Chapter 12

12

The sun sets. Eight thirty rolls around. I tell Mariko I am tired, making a big deal of yawning and stretching my arms. An actress I am not, but she buys it. It’s easier to sneak out than I thought; Yoshi gives me detailed directions on what not to wear: no cardigans, nothing with a block heel. I’m dressed down in jeans and a T-shirt that reads Riots, Not Diets—Izzy clothes. It’s nice to wear them again.

He also gives me detailed directions to get through the estate. The path leads to a short stone wall. I hoist myself over, and that’s it. I’m off imperial grounds and on a sidewalk next to a highway.

It’s night. Cars zoom by. A hundred feet away, an imperial guard patrols. My heart stops in my chest as he notes my presence, then quickly starts again when he dismisses me. I am no one to him, just one of the many pedestrians out and about. Why would he be suspicious, anyway? I guess people just trust princesses will stay put. Big mistake. I walk the opposite way, keeping my stride casual, and my head down. I pause when I get to the 40 sign with a red circle around it where Yoshi said to meet.

In no time, a car stops in front of me. It’s a clunker. The engine rattles and smoke pours from the window as it opens. Yoshi sticks his head out from the front passenger seat. “Get in,” he says, smile broadening. He’s wearing sunglasses, a multicolored silk jacket with a holographic tiger, and his hair is whipped into peaks. It’s mesmerizing. “I like your outfit,” I say, climbing into the backseat.

“Please,” Yoshi says. “This is me at a three.”

A skinny man in a velvet jacket is in the driver’s seat, a cigarette clamped between his teeth. Jazz plays on the radio. The car jerks and enters traffic.

“This is Taka,” Yoshi says. In the mirror, the man lifts his chin to me. “He’s an Uber driver by day, ceramicist by night.” My cousin leans over the seat, cups his hand over his mouth, and pulls a face. “Don’t ask to see any of his art. Awful.” All this he says loud enough for Taka to hear.

Taka grunts and points a finger at his own shiny head. “I’m not bald. This is by choice. Okay?” Male egos. So touchy.

Yoshi cackles. “You are a weird motherfucker, Taka.”

Taka smiles. His front two teeth are gold. It works on him.

“Um, how long have you two been friends?” I ask, checking my seat belt. I thought Noora’s driving was bad. The city zips by: The Ritz Carlton and hostess clubs, kimono shops and boutiques selling leather handbags.

Neon lights reflect in Yoshi’s sunglasses. “We met last night.” At the face I make, he says, “Don’t worry, you’re in the best of hands. Plus, we’re already out. Once the kimono has been opened, it cannot be shut.”

Right. I should probably tell someone my whereabouts, just in case. The AGG has a strict no judgment policy. I tap out a text to the group.

Me

Out with my cousin in a strange Uber. If I die please make sure my headstone reads: Killed by a bear (or something equally epic).

They answer with a thumbs-up. All taken care of. Now can I relax and enjoy. The night is clear, the city is bright, and in no time, we’re pulling to a stop outside of a restaurant. Taka parallel parks in a spot nearly too small for his car, but he somehow squeezes in. Yoshi opens my door and offers me his hand. I take it and he spins me in a pirouette. Taka lights up another cigarette.

I’m still a touch dizzy as I follow the two men to a restaurant across the street. The front isn’t much to look at—a brick facade, two lights illuminating a plain white sign with kanji, red lanterns hanging under the eaves, and menus display the pricing. A large window showcases the kitchen. A man in a crossover indigo jacket and a hachimaki around his head sweats over steaming pots and a flaming grill.

Yoshi reaches the set of double doors first. We enter. The red lanterns continue inside and cast the room in a warm, crimson haze. Hip-hop plays low, voices meld into one another, and bottles clink. It’s packed, and the patrons take note of us. Our royal presence radiates outward, ripples, then stills. They recognize us. I swallow and start to back away, but Yoshi blocks me. “Izakayas are the most democratic places you’ll find in Tokyo.” As if to prove his point, the crowd resumes their chatter, their drinking, their noisy eating. They don’t care.

We slide into seats at the bar, me between Yoshi and Taka. Farther down is a group of salarymen. To our left is a squad of girls with bright pink hair. Their skirts are plaid, and they all wear the same shirt—white with a man’s face on it. He’s delicate, kind of elfish, with a sharp chin and the same bright pink hair as the girls.

I grab a menu. It’s in Japanese. I plan to point, say hai, and hope for the best. Yoshi plucks it from my hands. “You don’t need that.” He throws it to the side, then orders for us, starting with liquid courage. An indigo bottle is placed in front of us. “First rule of sake.” Yoshi picks up the flask and one of the matching ceramic cups. “Never pour for yourself.” He pours a shot for Taka and me. I reciprocate, pouring one for Yoshi.

We hold the cups close to our faces and sniff. Sweet notes rise up and we toast. “Kanpai!” Then we sip. The rice wine goes down cold but warms my belly. A few more sips and my limbs are warm, too. Scallops and yellowtail sashimi are served. We sip more sake. By the time the yakitori arrives, our bottle is empty and my cheeks are hot.

The group of salarymen have grown rowdy, their ties loosened. Yoshi winks at the pink-haired girls and they collapse into a fit of giggles. My God, to have such power over the opposite sex.

Gyoza is next. The fried pork dumplings dipped in chili oil burn my mouth but soak up some of the sake, and I sober a little, just in time for the group of salarymen to send us a round of shōchū, starchier than the sake but delicious all the same. We toast to them, to the bar, to the night, to Tokyo. My stomach is near bursting when the chef places agedashi—fried tofu—in front of us. Finally, Taka orders fermented squid guts. I don’t try it, but I laugh as he slurps them up.

Yoshi pays our check. “What do we do now?” I ask. I’m not ready for the night to end. I feel light. Free. My cheeks hurt from laughing. The possibilities are endless. Taka suggests making our way to a local school. A mountain cultist who follows a blend of Buddhism and Shinto will be walking on hot coals. I’m interested.

Yoshi slams back the rest of his drink and Taka rubs his stomach. “No. I’ve got a better idea.” My cousin flashes me a smile that is in no way reassuring.

We follow Yoshi, stumbling next door to a karaoke bar. The group of salarymen join us, along with the pink-haired girls who Yoshi throws an arm around.

One of the salarymen walks next to me. His collar is open. He’s young and cute, with a flop of dark hair that falls into his eyes. He wants to practice English. “Sūpā,” he says, pointing across the street.

“Supermarket,” I reply.

“Soopuhrmahket,” he says back slowly. “Ohime,” he says, pointing at the front of my chest.

“Izumi,” I say.

He shakes his head. “No. Ohime.”

“Princess,” Taka says from behind me.

“Princess,” the salaryman says.

The forbidding from earlier creeps back in, but Yoshi seems to think everything is okay. No one has tried to pull out a camera and snap a photo. I go along with it, allow the alcohol to dull my inhibitions, my misgivings.

The karaoke bar is rowdier than the izakaya. The walls are glass and it’s like we’ve landed in some futuristic vampire movie. We go up a flight of narrow stairs to the private booths and drop into vinyl seats. Drinks arrive—sake with muddled kiwi, martinis with chocolate shavings, and bottles of beer.

Yoshi tells me how he lived off imperial grounds for a while. What a time it was. Then he asks me my favorite color, my sign, where I get my hair cut, my blood type. “B positive,” I say, which is also my life motto. The pink-haired girls are singing. The song is by Hideto Matsumoto, the man from their T-shirts. A rocker turned rebel icon who committed suicide at thirty-three—he is a cult legacy, Yoshi explained. Fifty thousand people attended his funeral.

“We’re not compatible at all. I’m type A.” He pouts. “And you don’t speak any Japanese at all?” he asks, picking at his beer label.

I swallow, tasting chocolate from the martini. “Not really. I’m learning now.” Old insecurities tickle the back of my neck. It’s an odd sensation to blend into this bar but still be an outsider. I recognize myself in their faces—in their dark eyes, hair, skin color—but not in their mannerisms, their customs. I thought Japan would be different. I thought I’d slip into the country like an old coat. While some things are familiar, there are things I’ll never understand. Tonight, I’ve stepped out the door and into Tokyo, but it’s not my home.

I give Yoshi a brief rundown of my family history. How I was lost before I was born. He stares into the neck of his beer bottle. “Heavy stuff. I get it.” His eyes rise to mine. “I think you and I are more alike than not. I can’t imagine trading my family, but I can perfectly picture trading circumstances. I’ve never felt at home being a prince.”

Same, I think. I nod, because there’s nothing more to say. Yoshi understands what it’s like to be a part of something but not fully belong to it. I can’t help but wonder if that will be my fate here, too. Am I chasing a ghost? Am I doomed to wander?

Taka takes the microphone. He starts singing something slow and a little melancholy, like a lullaby. The salarymen shrug out of their suit jackets and slow dance with the Hideto super fans. Confetti falls from the ceiling.

“I miss my apartment in the city,” Yoshi says.

I smile softly at him. I know this feeling well, of wanting something different, a place to call your own. “I would’ve liked to see it.”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t much, but it was mine. I came and went as I pleased. No chamberlains hanging about, looking over my shoulder, shuffling me from event to event. What about you?”

“What about me?”

Yoshi says, “I miss my shitty apartment. What do you miss?”

Alcohol always makes you more honest. “Mount Shasta,” I blurt and realize it’s true. I miss my house, my friends, my mom and my stinky dog—the comfort of the familiar. You don’t really know what you have until it’s gone. I describe it all to Yoshi—the quiet life of a small town, how everything moves slowly.

“So go home,” Yoshi says, picking at his beer bottle label. “Sounds like a nice enough place.”

“It’s not that easy.” My throat feels dry, so I take a drink. “I don’t know. Don’t listen to me.” I frown into my lap. I’m killing the mood.

Yoshi laughs. “We’re a sad pair, aren’t we?”

“Super sad.” I stare glumly at the table littered with empty glasses.

“Don’t worry. I’ve been here before,” he says. “I know exactly what we should do to make this better.”

“What should we do?” I echo.

“Sing.” Yoshi pats my back. “We sing.” Then he takes up a post at the karaoke machine and motions for me to join him. We scroll through the options. I perk up when I find something I recognize, something I know by heart. If anyone is wondering if I can rap the entire lyrics to Warren G’s “Regulators,” the answer is yes.

Yes I can.

---

More confetti falls from the ceiling and sticks in my hair. Yoshi and I drown our sorrows, our earlier conversation dissolving into the night. I’ve rapped and tried my best at a Hideto Matsumoto ballad. Time is a nebulous thing. There are no clocks in the karaoke bar. Taka slow dances with one of the pink-haired girls. Yoshi is dozing off. The salarymen are singing a Bruce Springsteen ballad, and they’ve dedicated their session to me. I don’t know why. I tried to explain he was from New Jersey, but they insisted. Who am I to argue? I stand and wobble.

“Bathroom,” I say to Yoshi when he pops an eye open.

“It’s downstairs to the left.” He rouses. “Want me to come with you?”

I shake my head and walk off. I use the wall for support. Wow, I am drunk. Slowly, I make my way to the bathroom. My vision is blurry. Miracles of all miracles, I find the bathroom. A one-stall affair with little light and chrome stalls. Back in the hall, I can’t remember which way I came from. Left or right? My odds are fifty-fifty. I head left, slipping through a black door.

The thump of music snuffs out. Instantly, I know I’ve made a mistake. The door slams shut, inches from me catching it. I’m outside. The alley is narrow, with a couple dumpsters and crates stacked against one wall. My stomach recoils at the smell. Now I know where all the fish waste goes. I try the door. Of course, it’s locked. All right, I’ll just have to walk around then, make my way back to the front of the karaoke bar. No problem. It’s all good. Only—there’s chain link fence all around me. There’s a gate wide enough for the dumpsters to fit through, but it’s padlocked. I look up to the sky for an answer. Chain link up there, too. I’m in some sort of dumpster cage. Super. I’m trapped.

My phone is in my back pocket and I take it out and try Yoshi. No answer. I give it a minute or two. Then try again. And again. And again. “C’mon, answer.” I shift from foot to foot. Goose bumps have broken out on my arms. A piece of confetti falls from my hair and onto the pavement. He still doesn’t pick up.

The door swings open. No way could he be that fast.

I’m right. It’s not him. It’s the young salaryman I practiced English with. He must be lost, too. The karaoke bar should do something about that, like placing a guard at the door or a tank full of sharks or a leashed bear to indicate danger lies this way.

The salaryman sways back and forth. He burps and undoes his zipper. I turn my cheek as he teeters to one of the dumpsters and relieves himself. He finishes with a shake and stumbles backward, almost into me. I make a little noise and he whips around.

“Sain,” he says.

I stick up my hands. “I don’t know what that means.”

He draws closer. “Sain.” He laughs. It echoes off the building. I am all too aware I am trapped with a stranger who is bigger and stronger than me. A warning light blinks in my head. Danger. Danger. Danger. My breath quickens. He’s crowding me now. I can smell the beer on his breath, see food between his teeth.

“Whoa.” I back up more. My body hits a dumpster. I’ve cornered myself. “You’re kind of violating my safe space here, buddy.” My arms go up. He leans in. I whimper, close my eyes, and brace myself.

I hear the door click. There’s a whir of movement, the sound of shuffling feet. The warmth from the salaryman’s body is gone. I pop open an eye, then another. I clutch my chest.

It’s Akio. He’s dressed in a plain gray hoodie, jeans, and tennis shoes. He is positively wrathful, holding the salaryman by the neck against the brick wall. It’s one thing to read about Akio’s qualifications on paper and quite another seeing them come to life.

My skin tingles. Right, so I shouldn’t find this attractive. Wrong time.

Akio bites out something in Japanese. I don’t understand a word he’s saying, but all in all, it’s threatening.

The salaryman’s face is turning splotchy, red and purple with a hint of blue. His hands flail at his sides. “Sain,” he chokes out. The salaryman raises a hand, opens it. A piece of paper and pen fall out. I don’t have to be fluent to understand—he wanted my signature. An autograph, that’s all. But someone really should have a conversation with him about boundaries.

Akio’s mouth is a tight white line. He lets go, and the salaryman slumps to the ground, holding his neck. My bodyguard crouches and speaks lowly to him, and the salaryman fishes his wallet from his pants. Akio opens it, removes the identification, and takes a photograph of the ID, then flicks it back to the salaryman.

Akio stands. Our eyes meet. “I don’t think he’ll be a problem. But I know his name and address.”

I’m still in shock. “What are you doing here? How’d you find me?” I say, eyes wide—but there’s no time for him to answer. The dumpsters still smell like rotten fish and I’ve definitely eaten and drank way over my stomach’s limit. Really, I have no choice in the matter. The landlord has nailed an eviction sign to my stomach. Rent is overdue. Everybody out. I lurch forward. Just like that, I throw up.