo and Nakamura-san to share and one each for Chris and Jennifer.  Nakamura-san had fallen asleep.  Her chin rested on her breast, her hands were quiet in her lap.
    “Will you pour for her later?” Manny asked Chris.
    “Sure, I’d be happy to.”
    Nakamura-san’s head snapped up and a century of wrinkles danced around a big smile.  “May, May,” she cackled, and pointed across the room.
    Sam turned down the house lights as May stepped on stage.  She was surprised at all the people, it seemed as if every friend in the neighborhood had turned out.  The smiles made her feel less scared but she hadn’t expected so much clapping.  Sam and Manny were slapping their hands together like idiots.
    Helen leaned down and shouted in her ear.  “You’re a star already.”
    May smiled and tried to forget the empty drum set at the back of the stage.  Kiyomi was conscious and talking today.  She’d asked May to record the opening performance so she could listen to it in her hospital room.  May had promised and delegated the job to Sam.
    “They’re not clapping for me,” she grinned, “they’re clapping for your dress.”
    “I knew I shouldn’t have let you con me into this,” Helen growled.  They’d gone shopping and May had insisted she needed a “costume,” not an everyday dress.  It was midnight blue, too tight, too short, and very low cut.  The sequins flashed and winked at the audience.  “I look like a hooker.”
    “No way.  It’s totally excellent.  Like I told you, this is showbiz.”
    Helen picked up her guitar.  “If this is showbiz, what happened to you?”
    May was wearing baggy jeans and a Neal Young T-shirt.  “I’m the talent and you’re the fluff,” she said, with a smile just wide enough to keep Helen’s hands off her throat.  Helen laughed and kissed her on the ear.  “OK, kiddo, I guess I can accept that.  It’s all yours.  Go out there and knock ‘em dead.”
    May marched to center stage and stood in a blue spotlight.  She waited for Helen to retreat to a stool in the shadows and then began to play.  She got no further that the second chord as Sam bounded onto the stage.
    “Wait, wait,” he shouted, and grabbed the microphone.
    May clutched her guitar like a weapon, thinking her brother had gone mad.  “What are you doing?  You’re embarrassing me.”
    Sam ignored her and addressed the audience.  “Friends, thank you for coming to our new club, the Crazy Noise.”  He pointed at his sister with a grand flourish.  She cringed and took a step back.
    “We hope you have a good time and come back to see us soon.  For your evening’s entertainment, we have a couple of rising stars from our very own neighborhood.  Will you please give a warm Asakusa welcome to my sister May and her friend Helen Lang.”
    May closed her eyes and took a deep breath as Sam repeated his entire spiel in English for the benefit of the two gaijins in the front row.  She thought he was never going to shut up and felt her face getting redder by the second.  She was still trying to decide whether to run or bean him with the guitar when he backed off the stage clapping.
    She stepped forward and began to play, taking courage in Helen’s nearness.  They had practiced in great secrecy for weeks, learning to work together, to play and sing songs May had written.  Hidden away in Helen’s apartment, she’d listened carefully when Helen had told her just to do her best, that nothing else was important.
    By the end of the second song the party atmosphere in the club had vanished.  Jennifer looked down at her beer glass.  It was halfway to her mouth and she had no idea how long it had been hanging there.  She touched Chris on the knee to get his attention.  He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, shook his head, and turned his gaze back to the stage.
    It was too quiet—she could almost hear the tears sliding down the cheeks of the old ladies and the moon rising over the club.  She forgot to clap after the third song, she held onto Chris’ hand throughout the fourth.  The girl sang in English and Japanese and Jennifer understood both equally well, as if the lyrics had been engraved on her heart long ago.
    The girl’s voice was so sad.  It came at her from all directions.  Like the wind on the high plains, it was intrusive and unrelenting.  She felt a panic rising—the girl sang of confusion and endless wounds.  She tried to resist.  Until she could listen no longer and fell, splashing a trail of memories across a black Kansas sky.
    All was lost.  She braced herself for a terrible crash.  It never came.  The girl caught her on a melody, a lullaby that laid her gently on the ground.  She closed her eyes and listened—to a protective moon shining above a small girl singing.  Her defenses lay in the dust.  Don’t pick them up, the moon warned.  Jennifer promised and promised, wanting so much to be willing.  That’s enough for now, the girl sang.  I’m always here for all of you.
    “Are you all right?”  She felt Chris’ hand on her arm and opened her eyes.  The lights were coming up in the club and the girl was leaving the stage.
    “I’m fine,” she answered, not at all sure it was true.  “I guess I was daydreaming.”
    “Wasn’t she great?” he asked, pouring beer for everyone.
    Nakamura-san was napping again, but Nobuyo nodded and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief pulled from a wide kimono sleeve.  “A surprise,” she smiled.  “Very, very wonderful.”
    Jennifer returned her smile, feeling calm but strangely exhausted.  “Would you mind if we went back to the hotel?”
    “Sure, if that’s what you want,” Chris said.  She looked like she could hardly keep her eyes open.  “We can get dinner there.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Are you sure you’re OK?  You look a little weird.”
    “No, I’m fine, just tired.”  She placed her hand over Nobuyo’s.  “Can I write to you?”
    Nakamura-san opened her eyes just as Nobuyo and Jennifer finished exchanging addresses.  She scratched at Nobuyo’s sleeve and whispered in her ear.
    “They have to go now,” Nobuyo explained, repeating herself twice and raising her voice.  Nakamura-san nodded and reached up, her hands tangling in her hair.
    “What are you doing?” Nobuyo asked.
    “Help me with this thing.”
    Nobuyo unfastened the comb and handed it to her.
    Nakamura-san’s silver hair cascaded over her shoulders, falling nearly to the floor.  “Now help me up,” she demanded.
    “What’s going on?” Chris asked, surprised as the old ladies struggled to their feet and Nakamura-san bowed.  She held out the lacquered comb with both hands and spoke to Jennifer.
    “Her grandmother gave it to her,” Nobuyo translated.
    Jennifer hesitated and then took the comb, holding it like a treasure.  “Thank you so much.  It’s very lovely, I’ll always remember you.”
    Chris looked over his shoulder as he eased his way through the crowd toward the door.  Both women were still bowing and smiling.  He wondered if Jennifer would begin to cry in the taxi or wait until she got back to the hotel.  He heard a small sniffle and bet on the cab.

    The bosozoku boys were unmuffled engine-revvers, motorcycle marauders, unrepentant and incompetent cowards.  Jiro and his gang of night-school dropouts and video arcade loonies were bored.  They sat on their bikes in front of a Seven-Eleven and discussed potential diversions.
    “How about if we go cruisin’ and wake everybody up?” the newest recruit suggested.  Noise was the bosozoku’s raison d’etre.  In selected suburbs lived families who hadn’t slept in years.
    Jiro sighed.  The new guy was dumber than shellfish.  He glared at the rest of his crew.  Most weren’t worth squat and he was counting the days until he was promoted out of the kiddie leagues to a real yakuza gang.  All he needed was a break.  He put his arm around the kid’s shoulders and stuck his watch under his nose.  “What time is it, Fukui-kun?”
    “Five minutes after eight.”
    “Very good.  Now what does that mean?”
    Fukui looked perplexed.  “Uhh, I don’t know.”
    Jiro screamed in his ear.  “You shithead.  You brainless idiot.  Nobody’s asleep yet, that’s what it means.  Who the shit are we gonna wake up?”  He pushed Fukui off his Yamaha and kicked him viciously in the side.  The rest of the gang laughed.
    “Maybe we could make a run up into the hills, beat up some guy and rape his girlfriend?” an older gang member offered.  “You know, throw ‘em down a hillside and leave ‘em for dead.”
    Jiro yawned.  “Naah, everybody’s doin’ that these days.”
    “Hey, let’s go to Koenji and mess with those cops again,” Takanawa-kun shouted.  He was a shining example of bushido and Jiro cracked a smile.  Though encased in a plaster cast from shoulder to wrist, Takanawa-kun was still ready for anything.
    Jiro’s eyes brightened in a face marred by acne and a chin so weak he had trouble keeping his helmet on.  It wasn’t a bad idea.  He remembered Koenji with fondness.  They'd ridden across town a month ago looking for an evening’s entertainment.  Whooping and racing their engines, they’d circled the plaza in front of the train station like Comanches besieging a wagon train.
    For twenty minutes they’d enjoyed beating up pedestrians, smashing shop windows and kicking in the sides of parked cars.  The screams of the victims had alerted two beefy cops stationed in the plaza’s police box and they’d stepped outside to take a look.  Following a prolonged tête-à-tête, the officers had decided their heavy caliber pistols were no match for six skinny adolescents and had ducked back inside to resume terrorizing a female illegal alien.
    Jiro had laughed and laughed as they’d driven their bikes round and round the police box, lashing out with their hobnailed boots, smashing its windows with lead pipes.  One of the boys had tossed in a petrol bomb and the cops had fled, dragging their suspect down a dark side-street.
    Takanawa-kun had been their only casualty.  An aged shopkeeper had attacked him with an aluminum baseball bat while trying to protect his two granddaughters.  With only four remaining fighters under his command, Jiro had watched the encounter from across the street, deeming it too dangerous to take on the old man and his bat.
    Just as Takanawa-kun had been knocked to the sidewalk, the cops had come slinking back.  Jiro had applauded as Suginami-ku’s finest had arrested the old man and charged him with aggravated assault.  The stupid fool had spent three weeks in jail.  The courts had later forced him to make a humiliating apology and pay Takanawa-kun’s medical expenses.
    “Get your ass over here, punk.”
    Jiro turned toward the alley.  A man was standing beside a garbage dumpster.  The darkness hid his face but not the danger and malice in his voice.  “Yeah, I’m talking to you dumbshit.  Don’t make me come over there and get you.”
    Jiro knew he had no choice with his gang watching.  His knees felt weak as he left the light spilling over the sidewalk and entered the alley.  “What do you want?” he asked, with as much insolence as he could muster.
    “I want you, asshole.”  A hand grabbed him by the front of his jacket and slammed him into the wall.  He fought to get away.  The muzzle of a revolver was cold against his cheek.  He stopped resisting and concentrated on not wetting his pants.
    “You recognize me, punk?”
    Jiro nodded, afraid to breath.  The last time he’d run into Nakazono, the cop had beat the shit out of him just for fun.
    “What do you want? he repeated, the bravado in his voice replaced by fear.
    Nakazono released him.  “I want you to shut up and listen.  I got a little job for you and those morons.”
    Jiro relaxed.  His ship had come in at last and he was about to get a crack at the big time.  “Just name it, Lieutenant. The boys are always ready—”
    Nakazono bounced him off the wall.  “I told you to shut up.  Now, listen, asshole, this is what I want you to do.”

    May had just trundled off to bed.  Helen was sitting at the bar talking to Sam while Manny waited on a handful of remaining customers.  A pair of teenagers were playing one of May’s new arcade games.  Helen was still wearing the dress May had picked out and Sam was having difficulty finding a safe place to rest his eyes.
    “What are you looking so glum about,” she asked.  “Tonight was a huge success.”
    “I’m not sure, I guess I just didn’t realize May was so unhappy.”
    “What makes you think she is?”
    “You heard her singing.  Half the audience was in tears.”
    Helen smiled.  “And you, too, I bet.”
    Sam didn’t deny the allegation and Helen continued.  “Tonight was, as May calls it, showbiz.  She’s perfectly capable of manipulating you.  Why are you so surprised she can do it to an audience?  She’s a poetic little kid and a natural performer.”
    “Are you saying she was faking the whole thing?”
    “Not at all.  Letting the audience inside is what performing is all about, isn’t it?  Her mom died recently and her best friend is in the hospital.  She made sure we could all feel that, but she’s not devastated by any means.  You should give yourself a little credit.  The only reason she was able to go up on stage at all is that she knew you were there and wouldn’t let her fall.”
    “I hope you’re right.”
    “I am right.  Why don’t you lighten up a little bit?  Ninety percent of those songs were written long before your mother’s death.  I should know, I helped her with most of them.  May’s doing just fine considering everything that’s happened.  She’s got you and me and everybody else eating right out of her hand.  Look at this dress she got me into.  There isn’t a man alive I’d wear it for.”
    “Not even Hiroshi?” Sam asked, and instantly wished he hadn’t.  He’d never mentioned the man, not once, and Helen had only referred to him as a friend.  May had been Sam’s only source of information and a thin one at best.
    She laughed.  “Hiroshi?  Not hardly.  He doesn’t get any special treatment, I assure you.”
    “Then I should consider myself—”
    Glass shattered, engines roared and Sam was saved from another stupid remark.  The front window imploded and customers screamed.  Sam ran to the door and onto the sidewalk.  A pack of motorcycles raced away, escaping down the street.  The lead bike turned and charged straight for him.  He kicked at the bike and missed.  The rider laughed, wheeled his bike towards the lights of Kokusaidori and shouted, “Get out or we’ll kill you.”