The GoldenCity

The nationalist sound van played a military chorus, and the Elvises countered that with a recording of “Blue Suede Shoes.” No distraction from the outside world appeared to disturb their 1950s version of cool. Finally, the nationalists gave up and drove away in their black van. Triumphant, the Elvises danced to “Shake, Rattle and Roll,” and then they were finished for the day. Hollis approached the oldest dancer and asked if he knew a man named Hoshi. Speaking in Japanese, the man pointed to their leader-the little man with the padded jacket who just stuffed his CDs into an athletic bag.

Hollis hurried after the man. “Excuse me, sir. Are you Hoshi Hirano?”

The little man stopped walking and flipped back his hair. “I used to be called that, but I changed my named to Billy Hirano. It’s got more style. Don’t you think?”

“I’m a friend of Akihido Kotani.”

“Yes. My sensei.” Billy shook his head sadly. “Do you know he was killed last night at a love hotel in Shibuya? I saw it on the television news…”

As his voice trailed off, Billy’s face showed surprise-but no fear. Taking out a small pink comb, he touched up the ducktail near the back of his neck. “The police say he was killed by black gaijin. Someone like you.”

Hollis removed his sunglasses so Billy could see his face. “I swear to you that I didn’t kill your teacher. Did he ever tell you about his friend, Sparrow? I’m just like that, only I’m from the United States.”

“You’re a Harlequin? Is that so? So where’s your sword, man?”

Hollis unzipped his jacket and quickly showed the handgun held in his waistband. “It’s difficult to carry a sword in public. I have a more modern weapon.”

“You’re either a Harlequin or you’re crazy. That’s twenty years of hard time if the police find you carrying that.” Billy rocked back and forth on the heels of his motorcycle boots. “So what’s your name?”

“Hollis.”

“And what are you doing in Japan? There aren’t any Travelers here. The Tabula killed them all.”

“I need to go up to Northern Japan and find an Itako.”

“An Itako? You mean one of those crazy women who talks to the dead?”

“Can you help me, Billy? I need a translator. I’ll pay for everything. All expenses.”

“Going north will take two or three days.” Billy considered the idea for a few seconds as a greasy lock of hair fell over his eyes. “I guess I could handle it…” He took out his comb and repaired his hairdo. “Talking to the dead could be very cool.”

“The police are looking for me.”

“I understand. You’re way too foreign, too-”

“Black?”

“You got it, man. That just adds to the problem.”

While Hollis waited in the park, Billy walked across the street to a drug store and returned with a cane and some supplies in a paper back. “Put this on,” he said, and handed Hollis a surgical mask. “Japanese people wear these masks when they’re sick so they won’t spread germs. Okay, now put on your sunglasses.” He nodded. “Good.”

“What about the cane?”

“Slip a pebble in your right shoe and start limping.” Billy reached into the bag and pulled out a small oxygen bottle in a nylon sling. “I’m going to be your nurse-which means I’ll carry this around and help you walk.”

“You think this is going to work?”

“It’s bad luck to stare at sick people in Japan. If you look like you’re going to die, they’ll turn away.”

They went straight to Shinjuku station and bought tickets for the next bullet train north to Hachinohe. Billy knew exactly where to line up and what to say to the clerk. As he led Hollis through the sprawling station, Billy explained that he designed the packaging for the Japanese DVDs of Hollywood movies.

“Have you ever been to the States?” Hollis asked.

“Not really,” Billy said. “But I’m cool with that.” He seemed to prefer his idealized vision of America over the real thing.

They boarded the train a minute before it left the station and found their reserved seats. When people walked down the aisle, they seemed surprised to find a sick black man sitting next to a Japanese Elvis.

“Can you change your hair?” Hollis asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“I look sick, but everyone is staring at you.”

“This hair is maximum cool,” Billy said and took out a mirror to check his pompadour.

“Maybe it was-in 1955.”

“I’ve been attacked on the street because of this hair. My brother won’t talk to me because of this hair. This hair has coolness because I say so.”

After a whispered argument, Billy finally agreed to replace his leather jacket with a nylon shell. He slipped on earphones and bobbed his head up and down as Hollis watched the train escape from the city. The big apartment buildings disappeared and they passed strips of farmland bordered by ordered rows of pine trees. In Tokyo, the crows were always solitary, but the birds gathered together in the countryside. Crows perched on the power lines and on top of the enormous green cages used as driving ranges by Japanese golfers. Crows clustered in the stumble of frozen rice fields; the bullet train roared past them and they rose up in the sky like points of darkness.