Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

Pilgrimage

To reach the platform, we pass through another set of gates with smart cards in hand, each checkpoint marking the time stamp and point of entry, wired through computer networks and databases, wireless signals rebounding tower to tower, earth surface to satellite to receptors - nothing is ever private. A single blip in a station becomes a widespread phenomenon, like a submarine's sonar. Indeed, data is collected from each railway company, then reported by government and transportation committees, probably also bought by various private advertisers, companies, investors who have an interest. The transportation committee had filed and cited statistics calculated from such information when they passed a policy a few years ago to begin a "small change". To be eco-friendly, promote safety and encourage secure, ease of travel. Within a few months, machines and information desks had ceased the sales of printable paper tickets entirely. At first, there had been grumbling - though always stunted into quiet petitions and letters - but soon, the nation realized that there was no real need for paper tickets anymore. Even printing industries bend to conform to the trend and change their business into electronic production. It was just an old sentiment, a lingering tradition. Everyone has a smart card. And if they don't, they can easily purchase one from a kiosk. Even if the statistics were inaccurate, they become reality now. In any case, the reign of smart cards has become absolute. But with the mandatory use of cards, it also means the absolutist monitoring of its commuters. Perhaps ease of monitoring is the only true rationale. But it also introduces total ignorance, a thoughtless consumption of services and budget. Fares increase every year, yet, it no longer makes a difference. Buy a card. Fund the card. Tap the card. Fund the card. It's unnecessary to pay heed to prices or account balances or cost-saving alternatives. Less numbers. Less worries. Less decisions. Less thinking. Less is more.

After we have logged our time of entry and depleted our funds, we take another set of escalators, down through a sheen of sterile white plastic fluorescent lighting to the Minatomirai Line. There are surprisingly few people waiting for the subway and even less expected aboard. Most appear young, in their 20s or 30s. Young professionals. But wearing the same deadpan mask and empty eyes. Each of these passengers carry a rather large bag, not fit for a day trip, just as they had been on the Tokyu train. Some shopping bags. Some small suitcases. Some oversized backpacks. Lots of black. A few cream, beige, fashionable articles. A severe lack of colour. None of them talk to each other. It's clear that they are somewhat related, like distant long lost relatives. They have something in common and have a common destination. Every passenger knows this. It's as if there is nothing to say anymore, because the answer is too obvious, written in the air. But the answer evades us. I'm tempted to tap the woman next to me on the shoulder and ask what is in her Porter bag. But even without Etiquette in place, I wouldn't know where to start. We don't carry bags.

There are no flickers or black suits or Images aboard this train - only the flickers of lights in the darkness of the subterranean tunnel, making for an unexciting movie. When we whine to a halt, I ask if we should follow them but she shakes her head. We're on a date, Maeda-san, she seems to say.

Stations have an overabundance of escalators and we ascend a remarkably long one now. It rises out from the depths of hulking construction, cutting through open air, like the tongue of a giant lizard reaching out to snare prey. The Queen's Square shopping complex comes to greet our eyes at the top. Soaring ceilings, levels upon levels, layers upon layers, stacking up like wooden Jenga blocks. Everything holds an immaculate polish, elegant and refined, as dignified as a shopping centre might be. Salespeople lift their heads high and wear clean suits and prim blouses. Customers struggle to keep their composure. A throng of tourists, a little orange flag with Chinese letters. I can make out something with the characters for "cheap" or "peace" and "journey". A practiced psychological gimmick. They make money to spend, then make money again.

But today, there's a steady stream of commuters with their oversized packs of different shapes and sizes - grotesquely malformed when seen from afar - out through the main entrance. Some merge into the flow from bathrooms and storefronts, all carrying bags. Many are no longer interested in shopping. They have somewhere to be. Something is starting.

"Should we see what's going on?"

She shakes her head. "Let's head straight for Cosmo Clock. I'd like to see the city from up there."

She leads the way, tugging on my hand gently, a child and her father, or the other way aroun. I follow. She has always led the way. She always seems to know what to do, where to go. It has become natural and imperative that I follow, no questions asked. No doubt, lost and blind sheep cannot herd itself to safe pastures. If I attempt to wander on my own, I would likely be in peril. I have been brought into her world, our world. She knows what's right. However, the curiosity within me is overwhelming.

"Just trust me, Maeda-san."

I tell her I do.

"I love you," she says.

For a moment I don't know how to respond or react. Whether I should take a breath or not, or let go of her hand and look her in the eye or ask her to repeat herself. I check my ears to see if I am hearing correctly. Needless to say, I'm caught off guard; words that hold no immediate value, projected through a screen of background noise: bustling conversations, small contained laughter, tinkling wares, tapping feet, humming electronics, flush of a distant toilet, crinkling bags, squeaking pulleys of elevators and body heat.

No matter how I think about it, I heard no emotions in the words themselves, nor is it in the most timely fashion - perhaps back in the coffee shop, maybe at her apartment or from the top of Cosmo Clock 21, would've been better. She hadn't bothered to look over. It was just an ordinary phrase exchanged between lovers that so happens to take place between a particular Naoki Maeda and a Shizuka Kaneko.

"You don't mean that," I say at last.

"We are on a date, Maeda-san, please at least play the part. How should I feel about my boyfriend thinking of everything else but me," she says but her voice is flat.

I turn and look at her and realize she appears wearier than before: her eyes dark underneath, there are thin lines on her face I haven't noticed before, and her posture, maybe bent, weary. Her eyes are still clear and intense, but serious, like preparing for a public address during a political campaign. I wonder if my thoughts are too much for her or if it's simply a byproduct of our situation. Everything seems to stand out, contorting, whispering, taunting us. The uniformed security guard slowly making his way towards us. The man in a motorcycle jacket leaning against the rail, over the escalators, playing with a pack of cigarettes. A storekeeper behind a shelf of Swarovski jewelry, stern, but she wears a well-oiled knowing smile as we pass by. There's a young woman and her friend engaged in hushed conversation. They're walking slowly, while we overtake them from the right side, but now there's nothing to prevent them from following us. What appears to be a newly wed couple, balances an array of shopping bags, but the man looks exasperated, eager to look away. He catches my eye for a second. I look around for posters and billboards, half-expecting to see "System is Everything." Or maybe "Love is Everything."

"Sorry," I say. I watch her hair gently swaying like a metronome. I pull her closer against me, so I can feel her shoulder. "Of course I'm thinking about you."

Outside, there's a stretch of white canvas above, blank and stoic. And then every once in a while, I catch glimpses of blue, like some great unseen being has come in with a hole-puncher, painting blue polka dots into the stacks of clouds. Her hair lights up in a pale flat glow like someone had turned down the saturation. Brown turns grey, blonde turns silver. I stare at it, hoping to decode a deeper meaning. She catches me looking and smiles. This time, brighter than before. She loves me. Textbook fact in this window of the world.

We see Cosmo Clock 21 rising in the distance. An enormous behemoth of a steampunk dream. Its blinking spokes blend and churn colours slowly. Circular like the cycle of life. Up and then down.

It awaits. The answer is near.

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