2.25 Because the sun shines

Nothing to hide? Good Lord, I had plenty.

Jean took me to an unabashedly hip bar in Imaizumi where everyone seemed to know him. Wide arms welcomed him the moment he walked in through the door. Customers and bartenders calling out his name: “Marcel! Where have you been hiding yourself?”

“In Nepal buying hemp,” he shouted back, and pointing towards one of the bartenders who had the tan and long hair of a surfer, added, “Sorry, Shôhei, none for you.”

The whole bar erupted in laughter.

We mounted two barstools, sleek things I had seen recently in the Conran Shop. They were not cheap.

Jean introduced me to the bartenders, who then pulled out their meishi (business cards) from a pocket in their crisp black aprons, and did a smart job introducing themselves to me.

I took the business cards and placed them before me on the steel counter top.

“Aren’t you going to . . . Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t got meishi,” Jean said, shooting me a look that showed he was appalled.

“I do. I do. Just not on me. I didn’t expect to be meeting . . . “

“When you’re with me, Rémy, you should assume it.”

“Trust me, I’ll have them the next time,” I replied, making a mental note to go and get some more business cards printed up.

Jean ordered a bottle of champagne straight off, and as Shôhei was fetching it, he told me that the two bartenders were worth getting to know.

“They’re well connected in the city, and Shôhei, I’ve seen him fill a ballroom at the Solaria Hotel with five hundred immaculately dressed women before.”

Shôhei placed champagne glasses and a bucket of ice before us, then proceeded to ceremoniously uncork the bottle.

Jean poured four glasses of champagne: two for us and another two for the bartenders.

“It’s been a very good month,” he said, raising his glass. “Thanks to trippers like you.”

The others in the bar raised their own glasses, and, when Jean said, “Kampai!” they all clinked their glasses together.

It was fascinating to watch the Frenchman interact with everyone. Jean’s Japanese was far from perfect, a fact he readily admitted. He couldn’t read or write a proper sentence if his life depended upon it, and yet it didn’t stop him from conducting business, signing contracts, taking out loans, and so on.

“People who whinge about language being an obstacle preventing them from doing business,” he would say, “are lazy bastards. The only reason those losers are alive is because the sun shines and the air is free.”

As bad as he claimed his Japanese was Jean was able to make the most of what he knew to become a far more engaging and entertaining conversationalist than I could ever hope to be after all my years trying to master the language.

It was no different with his English, which could have done with some fine-tuning, but was still far more intelligent, nuanced, and substantive than the facile blather of your average American.

Three glasses of champagne later I admitted that it hadn’t been a bad month for me either.

“My friend, I don’t mean to be belittling, but I doubt in your best month you earn nowhere near what The Zoo alone pulled in this month.”

“True, but I haven’t got all the overhead and hassles that I’m sure you have. And, everything I earn is tax free.”

“Well, my friend, if you want to live like a Bohemian, then I suggest you move to Bohemia,” Jean replied with a sardonic smile. “Paying taxes is a very small price to pay.”

“For what?”

“By paying taxes, you establish an income, a record of achievement that you can then use to get loans . . . “

“Loans? Who wants loans?” Now it was my turn to be skeptical. I was perfectly happy operating on a cash basis, knowing exactly how much money I had, never having to worry about bourgeois nonsense such as mortgages.

“Permit me to enlighten you, Rémy. Loans are the fuel for growth. Your business cannot grow without them.”

“Why would I want to get any bigger than I am? Okay, a little bigger would be nice, but I’m already make two to three times what any of my friends are making at the moment, maybe not you, but much better than average. I’m not rich, but I am comfortable.”

“It’s the purpose of any business to grow. It is their raisons d'être. Businesses either grow, or they die.”

“Well, this isn’t really what I want to be doing. I mean it’s just something that pays the bills and . . . “

“What is it then you’re wanting to do?”

“Write, travel, take photos . . . “

“You write? I did not know this,“ he said, taking a sip of his champagne. “Why do you write?”

“Why?”

Why did I write? Most people seemed to want a tidy answer, something you could put in the center of a truffle and pop into their mouths. My reasons, however, were as cluttered and confused as that table back in Adachi’s office. The desire to write, I had long felt, was an affliction, an obsessive-compulsive drive to arrange letters into words, words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, to cover a perfectly good sheet of white paper with black ink.

“You know why?” Jean asked. “Ego.”

“Ego?”

“Yes, ego.”

“I’d like to think it’s more than just that.”

“What is it then?”

I rambled on about romantic ideas I had about living the life of a writer.

“Rémy, Rémy. If I wanted to punch you here,” he said, patting me in the soft part between my left breast and shoulder. “I wouldn't aim for there, I'd aim for here.” He put his fist a good foot behind my shoulder.

I couldn’t help but feel that I had heard the same thing in the movie, Dragon: The Bruce Lee Story, but I wasn’t about to tell my friend so.

“I consider myself lucky if I’m able to accomplish half of my goals,” Jean continued. “You know why I run the business I do?”

“To get laid?” I offered, half-jokingly.

“Well, yes, there is that. Chicks are definitely attracted to guys with cool jobs, but that’s an infinitesimal part of what I’m trying to achieve. More important than all the pussy and money you can throw my way I want to bend reality. Some kid comes into my shop and buys . . . “

“Shrooms?”

“No, it doesn’t even have to be shrooms. It could be those ugly canvas shoes I sold fifteen thousand pair of, or the hemp bags I was just in Nepal ordering. I designed them, had them made, imported them, and now some kid is slinging it over his shoulder and putting his wallet and things in it. I’ve bent his reality. I’ve changed his daily life.”

© Aonghas Crowe, 2010. All rights reserved. No unauthorized duplication of any kind.

注意：この作品はフィクションです。登場人物、団体等、実在のモノとは一切関係ありません。

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No. 6 is now available on Kindle.