Gaijin Cowgirl (3): On a crowded train

He might want to paint the American girl next.

(Previous chapter, or start at the beginning.)

Top clients were a never-ending topic of gossip among the hostesses, but no one was talked about more than this one. Young beyond his age, irrefutably a gentleman and generous with his tips, he would have been the talk of the club anyway, but he was no mere rich man. He was the Painter!

And, they twittered jealously, he might want to paint the American girl next.

The old man lavished most of his attention – and therefore his money – on foreigners. There was a ceaseless flow of beautiful white women in and out of these clubs. As they neared the end of their contracts, many of them agreed to meet the old smoothie for a final, private session in his studio.

The Japanese women resented being shut out. Perhaps it was one of these envious hostesses who had started the rumor that these paintings were dirty enough to make Mama-san blush.

The gossipers had to admit that the Painter’s flirting remained within gentlemanly bounds. Honorable military record, corporate leader, esteemed citizen. This was a man known to have close relations with friends of the royal family. He had an impeccable name and exhibited a buttoned-up flair.

But his entourage was different. The men he traveled with were all a generation younger, in their forties and fifties. They lacked Takahashi’s panache. None spoke English or requested foreign hostesses. They could have been business executives or politicians or bureaucrats, but they lacked sophistication. The brand of cigarettes they smoked, their shapeless suits and cheap loafers – these guys were low class. When they weren’t making schoolboy jokes, they just melted into the scenery.

Once or twice there would be a man in the entourage who was missing the last digit of his pinkie. Everyone knew that yakuza gangsters who erred and angered their bosses would cut their own fingers to atone for the misdeed. Occasionally these types mixed with businessmen and bureaucrats; no one saw the benefit in commenting on it, as Val figured out the first time she asked.

Takahashi’s associates came and went like a blurry carousel but there was always one man at the Painter’s side, and he was the meanest of the lot: Mr. Yoshino. His appearance had more focus; he slicked his hair back and wore big square glasses. His narrow eyes never smiled, never even blinked. His crooked nose had probably been smashed in more than once, though all his fingers remained intact.

Yoshino didn’t share jokes. He drank and smoked, and drank and smoked some more, but no one could tell he was drunk until the very end of the night when it was time to leave. Even then his comportment was remarkable. The women said those eyes of his that never blinked, never even closed at night. He didn’t dare sleep, not when he was keeping a lookout for his sensei.

As January shivered into February, Takahashi came to request Val’s company more and more. The other hostesses resented her, but also swarmed around her, so that one of Takahashi’s companions would buy them drinks all night.

* * *

Fingers resting on her thigh, the hairs on their backs turned silver; the thump of the disco beat outside the room; the mellow yellow resin in her tumbler: just another night at Cowboy. But tonight Suki was more drunk than usual. One of the men had insisted she take glass after glass. At least when he was drinking, he wasn’t trying to serenade her with truly awful Western pop songs.

Peals of laughter came from the American blonde as the Painter danced her across the room and bent her backwards. And from across the table sat that bastard Yoshino, drinking Scotch neat, his cruel eyes staring up Suki’s short black skirt.

It was the kind of messy night that was rare for the Painter and his entourage. The old man’s dignity usually kept things in check. Takahashi, though, had really plied Val with whisky. They were all going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow.

The drunkard who was Suki’s date for the evening wanted to light another cigarette. He pulled out his pack and spilled cigarettes on the floor. As Suki leaned over to help him pick them up, she nearly swooned. She had to rest a hand on the couch. They had made her drink bourbon, which she hated. She was going to throw up.

“Yes,” said Takahashi to Val in English, “I must paint you.”

Suki had never spoken to Val before, but had kept close to the American to be included in the Painter’s soirees. She had heard the rumors but hadn’t believed all that stuff about portraits. Hearing those words, though, made her look up in alarm, her fingers fumbling for loose cigarettes. Something, a warning, penetrated her brain, and she turned her gaze on Yoshino, whose eyes drilled back at her.

In Japanese he hissed, “You understand English.”

“No, no I don’t…what did you say? Excuse me.” Suddenly scooping up those cigarettes was very important.

Yoshino stood. He looked angry. “You heard me, you little sneak.”

Takahashi slowed down his dance with Val. “What’s wrong, Yoshino?” he asked in Japanese. The American couldn’t understand the words but she saw right away that Yoshino was angry.

“Sensei, this girl has pretended all along she doesn’t understand English. But she does.”

The old man shrugged and resumed his dance. “She’s harmless.”

Yoshino didn’t back down. “She’s been with us many times, with you and the American. She understands what you say.”

Takahashi, head leaning on Val’s bosom, said, “I’ve never said anything in English that cannot be said in Japanese.”

“So why does this one act like she has a secret?”

Yoshino had never appeared intoxicated, but now his face was purple and his thick glasses magnified his eyes into a mean red.

“My cigarettes,” mumbled Suki’s tottering date.

“Do you speak English?” Yoshino challenged her.

Suki didn’t know what to do. Why did it matter? Why had she denied it? She stammered, “Yes, I speak a little English.” She wanted to say it meant nothing, she simply hadn’t bothered to use it when only the Painter spoke it, and then only to Val. But she was so terrified of Yoshino in her wobbly state that she couldn’t find her voice. If only she were sober…she could easily explain anything…such a meaningless argument….

“You see?” Yoshino cried triumphantly.

Takahashi stopped his dance, leaving Val perplexed, and looked at Suki. “She doesn’t look like a problem to me.”

“She’s a dishonest little whore,” Yoshino said. “Sensei, I think we should ask Odama about her. Just to be prudent.”

Suki’s eyes widened. They knew Mr. Odama, the owner of Cowboy?

“Please, honorable customers,” she slurred, half-trying to rise, “I have nothing to hide.”

But Takahashi, perhaps not wanting to embarrass his loyal subordinate, gave Yoshino a curt nod. “You’re right, Yoshino. Can’t be too careful these days.” Yoshino was already opening his cell phone.

Val said, “Hey, what’s going on?”

“Nothing, sweetheart,” the Painter said to her in English. “Your friend there isn’t feeling well, that’s all.”

Val said to Suki, “You okay?”

The anger in Yoshino’s determined eyes… “Odama-san,” he said into his phone.

Odama: Suki couldn’t believe it. What kind of trouble had she gotten into? What had she done? The booze seethed in her belly. She couldn’t help herself.

Val leaned toward her. “Hey, hon, you don’t look so good.”

Suki covered her mouth and bolted. She made it to the ladies’ room, but not to the sink, and vomited across the tiled floor.

When she returned ten minutes later, her throat raw and her face pallid, she saw Mama-san bowing to Yoshino and Takahashi inside the VIP room. Several Japanese hostesses were lined up, waiting to be selected, which made it clear that Suki’s services would no longer be required. But she could not simply disappear. Apologies were now warranted. Suki trembled as she approached; she had to stop, leaning on one hand pressing the back of a couch.

Mama-san’s rough gesture ordered her to return to the VIP room, where hostesses scurried to fill drinks and light cigarettes, chirping in falsetto voices to calm the men. Takahashi sat nonchalantly beside Val. The other men, including Yoshino, had settled into their couches.

Suki bowed to the Painter, then to the other men. “I humbly apologize,” she repeated. “Please forgive my sickness.”

“Why don’t you have a rest,” Mama-san told her, officially dismissing her. Suki left the VIP room. Behind her Val, presumably oblivious, was telling an amusing story into the Painter’s ear. Takahashi and Yoshino both watched Suki depart.

“Yamauchi,” snapped Mama-san behind her, “in my office.”

Suki obediently walked ahead of the matron.

Mama-san left the door open behind them and sat at her small desk where she kept the accounts. She lit a cigar. “You have created an enormous amount of trouble for me, Yamauchi. Mr. Odama is going to come tonight and he’s going to speak to you. He’s going to ask you questions and you’re going to answer. And then you’re going to leave here and you are never going to return.”

“But I don’t understand—”

“It doesn’t matter if you understand! Mr. Yoshino doesn’t like you anymore. President Takahashi has enemies. All powerful men do. He comes here because he feels safe here. Here he is among friends, and Mr. Odama sees to that. But you have held back on us, girl.”

“I speak English. So what?”

“It doesn’t matter so what. It matters because Mr. Yoshino doesn’t know what you hear. He doesn’t know who you talk to. He doesn’t know what information the President says to a foreign slut could be useful to others.”

“This is ridiculous. I haven’t heard anything different than what Benson-san has.”

“Benson is a foreigner. She doesn’t know anybody. René found her, like he finds all the other tramps, and she’s harmless. But you…I know you’re nothing but a worthless piece of ass, but Yoshino…you should not have alarmed him. You don’t realize what you’ve done. Now Mr. Odama is coming. And he’s going to be angry that an important customer has had to request his intervention. He’s going to be angry with me. And he’s going to be especially angry with you.”

Outside the little office they could see the Painter’s entourage make its exit. It was not that late, only a little past midnight. The old man sometimes stayed out until two in the morning, drawing on mysterious reservoirs of energy. He kissed Val’s hand, then her cheek, and said something into her ear that made her smile and nod. Val and the other women gave perfunctory bows as another hostess guided them to the door, where two more women bowed and piped their routine good-byes.

“Wait here,” Mama-san told her.

Suki caught Val’s glance as the American turned from the Painter. Then Val broke off and headed for the bar. Suki hadn’t the faintest idea of what was in the American’s head.

She wondered if she should just run. Make a break for it. She was already fired, so why wait around for a thug like Odama? She stood up but Mama-san had already anticipated this: the office door shut just as Suki reached it. There was a click of a turning lock. There was no latch or knob from within, just a keyhole. She banged on the door but the heavy thumping of the music smothered her protests.

Angry and frightened, the edge of her hand smarting from hitting the door, she collapsed in Mama-san’s chair.

Paperwork covered the desk. Invoices, bills. She stared at the numbers blankly.

The drawers beneath the desk were ajar. The old witch had left everything open. Suki pulled the biggest drawer. Inside was a thick book, a ledger. She opened it to see a list of all the hostesses currently working at the club, annotated with the amounts from individual clients they were drawing.

Val’s name was at the top of the list. She had three steady admirers – Suki had seen them all – but President Takahashi was the best paying. Indeed he seemed to be the club’s most lucrative customer, at least as of the past two weeks. Val was making Odama and his partners even richer. Suki wondered if the American had any clue of her worth.

Her own name rested close to the bottom. Well, now it didn’t matter at all. She felt completely uninterested in her own fate. She had no idea what she would do. But maybe this is what she needed, something to jolt her out of this numbness. Like before she had gone to America, those dreadful teenage years, filled with the hateful commute to school on the train, crushed against the perverts….

After an eternity, the office door opened, startling her out of her reverie. She saw a tall, gaunt man with cropped hair speckled gray and very dark skin that looked like he had been sunbathing for months. He dressed completely in black but for a bright white swatch of gauze: the surgical mask that he always wore over his nose and mouth. It was common to see people outdoors or in the subway wearing masks, to protect them against pollution or hay fever. But on this sloe figure, the white seething mask only made him sinister.

Odama.

His eyes darted from her face to her fingers touching the open ledger. His hands coiled.

He had left the door open. The club was closed but the hostesses and cowgirls hadn’t left yet. He wanted them to see this. He wanted them to know that if a client ever, ever had to call him with a problem about a girl, no matter how trivial, this would be the result. As Suki stood up from behind Mama-san’s desk, he struck her hard enough to knock her to the floor.

“Get up!” he barked – the first words Odama ever spoke to her.

She scurried to her feet and he hit her again, knocking her against the wall, making her see stars. She tasted a salty warmth. It hurt to touch her mouth and her fingertips glistened red. The masked figure raised his hand to strike again.

“Stop it!”

The words were English but spoken with such level force that Odama froze his hand in mid strike. He turned, incredulous.

“If you touch her again,” Val said, “then I quit.”

Odama scrunched his eyes at her. He didn’t speak English, but it was obvious he understood her. And that he knew who she was.

A nervous Mama-san intervened between them. “Odama-san, this American is being impertinent. She says she will quit. But she is valuable to us.” Her eyes found the ledger on her desk.

“I don’t care!” he shouted. “No one talks back to me. Not one of these harlots. I’ll beat both of them!”

But Val didn’t budge. She folded her arms with cool expectancy.

Odama’s fury grew, but he didn’t know what to do with this brazen foreigner. Foreigners could be trouble. You couldn’t simply smack them around, because they might contact the police, or an embassy, and the police commissioner would then have to come over and ask a lot of questions, and maybe accuse Odama of violating the peace carefully rigged between the gangs and the law.

And Mama-san’s warning started to penetrate his brain. This girl was lucrative. Revenues had consistently fallen for almost a decade. The Japanese girl had annoyed a top client…but this American was the top client’s favorite.

“I’ll tell you what,” Val said when she saw he wasn’t going to throw another punch. “Suki can keep her job. The club can have our tips for the week, both of ours. She didn’t do anything – the men were just drunk.”

Odama stared at her.

Mama-san snapped at Suki, “You, troublemaker, you speak English. Translate!”

Suki fumblingly obeyed. Odama thought it over and lowered his hand. But the expression on his face was sheer hate. Without another word, or even a grunt, he stormed out of the club.

“Well, Yamauchi, it looks like you still have a job,” Mama-san said. “Until the President tires of this American, which he will soon, and then you’ll be out on the street. Don’t worry, dear. I know some massage parlors that accept things like you. Now get out of my office.”

Suki brushed past Mama-san, her lip still bleeding. She headed for the women’s bathroom. In her wake the hush began to fill with the familiar noises of the club’s closing, the hostesses’ leaving, some to continue the party elsewhere.

She washed her face with cold water and pressed a paper towel to her face. Suki was just beginning to catch her breath. That had been close. She didn’t know how far Odama would have gone.

The door swung open and she saw the American in the mirror. Suki looked down at the bloody pool of water in the sink. “I don’t know what you want from me,” she said.

“I wanted to see if you’re all right,” Val replied, placing a hand on Suki’s shoulder. “That guy’s a monster.”

“Why did you help me?”

“Why? Hey, that asshole can’t think he can hit us. And neither can customers. I’m not somebody’s property.”

“You’re right. I…I’m just so…it happened so fast.”

“I know. Hey, come on, let’s get out of here. I’m beat. I’m taking a taxi home. You want a lift?”

More generosity from this foreigner. A ride home in one of Tokyo’s incredibly expensive taxis could eat away a quarter of a hostess’ nightly income. But the American was making a lot of money these days.

“No, I probably don’t live near you,” Suki said.

“Where are you going?”

“Yoyogi-uehara.”

“I’ll drop you halfway at Shinjuku Station. You can catch the last train. Get your purse.”

* * *

But in the neon canyon of Shinjuku they both got out, feeling wired and wanting to talk. They found themselves on a fifth-floor bar at two in the morning, pushing their way through the crowd to a little table behind a barefooted man conjuring Duke Ellington tunes from a piano. Val ordered a Cosmopolitan but Suki could only handle a Coke.

“So,” Val said, “as the cliché goes, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like Cowboy?”

“I should ask you the same.”

“Okay, but I asked first.”

“I guess you could say I’ve been in this business a long time.”

“Really? You look younger than me.”

Suki sipped her soda. “Have you ever taken commuter trains during rush hour?”

“No.”

“My family used to live in Saitama prefecture. My father commuted every day. And so did I, to school, because my mother was determined I should go to a prestigious one in Tokyo.”

“So when you graduated you started working as a hostess?”

“No, no. You see, on those trains, it’s so crowded, Benson-san—”

Val started to laugh. “I know you’re supposed to call me that, but do you mind calling me Val? Just Val?”

“Okay. Thank you. I lived in New York, you know. I just forget, it feels like such a long time ago. I like my American friends to just call me Suki, even though it’s not really my name.”

“Like a nomme de guerre?”

“I don’t know what that means.” Val explained it. “Well, sort of. ‘Suki’ in Japanese just means ‘likes’. Girls sometimes use it with Western men. Bad girls. And I had decided that I was a bad girl, so I decided to call myself Suki.”

“You’re not a bad girl.”

“I didn’t tell you about riding the train.”

“All right, Suki, so tell me.”

“Well, Val, you’re lucky if you’ve never had to ride one of our trains when it’s rush hour and totally packed. It can be so crowded you can’t move a muscle. You don’t even have to hold on to anything, because there’s no room to fall. No one can tell if a pervert is feeling up a schoolgirl.”

“I see.”

“But my friends could tell. It sometimes happened to all of us. And one day, I guess I was seventeen, they could tell it was happening to me. We – I mean, me and this pervert – were right next to the door, and he got out at the next station. I have no idea where we were, it wasn’t my stop. But I got out anyway. And my schoolmates were curious so they got out too. This pervert was heading up the stairs and I ran up to him and I said, ‘Excuse me, that’s 100,000 yen, please.’”

“Really! What did he do?”

“At first nothing, he just ignored me and kept walking. But then me and the other schoolgirls all started shouting at him, really loud, that he should pay if he wanted a feel. We called him sukebe – I don’t know how to translate that. Like dirty old man. He was so embarrassed, he gave us the money, all of it.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“He looked like a pervert with a steady job.”

“Good for you.”

“Maybe not so good. I gave the other girls half the money and we went shopping. I still remember the Prada handbag I bought with it. It was my first.”

“Not the last?”

“I don’t know how to say this, Val…I’ve never told anyone this before.”

“Well, don’t say anything you don’t feel comfortable talking about, Suki.”

“Val, are you my friend?”

“Sure, Suki.” Val squeezed Suki’s hand.

“You feel like my friend. I feel like I can tell you these things.”

“If you want to, it’s okay.”

“If I tell you the rest, will you tell me about you, too? I mean, why you’re here and everything?”

“It’s a deal,” she agreed.

She leaned forward to listen to Suki. Neither of them felt tired.

(Next chapter.)