Tuvalu (6 page)

‘Money. The hotel's five star. Anyway, she must have been frustrated with me talking because she looked across and said, “I want to help you get off ”.'

‘And you said?'

‘I said no. It felt wrong.'

Phillip stood and paced my room. He seemed weary, as though he had been explaining quantum physics to a child. When he flopped back down on the bed, all the air in his chest rushed from his mouth in a single, uncontrolled exodus. ‘Keep going,' he said, without forcing any real strength into his voice.

‘When I didn't do anything, she asked if I was gay.'

‘Why didn't you just say yes? The perfect out.'

‘It didn't occur to me.'

‘You didn't think to tell her about Tilly? That would have done it.'

‘That seemed wrong too. Here I was saying all this drunken stuff: “Yeah, I'll come up. You're beautiful.” I couldn't suddenly say, “Actually no, now you've got me in your hand, I just remembered, there's someone else”. And anyway, I don't think she cares about Tilly.'

‘Tuttle, you really are a curious fuck, you know. I can't get a fix on you. I've never seen you do a thing since moving in here. You're the most bone lazy, antisocial, aimless guy I know. You never go out, you never plan anything. Then just once you do go out, and suddenly you're with this girl who's amazing and you want to ditch her? The poor girl. You know what I think—you were fine until you thought about Tilly. You can't ever fucking think for yourself.' Saying this, Phillip's voice lost its amused tone. He became almost aggressive.

‘Can we drop it?' I asked.

‘Have some fun. Go visit this Mami girl.'

‘No.'

‘Does she know where you live?'

‘Yeah.'

He beamed. ‘Perfect.'

‘That's why I went out with her the second time. She came here. And now she has my denim jacket.'

‘She'll come again.' Phillip tapped the brow of his painfully handsome head. ‘I know women. They're different to us—or to me anyway.'

I was suddenly tired of his arrogance. ‘You know how to bed women,' I said. ‘Beyond that you know fuck all.'

Phillip stiffened and stretched out on my bed.

I rubbed my face and eyes.

‘Sorry,' I said, ‘that came out wrong.'

‘You're probably right.' He stared straight up at the ceiling, jaw tensing. It was a wonderfully strong, stubbly jaw, the sort of jaw that propped up whole lines of cologne; I wanted to take back my apology.

I sat listening to a strange banging through the wall and began to wonder just how many women Phillip had brought back to the hostel. Countless. So many I doubted even he knew. Most of them he did not share a language with. And, while I might have envied him the sex, I liked to think I pitied Phillip, this boy who lived in a dive so he could knob it with the crème de la crème of Tokyo. He spent whole pay packets on single evenings and no one could argue his life was dull. At least not until he came crashing back down to earth, to trashy Nakamura's, to spend weeks making model planes. The model who made model planes.

Also, I had seen Phillip fall madly in love twice before, and it was these two frenzied, unexpected eruptions—first of passion, then of fragility—that cemented my pity and enabled me to see past his fierce, all eclipsing arrogance.

The first girl had been a Russian hostess, the second a flight attendant. Although the first worked in a bar, letting men hit on her for a fee, and the second served food and drinks on domestic JAL flights, they were in essence the same girl. They were sharp-witted, domineering types, and neither was in the least awed by Phillip's arresting beauty. He had gobbled up both greedily like a long-starved trout going for a lure, only to be cast back into the murky depths of bachelorhood. After each unhooking he moped at my doorway, doleful and lonely.

Now, he appeared to be brooding, his brilliant blue eyes unblinking. Even his breathing was subdued as I pressed on in vain, trying to salvage our conversation.

‘I don't know how she found me here, but somehow she did. I must have mentioned the place in the bar that first night, before I knew she was interested.'

Phillip sat up and winced. Six abdominal muscles flexed beneath his T-shirt and I realised he had been doing one of his controlled holds—engaging in what he liked to call ‘incidental exercise'.

‘That one hurt,' he said.

‘You want to know why I went out with her the second time? Because she turned up—there it is.'

‘There it is. Nothing to do with being in love.'

‘Nothing at all.'

‘Well, I find that very convenient, Tuttle.'

‘Why?'

‘Because you won't mind if I go after her.'

I shook my head. ‘I'm not introducing you.'

He drained the last of his beer and crushed the can on the carpet, giving out a cocksure laugh. ‘You should. I'll solve all your problems.'

Two days after our conversation he brought the glider to my room for a final inspection. It was a beautiful enough plane. The wings were at least two metres wide and curved at the ends. The paint had been applied with care, being both uniform and striking. And there was a cockpit with two pilots inside.

‘Let's take it out,' he said.

‘It'll be dark in an hour.'

‘I know. I've been working to get it ready.'

We walked for fifteen minutes, the glider in hand, occasionally throwing it out ahead of us. Soon it was dusk. The sky above remained relatively bright but the roads were increasingly dim. We talked only in short bursts and never about anything more controversial than the glider's tendency to drift left or right. Eventually we came to a towering freeway. It must have had eight lanes, though we could only see the rain-stained, shuddering concrete underbelly. We made our way to the nearest pair of pylons, standing in the void they created.

‘Here's okay,' Phillip said, pulling out his lighter.

‘How much did you put in it?'

‘Enough to do the job.' He sparked flame and held it to the wick in the plane's tail. I wondered why Phillip had given it wheels. We were launching it by hand and it would never land, but I said nothing and stood quietly, admiring the glider and listening to the cars and trucks overhead.

‘The fireworks were easy to pull apart,' Phillip said.

The wick caught. I stepped back. ‘Just throw it, will you, in case you're not quite the munitions expert you think.'

Phillip hoisted the plane above his head and pointed it between the sets of pylons. He flung the glider, aiming it to the left. At first it looked like it would shoot out from under the freeway towards a parallel sunken road.

‘Shit,' I said.

‘Wait.'

Then, sure enough, the glider altered its path mid-flight, curving back towards the right.

‘One of my best,' Phillip said, a second before the craft disintegrated. A sharp retort reached us, more a ping than a bang, the sound bouncing off pavement. Balsa and other debris rained lightly from a cloud of smoke, spiralling down onto drab, weed-littered concrete.

‘Now,' said Phillip, dusting off his hands, ‘are you going to introduce me to this girl or not?'

‘I've been thinking about that.'

Phillip sat beside me at a bar deep in the foreigner-infested Roppongi. He smelt faintly of glue and was oblivious to the lusty looks coming from just about everyone, bar staff included. Despite fitting the stereotype of a boozing
gaijin
, I felt exposed and out of place. I wanted nothing more than to leave.

‘Exactly what time did she say she'd be here?' he asked.

‘Eight.'

‘Eight? She's late.'

Phillip called to a barmaid. Already staring at him she fumbled and almost dropped a wineglass.

‘Two more beers,' he said.

I thought again about leaving. Matchmaking had been a stupid idea from the outset. I would probably get my denim jacket back, but I was beginning to think I deserved to lose it. My only motivation to stay was preventing Mami from appearing at my door whenever the urge so struck her.

Six people were working the bar, an impressive set-up. There had to be at least a hundred different bottles of spirits on three long glass shelves. Each was a different colour. Some were blood-red, some fluorescent-green, one a swirling, smoky-grey like the outer edges of Mami's irises. The music was jazz and, jiggling my knee, I swivelled. There were fifteen tables in the place, all well spaced. I counted them, then counted them again to pass time. A small area had been kept clear, possibly for dancing, though no-one was making use of it. Instead, the mood was intimate. People's conversations were hushed, the dim lighting suggestive of sex and sophistication.

‘She really is late,' said Phillip, a little amazed.

Two beautiful women arrived at the bar for drinks. They both glanced at Phillip.

‘Got a light?' the taller of the two asked him.

‘No.' He focused on me. ‘Where is she, Tuttle?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Waiting for someone?' asked the shorter of the two women, who was still all of six foot. She had a slight Slavic accent and, like her friend, a model's sharp, sensual features.

‘Yeah,' answered Phillip distractedly. He tapped a finger on the bar. The girls waited for him to say more but he had no interest in either. I tried to match his indifference but could not. I kept glancing furtively at both. They must have been in their early twenties, though one was slightly older than the other. Each possessed a unique, abstract beauty which provoked in me, if I let it, a surge of fear—fear that flowed into despair. I wanted to initiate conversation but the words felt heavy and ominous, like a plane before that first skyward lift.

‘I've never known girls to be late,' Phillip said, taking a cigarette from the shorter girl's packet without asking. He gave only the slightest hint of a nod, as if certain she would not object. ‘Normally they're so punctual.'

‘Need a light?' asked the taller girl without sarcasm.

‘Thanks.'

‘Punctual … That's not quite my experience,' I said. ‘But then, I expect we date different women.'

‘Hope not.' Phillip again checked the main door. I realised then that something about Mami Kaketa, something in my portrayal of her, had excited him. I had inadvertently set off another of his peculiar infatuations, sent him thrashing after another lure.

In uncustomary retreat, the models slunk away. Trying to stay calm I bummed a cigarette from the youngest of the Japanese bar staff, a handsome boy with dyed hair. He reluctantly handed over a bent-looking thing which I puffed until a nauseating giddiness set in. I stubbed the cigarette in a perfectly clean ashtray, vaguely sorry to fill it with such filth, then shut my eyes. Phillip nudged me.

‘That her?'

It was.

Mami located me and started to walk towards the bar. She looked irritated when I stood to let her sit beside Phillip, only mumbling a greeting. She remained distant and quiet and twice threw me glances, like private insults.

‘Mami Kaketa, this is Phillip Philpott. Phillip, this is Mami.' The two stared at one another in silence. Mami looked for all the world as though she could have spat in his face.

I pressed on with my strained introduction. ‘Phillip's a model. He's done ads you've probably seen. Men's underpants, that sort of thing.'

‘Nice to meet you,' said Phillip.

Mami kicked me in the shin with a pointed high heel, never taking her eyes off Phillip. He returned the gaze unsteadily, then let it drop to her outfit. Mami was wearing a strapless white dress which revealed the slightest cleavage and ended halfway down her shapely thighs. To this she had added gold earrings, a gold necklace and gold bracelets. Even her high heels were gold.

‘I just have to go to the bathroom,' I said. ‘I'll be right back.'

This announcement earned me an especially vicious scowl from both parties, and I scurried away.