Idoru

“Tetsujin Building,” Masahiko said. “Monkey Boxing was not there.”

“What is it?”

“Osaka Tin Toy Institute,” he said. “Monkey Boxing this way.” He was consulting the swarming squiggles on his control-face. He pointed along the street, past a fast-food franchise called California Reich, its trademark a stylized stainless-steel palm tree against one of those twisted-cross things like the meshbacks had drawn on their hands in her class on European history. Which had pissed the teacher off totally, but Chia couldn’t remember them drawing any palm trees. Then two of them had gotten into a fight over which way you were supposed to draw the twisted parts on the cross, pointing left or pointing right, and one of them had zapped the other with a stungun, the kind they were always making out of those disposable flashcameras, and the teacher had to call the police.

“Ninth floor, Wet Leaves Fortune Building,” he said. He set off down the crowded pavement. Chia followed, wondering how long jet lag lasted, and how you were supposed to separate it from just being tired.

Maybe what she was feeling now was what her civics program at her last school had called culture shock. She felt like everything, every little detail of Tokyo, was just different enough to create a kind of pressure, something that built up against her eyes, as though they’d grown tired of having to notice all the differences: a little sidewalk tree that was dressed up in a sort of woven basketwork jacket, the neon-avocado color of a payphone, a serious-looking girl with round glasses and a gray sweatshirt that said “Free Vagina.” She’d been keeping her eyes extra-wide to take all these things in, like they’d be processed eventually, but now her eyes were tired and the differences were starting to back up. At the same time, she felt that if she squinted, maybe, just the right way, she could make all this turn back into Seattle, some downtown part she’d walked through with her mother. Homesick. The strap of her bag digging into her shoulder each time her left foot came down.

Masahiko turned a corner. There didn’t seem to be alleys in Tokyo, not in the sense that there were smaller streets behind the big streets, the places where they put out the garbage, and there weren’t any stores. There were smaller streets, and smaller ones behind those, but you couldn’t guess what you’d find there: a shoe-repair place, an expensive-looking hair salon, a chocolate-maker, a magazine stand where she noticed a copy of that same creepy comic with the woman all wrapped up like that.

Another corner and they were back on what she took to be a main street. Cars here, anyway. She watched one turn into a street-level opening and vanish. Her scalp prickled. What if that were the way up to Eddie’s club, that Whiskey Clone? That was right around here, wasn’t it? How big was this Shinjuku place, anyway? What if the Graceland pulled up beside her? What if Eddie and Maryalice were out looking (hr her?

They were passing the opening the car had disappeared into. She looked in and saw that it was a kind of gas station. “Where is it?” she asked.

“Wet Leaves Fortune,” he said, pointing up.

Tall and narrow, square signs jutting out at the corners of each floor. It looked like almost all the others, but she thought Eddie’s had been bigger. “How do we get up there?”

He led her into a kind of lobby, a ground-floor arcade lined with tiny stall-like shops. Too many lights, mirrors, things for sale, all blurring together. Into a cramped elevator that smelled of stale smoke. He said something in Japanese and the door closed. The elevator sang them a little song to tinkling music. Masahiko looked irritated.

At the ninth floor the door opened on a dust-covered man with a black headband sagging over his eyes. He looked at Chia. “If you’re the one from the magazine,” he said, “you’re three days early.” He pulled the headband off and wiped his face with it. Chia wasn’t sure if he was Japanese or not, or what age he might be. His eyes were brown, spectacularly bloodshot under deep brows, and his black hair, pulled straight back and secured by the band, was streaked with gray.

Behind him there was a constant banging and confusion, men yelling in Japanese. Someone pushing a high-sided orange plastic cart crammed with folded, plaster-flecked cables, shards of plastic painted with gold gilt and Chinese red. Part of a suspended ceiling let go with a twanging of wires, crashed to the floor. More cries.

“I’m looking for Monkey Boxing,” Chia said.

“Darling,” the man said, “you’re a bit late.” He wore a black paper coverall, its sleeves torn off at the elbows, revealing arms tracked with blobby blue lines and circles, some kind of faux-primitive decoration. He wiped his eyes and squinted at her. “You aren’t from the magazine in London?”

“No,” Chia said.

“No,” he agreed. “You seem a bit young even for them.”

“This is Monkey Boxing?”

Another section of ceiling came down. The dusty man squinted at her. “Where did you say you were from?”

“Seattle.”

“You heard about Monkey Boxing in Seattle?”

“Yes…”

He smiled wanly. “That’s fun: heard about it in Seattle. You’re on the club scene yourself, dear?”

“I’m Chia McKenzie—”

“Jun. I’m called Jun, dear. Owner, designer, DJ. But you’re too late. Sorry. All that’s left of Monkey Boxing’s going out in these gomi-carts. Landfill now. Like every other broken dream. Had a lovely run while it lasted, better part of three months. You heard about our Shaolin Temple theme? That whole warrior-monk thing?” He sighed extravagantly. “It was heaven. Every instant of it. The Okinawan bartenders shaved their heads, after the first three nights, and started to wear the orange robes. I surpassed myself, in the booth. It was a vision, you understand? But that’s the nature of the floating world, isn’t it? We arein the water trade, after all, and one tries to be philosophical. But who is your friend here? I like his hair…”

“Masahiko Mimura,” Chia said.

“I likethat black-clad boho butch bedsit thing,” the man said. “Mishima and Dietrich on the same halfshell, if it’s done right.”

Masahiko frowned.

“If Monkey Boxing is gone,” Chia said, “what will you do now?”

Jun retied his headband. He looked less pleased. “Another club, but I won’t be designing. They’ll say I’ve sold out. Suppose I have. I’ll still be managing the space, very nice salary and an apartment along with it, but the concept…” He shrugged.

“Were you here the night Rez told them he wanted to marry the idoru?”

His brow creased, behind the headband. “I had to sign agreements,” he said, “You aren’tfrom the magazine?”

“No.”

“If he hadn’t come in that night, I suppose we might still be up and ru

“And he came? Rez?”

“Absolutely. An hour later, there he is. Smiling, shaking hands, signing things if you asked him to, though there wasn’t too burning a demand, actually. Four women with him, two other men if you didn’t count the minder. Very nice black suit. Yohji. Bit the worse for wear. Rez, I mean. Been out to di