God in a Basement Flat
The following week, on borrowed wings, I soared through Earth’s upper atmosphere, high over Asia. I alighted in the city of my childhood, the focus of my maturity. I had decided to combine business with pleasure. I wanted to remember the good times, the unheeded shouts, the feel of the edge in my abdomen, as startling as a girl’s tongue. Nostalgia. My head jumped from my shoulders on the third attempt.
Tokyo had certainly changed since my day. I was born into the old city, unwilling beneficiary of Kanto earthquake and American fire. In the wake of these ravages, flimsy wooden structures had sprouted; these were gradually replaced by low rise concrete blocks. An ugly town for much of my life, it has to be admitted. But now wealth had encouraged the erection of glass and steel edifices. In the districts of Harajuku and Roppongi, people moved with less grace and more confidence. Wallets distorted pockets, credit cards were fumbled.
I spent a good two hours wandering around, seeking familiar haunts. I kept generally to the rooftops. At last, in Ichigaya, I chanced upon the site of my original death. The compounds of the Ground Self-Defence Force had been demolished. So I returned to the Ginza district, the hub, and stalked the edges of the moats ringing the Imperial Palace Grounds. Mandarin ducks and joggers flashed their plumage.
I sensed I was not alone here. Dark forms could be felt vibrating seductively on the other side of the metropolis. Probably agents of the Other, sowing the beansprouts of discontent. It was best not to concern myself with them. I had seen enough evil: the hammer and sickle painted on walls of student common-rooms, the withering of my culture. I awaited nightfall and made my way directly to a discreet hoteru, a love hotel, in the Gotanda section. Here my target, Dr Miyoshi, head of an eponymous corporation, lay snuggled with a hired hostess.
Filtering through the air-conditioning, I reassembled myself and dipped into the folds of my robe. Miyoshi was snoring loudly; the girl in the hollow of his armpit was quiet. Informants for God had already reported this weekly ritual to the Hotel Descartes on the Fax Vobiscum. God likes to keep a careful eye on his promising subjects. I had acted on the news with typical panache. I glanced around and winced at the décor. The room was furnished in standard hoteru style, with a mirrored ceiling, gaudy satins and other decadent luxuries.
From my robe I produced a purple ovoid. I had obtained it after a great deal of haggling with D.H. Lawrence. Despite the papers I carried, permitting me the use of any facility in Eden to aid my mission, he had remained truculent. Finally, after I agreed to read his complete works, he allowed me to pluck a single fruit. The tree I approached has always been the most jealously guarded, though it is not the most famous. There are no serpent-kissed apples in its branches; only Knowledge comes that way. The Tree of Eternal Life drops plums.
This was the contour of my plan. I squeezed the fruit between the compressed lips of the hostess, breaking the skin on her teeth. As she awoke, the sweet juice trickled into her throat. Her eyes widened; with a flick of my sword I clove her heart. Her breastbone sagged; the blade came out with a sound like that of a hinge.
Before she could bleed away this absurdity, I was gone. I left in the conventional manner. Departing an hoteru unobserved is simplicity itself. Customers and staff are supposed never to see each other. The bill is paid to a hand protruding from a curtain. As I strolled past, I cleared my throat and lisped: “Goshukuhaku.” I am no humorist, but this is a very ironic joke. Take my word for it.
Outside, in the cool night, I attached my wings and lifted into the skyglow. Aside from a touch of clear air turbulence, my return journey was uneventful. I was eager to confide in my neighbour, to seek a quiet place to reap my reward. I found Meredith, as always, on the porch of her stilted ranch. She was experimenting with an embossed gong, as big as a shield, to which she had fixed various percussive adjuncts. When she struck it with a mallet, but gently as if massaging away its brassy stress, the sound was an acceptable cacophony.
She was pleased to see me. We exchanged bows, hers slightly deeper than mine, an unnecessary mark of affection. “How did it go?” she asked. I told her about the declining moral standards. I had witnessed men and women shaking hands instead of bowing, diners unable to grasp the true eating implements properly (and calling for a fork.) We drank more wine, we nibbled at slices of kasutera. Genji, whom Meredith had kindly taken in like an orphan, came out to greet me.
I explained to her the exact nature of my actions. “When Miyoshi is awakened by the lashings of his harlot, his horror will soon be replaced by scientific curiosity. A woman without a heart who is still alive is a strange discovery. The plum will have lodged in her throat. Miyoshi will make the connection between the fruit and her sudden immortality. He is a man of true vision. The chemists of his Corporation will analyse the juice. An immortality drug will be on the market within a decade. Garage synthesists will ensure global availability.”
