“Go for it,” I say.
I mean, it’s Nohara. I’ve always trusted him. Still do.
Nohara spent about two weeks working on the piece. I spoke, he wrote. I told him pretty much everything. The truth about Kate. About what Kate meant to me. I was totally honest—on the condition that he left those details out of the final product. Now that I think about it, I guess that was the first time I really told anyone about Kate’s humble origins.
The story of Kate—transmitted in full. Recorded for posterity. Almost like some sort of sign that all would soon be lost.
Like it had been fated.
Why, God?
Why is the universe teeming with random forces of evil?
It was December—probably late December. I can’t remember the date, and I’m sure I don’t have to remind you why I forget what I forget. It was a little after ten in the morning, and I was walking down Nakasugi Avenue. Heading for my fortress… Our fortress. But, from a couple of hundred metres away, I could see that something wasn’t right. Kate didn’t look the same. Is the roof…? From where I stood, the lines looked sort of wrong. Kind of like a badly drawn imitation of the real thing.
Then that old whip cracks. Red alert. Alarm bells ringing. BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.
Not a good sign.
I start running.
Then—the epilogue.
I hurry to unlock the door and witness the carnage inside. The city stormed my fortress. The ceiling’s punctured in three or four places—holes around fifty centimetres in diameter. My Trojan Horse has been compromised. The sun shoots down through the holes, pointing fingers of light at the intruders. That’s right. They’re still there.
This is the epilogue. Counter in pieces, ferns in smithereens, oven useless on its side. Among all the debris, the chunks of ice that did it.
They were probably three or four massive ice bricks when they hit the roof—before breaking up on impact.
Our territory was ruined.
I stumble over to the biggest block of ice. Glistening in the morning sun. I make a fist and I punch that stupid block. Over and over and over.
And over… and over…
Until my knuckles bleed.
Give me back my horse… You motherfucker…
Following a two-month investigation, the Suginami police conclude that a large amount of ice broke loose from the undercarriage of an American fighter jet and fell out of the sky. They might even have an eyewitness. Someone who saw the crash.
So fucking what?
My insurance won’t cover this. Looks like the end.
BOAT SEVEN
THIS ISN’T THE FIRST AND YOU KNOW IT’S NOT THE LAST
Mid-April, 2001. About a year and a half ago. I took my third girlfriend (aka “Knife Girl”) to the airport. I saw her off—like some kind of guardian. I was twenty-five or twenty-six. Pretty sure we looked nothing like lovers.
Is that because we loved each other too much?
That March, she graduated from the school in Kita ward where she’d spent the last six years. Next stop: the US, the East Coast, where she could fulfil her destiny. Kate—our Asagaya fortress—had been her destiny, but that place was no more. She needed a new place now. She was a knife girl and she needed to fight. I believed that. So I did some digging. Making connections was surprisingly easy. Nohara put me in touch with an editor working on a project called “A Tale of Three Cities: Japanese Taste Around the World”. After that, it only took three letters, two international calls and one video (showcasing Knife Girl’s literal chops). And the cherry on top: we had the US Ambassador try her cooking and put in a good word, in an unofficial capacity.
I hope you brought your sunglasses. This girl’s future was as bright as a 10,000-watt light.
Go West, Knife Girl. You’ve burnt some bridges—but your blades will get you where you need to go.
She walks through the gate, then looks back. She’s sobbing. “Thanks for everything, boss,” she shouts. You’ve got it all wrong. I’m nobody’s boss now.
Golden Week is coming at the end of the month—but the airport is unnaturally quiet.
I watch her leave.
I watched her leave.
Then I was overcome by an unbearable emptiness.
This is the record of my defeat.
My failed Tokyo Exodus. It’s cold here—too cold.
Christmas Eve, 2002. Where am I? Ariake Station, on the Yurikamome Line. I walk through the gate and take the long escalator down. Mere metres in front of me: International Exhibition Station on the Rinkai Line. Time to switch trains. But which way? Tennozu Isle or Shin-Kiba? I go—where I’m taken. I don’t choose my platform. My platform chooses me. Time moves me.
I trace Tokyo’s outline underground.
A voice announces the next station: Shinonome—“dawn”.
The train passes through the station, keeps going. Towards the end of the Rinkai Line.
Here it is. Shin-Kiba. Where the Keiyo Line runs above ground and the Yurakucho Line runs underground. They’re waiting for me. The wickets call to me, but I don’t fall for their trap. I move towards sea level. Listen—I say to myself—you’ve got your limits. You will die at some point… that’s why you can’t stop now.
You can’t turn your back on the dream.
You can’t turn your back on the plan.
You’re still alive. Right? Don’t give up on getting out—not now.
Then I see it.
The area map. I’m staring right at it. I can’t believe my eyes. It’s Yume-no-shima. Translation: “Dream Island”. A man-made island that dates back to the sixties. A landfill made out of surplus soil.
An island made of trash—for keeping even more trash.
This is what dreams are made of. Yume-no-shima.
Be still, my beating fucking heart.
I walk straight for it.
The place is a park now. It has everything: baseball diamonds, soccer fields, an archery range, a gym, an indoor pool, a bike path. There’s even a tropical greenhouse—and eucalyptus everywhere. I follow Meiji Avenue into the park. I head right, over Eucalyptus Bridge. This place has all kinds of palm trees. One kind after another, almost like a family tree of palm trees. There’s a footpath near the stadium. I follow it.
Doesn’t seem to be anyone around.
I can’t see much. There are bushes and trees in my way. But I feel it. I’m close. To this place—to this Island of Dreams. I keep walking and come to a clearing…
A crater.
Or is it?
A huge bowl opens up in front of me. It looks just like a crater made by a meteorite. The coliseum—the pride of the park. But there’s no one here. Not today, not now. I see no actors onstage at the bottom of the bowl. No gladiators trying to dismember one another. No Ancient Roman orators come back to life. The absence thrills me to no end.
I feel it. It’s here.
But what is?
I don’t know. Not yet.
The bowl doesn’t have seats. Just stone steps that double as seats. I sit down—on the third or fourth step. Some pigeons on the next block take off when I crash the party. I wrap my arms around my knees. I can feel myself becoming part of the stone (hard, cold, artificial). Then I go to sleep. I could almost hear the thud. As I break through.
Through the wall dividing reality and dreams.
Thud.
I’m lying down this time. On that single bed. The bed in that “room”. I was asleep—but I’m up now. I’m holding something. Against my chest. The CD. I was sleeping with Sonny Rollins in my arms. It had to be the CD. Because it’s too important to let go.