An illuminating Party
Finally the aging Tokyo taxi driver had found it. Even with advanced navigation screens onboard that could bring up hotels, restaurants, theatres or public buildings there was no information on this place. “Tsugi, hidari desu!” The female voice coming out of the small screen, set next to his steering wheel, was suggesting left yet again. But the poor man was clearly lost. “Sumimasen, okyakusama. Moushiwake nai desu!” His long worded apology was of course taken in good faith by the Spaniard. He had been there so long some thought he was actually Japanese on the phone.
“No point at shouting at the poor dude. He is just barely making a living here.” thought Gabriel. And he was of course right. This driver would be up all night and well into the next day. Two days on. One day off. Two days on. He had to be in his mid-sixties at least..cut the poor sap some slack.
These days so many older guys were getting chopped from corporate payrolls that the taxi industry’s genepool was now desperately polluted by tragically inept drivers. The real pros had died off or just given up. They say an economy is best known by its taxi drivers. When business is good people jump in cabs. When not, they don’t – especially in Japan, where corporate expenses ebb and flow directly into the night life when times are good. So Gabriel had asked him on this tortuously long journey about the keiki, the economy. The grey haired driver had dismally uttered the oft repeated phrase , “mada dame desu!” As Gabriel had thought, the economy was still in the shit house. His was, for sure.
At last a massive, brand new, resort hotel came into view. What that term meant was surely anybody’s guess in 21st century Tokyo. Japanglish was famous for its incongruous mating of strange words. Gabriel de Sosaya was escorted into the reception area by two London style doormen, wearing their Ritz hotel copycat uniforms, complete with the white gloves. The taxi driver had been questioned by them before being let in. This was very rare. Gabriel knew this as he was a taxi aficionado of sorts. He hated Japanese subway trains with a passion. They stank of tired bodies and exhausted souls. You could get ill down there in the guts of Tokyo. Hop a taxi and rent a moving office..a much smarter idea all around that could add years to your lifespan..
“Okyakusama wa dochira ni ikaremasuka?” In flawless Japanese Gabriel replied to the taller of the two that he was headed for the private party being held in the penthouse suite.
“The host’s name is Amanoyama san. That’s all I know” he said.
The highly trained doorman immediately crisped to attention, “Wakarimashita !”
As he was being escorted in Gabriel looked around. Obviously this place was stacked with money. The sumptuous decor included Italian renaissance art on the walls and plenty of tropical plants – perfectly positioned to promote relative privacy. Then he noticed the tastefully secluded areas near reception. There guests would no doubt be readied for their journey up into Tokyo’s elite world, to the penthouses above. Once there, they went into the very private milieu of the ura shakai. It was, literally the behind-the-scenes society that ran things in this country. This newly built ‘resort hotel’ was not a place just anybody could check into. You had to buy the rooms first..that much Gabriel had quickly surmised.
Gabriel De Sosaya was about to rapidly be initiated to the next level of yakuza contact. ‘Gangster’ was no longer the really appropriate translation for this most avoided of words in Japanese. Dangerously creative businessman, yes, that might actually be more to the point. Creative indeed, dangerous-oh absolutely, and for sure these characters were exceedingly wealthy. This was not Gabriel’s first encounter with them so he knew these facts to be true to character.
“Kochira desu” said the tall doorman as he pressed the gold elevator button. “Arigato” Gabriel answered with a slight bow as they whirred up 45 floors. It came totally naturally by now-the bow that is.
Holding the edge of the elevator door with his white glove, his job now over, the doorman left with a perfunctory, “Goyuukuri”, meaning literally, take it slowly, implying that he was to have a relaxed evening. He was about to have an evening that would both shock and arouse him. But most of all tonight would confirm in him a long held suspicion; Japan, like everywhere else, runs on pure money politics. No secret there really, but in the case of this country there really was a secret. And he was most definitely the only gaijin, perhaps the one and only foreigner in the country who could not only understand it, but become part of it.
Though by no means a total stranger to places like this he had to wonder why he had been specifically invited here.
