“Where are you going to stay in Tokyo?” he said.
BLAAANNNNGGGG RRRRIINNNNNGGGGG RRRRIINNNNNGGGGG RRRRIINNNNNGGGGG BLAAANNNNGGGG RRRRIINNNNNGGGGG BLAAANNNNGGGG BLAAANNNNGGGG RRRRIINNNNNGGGGG
That’s the sound of the alarm that, in a normal person, would have been going off. The sound of the alarm that, even in the dullest, twattest denim-wearing white toast idiot would have been going off. That’s the sound of the alarm that in the bloke who just bought a pair of jeans from Gap would have been going off.
John and me we were cool, hip media types with top of the range backpacks that converted to suitcases and knowing smiles. And we looked good – when we set off I had two linen suits made, one white and one black. Double breasted, no vent at the back, trousers two pleats, turn ups and 10” bottoms. (Attention to detail is important. Attention to detail is what carries you through). Smart, hip, cool media types.
“…………………………………………………………………..”
That’s the sound of the alarm that was going off for me and John.
“I dunno,” said John. “Some hotel in town. We’ll ask around, maybe go to tourist info or something, and find something for a few days and…”
“Like fuck you will. You’re coming with me. You ever heard of the Palace?”
“The Palace?”
“The Maharajah Palace. That’s where we’re going.”
Well, we said we wanted an adventure. We said we wanted to do something different, something that we wouldn’t normally do. Something a bit different to get up, go to work, go home. This was something a bit different. We’re going to Tokyo and we’re going to stay in The Maharajah Palace. You’ve gotta laugh. If I’d have thought of Tokyo and played some sort of word association game, I’d have come up with words like hi-tech, shiny, electronic, space age, digital and maybe electronic again. I’m not sure the words maharajah and palace would have come up in the top 100.
- Let’s turn it round the other way. If the words Maharajah Palace don’t make you think of hi-tech, shiny, electronic, space age, digital and maybe electronic again Tokyo, what did they make you think of? Opulence. Grandeur. Exotic baubles, rubies and emeralds and gold, great swathes of elaborately embroidered cloth, shimmering with their gaudiness. Probably not rusty corrugated metal and ramshackle wood. Probably not some pre-fab held up by its own indecision as to which bit should collapse first. If I’d have seen the place – regardless of where it was – I don’t think I’d have been helped. If I’d have seen the place I might have come up with Large Garden Shed. Or Decrepit Old Shack. Or Complete Fucking Dump. Maharajah Palace. It was probably funny once.
It was a “gaijin” house. Gaijins. That’s what the Japs called us. I think originally it meant something like “guest worker” but over time it had come to mean anyone who wasn’t Japanese. Foreign workers, tourists, people passing through, whatever. If you weren’t one of them, you were a gaijin. And believe me, it wasn’t a term of endearment. Migrant labourers – I don’t know whether it started with some kind of post-war regeneration programme or something – needed somewhere to stay so what you got was gaijin houses. Now, they were just cheap places where cheap foreigners would stay.
You didn’t have to have lived much to know that this wasn’t the Holiday Inn and the people here weren’t tourists on holiday. There were about 80 people in the Palace and on top of that there was a floating population coming and going, hanging around trying to find someone or trying not to be found.
It had the air of a hideaway, a place where people were… well, not exactly on the run. That’s a bit too pulp fiction, a bit too romantic, but it still felt somewhere outside the boundaries, somewhere the normal rules didn’t apply. There were probably other rules that applied. Of that 80 odd people, I reckon that maybe half would tell you their real name.
Half? Who am I kidding?
On a good day you could say it was Runyonesque, a rogue’s gallery full of colourful characters who had descriptions instead of names. This wasn’t fiction though and I knew that the sensible option might be to move to somewhere a bit safer, whatever the Toyko was for Premier Inn or Travel Lodge. Bollocks to that. Most of the people I used to hang out with, all the people I used to work with, would have run a mile. That’s why I left. I was looking for adventure and this place was it. You just knew if you cut it, it would bleed stories.
It was clear from the off they knew Graham. Whoever these people were, and there were a lot of people in this place, whoever they were… they knew Graham. And they were steering clear.
I could see them looking. I could hear them talking. Some just turned away. Others pretended not to have seen anything. Others were more upfront.
“You’re back, are you? Didn’t think I’d see you again.”
There were a few like that. A couple of faces said “What you got? I’m in Room 24.”
Mostly though, people said stuff like “Hi” or “Good to see you” or “You stayin’ long?” and all the time they all meant “Just leave me alone, please. Just leave me alone.”
I didn’t get it really. OK, he was a bit… eccentric, a bit of a loose canon, but people reacted to Graham like he was a serious threat to your health, a proper bad man. Whatever. He was OK with us. But then again, we weren’t like these other people. We were smart London media types. We knew what was going on. Do you know how much my flat has gone up in the last three years?
Maybe in London we were Smart Media Types. In Tokyo I was laid out on the counter, labeled “Fresh meat”.
Graham said “Listen, I’ve got you a room. Three mats. It’s good. A three mat room. Nothing’s gonna get lost in a three mat room, you know what I mean?” he laughed. No, I didn’t know what he meant. Three mats?
“Be OK if I just leave my bags there for a bit, yeah?”
“Yeah, OK. Sure.”
Later someone – Brad the Canadian, I think – told me it was just funny. Watching us walk in with Graham, it was just funny. And I guess it was.
We knew he was a drug dealer yet…
“Sure we’ll look after your bags and if the place gets busted, course we’ll take the rap. No problem. Fancy a tea?” It was like we’d turned from hip players into Forrest Gump.
Our room. “Room” said John “That’s a word for it. Not a word I’d use really, but maybe it gets lost in translation.” There were two types of room – three tatami mat or six tatami mat. A tatami mat was this kind of mat – obviously – made of woven grass or something, maybe about a metre wide and three metres long. Not big. Not big. And a three mat room, well like the man said, nothing’s gonna get lost in a three mat room. Not unless it gets hidden under the ashtray.
We’d been there maybe an hour, nothing really. We’d had a bit of a look around the place, the rooms, some of the people. We’d met a bloke who introduced himself as Steve. Nice bloke, American I think. Or maybe Canadian. Not sure. He said he was a chemistry student off on his gap year. At the time I didn’t know if that was a joke. Still don’t. Chemistry. Was that some kind of code, some kind of nod?
Name: Steve Cole
DoB: August 19, 1990
Place of birth: Vancouver, Canada
Height: 5’ 8”’
Weight: 11 stone
Hair: Mouse brown
“You came here with Graham, yeah? Wow, that must have been an interesting ride. Well, good for you for hanging onto the horse. That can be a real rodeo ride I’ve heard. Listen, settle yourselves in. If there’s anything you need or want to know, just let me know. Have you met Mark yet?”
Later that first night we were settling down. It was late. Cheap Japanese whisky had been drunk. Some remarkably good dope had been smoked. This was the stuff that had come out of Graham’s shoes and it was well worth the effort. It was different quality to the stuff we used to have at home, warm and a bit trippy but not heavy and there was music playing and we were just kicking back, just getting relaxed and…
The noise came from the kitchen. I walked out into the hallway to see what the commotion was about.
“I’d steer clear of that,” someone said.
“Oh, I’ve got to have look,” I said like a tourist.
“It’s gonna be messy. I’ve been here before when Graham’s been in town and, believe me, it’s gonna be messy.”
Messy was one word. Graham was chasing some blonde bloke round the kitchen holding the biggest knife. I don’t know what he’d done, but I was glad I wasn’t the blonde lad. Laid out on the big kitchen table with Graham sitting astride him, the blonde bloke protested his innocence. Graham looked like someone who wasn’t that interested in the detail. What can I tell you? It didn’t end well.
It wasn’t the last time I saw Graham. He came back a few times – different stories, sometimes with people in tow, sometimes not – but it had all changed. It didn’t take me long to turn into one of those people I saw on my first day in the Palace, one of those faces that said “Hi. Good to see you” and shuffled along.
What’s he doing now? No idea. Really, I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter. I heard some story from Pauly about Manilla and you don’t fuck about in Manilla. Still, bless him. He brought me here.