Roppongi, p.5
Roppongi, page 5
“Should have come over to lunch.”
Benny standing next to him now, 6’2”. Chrome dome. Still in good shape though. Needed to get off the cigarettes. Wouldn’t listen. Just told Dan to lose weight. Pissed him off. He could be ignorant at times. God, the whole world could be.
Dan deciding not to mention the commercial. It was good work, and he didn’t want any competition. Part time work for gaijins wasn’t as good as it used to be. Besides, Benny was doing fine with his English school. As many of the expats had done, Benny Carter had become an English teacher upon leaving the military. Teaching English for a Japanese company really a form of indentured servitude. Benny had played his cards right though. Made some contacts. Saved his money. Now he owned his own school. Helped out Art by throwing him some translation work. Good man. A survivor. They all were, thought Dan, with a sudden flush of camaraderie.
“I had Mongolian before I came over. Great spread down the street. Hard to hold down the Mongolian though!”
“Jesus, the same joke again.”
Benny took another gulp of the Courvoisier.
“I saw Keiko today.”
Dan taken aback. Keiko had not been in the Sanno since last New Year’s. No one had seen her, in fact. There were rumors. Weird friends. Nothing solid though. Adam never mentioned her, and one didn’t mention her in front of Adam.
“How is she?”
“How is she?” The voice loud and guttural now. The cigarettes and alcohol maybe doing some damage.
“Couldn’t tell ya, Dan. She breezed past me. It was eerie, like she was another person. Just stared straight ahead. I could tell she recognized me. At least something inside her recognized me. She was dressed in black, all black. No make-up. That was weird. She never saw the light of day without make-up when she was with Adam. ‘Hey baby,’ I said. Couldn’t even finish. Just flew past me. Jumped in a cab and she was gone. It was her though. I loved that little girl. God, what happened to her, Dan?”
“Adam was an asshole. You know how he could be.”
“Yea, but they always got back together. Dan, this was another person I saw today. I got goosebumps. I can’t get that look out of my mind. Hopeless. No feeling. Like the devil was inside her.”
8
It was late. He should start the trip back to his small apartment, Art thought as he looked at Rose with a longing that could not be quenched. The sumo had been uneventful. Takanahano had beaten Akebono again. A leg thrust that brought the man-child crashing to the Dai. Art would always believe that the Japanese would never let a gaijin succeed completely at sumo. After all, it wasn’t just a sport. It was a national institution. A religion for God’s sake.
The drama outside the television had been predictable as well. Rose had been distant. After the initial tirade over her job status, she seemed to withdraw, to leave the scene. Other things on her mind. Not Art. Adam, of course. He’d be back in a few days. Ready for the booze again. Dried out for a week. Rough and ready to go. A bizarre triangle. Rose, Art and Adam. Of course Keiko the tragic missing part of the equation.
“Well, Rose, I’m off. Got to say a few things first though. I’d hate myself if I didn’t.”
“Yes, Art.”
A look perhaps of disappointment. Did she want him to just leave? No matter, he would say his piece.
“I love you, girl. Damn, I said it. Feel like a damn fool. But, that’s it. It’s out there.”
The unspoken now spoken. Lines drawn.
“Art, shut up.”
She cut him off with a kiss to the cheek. Held him. The loins again aching. Was she grinding against him? Couldn’t tell. She moved away before there was time.
“Art, you will always have a special place in my heart.”
He was finished. He knew it and swallowed hard.
“You are the older brother I never had.”
The coup de grace. She had killed him.
“I need you to be there for me, Art. Please be there for me. I can’t be what you want me to be but…”
Art sensed the dread “F” word coming, tried to think of something before it came but too late.
“I want you to be my friend.”
It hit him like a .50 caliber round at close range. Devastated but not entirely surprised.
“I’ll always be there for you, baby,” all he could say as he grabbed his hat and turned to leave.
“I think I’ll stop at the Sanno on my way back. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Adam will be back in a few days. We’ll all get together this weekend, maybe.”
A lift to her voice now. Eagerness mixed with elation.
“That would be fine.”
He opened the door and was gone.
Rose sat on the bed for what seemed like a lifetime after Art had left. Adam would be back on Friday. He had come to her the night before he left. Heavy drinking with Art and Dan at the Sanno. He cried. It was Keiko again. It would always be Keiko of course. As only a woman could know, Rose realized in her weary heart that Adam was deeply, tragically in love with Keiko. A dangerous foreboding love but all-consuming nonetheless.
Human beings were a tragic and foolish lot, she thought. What did Jagger say? “You can’t always get what you want.” So true. She would never get Adam. Not the way she wanted at least. Thirty-nine, her biological clock winding down. There would be no white picket fence with babies. Too little time. Too many mistakes had been made. No chance for a “Do over.” Maybe in the next life but not now. Adam was unattainable and she could never love Art the way he wanted, deserved to be loved.
She looked at the pills. Sitting there, the bottle seemed to nod in agreement. A come hither look, perhaps. She was tired. The wine she snuck during the sumo had hit her. Head spinning just a bit now. It was really the only way she could get through a meeting with Art these days. He didn’t seem to notice her trips to the small kitchen for a quick nip. Maybe he didn’t want to notice.
Yes, Adam would return on Friday, but what of it? Keiko would always be between them. No real chance for her and Adam. No real chance for a life for Rose Carney. Her mind racing now. She grabbed the pills. Not thinking. Brought the bottle to her mouth and then…threw them to the floor. Screaming.
Not this way. Never this way. Not the way Mother had gone so many years before.
Rose Carney would carry on.
As long as we are breathing, honey.
Dad’s words coming back now to save her.
As long as we can take a breath, we’re in the game, Rose, hon. At least for another day.
Finally exhaustion overcame her.. No bad dreams on this night. At least for another day. She slept.
9
Art stood on the subway for the short trip to Hiroo station. He would stop at the Sanno for one. Hell, maybe two. The train was crowded as usual. Salarymen and housewives with children. The salarymen returning, many of them from weekend trysts with their mistresses. A reward for taking care of the family over the years. The Japanese culture. What a paradox, Art thought. It never ceased to amaze him. A society which on the one hand could worship honor and the ability to tell the truth but on the other hand could look the other way while one cheated on one’s wife.
It was all about saving face, Art realized after years of living and working here. It was not so much about telling the truth but rather about not getting caught when one told a lie. Never get caught. Never lose face. The salaryman could spend time with his nubile twenty-something mistress as long as the wife did not know of it. As long as he did not flaunt the relationship. All about saving face.
The way of business as well. Art had seen many young Western executives with dreams of striking it rich in Tokyo, feeling that they only had to be truthful with their Japanese counterparts to succeed. Be upfront and they would have no problems. The Japanese are an honest people. A breath of fresh air compared to the decadent land in the West where the likes of Donald Trump, Bill Gates and Warren Buffet held court, the conventional wisdom.
Of course, these young dandies invariably went home with their tails between their legs because they failed to understand what Art knew. With the Japanese, business is war. Any bit of lying and deceit was okay in order to achieve the end result – Victory. The deal was the thing, and the Japanese would do anything to win. As long as they were not caught in the lie. This was the difference. This was the true meaning of honor in Japan, “Do not get caught.” To be caught in a lie, not the actual lying, was the ultimate disgrace.
Art smiled as he thought of this. What a world. Oh well, none of his business anyway. He was surprised at himself actually. How he didn’t seem to be as devastated as he thought he should be over Rose. Maybe he had known all along that there was no real chance for him. Not the way he wanted it anyway. Just needed some closure. Closure is what he had got. So be it.
Actually, Rose and he were so much alike in this respect. No chance for poor Rose either. Adam loved Keiko, and Rose loved Adam. The eternal triangle. Art loved them both. That’s why he could survive. Adam the son he never had and Rose, well, not a daughter. She would never be that to him. He cared though. Always would. Loved her. Would protect her to his death.
10
“You will not kill him, Mr. Ambassador. The One thinks of Mr. Bender as a very valuable commodity. The test of his trustworthiness seems to have paid off. Our sources have no indication that he has reported your little meeting to his supervisors. In any case, The One believes that we can all benefit in the end from mutual cooperation.”
Peter O’Mara began to object, but the look from Goro Atashi, lawyer and right hand man to Shoko Asahara, said that it would be fruitless. The ambassador made a mental note of when and where he would eventually pay Bender the retribution he deserved for not only the current swelling in his crotch but also his overall disrespect. He never did like the wiry little bastard. Who could trust a man who doesn’t drink, he mused.
The meeting that Jack Bender had arranged in progress now. It included Shoko Asahara, Goro Atashi, and Peter O’Mara, Irish Ambassador to Japan and informal liaison between the Cult and the Irish Republican Army. Jack himself not present. Atashi had told Bender that it would be in his best interests and the security interests of the Cult if he were not there. In any case, he had assured him the ambassador would be dealt with. Atashi addressing the Irishman now. Asahara rarely speaking at these meetings.
“Mr. Bender will be very useful to us and to you, Mr. Ambassador. A red herring, I believe the Americans call it. A way of diverting attention from the real plan to another, shall we say, lesser plan.”
O’Mara taken by surprise by this. Uncomfortable. Off-balance now. Unknown territory for the ambassador.
“Forgive me, Atashi San, but how do I know that you are not playing Bender and myself against each other for your own gain?”
A thin smile from the Japanese. A knowing, perhaps conspiratorial one.
“You do not know, Mr. Ambassador. That is the beauty of the plan. The genius of The One. Fail-Safe - to borrow a term from one of my favorite American films. Yes, Mr. Ambassador, it is better this way. Now to the real business at hand. The plans for the Tokyo water purification system. You have an update for us? The One is very anxious to hear your input on this issue.
O’Mara a drunk but still fairly lucid. Enough to realize that Bender was a pawn. No immediate gratification from this since, of course, he himself might be one as well. The plans to contaminate the Tokyo water supply with ricin obviously unknown to Bender. The man being used. Yes, a pawn. The Cult expert in using people. People in various stages of misery. In Bender’s case, it was his demons that came forth anytime the anniversary of Hiroshima was marked. O’Mara knew that the man’s wife had been there. Another bit of information provided by Adam Welsh by way of a fifth or so of Jack Daniels. God, he wished the boy would get off that toxic stuff. Graduate to the choice of the immortals, Joyce and Company, Irish Whiskey.
“Yes, you will give us some news now, Mr. Ambassador. Please. Entertain us. It has been a very uneventful day. The One is not happy. Please make me happy.”
The hot, rancid breath of Shoko Asahara, leader of the Aum Cult, touching Peter O’Mara’s face. Inches away now. Hands out of view but busy below the table. Leaning over in excited anticipation. Like a little boy, thought O’Mara.
“So nice to see you, Asahara San.”
Atashi flinching ever so slightly at the pedestrian salutation used by the Irishman. No matter. The ignorance of the Westerners would be tolerated for the good of the end. The final solution as it were. In any case, Asahara did not seem fazed. Staring into space. Waiting for the answer to his original inquiry. Despite his bizarre façade, the man had the uncanny ability to stay “on message,” thought Atashi.
“Yes, the business at hand. Two of the most efficient elements of the Provisional Irish Republican Army are in place as we speak. Final preparations should be finished by week’s end. The logistics are the only piece of the puzzle to be completed.”
Atashi nodding approvingly. The One stopping his self-gratification suddenly. Looking directly into O’Mara’s eyes.
“Please, Mr. Ambassador. Tell us the plan once again. It makes my heart sing the way you present it. Please.”
The man disconcerting. O’Mara feeling violated. The irony lost on him. It happened every time he was near Asahara. It bothered the Irishman. Not used to being intimidated. Smooth as ice. Not now though. Not here with the Madman. He struggled to bring himself together. He needed to find the coolness. The consequences unthinkable if he failed.
“Of course Omnipotent One. While our French and Middle Eastern friends are concentrating on the sarin agenda, we along with our brothers in Al Qaeda will be doing things to the Tokyo water supply that were unimaginable even a few short months ago. If all goes as planned, millions will perish within a week after our experts have released the ricin into the reservoir system. I believe Atashi San has recruited a scientist to coordinate the project with my I.R.A. associates. I must say, Asahara San, your subway diversion is a stroke of genius.”
“Ahhhh yes. Yes. My, my. So sorry, gentleman. Please excuse me. I must wash up. You do understand. Thank you so much for the briefing, Mr. Ambassador. It has done much to bring excitement back into my day. I bid you adieu, gentleman.”
Having finished his masturbation, Shoko Asahara made his exit. The ambassador could only stare after him. No words applicable to this situation. He merely looked at Atashi for perhaps an answer. None forthcoming. As if nothing had happened, Atashi addressed O’Mara.
“Yes, well done. Very well thought out. We have great confidence in you, Mr. Ambassador. One more thing. For security reasons it has been decided that no communication between your organization and Aum will take place until after our diversionary tactic is carried out.”
“The sarin…”
“Yes, please, no further discussion on this point,” Atashi interrupted. “I’m sure you understand.”
The Ambassador rising to leave now. Atashi with one last instruction.
“We have completed the indoctrination of the courier who will handle the ricin. He will be arriving in Ireland before the night falls. Please be sure that your people treat him well. Although his wife and child are being tended to with the utmost respect by The One himself at one of our country estates, he will no doubt be suffering some anxiety. Perhaps a couple of pints of your Guinness will balance him a bit. Not too many though. Not all of us have the capacity for alcohol and some of life’s other vices that you have, my dear ambassador.”
Atashi did have a way of keeping one unnerved, thought O’Mara, deciding not to make too much out of this last remark. Responding in a business-like manner instead. In the end it was only business, thought O’Mara. A tool he used to let himself sleep at night. This along with the booze and the young men and boys.
“Yes, Atashi San. All is in place. My associates in Dublin will take care of the courier. No worries.”
11
“Well, of course if it wasn’t for the turncoat, Michael Collins, we wouldn’t be sitting here crying in our Guinness.”
“Aye, but we’ve had some great bards though.”
A pub. Any pub in Ireland. It could have been any establishment where men drink and seek the validation of false dreams. The Stags Head this day. The two figures sitting at the corner table, “three sheets to the wind” yet lucid. The mark of the practiced drunk. Tolerance built up over the years. Shamus Burlie and Rafferty Grogan. Salts of the Earth, every mother’s son and career Irish Republican Army. Trained killers each in their own way, Burlie the Bomb –Maker and Grogan the Water Treatment Specialist.
Shamus continuing his tirade against the traitor, Michael Collins of the early Irish Republican Army and Sinn Fein who signed over Northern Ireland to the British in the early 1900s. Many think he was duped into the signing, but the men imbibing here today would have none of it. Michael Collins would always be a traitor and a British lackey.
