Virtually True (19 page)

She studies her handiwork. “It’s a little moist, but it’ll still smoke. The seeds are a cross between Afghani and Hawaiian.”

True eyes the J, hungers for it. “So it fights for the right to lie around and do nothing?”

Reiner’s smile. “Something like that.” She reaches into a drawer, pulls out a lighter.

Reality ripples through True. Sato could be sending out a hit team any moment. “Shouldn’t we be keeping our heads clear? Aren’t you supposed to be the careful one?”

“Yeah, but that’s before you brought your wrist-top signal here and pulled me into your woes. Trouble’s looking for you back in Nerula—with your wrist-top—and all they’ll find is a Japanese kid playing
Cyborg Missile Command Central
.”

“And Sato?”

“Don’t worry about him. He only moves when he has to.”

“You know what I think? You think when I fuck up, we’re fucked. When you fuck up, it means no big deal. I might be better off on my own.”

“Where are you going to go? How long you think you’ll last out there? C’mon. Stay here.”

“But?”

“No ‘but.’ ‘And.’ As in
And
stay alive.”

True’s feet glued to the floor. Reiner sits on the couch, cups a hand, and takes a long drag. The joint’s ash glows orange, and sweet incense filters into the air. One toke, he tells himself, just one drag, to take the edge off. Then the hell with it. The hell with her. He’ll be off.

She passes it to him. True takes a deep hit, coughs as the smoke stings his lungs, but then warmth, happiness, a sense of well being oozes inside. “What were you signaling Odessa in the club?” His nose is clogged. Allergies to smoke.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the hand signals.” He gestures. “I saw them.”

Reiner leans forward for the joint. “He likes to communicate that way. Too many spy shows, maybe. He’s always changing the signs. Says it’s the only truly safe way to communicate. Actually, what he said was, ‘This way we won’t get our motherfucking asses fricasseed.’” Her imitation, complete with lisp, is dead on. “Look, before you go, let’s have a late supper.” She goes out back.

True follows and sees something he hasn’t in a long time: rows of clear plastic curling over vegetables. Reiner has constructed a miniature greenhouse, with hoses that drip water onto a small pocket of land. The plot is fenced in, cloistered from the street. True watches as she unfurls the plastic cover, and after squeezing a few tomatoes, pulls two deep maroon ones off the vine. She rehooks the plastic, moves down the row, pulls up a cucumber, a small patch of basil, checks over what True recognizes as carrots, but they aren’t ready. Without a word she returns to the kitchen, washes what she harvested, cuts the tomatoes and cucumbers, deals them onto fresh rolls, salt, pepper, a drizzle of olive oil, tops it with sprigs of basil, scrunches it down with a slab of mozzarella.

True can’t remember the last time he ate a fresh tomato, not one of those genetically engineered jobs with the ten-year shelf life. The flavor squeezes the hinges of his jaw. He tells himself he’ll be leaving in a minute, that after finishing this meal, and maybe after a few more tokes, he’ll head into Tokyo’s underbelly, check out the scene from below via the barflies, assassins, drug dealers, and other sundry lowlifes.

Halfway through her sandwich, Reiner lights up the joint again, jams it between fingers, cups her hands together, inhales. This to cool the smoke and cut harshness.

“Tell me about Odessa.” True accepts the joint from Reiner. His mind trembles with the satisfaction of yet again evading reality.

“What do you want to know? You seem to know him as well as I do.”

“How’d you find him?”

“He found me. My computer system died right after the quake, and he happened to be nearby. I suspect he was monitoring my calls and knew what shape I was in, so he just showed up.” She leans back, arms outstretched. “It’s too bad. You can’t hide forever. Maybe he’ll board a plane that goes down or step into an elevator that turns into a gas chamber. And unless we solve why Aslam and Rush were killed, you may be joining him. But this is your lucky day, because I smell scoop.” She passes him the joint. “I’m willing to give you a hand. Of course, even if we manage to get whatever it is on the air, no guarantee you’ll live to enjoy it.”

True’s zoned, almost doesn’t care whether he lives or dies. Has a vague recollection of Reiner talking to him, telling him a story about sweet potato vendors in Japan, how they play the traditional song through loudspeakers instead of singing it, how translated it goes: “Roasted sweet potatoes. Roasted on bricks. Yeah, they’re tasty.”

She laughs a laugh, 100 percent unadulterated Reiner. Opens the door to a side room True hasn’t noticed. “You can stay here. You’re in no condition to go out anyway. No need to thank me.” She kicks a futon, turns the direction. “Wouldn’t want your head facing north. It’s bad luck.”

“Bad luck?” True feels pink. “Now that’s funny.”

*          *          *

True doesn’t remember having fallen asleep. Dreamless, he REMed straight to late morning. Still stoned, detached. The dull thud in his brain a nagging reminder to steer clear of ganja madness.

“MedTekton, huh?” Reiner is spooning scrambled eggs flecked with tomato, onion, and parmesan cheese onto True’s plate. Her camp stove flame flickers out.

“Could be.”

“The name is familiar.”

“You do a piece on medical technology recently?”

“Nope. Not that.” Reiner holds a wooden pepper mill over her plate and dusts her breakfast. An antique. “But I’ll remember eventually.” She taps the side of the pepper mill. “Want some?”

True holds out his plate. “How do you manage fresh food when everyone else is practically starving?” True blows, cools the eggs.

“From my garden. I traded for the eggs. See the new console? I bartered tomatoes, cucumbers, and
daikon
for it. The guy threw in some eggs into the deal. He and his family were taking off for western Japan anyway, so they needed food that travels well.”

True savors another bite. “How can you keep your computer system running without electricity?”

“Odessa took care of that. He increased its electrical efficiency like a thousand percent, then rigged up some solar cells.”

“But there isn’t enough sun, is there? The quake dust blocks out the rays.”

“Yeah, but he set them up to suck light out of the air. At least enough to keep my computer up. It doesn’t take much. Of course, I don’t have enough power to send stories via satellite to the States, so I have to go to the public phone banks and bribe my way to the front of the line.”

“Where are the phone banks located?”

“You’re not thinking of going, are you? My advice is to lie low.”

True hugs silence.

Reiner stops chewing. “You want to catch some news?”

“Can you pull up news from Luzonia?”

Reiner taps in commands. Secs later True’s watching the lead story, gagging on his breakfast.

Bong Bong’s  making an announcement. “We the Peoples of Nerula regret that flight”—he quibbles in Luzonian—“ah, flight 003 from Tokyo was shot down—Boom!— by our defense systems. There will be much investigations, but we think it was some Millivanilli—Wow, that’s hard to speak. Malalayamama. No wait. Malayanalayan. OK—spy plane. As you know well, we been fighting a insurgency at there. No survivors. Sorry. Bye bye.” Reporters heave questions, but Bong Bong will only say, “That’s all folks.”

Reiner and True’s eyes lock.

True gasps. “Oh, no.”

“Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! We killed that kid.”

“And everyone else on board.”

“It’s our fault.”

“Yes.”

“This shit is serious.”

“I know.”

“Get out.”

“OK.” True’s still sitting.

“No, wait. Stay. They must think you’re dead now. You’re OK.”

True slides his plate away. “It’s sad.”

“It’s a damn shame is what it is, True.”

CHAPTER 15

He jumps off a grumpy shuttle bus at Shibuya. It’s Luzonia-hot, so damp that True’s shoes practically sprouted moss overnight. He passes Hachiko, the landmark loyal dog. Reiner told True that Hachiko met his master at the station every night after work. Even after his master died, Hachiko waited. Now the statue’s cracked, one paw crumpled to dust, which someone repaired with solder and a blowtorch, imbuing patches of the dog with a Stalin-gray pallor. True winds through beggars on blankets selling shoes, bicycles, car parts, clothes, misc junk like an antique key ring with the name of a hotel on it, as if the key could somehow lead the buyer to greater riches.

His nerves are jangling. He ducks out of the rain and into a building, follows the signs for Japan Aid Inc., into the lobby, down a coily staircase to the basement. The stairs’ grade is steep, like falling in love with Eden: a vertiginous descent. He’s shaking now, tries not to show it. Remembers his wife’s software programs, clearer the closer he gets to her, artfully beautiful. They were too good. True fell ill, streams of images, childhood memories, reality music, flights of fancy, all blended into orgasmic joy. At the time he didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. He remembers he hurt Eden and she hurt him. Tit-for-tat tragedy.

A spacious, open area, all aid workers equal: no cubby holes or offices, just hundreds of tables and chairs. True stands four steps from the basement, listening to shuffling feet and echoing voices, watching as food is served to the hungry, counseling to the frightened, clothes to the weary, medicine to the sick. He’s about to inquire at the information desk when he sees her.

She’s more radiant than ever. Her hair catches the light, her movements fluid and graceful, her skin lustrous. He watches as she bounces her head and shoulders when agreeing, a mannerism he loved, still loves. She smiles at an old woman and True’s blindsided by a sickly, churning sensation inside. When Eden’s gaze brushes his, he bolts up the steps, almost collides with a woman on her way down and a man waddling up.

He runs out to the street and stops for breath near Hachiko. When True and Eden announced their engagement he met her Japanese grandmother, an earthy woman fascinated by crystals, faith healing, feng shui—“wind” and “water” in Chinese—a blend of astrology, design, and Eastern philosophy aimed at harmonizing man, woman, and good fortune. She painted a sign for them, the kanji for “Double Happiness.” But the kanji—he still has it buried in his possessions somewhere—was drawn incorrectly. One of the matching characters was mangled, the top smeared, a stroke off line.

True knows it was his happiness that was ruined.

He never recovered.

Eden did.

That simple.

*          *          *

True and Reiner spread on tatami, flanked by shoji, sipping green tea. True dips raw fish, translucent white in the air, cloudy blue on the plate, in soy sauce.

Reiner snaps her bamboo chopsticks in half. She’s done. “You sure do eat. You’ve eaten half a plate of that stuff.”

“I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“Well,
fugu
’s unique to Japan.”

“Blowfish, right?”

“Yeah. Flirt with your chef, distract him, you croak.” Reiner’s cheeks rinsed in rosé. “Feel like I snorted coke.”