Tokyo K.O.

Tokyo K.O. part 3

I've come to a dead end.

I'll have to backtrack. But how far? Turning on my heel, I look over my shoulder at the snack bar I would have passed entirely only a moment ago. The bar is a squat structure, built of pallid grey wood; the curious vestige of Tokyo's past when the city was still a disordered aggregate of rambling villages. Leaning against the door ledge, is a short frayed broom that looks almost handmade; to the side, a collection of bonsai and other strange plants with bulbous leaves. A wooden sign hangs from a black iron hook above, the words Two Face in bold script illuminated under a battered lamplight. The sign features a large chalice in the shape of two masks facing one another. I press my own face up close to the window to see if I can get a better look, but the rippled texture of the glass and my illuminated reflection just makes things look kaleidoscopic and indistinct. This place looks as good as any for a glass of sunshine, I guess.

So I step inside and I am immediately greeted by the snack-bar mamasan, a retired hostess whose crowded-crowfoot smile almost makes me think she's mistaken me for someone else. She directs me to a counter formed of what looks like a huge slab of wood. I take a seat at one of the stools.

"Where are you from?" asks mamasan.

"Vancouver."

"Vancouver? Oh my god! I did a homestay there many many years ago - in highschool! I was in the West End. Where in the city you from?"

"The Drive," I reply, taken aback slightly by the fluency of her English. A couple of tables over, on a small karaoke stage, a salary man was shout-singing a dilapidated finale of Sinatra's 'I did it my way.'

"Oh, I'm up next! Mara, would you get this gentleman a drink?" She motions to one of the hostesses as she heads toward the stage to take the mic.

"Be right there." says the hostess flatly. Russian server no doubt.

I look around the interior of the establishment which looks like a mishmash of decorating ideas, with a side of kitsch and a flair for all things iconoclastic. You could easily sit at the bar, and not know where in the world you are, or even know what era. There are religious items: statues of saints, church pews and stained glass windows. There are masks on the walls from every conceivable culture, from African to Aborigine, alongside prints of Hindu gods and goddesses in benevolent Vishnu blues and blood-splattered Kali reds. There is a large print of Elvis, shaking his pelvis, covered in leis, while the framed portraits of Kim jong il, Roy Rogers and Ultraman crowd the small karaoke stage on which mamasan now stands. She appears to be preparing herself, with a slow sway of the hips for something old, something sad, something melodramatic.

I pull my cell phone out of my jacket pocket and check my messages. Nothing from Jake or the Happy English crew. My eyes scan over Miki's voicemail message again, but I'm still not ready to hear it. I put my phone away.

Japanese Sinatra, saunters back to his table and collapses like a wet bag of rice in his chair, amid the cheer and applause of some of the snack-bar regulars. He is sweating profusely. He swivels around to call over the Russian hostess, but fails to catch her attention. I hardly realize she is standing there; looking down with a smirk, waiting for me to notice her.

"Oh hey! Sorry."

"Sorry, huh? Ha! I guess you are Canadian. Always with the sorries!"

"Russian, right?" I ask in a low shout to make myself heard over Mamasan's Enka.

"Mostly. Yeah and little bit Polish. Okay? And what are you drinking tonight?"

"Hmm. How about a couple of shots of vodka, cream and coffee liqueur?"