James Kendley

The Flea Circus

from the upcoming novel

The Wine Ghost

 

 

Oyafuko-dori, literally “the street of disobedient children,” was just around the corner from Club Sexy Chat. Oyafuko was lined with cheap restaurants, pubs, karaoke parlors, and game centers. The city fathers tried to change the street name every few decades, but the new names never stuck. Now the afternoon filled the street with shifting swarms of orange-haired youths with raucous laughter and too many teeth, small knots of young businesspeople in bad suits, and the occasional long-legged beauty on her way to more adult quarters. There were always sidelong glances for foreigners like me, because there were always people who didn’t think I belonged there at all. On the street of disobedient children, they weren’t afraid to let me know it.

 

The phone booths were plastered inside and out with sex service ads. I read them idly as I left a message on Ritsuko’s answering machine. She wasn’t home yet, but the message would tell her that I loved her and I missed her and I wanted to talk. Talk was the last thing I wanted, but I didn’t know how to tell the truth. I was drunk enough that I didn’t really care that she had caught me with Betsy or that Tracy was furious or that I might have cracked Baxter’s skull a little. He would live; I wouldn’t. The phone buzzed in my ear, so I hung up and wandered, enjoying stares and the whispers. Adrenaline from the fight had sobered me up, but I was still too drunk and too fat and too disheveled to be out on the streets. I could have been home and drinking by myself in twenty minutes, but I enjoyed shocking the Japanese children a little. After half a block, I started challenging them. Most averted their eyes when they realized I was staring back, and I had picked up enough guttural tough-guy insults from TV to intimidate the rest. I had already been in one fight and gotten tossed out of my favorite bar, and I was looking for the Japanese kid who wouldn’t back down. Mr. Hyde was on the scene, and he was going to get my ass kicked before the night was out.

 

I was resigned to it when I almost walked into Christian, the middle-aged man who hung out with Angry Bob and the Siphon at the Compound.

 

“You’re just in time.” He held out strips of paper. He was dressed in threadbare motley, a conical hat, and a bulbous red plastic nose. He wore a plexiglass sandwich board advertising a new curry house.

 

I stood further back to see what this creature was.

 

“You remember me, don’t you? Wiley’s party last weekend.”

 

“I remember the glasses. I don’t know what the hell the rest is about.”

 

“This is my sideline. My night job. You entertain in the classroom, and I entertain in the street.”

 

I didn’t even mean to growl.

 

“Here, free curry coupons. On the house.”

 

“I hate curry more than I hate clowns.”

 

“Ah. Well then, the newest edition of The Flea Circus. Here.”

 

It was an eleven-by-seventeen sheet folded in half to make a four-page flyer. The front page had a masthead with the date and volume information, Vol. 1, No. 2, and a logo made from an electron microscope scan of a flea.

 

“What is this garbage?”

 

“The Flea Circus, number two. I haven’t got sponsorship as such, yet, but I hope to turn this into a regular publication for the foreign community. Number three will include more community events and news items. As a foreigner, you automatically qualify for a free subscription, but donations are welcome. Would you like a balloon animal with that?”

 

The only illustration was the logo. The rest seemed to be a single piece set in two columns on a manual typewriter. “What is this about?”

 

“Well, you can read it yourself.”

 

“Not right now, I can’t. You tell me.”

 

“Ah, well. I make a study of what I see, then I write up hypotheses when I have something to offer. This is a general description of those hypotheses and the kinds of articles The Flea Circus will include, along with the skeletal current events calendars and so forth. One thing I’ve described here is a series of essays about the parasitic relationship of foreigners with Japan. I call it ‘Dialogues on the Host Culture,’ and in this case, the Japanese are dogs. Or a single dog, rather. A big, shaggy dog that provides nourishment for parasites benign and malign, along with a great deal of food for thought, you see. The seekers of truth in these essays or dialogues, or perhaps they will be plays, are No and Mi, loquacious fleas of a philosophical turn of mind.”

 

“Nomi is Japanese for flea,” I said.

 

“Well, yes, you see? Your Japanese is excellent. The names give opportunities for clever wordplay, you see, like, ‘Do you know me, No?’ ‘No, I don’t even know me, Mi.’, and the like. They question their relationship with the host, with other parasites, and with each other. For example, why will two fleas passing each other on a dog’s back ignore each other? You often see this behavior among foreigners who seem to want to believe that they’re the only ones in Japan. Am I right? And why do fleas spend so much time in heated discussion of dog anatomy and dog psychology, and yet they never ask the dog? You see? It will include observations on how flea concentration on the central part of the dog will drive less adept fleas to seek nourishment on the appendages. That explains the credentials of many of the foreigners here in Kyushu as opposed to those on the main island.” He quickly blew up a long, thin, balloon.

 

“It explains you, clown.”

 

“No offense,” he said as he started tying off and twisting the balloon. “Along the way, No and Mi realize that they are just transient parasites who will never be accepted by the dog itself, like the troublesome ear mites who are so easily flushed out along with their crusty excretions, or the fearsome tick, who has attached himself more firmly but still can be dislodged should he cause the dog discomfort. After they have explored the dog a while, they might meet an emerging tapeworm, who will tell them what the host culture is like on the inside, but in the end, No and Mi discover the parasites are all unwanted outsiders, even the ringworm colonies that have fed on the dog for generations. I was thinking of putting them out in a series of flyers, but I don’t see how I can make anything from it that way. It’s a thankless task. People don’t want to hear the truth, even as a light-hearted parable. They don’t appreciate it unless you make them pay for it and tell them it will make them richer or thinner or give them better orgasms. Or more frequent ones, anyway.”

 

“What kind of parasite am I, clown?”

 

“You, Frank? You aren’t a parasite! Did you think I was saying so? No, no, no. You have changed into the dog himself.” With a mock-courtly flourish, he handed me balloon poodle.

 

I didn’t know what to do with it. People passing by stared openly at the foreigners, one dressed as a clown and the other holding a balloon poodle.

 

“There is a long history of men becoming animals on these islands. Oh, yes. I have heard how well you speak Japanese, so I wouldn’t presume to preach or teach, but do you know the word for ‘monster’ in Japanese?”

 

“Kaijuu?”

 

“Kaijuu! Almost! That would be the word for a man in a rubber suit destroying a scale model of Tokyo! No, I was thinking of the old monsters, the bakemono. The first part of the word comes from the verb bakeru, to transform, and that’s what is interesting about the traditional Japanese monsters. One of the oldest and most mysterious bakemono in Japan is the fox. In the old, animistic religion, the fox is actually a kami, a superior being that some less-adept translators would call a god. By the way, this so-called Shinto is really nothing but ancient animism with a Ninth-century neo-Confucian overlay. And don’t let anyone tell you different. Anyway, the fox changes shape to bewitch hapless travelers. You see? This theme of men changing into beasts is reflected elsewhere in the language as well. For example, when one becomes violent and undergoes an extreme personality change under the influence of alcohol, the Japanese say, ‘tora ni naru,’ or ‘one becomes a tiger.’ It’s a common idiom.”

 

I searched his face for a sign of mockery, but he had busied himself with another balloon.

 

“So men become beasts and beasts become men in this enchanted archipelago. Foxes become bewitching young women, fleas become irritating foreigners, and drunkards become dangerous tigers. I do not know what it means when a man becomes a dog, but a beautiful evening can begin when a balloon becomes a flower. Ladies.”

 

He handed a balloon over my shoulder. Betsy and Kaori were standing just behind me.

 

“How long have you been here?”

 

Kaori accepted the flower. “This looks like a strange penis.”

 

“It’s a rose, my dear.”

 

“Long enough to be glad we missed the lecture,” Betsy said in a sultry undertone meant just for me.

 

“This is not a rose.” The balloon popped. Kaori covered her mouth with her hand. “I am so sorry I hurt your strange penis.”

 

The three of us laughed as the clown put on an expression of woe. Betsy laid a hand on my shoulder. It felt cool through the damp cotton.

 

Kaori accepted curry coupons and Betsy took my balloon poodle and The Flea Circus. We left the clown before he got wound up again. The sidewalk was too narrow to walk three abreast, so Betsy took my right arm and Kaori went ahead of us, leading me by the other hand. Kaori’s hand was cool, and Betsy’s breast was soft and warm against my forearm. She squeezed herself against me when we got to narrow spots in the sidewalk.

 

“You caused some excitement in that disco. That girl seemed very jealous.”

 

It didn’t seem wise to ask whether she was talking about Tracy or Ritsuko, so I just kissed her as we walked. I could work the rest of it out later, if Kaori kept her mouth shut.

 

Kaori pulled us into a dimly lit cocktail bar. We were underdressed, but we were foreigners, and foreigners make trouble, so the head waiter looked the other way while a waitress seated us. When we were settled in, Kaori asked why I got in a fight with Baxter.

 

“Tracy was very mad with you. What did you do?”

 

“Kaori, nothing. Please forget it.” Betsy was pretending to be interested in the menu, but she was listening. I wanted to string it all out a little longer. I felt sober as a judge.

 

“But he said you were a liar, and they were making fun about Ritsuko. What happened?”

 

“Kaori, Baxter was telling everyone that you slapped him for no reason.”

 

She didn’t miss a beat. “But after he was on the ground, you did not kick him with your shoe. Next time, you must kick him with your shoe.”

 

We drank cocktails. Betsy slid in closer to me as Kaori talked about her new Japanese detective.

 

“So this afternoon after I visit my office, I want to see Thomas, but you said he is crazy.”

 

Betsy’s hands were soft. “You should go now,” I said. “It would be cruel to leave him without saigo-no-ikkai. Just one last time for Thomas.”

 

She cocked her head at me. “You always say I should stop to see him, but now you say I should go to him. Why is that?”

 

“He’s not so crazy,” I said. Betsy’s hand traveled up and down my thigh. “You should go before the last train leaves that little station.”

 

She looked doubtful. “Are you sure? Maybe I should go in the daytime.”

 

The small voice I ignored so often was screaming up from my chest. I crushed it.

 

“It’s your last chance. Think about what he has for you. As big around as that clown’s balloon. You won’t find that with your nice detective.”

 

She looked at her drink. “I don’t care about that,” she said. “It is my last chance to say goodbye.”

 

I felt sick. The shame started before she finished her drink, but Betsy was stroking me beneath the table. I kept my mouth shut.

We waited five minutes after Kaori left, and then we walked out to find a cab.

 

“I can’t believe all the red-headed children you have here. Is that the new fashion, then?”

 

“It’s a little-known story. A long time ago, Scots-Irish immigrants came to Japan looking for a place where they could drink all they wanted. That’s the hidden secret of the red-headed Japanese of Kyushu.”

 

“Well, it sounds as if there was more than one wave in that migration.”

 

It took me a few seconds to make sure that she wasn’t talking about me, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. I would have gone with her if she called me a drunk outright, because she was warm, and she was there.

 

In the cab on the way to her hotel, she said, “It’s difficult, you know, being English here. Everything is either childish and stupid or it’s dreadfully literal. Thank God there are some American boys here, at least.” She tugged gently on the hair at the nape of my neck. “You Yanks know how to chat a girl up. You can go on for twenty minutes without touching the ground. I miss that. It can be rather sad and lonely in Japan, after you’ve been here awhile.”

 

 

 

Former DM Senior Editor, Archivist and Blog-monkey James Kendley is the author of The Wine Ghost, a novel of degradation and redemption coming from Hammer & Anvil Books later this spring.