In the end the Russians and I reached a compromise. I let them leave the staples in the skirt, they let me flatten down my hair and wipe off the iridescent eyeshadow. Instead I drew very careful black lines above my eyelashes, because when I sat and thought hard about makeup the only thing that came to my mind were the pictures I’d seen in a book of Audrey Hepburn. I thought I’d have liked Audrey Hepburn if I’d met her. She always looked kind. I rubbed off the blusher and painted my lips in a plain, matt red. The twins stood back to look at the result.
‘Not bad,’ Irina admitted, with a sour look. ‘You still look like widow, but this time not-bad widow.’
Jason said nothing when he saw me. He looked thoughtfully at my legs and gave a short, dry laugh, as if he knew a rude joke about me. ‘C’mon,’ he said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Let’s go.’
We walked in a line, strung out across the pavement. The sun was low in the sky, lighting up the sides of the buildings. In the little streets they were preparing the lanterns for the O-Bon festival later that week – the stalls and the banners were going up in Toyama park, and a cemetery that we passed was dotted with vegetables, fruit and rice wine for the spirits. I looked at it all in silence, every now and then stopping to check my footing. Irina had given me black high heels to wear, they were too big so I’d stuffed paper into the toes and I had to concentrate hard on walking.
You wouldn’t need a street map to get to the club: the building was visible for miles around, the gargoyles choking their red flames into the night. We reached the building as darkness came. I stood and stared up at it until the others got bored waiting, and took my arm and guided me into a glass lift that went up the outside of the skyscraper, all the way to the top where the Marilyn Monroe sign was swinging to and fro among the stars. The ‘crystal lift’, they told me it was called, because it was like a crystal catching and scattering all the lights of Tokyo. I stood with my nose pressed to the glass as it soared up outside the building, amazed by how quickly the greasy street dropped away beneath us.
‘Wait here,’ said Jason, when the lift stopped. We were in a marble-floored reception area, separated from the club by doors of industrial aluminium. A giant model of a red rose, five foot tall, stood in a huge vase in one corner. ‘I’ll send Mama-san out.’ He indicated a plush velvet chaise-longue, and disappeared with the Russians through the doors. I caught a glimpse of a club as big as a skating rink – occupying the entire top of the building, skyscrapers reflected in the polished floor – a constellation of lights. Then the door swung closed and I was left, sitting on the chaise-longue, with only the top of the hat-check girl’s head visible over the counter for company.
I crossed my legs, then uncrossed them. I looked at my vague reflection in the aluminium doors. Stencilled in black on the doors were the words Some Like It Hot.
The club’s Mama-san, Strawberry Nakatani, was an old hand, according to Jason. She had been a call girl in the seventies, famous for turning up to clubs naked under her white fur coat, and when her husband, a show-business impresario and minor hoodlum, died, he had given her the club. ‘Don’t look surprised when you see her,’ Jason warned. Her life was devoted to Marilyn Monroe, he said. She’d had her nose reconstructed, and had got unethical surgeons in Waikiki to put western lines into her eyelids. ‘Just act like you think she looks fabulous.’
I put my hands on my skirt, pressing it down against my thighs. You have to be very brave or desperate to stick things out, and I was about to give up, stand and turn for the lift when the aluminium doors opened and out she stalked: a small, bleached woman dressed in a gold lamé Marilyn Monroe dress, carrying an ornate cigarette-holder and a fur stole. She was boxy and muscular, like a Chinese war-horse, and her Asian hair had been peroxided, ferociously backcombed into a Marilyn bob. She clipped across to me on her stilettos, flinging back her fur stole, licking her fingers and smoothing her haircut into shape. She stopped a few inches in front of me, saying nothing, letting her eyes flick over my face. That is it, I thought, she’s going to throw me out.
‘Stand up.’
I stood.
‘Where you from? Hmmm?’ She prowled in a circle, looking at the wrinkled black tights, Irina’s stilettos crammed with paper. ‘Where you come from?’
‘England.’
‘England?’ She stood back and plugged a cigarette into the holder, narrowing her eyes. ‘Yes. You look like English girl. What you want to work here for? Eh?’
‘The same reason everyone wants to work here.’
‘What that, then, hmm? You like Japanese man?’
‘No. I need the money.’
Her mouth curled then, as if she was amused. She lit the cigarette. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘ Peachy.’ She tilted her head and blew the smoke in a stream over her shoulder. ‘You try tonight. You nice to customer I give you three thousand yen an hour. Three thousand. Okay?’
‘Does that mean you want me to work?’
‘Why you surprised? You want something else? Three thousand. Take it or fly away, lady. I can’t give you no more.’
‘I just thought…’
Mama Strawberry held up her hand to silence me. ‘And if it goes peachy tonight, then tomorrow you come back and you wear nice dress. Okay? You no wear nice dress and you pay ten thousand yen penalty. Penalty. You get it, lady? This very high-class club.’
The club seemed to me the most magical place I’d ever seen – the floor like a starlit pool floating fifty storeys above the world, surrounded on all sides by panoramic views of the Tokyo skyline, the video screens on neighbouring buildings showing newsreels and music videos. I moved through it in a kind of nervous awe, looking at the ikebana flower arrangements, the muted downlighting. One or two customers were already there, small men in business suits, at tables dotted around, some in banquettes, some in deep leather armchairs, pools of smoke hanging above the tables. On a raised platform a thin-faced piano-player in his bow-tie warmed up with tinkling arpeggios. The only place the view of the city was interrupted was where Marilyn – the blank reverse of her, girdered, engineered and supported with metal struts – creaked and rattled back and forth through the night, blocking our view completely every ten seconds or so.
Mama Strawberry was sitting at a reproduction Louis Quatorze gilded desk just in front of the Marilyn swing, smoking from her elaborate cigarette-holder and punching numbers into a calculator. Not far from her was a table where the hostesses sat, waiting to be assigned to a customer, smoking and chattering – twenty of us, all Japanese with the exception of me and the twins. Irina had given me a handful of Sobranie ‘Pinks’ cigarettes and I sat in silence, smoking intently, looking warily across the club at the aluminium doors where the customers would arrive.
Eventually the lift bell pinged and a large party of suited men came through the aluminium doors. ‘She’s going to put you with them,’ Irina whispered, sliding up to me, her hand held to the side of her mouth. ‘These ones, they always leave the tip. For their favourite girls. Mama gonna watch and see if you get tip. This is your test, bay-beee!’
I was summoned, discreetly, along with the Russians and three Japanese hostesses, and sent to a table next to the panoramic window, where we stood formally with our hands resting lightly on the chair backs waiting for the men to cross the polished parquet floor. I copied the others, stepping agitatedly from foot to foot, wishing I could tug my skirt down. A string of waiters appeared from nowhere, hurriedly setting the table with piles of snowy white linen, a silver candlestick, gleaming glasses, finishing just as the men arrived and seated themselves, pulling back chairs and unbuttoning jackets.
‘ Irasshaimase,’ said the Japanese girls, bowing, and sliding into the chairs, taking hot towels from the bamboo dish that appeared on the table.
‘Welcome,’ I mumbled, taking my cue from the others.
A bottle of champagne and some Scotch appeared. I shuffled my chair forward and sat, glancing at everyone, waiting to see what to do next. The girls were slitting the hot towels from their wrappers, unfolding them into the men’s waiting hands, so I quickly copied, dropping one into the hands of the man on my left. He didn’t acknowledge me. He took the towel, wiped his hands, dropped it carelessly on the table in front of me, and turned away to speak to the hostess on his other side. The rules were clear: my job was to light cigarettes, pour whisky, feed the men finger food and entertain them. No sex. Just conversation and flattery. It was all printed out for the new girls to read on a laminated card. ‘Better you say something funny,’ Mama Strawberry had whispered to me. ‘Strawberry’s customers want to relax.’
‘Hallo,’ Svetlana said boldly, settling her bottom into one of the seats, dwarfing the men, moving from side to side like a broody hen so that everyone had to make room. She picked up a glass from the centre of the table and chimed it against the bottle. ‘Shampansky, darlink. So nice!’ She unloaded the entire bottle into four glasses then waggled the empty bottle above her head to summon the waiter for more.
The men seemed to like the twins, they kept singing tunes to them that must have been from TV or radio because I didn’t recognize them: ‘“Double the pleasure, double the fun… Give me that little LIFT. Come and get you SOME!”’ Everyone would laugh and applaud and the conversation, in a mixture of Japanese and broken English, would take off again. The twins got drunk very quickly. Svetlana’s eye makeup was smudged and Irina kept jumping up to light the men’s cigarettes with a disposable Thai Air lighter, leaning across the table, knocking over the little bowls of seaweed and dried cuttlefish. ‘Don’t make me laugh,’ she squealed, when someone told a joke. She was flushed and slurring. ‘Make me laugh some more and I explode!’
I sat quietly, not drawing attention to myself, pretending that this was all normal, that I’d done this a thousand times and really didn’t care that nobody was talking to me, that I didn’t get the jokes, didn’t recognize the songs. At about nine o’clock, just when I thought I could keep quiet all night long, and maybe they’d forget I was there, someone suddenly said, ‘And what about you?’
Silence fell at the table. I looked up and found everyone halted in mid-conversation, staring at me curiously. ‘What about you?’ someone repeated. ‘What do you think?’
What did I think? I had no idea. I’d been drifting off somewhere, wondering if these men’s fathers, their uncles, their grandfathers had been in China. I wondered if they had any sense of what their lives were built on. I tried to picture their faces in the tall collars of the IJA uniform, in the snowy streets of Nanking, one of them raising a glinting katana sword…
‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
They exchanged glances, unaccustomed to this rudeness. Someone kicked me under the table. I looked up and found Irina making a face at me, nodding at my chest, using both hands to push her breasts up, her shoulders pinned back. ‘Sit up,’ she mouthed. ‘Put your busts out.’
I turned to the man sitting next to me, took a deep breath and said the first thing that came into my head: ‘Did your father fight in China?’
His face changed. Someone sucked in a sharp breath. The hostesses frowned and Irina put down her drink with a shocked clink. The man next to me was thinking about what I’d said. At length he took a breath and said, ‘What an odd question. Why do you ask?’
‘Because,’ I said, in a tiny voice, my heart sinking, ‘because it’s what I’ve been studying for nine years. Nine years and seven months and nineteen days.’
He was silent for a moment, looking at my face, trying to read me. Nobody at the table seemed to breathe: they were all sitting forward, poised on their chair edges, waiting to hear what his response would be. After a long time he lit a cigarette, took a few puffs, and rested it carefully, deliberately, in the ashtray.
‘My father was in China,’ he said seriously, sitting back and folding his arms. ‘In Manchuria. And as long as he lived he wouldn’t talk about what happened.’ His cigarette smoke moved up to the ceiling in a long, unbroken stream, like a white finger. ‘My schoolbooks had all mention of it removed. I remember sitting in class, all of us holding the paper up to the light, making sure we couldn’t read what was written under the white-out. Maybe,’ he said, not looking at anyone, but directing the words into the air, ‘maybe you’ll tell me about it.’
I’d been sitting with my mouth open stupidly, terrified of what he might say. Slowly it dawned on me that he wasn’t angry and the colour came back to my face. I sat forward, excited. ‘Yes,’ I said eagerly. ‘Of course. I can tell you anything you want to know. Anything-’ Suddenly the words were backing up in my throat, wanting to spill out. I pushed my hair behind my ears and put my hands on the table. ‘Now, I think that the most interesting part was what happened in Nanking. No. Actually, not what happened in Nanking itself, but – let me… let me put it a different way. The most interesting thing was what happened while the troops were marching from Shanghai to Nanking. No one ever has really understood what happened, you see, why they changed…’
And that was how I started talking. I talked and talked into the night. I talked about Manchuria and Shanghai and Unit 731. Most of all, of course, I talked about Nanking. The hostesses sat in boredom, inspecting their nails, or leaning together and whispering to each other, shooting me glances. But the men all sat forward in eerie silence, staring at me, their faces taut with concentration. They didn’t say much more that evening. They left in silence and, at the end of the night, when Mama Strawberry clipped over to us with the tips, a sour look on her face, it was me she singled out. The men had left me the biggest tip. More than three times what they’d left anyone else.