Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat, page 8
“What happened?”
“I lost her, too. She committed suicide when we were sixteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, babe. When you look at the big wide world out there today, maybe she made the right choice.”
obon-bon
When I woke, the TV was on (with volume thankfully muted) and Laurel was lying beside me with her arms spread out, her lips slightly parted, snoring gently. My head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton. I checked the TV for the time—shame you couldn’t tell anymore from just looking out the window. It was early morning and I’d been asleep about six hours.
I pulled myself up and immediately felt like shit. My muscles were stiff and sore from lying on the floor and my right arm was pins & needles. And, of course, I was coming down hard from the drugs and drink. I pulled on my pants and t-shirt then mosied into the kitchen, made myself a cup of Joe and a couple of pieces of toast with a liberal application of margarine and Vegemite. I knocked a mug into the sink in the process, but Laurel didn’t even stir.
I opened the blinds in the kitchen and leaned my head against the glass. I could feel the rain striking the other side. The street below was well lit by all of the neon advertisements suspended out there. There was a new one—obscenely huge—and of course it was yet another Hylax ad.
This one displayed a monstrously sized face—that of a girl with an immaculate smile that featured a flawless set of Hylax acrylic-enhanced canines, the same treatment that Dorothy and my mother had done. Did I mention the teeth glowed in the dark? I’d even thought about getting the job (or something like it) done myself, but not for cosmetic reasons. I considered my own chompers sufficient as they were, but terror dictated the terms—the treatment effectively eradicated almost all future need for dental care. I could still vividly recall my last visit with that lamp, the needles, drill, picks, vacuum saliva sucker thingy, assorted archaic tools of torture, and the inane one-way conversation.
“What’cha thinking about?”
“Dentists.”
“Oh.” Laurel was there behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist. “Why, babe? You got a toothache or something?”
“No particular reason.”
“So you often daydream about dental care?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Okay. You’re a really outlandish kid, Floyd.”
“Hardly a kid. I’m older than you.”
“In the flesh, yeah. That’s not what I’m referring to.” Her hand slipped down my stomach to my crotch. She was wearing her gloves again. “You got any plans for today?”
“Zilch on the agenda.”
“Good.”
“You’ve got a suggestion?”
“I’ve got family to see and I’d like you to come along. Escort, and all that jazz.”
“Ah. Have I told you that I have a somewhat serious allergic reaction to relatives? The last time I went into anaphylactic shock. Or was it anamorphosis—? “
“Don’t sweat it, babe. It’s something hilarious. Ever heard of an Obon festival?”
“Yeah—I’ve never been to one, though.”
“Well, you should know that dancing a Bon Odori with my relatives might just qualify as schlock-culture experience #206.”
“Hang on, I thought that was the time I—”
“Floyd, shut up and take the hint. I want you to go with me.”
“Fair enough. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Formerly celebrated in July and August across Japan, Obon had been one of that country’s major holiday seasons, an annual Japanese Buddhist event in which to commemorate one’s ancestors. They believed that the freewheeling spirits of the dearly departed returned to this world in order to pay a house-call to their relatives. According to legend, Obon was significant enough to have played havoc with domestic and international travel and tended to completely book-out any and all accommodations.
Since the Catastrophe, hotel bookings were no longer a concern—except, I suppose, for the spirits, who probably had to deal with some serious over-crowding these days. In fact, the only Obon festival left was held in a high school gymnasium just outside the Dome and was packed with well over a thousand people. Colourful paper lanterns were suspended under umbrellas in front of houses around the gym—“To guide the ancestors’ spirits, just in case they’ve forgotten the address,” Laurel quipped.
“The Japanese rediscover their spirituality at this time of year,” my guide informed me, as she manoeuvred us through a bunch of teenagers. There was a swag of ceremonial food and sake on offer, which raised my spirits. I broke open a Ozeki One Cup—they seemed to have also rediscovered the joys of el cheapo rice wine. Laurel broke free from me and ran up to and hugged an elderly Japanese man. He was stooped over and sported huge thick glasses. Beside him was a younger man of mixed nationalities, and they both referred to her by the name I’d only heard her use when I first met her: Nina. “Floyd, this is my grandfather, Toshiro, and my younger brother, Tom—short for Tomohiro or Tomaso, depending on whether you want to steer into our Japanese or Russian heritage. Tomohiro for the purposes of today, I suppose.”
“Hajimemashite,” I said as I shook Toshiro’s hand. His fingers felt like they might break off in my grip.
“My name is Toshiro.” He had a gravelly voice lifted straight from an old samurai flick. “My father offered this name to me when I was young. Most Australians don’t participate in perfume, and so in summer person’s odour is very difficult. Also, my eyes are composed of ceramics.” He pointed towards his own head.
“He’s saying that he wears glasses,” Laurel translated. I kind’a wanted to know if he just told me I reeked, but didn’t think it would be appropriate to push the issue.
“The guy can be cryptic sometimes,” Tom added. “A bit of a crazy cat. Right, pop?” Laurel’s brother proceeded to slap the elderly man’s back and I could’ve sworn I saw a dust cloud billow out. I drifted back into people watching for a minute before Laurel pulled me aside.
“Your accent was pretty good there.”
“Nah—I just know that line because Sean Connery says it in You Only Live Twice. How long’s your grandfather been in this country? How come his English is all Yoda?”
“He loathes this city. He doesn’t care to learn a language he detests.”
I shrugged. “Fair enough.”
The most entertaining part of Obon for me was that evening’s dance-offs. It probably helped that I’d smuggled in a tab of Clodualdo without Laurel knowing. I was also on my fourth cup of sake—so I was feeling pretty darned out there.
Kids and their grandparents had donned summer kimonos—“Yukata,” Laurel instructed me—and lined up around a tall wooden structure called a yagura, made especially for the festival. It was situated in the centre of the gym and doubled as a bandstand for the crooners, taiko drummers, and other musicians. Dancers rounded the yagura in unison, and Laurel informed me that the spirits of deceased loved ones were dancing with them. While the live band was on break, they’d play old canned Japanese enka songs and anime TV tunes, like those for Doraemon and Pokémon—and the grandmas were just as likely to bop away at those as the little ones. The constant circular motion around the tower was putting me in a trance. It was all a bit surreal and trippy, like that merry-go-round scene in Terry Gilliam’s take on Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
Then, without warning, Laurel swept her granddad into the mix, joining the dance with her arms in the air. She seemed to know what she was doing, occasionally improvising with some new grooves of her own and deftly weaving around her gramps.
“I haven’t seen her this happy in a long time,” her brother remarked. “Nina likes Bon Odori. I believe it’s because she feels it’s a chance to be with our mother again.”
“Toshiro-san’s daughter?” I asked, as I emptied my Ozeki cup.
“That’s right.”
“What happened to your mother?”
“She killed herself. Nina found her in the bathtub, after school when she was twelve, I think. Maybe thirteen.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Whoa. Not even close to cancer. I needed to let that sink in, so I switched up, “Where is your dad?”
“He was Relocated four years ago. Nina and I weren’t so close when we were younger. We had our issues. But she’s all I have now, aside from pop. We love her very much. You too?”
“She’s precious.” There was a sense of understanding between us.
Later, while Laurel continued to dance, a teenager glided up close and told me about some fresh milk I could get hold of. He handed me a business card with a name, Wilton Parmenter and an address printed on it along with a number handwritten on the corner—almost certainly his referral code so that he got paid if I bought milk.
As I was coming down and the sake started to wear a bit thin, I saw kids running amuck, shrieking as ghost stories were told. Some carried little Hylax plasti-bags with goldfish caught at carnival booths. The portable Buddhist shrines in the gym had been redecorated in outrageous new ways—some of them had scarlet bibs and bonnets. Many dancers had left the building, and Laurel informed me that they were all marching around the exterior of the gym in the pounding rain.
“How was the Clodualdo?”
“You knew?”
She ignored the question. “Back in Japan they used to have fireworks at this time of year,” she said. “Now, of course, that’s impossible.”
“What happens to all those spirits who came to town?” I wrapped my arm around her waist. She leaned against me, her hand lingering on my shoulder.
“They head back into their world so they can choreograph new dance moves for next year’s event.”
“Tell me about your gramps.”
“What d’you want to know?” Laurel, lying on my arm beside me in bed, shifted just a fraction.
“You said he hates it here. Why’d he come over from Japan, then?”
“He was the CEO of some big electronics company based in Tokyo. When the Catastrophe started to unfold, he had the cash to escape. He had family here.”
“It doesn’t explain the hate, though. Don’t get me wrong—I can understand it—this city really pisses me off. But what’s his gripe?”
“In the transition, he lost everything. Between fees, taxes, and bribing immigration officers, he was stripped of his money and belongings. He was forced to work as a janitor at a public high school. For someone of his background and culture, it’s a bitter pill to swallow. It’s funny how all the skills in the world don’t matter anymore when it comes to émigrés.” Laurel rolled over, exposing the enormous kanji strokes that covered her back.
“Are you ever going to tell me what this means?” I drew my finger along the array of complex lines.
“It’s a secret. You know what they say about curiosity.”
“Killing the cat. Yeah, yeah. The cat’s been MIA all along.”
“Thursby’s at home.”
“I’m not talking about Thursby. I’m talking up the cat from The Third Man.”
“Ah. That again.” She touched the small kanji character on my shoulder. “I like yours.”
“Me too. So—Tom talked a bit about your mother.” I didn’t want to directly confront her about how her mother died. If she needed that particular lie, she could have it. But I couldn’t not bring the topic up, so I had settled on this softer approach.
“Ah. He always had loose lips. And?”
“Tell me about her.”
“Ugh. I don’t even know where to start. My mother was never doting, nor even particularly loving. She named me Netochka Nezvanova after the title heroine from one of Dostoyevsky’s books. Have you ever read Dostoyevsky?”
“I’ve seen the The Brothers Karamazov with William Shatner. Does that count?”
“Not really. The question is have you read anything by him?”
“Nah. Too long-winded for me.”
“Neither had my father, even though he was Russian. Slacker. But my mother did her thesis on the guy. Everyone knows about Crime and Punishment, but there’s another book he wrote, an unfinished manuscript—it was one of Dostoyevsky’s early novels, but he was imprisoned before he could complete it and then never got around to finishing it. It’s called Netochka Nezvanova. In Russian, Netochka Nezvanova means ‘nameless nobody’. And that’s what she named me.”
“Fuck.”
“Fuck,” Laurel echoed.
“When? When did you find this out?”
“My mum told me.”
“What—?”
She looked over at me and shrugged. “Do you know about the Japanese fixation on the number seven?”
“No. Can’t say I do.”
“Well, Japan has seven gods of good fortune, called the Shichifukujin, who got about in a mystical treasure boat. Legend has it that ancient Japan was established around seven districts, Japanese Buddhists believe people are reincarnated seven times, and seven weeks of mourning are required after someone dies. At age seven, girls are welcomed into womanhood and allowed to wear the obi decorative sash with their kimono, there are seven autumn flowers, seven herbs—called nanakusa—and, this one’s just for you, Akira Kurosawa has his—”
“Seven Samurai.”
“Exactly, and I can keep going. Mild Seven were one of Japan’s most popular brands of cigarettes—”
“And your point here is—?”
“The number seven was big biz over there and a huge influence on the way the nation thought. So, my mother was Japanese by birth. That sort of explains why she told me about my name when I was seven years old. She read the book to me and when she finished she said ‘that’s you, Nina—my little nameless nobody’.”
“One question—I thought your father was Russian. Didn’t he—”
“He’s second-generation. His Russian language skills weren’t particularly strong. He did suss it out eventually, though.”
“What happened?”
“He found the book and apparently it explained the title in the editor’s notes. He was not happy about it. My parents had a huge fight. I remember being terrified. They’d fought before, but this time it was much worse and my mother was screaming—and then there was silence for a long time before I heard someone coming up the stairs. The door to my room opened and it was my mum. She looked—I don’t know—she was angry, I could tell that. She came over to my bed and stood over me for what seemed like ages. ‘Little nobody’, she said over and over, and then she hit me across the head, and hit me and hit me and hit me—” She cut herself off.
“Laurel? I’m so damned sorry.” I placed my arms around her.
“There’s an age old Japanese saying: ‘Nana korobi ya oki’, which means ‘fall seven times, rise eight times’—which is an encouragement to persevere.”
“You persevered?”
“Not intentionally. But I survived.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“It’s the distant past.” She gave me a small kiss. “So, as it turns out, you’re not the only one with a beast of a mum.”
the weathergirl comes in from the rain
I managed to get up and out the door before six. Hard to believe, I know, but these were extraordinary times. Laurel didn’t even budge. That kid with the business card had triggered some long lost cravings and I desperately wanted to wake Laurel up to a cup of Java with a splash of authentic milk in it. I hadn’t partaken of real milk in over a decade.
While milk-substitute, made from god-only-knows-what, was easy enough to get these days, bona fide dairy milk—delivered direct from a cow’s teet to you—was well nigh impossible to hunt down unless you were willing—and more to the point, able—to pay exorbitant prices in the Dome. Even milk powder was as rare as hen’s teeth. It was the same for all farm-fresh goods, ever since they’d closed off the city from the outside and lobbed the key into the Yarra.
Nowadays, the only chance for someone like me to find dairy was to chase down the fleeting rumours of people living with cows or goats hidden away in their apartments. Selling milk without a license was a grey market affair, but a license was extremely difficult to acquire, requiring both connections and a pricey processing fee. Dabbling in the underground dairy market could get both buyer and seller Relocated under the economic Deviancy laws if you got saddled with a judge in a bad mood. Buyers had it worse, as sellers often had the local cops on the take—a pint of fresh milk weekly, or whatever—and were rarely picked up.
After a quick call to the number on the card, I practically ran the distance to Eildon Road—except for a brief stint crushed into an overcrowded shuttle-tram—but had trouble locating the place once I was there. After an hour rummaging around, I eventually found what I was searching for—a narrow alleyway, next to a pole with a tattered, oval-shaped ‘if?’ sticker adhered at eye level. There, as promised, was a hidden staircase behind a barricaded shop-front. Inside, an old woman, going on a hundred and a dead ringer for Ma Kettle, was doling out the white nectar.
“Mrs. Parmenter?”
“She’s dead and buried. I’m Mrs. Agarn.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, I was told—”
“Get on with it—haven’t got all day.”
She allowed me a whiff and the milk smelled okay, so I went a little overboard and handed her a small fortune. Mrs. Agarn poured the milk into three one-litre Hylax plasti-containers.
“You get caught with these, they’re your fuckin’ problem.” She shoved a bag at me to put them in. I think she had a problem smiling (maybe a century of gravity does that to a person?) and grimaced instead.
I had my riches. I was imagining the expression on Laurel’s face—little things like that really mattered to me now. I carefully threw the bag over my shoulder and headed back downstairs.
Soon I was on Queens Road, one of the main arterials that detour into the Dome. The rain, pollution, and mud guaranteed all of the cars passing by were filthy. It was a wonder some of the drivers could see out their windows to drive. At least they were mostly electrics, so the traffic was fairly quiet. In the distance I could vaguely make out the Dome, obscured as it was by the haze and the downpour.
