It was the small silver chain, hidden
amid various sundries, that brought back the memories of an incident I had long
ago erased from my memory. I had forgotten even keeping the delicate bracelet, made
of two little interlocking snakes. After nearly a decade working at a large
firm in Taipei, the company was expanding and needed someone it could trust to
run its new office in New Delhi. So there I was, packing my belongings by a
late Sunday afternoon, when the glitter caught my eye from between the multidenominational
coins, paid phone bills, and old receipts that had accrued, sediment like, at
the bottom of a storage plastic box.
As
I held the chain between my fingers, the memories came rushing in with a
vividness that caught me by surprise. Her name, which like the incident itself
I had relegated to the dustbin of my memory, came back like an echo through
time: Akiho.
I
had met her—or to be more precise, I think I met her—in Okinawa several years
ago. As a representative of the aforesaid company, I had been dispatched to
Naha to explore business opportunities related, if memory serves, to a port facility
expansion project.
I knew nobody
on the southern Japanese island, and this was my first time visiting. The firm
had put me up for my three nights’ stay at the City Court, a hotel which has left
no mark whatsoever in my memory other than its concrete interior that made me
feel like I was incarcerated in a large, multi-story prison.
I
didn’t go out on my first evening in Naha, choosing instead to grab a lunch box
and a couple of Asahi beer cans at a nearby konbini
and to spend the night watching Japanese TV programs in which, to the merriment
of a studio audience, ordinary people eager to collect prize money tended to
get physically injured. I admit myself taking a guilty pleasure in their
misfortune.
On
the second night I ventured out to discover the city. I’d had a full day of
meetings, followed by a rather alcoholic seafood dinner with officials from the
city government and representatives from a number of prospective clients. After
saying goodbye to my hosts I went back to my hotel room, where I peeled off my
business suit, showered, and slipped into something more comfortable before
heading out. My intention was to find a quiet bar somewhere near the hotel
where I could grab a drink or two while reading a book, as is my wont when I
travel abroad.
It
was 10 p.m. or so when I left the hotel. The night air was warm and laden with
with the dampness and electricity of an approaching tropical storm. The city
was bathed in the sepia of the incandescent lights along the river facing the
hotel. I walked along the bank for a while until I reached a narrow bridge and crossed
it. On the other side I came upon what looked like an entertainment area:
three, four-story white stucco buildings with neon signs on the upper floors. I
forget the name of the establishment I eventually selected, or the reason why I
chose that particular one. It was named the Tropicana,
or something along those lines.
Stairs
led to the bar, which was located on the fourth and uppermost floor of the
building, but I chose to take the narrow elevator at the bottom instead. Judging
from the advertisements downstairs, it seemed that every floor was occupied by
a bar. In fact the entire neighborhood appeared to be comprised of such establishments,
yet there was hardly anyone about.
The
small elevator, which couldn’t have accommodated more than three adults, slowly
carried me upstairs. The doors parted and I walked through a curtain made of
seashells tied along strings; the rattling somehow made me think of little
Haitian percussion items made with animal bones.
It
was a cozy establishment, with a handful of tables, red sofas, and a narrow bar
at the back. Blue and red lampshades created a tenebrous atmosphere. Eighties
rock music was playing in the background. As all the tables were occupied, I
headed for the bar. Only one stool was taken, by an elderly Japanese man who
was in deep conversation with a middle-aged woman behind the bar. On his lap
was a samisen, a traditional
three-chorded instrument. I sat down and, stealing the woman’s attention for a
second, ordered a beer. She absentmindedly poured me an Orion, the local brew,
and immediately plunged back into her conversation with the man. Behind her,
the shelves were filled with bottles of whisky and other liqueurs. I pulled my
paperback out of my rucksack and began reading, occasionally taking a sip from
my beer.
A
few minutes later a different woman appeared and leaned over the bar right
across from me, exposing her ample breasts.
“You’re
from out of town?” she asked in passable English.
“Yes,”
I replied. “Taiwan.”
Seeing
her surprise, I explained that I was originally from — but that I worked in
Taiwan. Exile plays tricks on one’s personality, and after years of living
abroad, where I was from had become a
rather elastic concept.
She
was a slightly large built with a stunningly beautiful face, a smile that drew
you in, and eyes that mesmerized. Her low-cut décolletage also made it
impossible to avoid looking her breasts, which beckoned like mermaids. Despite
all these attributes, it was her fragrance that I remember the most, a
concoction of exotic flowers and some other scent I just couldn’t place that
seemed to fill the universe around me.
Her
name was Akiho. Originally from Osaka, she had migrated southwards looking for
work. She had been studying English for a few months, which made our
conversation easier, and her dream, she said, was to move to the United States one
day.
It
became clear that I wasn’t meant to read my book. Akiho paid no attention to
the other customers and concentrated on me alone. I ordered a second drink and
she asked if I would treat her to one as well, which I did. She eventually
joined me on my side of the bar and sat next to me on a stool, swiveling to face
me. I remember she had a peculiar way of moving around, as if her feet weren’t exactly
touching the ground. We spoke for what felt like hours, pouring out our life
stories, how I had abandoned a job in government back home and taken my chances
in Asia, how work had taken over my life, her mother’s suicide, her abusive
father, her deep depression and her dreams of a new life abroad. We were only
interrupted once when the locals clamored for me to join in karaoke, which
Akiho’s insistence made impossible for me to refuse. I sang some song I forget
by a British band and was accompanied on the samisen by the elderly man at the bar, who, as Akiho told me, was a
legendary player across Okinawa.
Little
by little, I felt I was being drawn into Akiho’s spider’s web, and I was aware
that the alcohol was playing tricks with my judgment. Around midnight,
remembering that I had early meetings in the morning, I asked for the bill. The
sum was extravagant and I barely had enough yen in my wallet to cover for my
evening. It suddenly dawned on me that I was also paying for Akiho’s time, that
she hadn’t simply joined me because she liked me. She and the manager, the older
woman, sensed my discomfiture as I counted the bills and nearly emptied my
wallet. I paid, got up, and walked out.
Akiho
followed me outside.
“Are
you OK?” she asked, clearly concerned.
“Yes,
I am,” I replied meekly. “I have an early start tomorrow and should go get some
sleep.”
“Do
you have anywhere to stay?”
Whether
this was an invitation to take our encounter to the next step or stemmed from
genuine concern after I’d evidently spent all my money, I did not know. I also
didn’t know if she really liked me or simply wanted more of my yen, which made
me uncomfortable. I had nothing against prostitutes, but something in me has
always made it impossible for me to pay for sex. Never overly popular with
women, I’d often sought confirmation through their having genuine attraction
for me; to pay to go to bed with a woman seemed like an admission of defeat,
proof of my shortcomings.
“Yes,”
I said. “I’m staying at a hotel nearby.” I hesitated, fighting an urge to
invite her over. I decided against it, telling myself that she probably couldn’t
walk away from her work anyway.
She
must have sensed my hesitation. She came closer and kissed me on the cheek, her
perfume threatening to steal my soul. Around us, the night was still bathed in
amber, the air moist and the night eerily silent.
“I
had a great time tonight,” she whispered in my ear. “Thank you.” Akiho grabbed
my hand and deposited a little chain in it. She looked me straight in the eyes.
“Something to remember me by,” she said. With that, she turned around and went
back inside. I stood there for a while, fighting an urge to go back in, but
then I remembered I had no money left. The angels of my nature prevailed over
my demons and I desultorily tottered down the stairs, feeling lonelier than I
had felt in a long time. I walked, a forlorn figure along the river, and went
back to my hotel, all my senses still charged with my recent encounter.
I
barely slept all night. Try as I might, Akiho kept haunting me, the smell of
her perfume mockingly radiating from my cheek.
The
following day—my last in Okinawa—was again full of meetings, which I attended
in a daze. I couldn’t stop thinking about Akiho. By dinner time, I’d decided I
would return to the bar, and this time I would take her home and claim her as
mine, of her own free will or as part of a transaction, I didn’t care. Some
fever had overtaken me and for once in my life I was willing to break my rule.
Once
again I had to attend an interminable dinner with various businessmen, but my
mind was elsewhere and I extricated myself from the painful affair at the first
opportunity. I ran back to the hotel, cleaned up, changed clothes, grabbed more
money and retraced my steps along the river, across the bridge, and to the bar.
By the time I arrived, it was 9 p.m. or thereabouts. I went up the elevator,
through the seashell curtains, my heart pounding with feverish expectation.
I
looked around the bar but couldn’t find her. The samisen master occupied the same stool, and the mama-san was once again behind the bar,
occasionally serving drinks but otherwise busy talking with the musician. There
was no sign of Akiho. Thinking that maybe I was too early and that her shift
had not begun, I grabbed a seat, greeted the old man, and ordered a beer.
“Nice
to see you again, young man,” the musician said.
More
than an hour passed by and still there was no sign of Akiho. It suddenly dawned
on me that she might not be working that night, or that maybe she had taken
ill. Had I missed my chance? Would I see her again? A strange panic overtook me
and I waved the manager over.
“Excuse
me,” I said. “Could you tell me if the young woman who was with me last evening
is working tonight?”
The
woman frowned.
“Young
woman?”
“Yes,
the young woman—Akiho?”
The
mention of her name brought a reaction I certainly had not expected. Her face
gripped with fright, the mama-san took
a step backwards and bumped against the bottles behind her, noisily tipping a
few over. The musician was now paying attention to our conversation and immediately
shuffled to the stool next to me.
“There
is nobody by that name here,” the mama-san
said, her voice trembling as she rearranged the bottles.
“But
surely…”
The
musician cut me off. He, too, was visibly shaken. “Young man, I have been a
customer here for several years, and I can assure you that no person by the
name of Akiho works here nowadays.”
“What
about the woman I was with last night?”
“You
weren’t with anybody last night,” the man said. “You spent the entire evening
reading that book of yours.”
“Now cut it
out. This isn’t funny,” he said with finality before returning to his stool and
downing his whisky.
Surely
they were jesting. The previous night hadn’t been the product of my imagination
or drunkenness. I had proof of my encounter, of Akiho’s existence. It was right
there, in my pocket.
I took the
bracelet out and dangled it before their eyes.
“Akiho
gave me this,” I said.
The
woman screamed, and the musician rushed to her side of the bar just in time to
catch her before she swooned. It was a wail filled with such horror that I dropped
all my money on the bar, quickly fled the place and ran back to my hotel. The
following morning I flew back to Taiwan and locked this peculiar experience
away in the cabinet of my memory.
