“There’s a car driving along the road. It’s an estate car, maybe a Volvo. The sort of car that screams the word “Sensible”. Side Impact Panels and airbags for the passengers and all that. It’s the seven-seater version with the fold-up bench-seats in the boot where the kids sit facing back out of the back window. There are four people in the car. Mum and Dad up front, the kids in the boot on the bench seat. It’s more fun sitting in the boot looking out back. There’s maybe a Labrador type dog in the back seat laying down next to some bags and general stuff. Everyone’s getting on.
“They’re on an “A” road, you know those roads? It’s not a motorway. It’s a single lane road, the sort of road everyone goes fast on, but if there’s something in front of you, you’re screwed. A car comes screaming up behind them, trying to overtake. One of those four-wheel drive Land Rover Tonka toy cars. It’s obviously worth a few quid. High black shine, blacked out windows, bull bars on the front and back. The car tries to overtake the Volvo estate, can’t and comes too close. Nothing happens. The kids in the back are laughing and waving at the two blokes in the Tonka, but they’re not laughing and waving back. Don’t know who they are but they look serious and they’re not up for a laugh with a couple of kids.
“The car behind starts driving silly, gets too close. He should really calm down a bit. “The Volvo driver – his name’s Steve – isn’t phased and doesn’t stress. The Land Rover driver can’t see what’s happening in front of the estate car. It’s daytime, but it’s dark. They’re driving through a forest area and the trees are over-hanging the road forming a canopy and cutting out the light.
“Suddenly, a deer jumps out of the darkness and in front of the Volvo. Steve slams the brakes. The Land Rover behind smashes into the back of the estate car. It never stood a chance, going too fast, driving too close. Never stood a chance. The big Tonka toy car is more or less unharmed. Well, it’s got those bull bars. The back of the Volvo is mashed. The kids in the back seat… “
“If you kill off those kids… what are you going to do?” said Polly.
“It’s a good one, though, isn’t it”, I said. “I think it’s got legs. The kids die horribly. Instantly, but horribly. Steve Volvo goes mad, turns into a psycho vigilante… “
I was back in the café, wearing a pink sweatshirt cut off just above the elbow emblazoned with the legend “Chanel – Paris” but no one could see that because it was inside out. On my legs I had a pair of Thai fisherman’s trousers held up by a brown leather belt. My shoes were local shoes called Jika Tabi – black canvas boots which fasten at the back with maybe 15 hook and eye things and which the big toe separated like a foot mitten. Jika Tabi were typically worn by low caste workers, labourers on building sites mainly, though why they would choose to wear canvas shoes on building sites, who knows. Japs. Thing is, to your ordinary Japanese in the street – or the café – the point is that these are low caste shoes and why would anyone want to associate with them? Still, they’re very comfortable and, to my eyes, a little eccentric. The whole ensemble is what I would have once called ‘witty’.
Back among the straight folk, no one took any notice of me. Probably because at about three other tables there were other groups of wasted gaijin, all sitting trying to talk, all looking well, frankly, rubbish.
Polly was writing a letter ‘back home’ trying to concentrate on the matter in hand and not get distracted by Volvo Steve or his mashed up, dead kids.
More coffee arrived. People carrying umbrellas walked past. All the blokes wore white shirts and dark trousers. All the women wore stylish slim-cut trousers and stylish slim-cut coats. No one had a pink sweatshirt on, even the right way round. Occasionally they’d look at me, but only if they thought I wasn’t looking at them or thought I wouldn’t see them looking. In Japan, life’s all about not looking, not staring, not confronting. The other thing was… I was a gaijin and, you know, who the fuck cares? What was it Graham said? They think we’re some kind of dirty diseased sub-species. They don’t expect anything proper.
“Don’t let me stop you,” I said, before…
“Polly…”
“What?”
“You know about sampling? Some idiot band or singer, people who are completely devoid of idea or inspiration, they find a classic song, something that’s pure and great and old and loved, they basically play it and go ‘Yeah, yeah’ over the top every now and then.”
“You don’t think it’s a bit more complicated than that?”
“I’m not sure that it is. You remember The Fugees? I’m sure they’re nice and all – one of them comes from Haiti and God knows the people of Haiti have had it in the tuchus for long enough – but how did they get their break? They recorded Aretha Franklin’s Killing Me Softly, a song loved by the entire world, known by the entire world and loved by the entire world – and recorded it again with a bit of the ‘Yeah, yeah’ stuff going on. Made a bloody fortune, got called genius, made a career. All out of doing a crap graffiti version of someone else’s art.”
Already Polly knew that this conversation was going down the usual blind alley.
“You’ve got an idea, haven’t you?”
“No, no. Don’t be cynical. Listen. I’m going…”
“…to write a book?”
“No, come on. Think about it. If you can apply that logic to music, why can’t you apply it to other art forms? Take a painting that everyone knows – and twist it. Take the Mona Lisa and, I don’t know, change her clothes or something. Give her a hat. Take a piece of sculpture – The Thinker, maybe – and give him a more quizzical look. Call it The Ponderer instead of The Thinker. Why not? Really why not?”
“Because” said Polly, “because it’s stupid. The point that you’re missing is that it’s stupid. What The Fugees did was stupid. Is that what you want to be known for? For doing something stupid?”
“Wrong, You’re completely wrong. It started a whole industry – take sampling out of modern music and what have you got?”
“Music?”
“Doesn’t matter. Listen,” I said, starting to believe my own nonsense. “I’m going to write a book that’s gonna be literary sampling. Take a book that I really like – maybe something that I wish I’d written – and do the sample thing.”
“You’re going to write Portnoy’s Complaint, call it Portnoy’s Grumble and throw in a few chapters that just go ‘Yeah, yeah’? Can’t wait.”
Polly looked at me. I looked at Polly. We both picked up our coffee cups.
“If there’s such a thing as reincarnation, I want to come back as a baby.” I said.
“What do you mean?” said Polly, genuinely perplexed.
“Huh?”
“What are you talking about?” Polly said.
“Nothing. It was a joke. It was nothing. You know, if you’re going to be born again, it’s better to do it as a baby rather than, I don’t know, a frog, you know.”
“You’re bored, aren’t you” Polly said.
“Shut up and drink your coffee,” I said. “Only the boring get bored.”
No one said anything for quite a while after that.