Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

Pilgrimage

When we reach Yokohama, we do so in silence, but peculiarly so, the rest of the train begins to come alive - passengers smile, eyes glimmer and blank withdrawn composures melt off their faces like candle wax. The crowd had not shifted its position throughout the trip and a scarce few boarded or alighted at each station, but as the automated train announcement enthusiastically chirps the word "Yokohama", it seems to finally seep past armoured cartilage-formed ears, through auditory canals and ducts, tapping on their tympanic membranes like NHK fee collectors at a door. They stir and rise from their seats unanimously but not robotically; no, they're fluid and graceful, elegant at times - women with swishes of hair, skirts and coat tails, men with confident swaggers, collars upturned and shirts tucked neatly. Even the sagging high school student straightens with dignity. There's an odd spell in the air. A newfound courage. They rise to a call. I wonder why I can't hear it.

The doors open and we follow, we merge into the crowd. To be safe, we hold hands. Bodies jostle, flesh rub, sweat exchanged. No one speaks. The air is tense with haste and flashing legs and stomping feet. From within the cafe, they may have seemed like the pitter patter of raindrops, but being caught up in it is a different story. There's an urgent pounding on my eardrums; it increases in volume, a grand crescendo, and the trampling hooves become a royal chorus.

Though our relative positioning to our neighbours, in front, to the left, to the right, behind, remain unchanging, they herd us forward, hedging us in from all directions. We all bottleneck down an escalator and then spill out and around a furious corner, onto another. I struggle to maintain my grip of her hand. She is swallowed towards the left and I, to the right, while I attempt to keep my head above the waves. Our hands and arms are stretched, strung out thin, muscle strands tearing like we are drawn and quartered by horses. Our fingers sweat and grow wet, slipping and sliding, until I clutch at air. I catch her eye as we disappear.

We deposit at the bottom on the concourse level and they scatter with their shopping bags and backpacks and Gucci and Adidas and Porter. In the distance, there are white square tiles on pillars and vending machines and typical tacky station shops, maybe old men selling mochi and part-timers handing out flyers. All concourse levels seem the same, like a gaping canyon or cavern of some sort and everything inside are obstacles and terrain to avoid. One could never tell which station they are at without reading the signs. Yokohama is a major interchange station, the busiest in Kanagawa, as such, even with colour-coded backlit signs, it's hard to be oriented with the choices. Tokaido Line, Yokosuka Line, Yokohama Line, Shonan-Shinjuku Line, Keihin-Tohoku Line, Negishi Line, Keikyu Line, Sagami Line, Toyoko Line, Minato Mirai Line. Words dance and whirl overhead one on top of another. Each fights for attention.

The crowds continue to thin and dilute to fill negative space. Most are lonely wanderers, but every now and then, a small group of two or three makes their way by, clustered as close as possible. Here, people are speaking. It's the right place to speak, where the expanse of air could allow room for conversation; voices echo but are muffled like disembodied whispers of spirits, mixing with the echoes of approaching trains at numbered platforms and reminders not to rush aboard. The transient purgatory of the underworld, between destinations, faces disappear forever, never seen again.

Shizuka too is nowhere to be seen. I can't find her matching red winter coat.

I dig through my pockets for my cell phone. I have her number speed dialed. I press and hold 1. There's signal now and I hear the dialing tone in the receiver. It's hollow sounding in my ear. After a while, I hear an automated message telling me the patron isn't available, to leave a message after the beep. I end the call and call again but there's no answer. She doesn't use a customized voicemail recording either.

I begin to feel anxious. My palms sweat, muscles tense, shoulders stiffen. Ready for something but I'm unsure of what. I look around but faces are unfamiliar and figures flit around in an unceasing slipstream. There's no red coat, no Shizuka. In just a moment, as soon as she was out of sight, she had disappeared. As if she had never existed in the first place. Just like Ahn Mi Hyun. Just like flickering images of people. Just like them all. One minute, an individual, a human soul, alive; the next, a clone, a phantom, gone. Such is life, I surmise.

I debate whether to move to the Minato Mirai line first. Perhaps she's waiting there. But I can't be so sure she wouldn't come back. There's nothing I can do. I wait and watch the time pass by. I can imagine the ticking of a clock in my mind. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. The display on my phone reads 15:25. It had taken us much longer to reach Yokohama than expected. Hachiko begins to feel like a distant dream.

The world around me during the wait becomes much more elaborately complex, every detail pronounced like zooming into a high definition photograph. Each pixel of colour begins to stand out on its own like taunting dots, mocking with wicked grins, as if they are each hiding a secret. If I were to flip over some of the RGB pigments, I might find Shizuka beneath a red one.

Even the passerbys simmer down, leaving only stragglers catching or missing a train. Some cast wary sidelong glances at me; I'm the only one not in motion, from point A to B. I must be breaking Etiquette here as well.

I'm breaking Etiquette much easier now than I had been before. I had left my loop of never ending cyclic routine. Waking up to Clark Terry at 7:30, warm ups and stretches. Brushing my teeth and showering at the same time. Scrambled eggs and rice porridge, Kinokuniya and the coffee shop. I had left it far behind, like an old home and a warm bed I can't return to. Memories are hazy now. I had been swept up into Shizuka's wake and carried along the mad sheep chase. I have forgotten how to follow a repetition, a set rhythm, a comfortable tempo. It had been comfortable, I recall. It had been mindless but it had been safe, or so I thought.

But now without the steady presence of Shizuka, what have I become? If she has disappeared permanently, if she was simply a creation of my delusion, my hallucination, my schizophrenia, what do I have left? Without my routines, and without Shizuka's understanding of the world, am I still Maeda Naoki? Am I still an Anomaly?

I look down at my phone. It says 15:35. Ten minutes have passed.

"Sorry," she says.

I spin around. "What happened?"

She's holding a plastic bag in her hand.

"I thought someone had gotten to you."

She is about to say something but doesn't. Her mouth parts and closes again. Her brown-blonde hair is disheveled. Her eyebrows wrinkle. "I won't leave you suddenly like that."

"How could you be sure? Sometimes you just don't have a choice."

"If we are together, we will find a way." She opens the bag as we start walking and pulls out onigiri. "Figured you might be hungry."

"You could have waited for me." I take one of the rice balls.

"There were too many people and for a good while I couldn't find you or hear you. I thought I might as well, til it becomes quieter."

"I couldn't find you either. I hadn't gone anywhere else. You didn't pick up your phone."

She looks at me confused. "I called you as well and you didn't pick up. I didn't receive any calls."

I fish out my phone. No missed calls. I show her the device.

"Strange," she admits and slips her fingers through mine. Her hand is warm. I realize our fingers interlace well and her palm is small enough to hide behind mine. I'm used to the feeling of her hand now. Both of us don't seem to sweat much and our hands remain dry and soft. I don't mind. There is some meaning in physical connection; if we are holding hands we might be able to survive. "There is some unearthly power at work," she says. Our red coats merge into one and we head towards the Minato Mirai subway line. Harbour of the Future.

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