Love Songs

Love Songs

Typhoon Number Six was brushing the coast of Honshu last night, and I was having a problem with fidelity. I'd just got off the phone to Kerry. She sounded depressed in her letter, and didn't sound much better on the phone. She said hearing my voice cheered her up, but I think it reminded her how far away I was. I stood outside and looked at the rain. It was like a sheet had been put up in front of everything. The rain bounced off the roofs of the houses below my seventh floor balcony, the sound almost constant, almost industrial. Out to sea lightning flashed, and the thunder was barely audible above the rain.
"What are you doing out here? asked my flatmate, Dave, appearing on the balcony.
"Just checking the weather. You're back early.
"I was on an early shift. Didn't you hear the phone this morning?
"Yeah, I might have done. What time?
"About nine.
"Yeah. I just hoped it wasn't for me. Do you want a beer?
I went to the fridge and took out two cans of Kirin. On my way back to the balcony I stopped to look at the TV. It was the Japan Series baseball. The Swallows were beating the Lions. Three-two at the top of the seventh, two outs, bases loaded. Whatever that meant. I turned the TV off.
"Was that a letter from Kerry? asked Dave, taking a sip from his beer. I nodded, and he knew I wasn't happy. We've only been living together for a couple of months, but it's strange how quickly you can get to know someone when you're thrown together in a place like that. I told him what was in the letter, which was nothing very much. That was strange, because Kerry normally tells me everything. What's going on in the news. What new music is coming out. The plots from soap operas I didn't even watch. Sometimes she seems to think I'm on another planet, rather than just on the other side of the same one. But I always enjoy reading her letters. We've got e-mail, and the telephone, but she likes writing letters.
But this one didn't say anything very much. She wasn't feeling very happy. On the phone she tried to tell me that she had just been going through a down phase. She said she wished she hadn't sent the letter, and I told Dave that I wished she hadn't too. I felt guilty, because I was having a great time. And I think she was jealous. And upset that I could be having such a good time without her. She had always accepted that I was going to come to Japan, because it was something I had talked of for years. She didn't want to come with me, even though I wanted her too. "It's only a year, said Dave now, as Kerry had said to me before I left. But even in three months I feel like I've changed. I've seen so much, I've met a lot of new people. And I love it. And she is meeting new people too, and every time she mentions a new bloke at work I get jealous. I'm sure she does it just to make me call her and tell her how much I love her.
So far, though, I trust that she has been faithful. I have, though the temptation has been great. Not just all the drop-dead gorgeous Japanese women that parade around Tokyo, so exquisitely turned-out, either, though I've had my head turned by a few of those. All the time, I'm meeting new people. Australians, Americans, Canadians, even other Brits, they've all got different stories, different reasons for turning up here. And like I said, you get close to people quickly.
"Do you think you can go without seeing her for a year? asked Dave, pulling me back from a distant tangent.
"I'm afraid that after a year I might not want to see her. Or she won't want to see me. Or I'll get back and everything will be different.
"We're not in the Vietnam War. It was an interesting perspective.
"But don't you think you've changed since you got here? Dave nodded. He's been in Tokyo a month less than me, but this is his first time out of Australia. "And you'll go back after a year, and slot back in as if nothing has changed?
"I might not go back after a year.
"Well that's something else.
"You're thinking of staying?
"I'm not making any plans right now. Which was already a change of policy from my assertion that whatever happened I would be home after a year. As far as I knew Kerry still had a calendar on her wall counting down the days until I came back. She had shown it to me just before I left. I wasn't counting any days. I find it hard to believe that I've been here three months already. Kerry says sometimes it feels like I have been gone for years, and sometimes that she still misses me as much as she did the day after I left. I feel like I have only just arrived, but home feels years away. The time difference was supposed to be just eight hours.
I'm enjoying life so much, and time is passing so quickly, that a year would be up before I knew where I was. When I left I was still wondering if I was too young to make a commitment to someone. I was twenty-two, the same age as Kerry. We graduated in the summer. I was supposed to be getting the wanderlust out of my system. In fact, I think I've been feeding it and making it stronger. The more I see of the world, the more of it I become aware of, the more of it I want to see, need to see, to be satisfied. Kerry thought I would grow out of it. She couldn't understand why anyone would want to go so far away. She had everything she wanted. "How do you know? I asked her one night when I was trying to convince her to come. She just knew, she told me.
"At the end of it all, you've got to live your own life, said Dave. He gave me a smile. That was the advice I had given him two nights ago, when we had sat out on the balcony, drinking beer and talking about his family's expectations of him. Of course, he was right.
"Another beer? He gave me his empty can and I went to fetch another two from the fridge. Another flash of lightning heralded my return. "What are you doing tonight?
"I don't know, shrugged Dave. "I thought I might get a video.
"Do you want to come out with us?
"Where are you going?
"Just in Ochanomizu. We're having a party to welcome a couple of new teachers.
"Another one?
"They weren't there on Friday.
"I'm a bit tired, to tell you the truth. I know how you guys' parties turn out.
"Sure?
"Yeah. Is Vicky going? Ah, Vicky.
"Probably. I think my smile told Dave more than I intended.
"You wouldn't though, would you?
"Like I have a chance. Vicky is from Sydney, and arrived in Tokyo at about the same time as me. I had told Dave about her, and she was developing an almost mythological status. When Dave met her, he wasn't that impressed. "There are hundreds of others just like her in Oz, he told me, which just about made up my mind to emigrate to Australia. She was single, and every time I saw her, I wished I was too. I had to be honest and tell Dave that if Vicky threw herself at me, I wouldn't get out of the way. "Have you mentioned her to Kerry? asked Dave. I just shook my head. Realistically, I also had to admit, she was so far out of my league that we were practically playing different games. Still, the thought that Vicky would be there made my mind up that I was going to go out, and make sure I was looking my best. "Sure you're not coming?
"Sure.

I was one of the first to arrive. I went straight up to the bar on the second floor and found Nick and Steve already there. They had finished work earlier and had already been drinking for two hours. "You should have come out, said Steve.
"I had a couple of beers at home, I told them, and they accepted my excuse.
"Did you have a good day off? asked Nick.
"Sat and watched the rain for most of it. I wish I'd been working. Steve called for a bottle of beer for me, using the only Japanese I had learned up to that point. Steve's wasn't much better than mine, though he'd been there over a year. But it worked, and I got my beer.
"Are you up for a biggie tonight? asked Steve, to both of us, though from the way Nick was racing through his beer his answer was obvious. I nodded. "I suppose so. Steve laughed. Of course you are.
"What's tonight's party for? I knew, but I wanted more details.
"Two new teachers, said Steve.
"Mari, said Nick.
"Have you met Mari? I shook my head. "You're in for a treat, mate. And we criticise the Japanese for their attitude to women's rights. When in Rome, they say. Even though we're in Tokyo. "Nice, is she?
"Just a bit.
"Who's that? It was Dan, just coming in, his coat dripping with rain.
"The new teacher, Mari.
"Tell me more. Our excuse would be that we were in a pretty male-dominated atmosphere. There were no women present, we didn't need an excuse. "Nice personality? Where's she from?
"She's Canadian.
"Never mind, shrugged Dan.
"Why?
"Well, what's Canada famous for? We looked at him blankly. Canada Dry? Ice Hockey? Dope-smoking snowboarders? "Mooses, he answered his own question.
"Moose, said Nick with the reflex pedantry of an English conversation teacher. "And she isn't.
"Can't you say mooses? asked Dan, dropping the politically incorrect for the grammatically correct.
"It's uncountable, said Steve, sounding like something of a grammar expert.
"I thought it was meece, was my own contribution to the discussion. I wanted to know more about Mari, but I didn't want to ask. "Who's the other teacher?
"Who cares? laughed Nick.
"Some Yank. Ben.
"Not a chick, then?
The door opened again and in came Jo. "I should have known, she said. "How long have you been here?
"Just arrived, said Dan, truthfully. Jo assumed he was speaking for all of us. She got a beer and sat down at the table with us.
"So what are the new teachers like? Jo asked Steve. It was, after all, the reason we were out.
"They both seem okay. Suddenly we were well-behaved. It wouldn't last. "They both said they'd come out tonight.
"What are they called?
"Mari and Ben.
"What's Ben like?
"American. Tall. Quiet.
"We'll soon sort that out. Is he good looking?
"Which of us do you think would be able to answer that? He'll be here soon.
"Did any of you feel that earthquake this morning? Jo had hardly paused for breath before completely changing the direction of the conversation. None of us had. "About eleven o'clock. We shook our heads. After a few months, you stop noticing the small ones. "Maybe I imagined it, said Jo. "I'm feeling phantom earthquakes.
"I felt the one last week. When was it? Thursday? It woke me up, so it must have been big.
"That was big. About two in the morning, wasn't it? I was relieved that Dan thought so too.
"I don't know. I just went back to sleep. Once I realised my block of flats was still standing, I just rolled over and put it out of my mind.
"That really freaked me out, said Jo. "I can't believe they just put up with them here.
"You get used to them.
As the time approached for the official beginning of the party the owner of the bar started to prepare the tables. He put out the glasses, the plates, the chopsticks. He left the beer bottles till last, either to keep them as cold as possible, or to keep them away from us. No sooner had he put a cluster on our table than we were helping ourselves. We weren't going to be using the glasses, either.
"Is it all-you-can-drink? asked Jo. Always. And we would drink more than we could, and certainly more than we should. And then we'd go and drink more. It's almost a weekly routine. Twice weekly, sometimes more. We don't all go out all of the time, but some of us are there more than others. "This is the only job you can get where you drink more than you did at college, said our boss once when the whole school was suffering from a collective hangover. It's all part of the culture.
The door opened again and Pat put her head round. "Has the party started? she asked.
"It has now you're here, Steve told her as she came in.
"I was waiting for everyone to get here. Pat laughed. She wasn't too upset about standing outside in the rain. She put her umbrella in the stand just inside the door and sat down. Pat turned a glass over and waited. Finally Dan noticed her waiting politely and filled her glass from one of the bottles on the table.
"Aren't we drinking from glasses? asked Pat.
"We probably should, said Steve. "But we're not.
"Does everyone know we're coming here? Trust Pat, always thinking of others.
"Everyone except Tony, said Nick, rather uncharitably.
"Who wouldn't come anyway, responded Pat, putting a nicer spin on Nick's words. Once I heard Pat utter a spiteful comment about someone else, but it might have been for a dare. "So are we expecting a full house? This quiet bar-scene was far removed from what it would be like in two hours, with maybe thirty of us yelling drunkenly at each other and arguing about whether to go to a club or get the last train home. We do it all the time, and no matter how bad it made us feel, we would do it again. And even sitting there before the party really began, I knew that the last train, at 12.17, wouldn't be an option tonight. However much I rehearsed the arguments against it, I knew that someone would be able to talk me round into going to the all-night, all-you-can-drink karaoke down the road.
I didn't hear the door open, but as soon as I heard the voice I looked round and saw the back of Vicky's head. She turned and gave a wave to our table that might have been meant for me, and I waved back. Her face smiled, the exquisite cheekbones, that small, ever-so-slightly pointed nose, the dimples at the side of her mouth when she smiled. A face that was just maybe a millimetre here or there away from being plain, as Dave thought she was, and allied to her broad-shouldered, well-shaped body. To me she was close to per¦ Who is that?
"That's Mari, said Nick beside me, noticing my involuntary gasp for breath.
You can't describe beautiful, if that is the word. You can't analyse it. If you dissect it, take it apart, you are left with just a few pieces that on their own don't look that special. For the record, Mari had short, dark hair, big brown eyes, a dark complexion. What does that tell you? Vicky was beautiful. So was Kerry, in her way. Mari was¦ I don't know what she was. "She's not bad, I said to Nick.
He looked at me with a smile that said, "You should be so lucky, but all he said was, "Not bad?
We all wanted the girls to come and sit with us, but since everyone from the school had come in together they took seats at the table along the other side of the narrow room. Though the set-up wasn't right for it, we'd end up mingling once the food was out of the way. How about that for afters? It kind of detracted from the food, which was always pretty good, and stayed around getting cold long after we'd all had enough. It was a strange mixture of Japanese and European food, tofu, fish, spaghetti, chips. All washed down with a constant flow of beer that was the real reason we were there. Beer and building company spirit.
As the food slowed down and eventually stopped, those who still could started to move around. Jo turned to me. "We've decided we like Ben, she told me. She had been talking to Pat, who likes everybody. "He's got a cute smile. I looked at her. "I hate that word, she said. "I never used to say things were cute until I came here.
"Yeah, but everything is so cute.
"Kawaii, she said, squeaking the way Japanese girls do. "But he is. Jo was at least a little drunk. It was hard to tell how much.
"How about Mari? Without trying to be subtle she turned to look.
"I think Vicky's prettier. Well, what do girls know about these things?
After a time, Vicky came to say Hello. She brought Mari with her. Just a few months ago, I couldn't have ever imagined myself sitting and talking to two such beautiful girls. But that was starting to be a theme in Japan. How many men had I seen, Westerners, walking around with beautiful Japanese ladies of a standard they could never hope to achieve at home. Batting above their average was the preferred expression. And how many men came to Japan with the express intention of finding a wife? Plenty. But here I was being spoilt for choice. After the number of beautiful, wonderful women I had met in three months I didn't think I could ever settle for just one. It makes it sound like looks are everything. They're not, of course. But you know I'd be lying if I said looks weren't important. It's always nice to have something pretty to look at. Let's face it, most people are more or less the same. And I think it goes as much for women as for men. Anyway, on the basis of that night, Mari had a personality and intelligence that were more than a match for her looks. It would have been sickening if I hadn't been enjoying it so much. She had a boyfriend. Of course she did. She talked about him, about how she would be going back to him after she had been here for a year. They decided now, just after college, was the time to have some time apart. She swore she was going to stay faithful. It was Vicky that laughed. I didn't talk about Kerry. Vicky knows about her, and from time to time she will tease me about my vow of fidelity. Vicky is single, and loving it, although at the moment she is disappointed in the standard of Japanese men. All were desperate for a Western girlfriend and the status it brought with it, but Vicky said they were all like teenage Australian boys. "Desperate for a shag, but no idea how to go about getting it. Unless they buy it. Maybe that explained the difference between the number of men and women working for our company. I think Mari was still suffering a bit from jet-lag, or maybe it was the beer. "I don't usually drink much, she said.
"Get used to it, laughed Vicky, filling up Mari's glass. While me and Vicky talked about Tokyo, about work, about sports, Mari drifted in and out of the conversation. But she livened up a bit when someone, who might have been Dan, suggested karaoke.
"It doesn't open until 12, said Nick.
"So let's go to the Mexican place, called out Vicky, to almost unanimous approval. The ones who didn't like the suggestion were the ones who were never going to go anywhere but home. The Mexican restaurant was downstairs, and while it did serve food, we went there for tequila. There were about twelve of us crowded into a tiny space. Fortunately the restaurant was almost empty, and though the staff there recognised us from previous drunken occasions, they were never less than courteous. We just ordered a bottle of tequila, a glass each, salt and lemon. We all joined in, at least once, and the time disappeared. "It's half-past twelve, said Dan. "Karaoke's open. We slammed down the fourth round ' those who had made it that far. The time-check also served to tell us that most people had missed their last train. "The Maronouchi line is still running, said Andrew, not really contemplating dropping out. We talked him out of it anyway, and nobody else was tempted. After all, the station was ten minutes walk, the karaoke only five. "My wife will kill me, said Matthew. Too much alcohol can make even the threat of death, or divorce, seem insignificant when there is more on offer. I was just glad I had the next day off. Not that having to go to work would have changed anything at that time.
There were too many of us for one karaoke box. Splitting the group in two proved difficult. All the lads wanted to be with Mari, but the girls all wanted to stay together. There were only four of them, and I got lucky. Jo was disappointed that Ben ended up in the other group. If things went as they usually did we would mingle here too, with one room being filled with sleeping bodies, and the party moving to the other. I'm sure it annoyed the hell out of the Japanese, but they let us get away with it. After all, we were uncivilised gaijin. We were acting just as they expected us to.

We settled in and ordered our drinks. Me and Matthew tried to order whisky and water, but they wouldn't let us. So I ordered a bottle of whisky, and he ordered a jug of iced water. They seemed happy with that. Never try to order something that isn't on the menu. We were more interested right now in the drinks than the singing. Jo had the control and was already punching numbers into the machine. The first song was Take That, and not only could she sing it, she danced too. It worked to get us in the mood, and Matthew and myself even ended up singing some backing vocals for her. Matthew is almost as bad a singer as me.
Vicky took the microphone off us to sing a Kylie song. It had been a joke from the first time we came here that she had to. 'I Should Be So Lucky'. She did it well, through laughter, though she missed an entire verse when she tried to sing, dance and drink gin and tonic at the same time. She recovered in time for the chorus. After a barrage of what Matthew called 'girlie shit' he took the control and found a couple of songs he liked. 'Angie', by the Stones, changed the mood a bit, but we sang it every time we were there. 'Like A Rolling Stone' stretched the girls' patience, and Jo cancelled everything else that Matt had chosen. I was afraid that their jokey argument would turn serious, but Vicky slipped between them singing 'Don't Worry Be Happy', without backing music. Mari took control and picked a few of her favourite songs. It turned out she was a Beatles fan, and we all knew all the songs she chose. We'd been there an hour, and the drinks were starting to run out, so I ordered another of everything.
Not long after that, maybe halfway through that jug of whisky, with less and less, then more water, things started to get a bit confused. I decided I'd had too much to drink, but with another full glass in front of me I forced it down. I thought I was going to throw up, and went to the toilet. The corridor was narrow, and stretched out in front of me. By the time I found the toilets, after a couple of wrong turns, I felt fine again. I had a piss, washed my face in cold water, and looked at myself in the mirror. You'll do. Two Japanese men, actually probably no more than twenty, pushed past me on the way out. Back in the corridor, all the doors looked the same. Where were we? Twenty something. Twenty three? I counted along the corridor until I heard Jo shouting.
She was trying to grab the controls from Matthew, and I feared for the drinks on the table. I slumped back in my seat and took a deep breath. The air was thick with alcohol and humidity from our drying clothes. It was that, as much as the alcohol, that was making me feel bad. Jo was trying to get some Oasis song, but kept punching in the wrong number and getting a Japanese song instead. Third time round she gave up. The book was wrong, she said. I don't remember which song she wanted, but she started singing it anyway, horribly out of tune without the backing music to mask it. She gave up after the first verse, and there was a moment of silence.
Mari began to wake up and started leafing through the book again. She picked up the other control, the one Jo had forgotten about in her fight with Matthew and put in a song. She had the microphone and started singing. 'Unforgettable'. She needed a partner for the duet, and Vicky picked me. I did my best. I'd heard the song before, and really tried. Across the room, me and Mari were singing to each other. That much alcohol, everything becomes heartfelt.
The song ended, and there was another lull. The book was on the table in front of me, but the effort of the duet had been enough for me. I wanted to go to sleep, but I knew I couldn't. It was only three o'clock. Half past three. The door opened with a crash. "Great, you're still awake. It was Dan, and he had Ben with him. They staggered in and found a seat. "Everyone through there has fallen asleep. Does everyone know Ben? We nodded, said hello.
"Do you want a drink? I hoped they would, because I couldn't face drinking the rest of the whisky alone. I wasn't disappointed. Both of them searched the table for empty glasses and passed them down. Concentrating hard, I poured whisky for both of them. Ben had immediately taken up the controls and put on a Bruce Springsteen song. Immediately the American rock and roll, Ben's enthusiasm ' not so quiet now as he apparently once was ' changed the atmosphere. It caught. Time for some Rolling Stones, show the Yank how rock and roll really should be. Ben laughed. He'd be okay.
I had one microphone, and now Vicky grabbed the other and motioned me to stand up. I wasn't sure I could, but I also couldn't resist. I looked at the screen. 'You're The One That I Want'. I laughed as she started singing, and joined in. Another duet, another girl, yet so much different from the first. Vicky flirted, first with her eyes, then physically, she got close. I pulled away at first, self-conscious, but by the end of the song we had our arms around each other. At the end there was a pause, a pause that could have led to many things. In the end it stayed a pause. A flirtatious look in the eyes, a smile and a "Thank you uttered by both. Then Ben grabbed the microphone from me and launched himself into 'Hotel California'. We had enough energy now to get us through to closing time, but I didn't really need the extra whisky that Dan poured into my glass. I drank it slowly, and I even think I managed to start sobering up before they kicked us out just after five.
Too impatient to wait for the lift we walked, tumbled, stumbled down the seven floors of the fire escape. It took much longer than the lift, but the movement kept us awake. Those who had fallen asleep earlier felt worse now than those who had stayed awake. They'd probably feel better later in the day though. At the bottom of the stairs we took a count, and worked out who was going where, with who. Only me and Vicky were taking the Chuo Line. Strange, as I think it is the busiest commuter line in Tokyo. She made me promise to wake her up if she fell asleep. I promised I would if she did the same. We were going to the same station, though we lived on different sides of it.
We said our goodbyes and see-you-laters and I received several you-lucky-bastards when I said I had the day off. We waited for the train. We had five minutes and Vicky bought a can of Coke from the vending machine at the station. It was a good idea. I did the same. The station machine always has small cans, but even that was good. The journey took twenty minutes and we kept each other awake by talking. We talked about the night we'd just had and the day that lay ahead. I don't remember what we talked about. Opposite us a decidedly ill-looking businessman was slumped in a crumpled suit. He looked like he might be travelling to the end of the line and back again before he got home. It's a common story.
The sun was starting to rise, and the calm as we left the station was eerie. Such a mass of movement, bodies, cars and noise during the day, at this time there were just a few taxis and the little early morning life that existed. Early morning and late night, sometimes it's hard to tell. Yesterday's rain had passed and the sky was clear. The rain had cleared away a lot of the pollution that would no doubt return before midday.
We paused but decided not to go for breakfast at the twenty-four hour Japanese fast-food restaurant, and Vicky bought another can of Coke. She said she'd go to McDonald's for breakfast before work, and I know for her it would be a day of Coke and strong coffee. We'd been through a few together. She headed home and I walked with her. It was out of my way, maybe doubling my journey home, but we were talking, and besides, I had nothing really to hurry home for. It felt good just to be out in the city at that time in the morning. To see what it would look like with fifteen million fewer inhabitants. I think I liked it best at that time of day. Especially with no rush to be anywhere.
I took a circular route home, and the walk certainly helped to clear my head. I fell into bed when I got home and was asleep instantly. My drunken dreams mingled with my memories from the previous night, and I woke trying to work out what had actually happened and what I had made up through the night. I woke with an uneasy, uncertain feeling of guilt, that came from, what? The kiss I could still taste on my lips? The goodnight kiss that lingered just a second too long? Perhaps.
Guilt, yes. Towards Vicky? She had initiated the kiss, had smiled afterwards. Towards Kerry? I hadn't been unfaithful to her. Just a goodnight kiss. To myself? For putting myself in a difficult situation? Perhaps. Perhaps because I had this island in time, this moment in my life that was never meant to last, and I wasn't exploring it fully. Perhaps in a year Vicky would return to Australia, I would go back to Britain. We would never see each other again, or rarely. But just now, she was becoming, not just from one night, though perhaps that was when the realisation hit me, and as I taste the kiss now, I know she is part of what Tokyo is to me. It can't last, I don't want it too. I want to talk to Kerry. I want her to come, to understand, what my life here is like. Perhaps, she said she might visit at Christmas, we'll be able to talk. She'll not forgive me, but I don't think I want to be forgiven. Maybe nothing will happen with Vicky, but I know now that there is more to my life than I had before I came here, and I don't know how things will work out with Kerry.
I enjoy the taste on my lips, and think of what I used to think I knew, and all I didn't know.