Then she began to notice other buildings, through sheets of rain, and these were illuminated to a degree excessive even by local standards, like Nissan County attractions in a television ad, isolated theme-park elements thrusting up out of a strata of more featureless structures, unmarked and unlit. Each bright building with its towering sign: HOTEL KING MIDAS with its twinkling crown and scepter, FREEDOM SHOWER BANFF with blue-green mountains flanking a waterfall of golden light. At least six more in rapid succession, then Gomi Boy said something in Japanese. The drivers shiny black bill dipped in response.
They swung onto an off-ramp, slowing. From the ramps curve, in the flat, ugly flare of sodium floods, she saw a rainy, nowhere intersection, no cars in sight, where pale coarse grass lay wet and dishevelled up a short steep slope. No place at all, like it could as easily have been on the outskirts of Seattle, the outskirts of anywhere, and the homesickness made her gasp.
Gomi Boy shot her a sidewise glance, engaged in the excavation of something from another of his pockets, this one apparently insidehis pants. From somewhere well below the level of his crotch he fished up a wallet-sized fold of paper money, secured with a wide black elastic band. In the passing glare of another road light Chia saw him snap the elastic back and peel off three bills. Bigger than American money, and on one she made out the comfortingly familiar logo of a company whose name shed known all her life. He tucked the three bills into the sleeve of his sweater and set about replacing the rest wherever it was he kept it.
There soon, he said, withdrawing his hand and refastening his suspenders.
Where soon?
They took a right and stopped, all around them a strange white fairy glow, falling with the rain to oil-stained concrete neatly painted with two big white arrows, side by side, pointing in opposite directions. The one pointing in the direction they were headed indicated a square opening in a featureless, white-painted concrete wall. Five-inch-wide ribbons of shiny pink plastic hung from its upper edge to the concrete below, concealing whatever was behind and reminding Chia of streamers at a school dance. Gomi Boy gave the driver the three bills. He sat patiently, waiting for change.
Her legs cramping, Chia reached for the door handle, but Masahiko quickly reached across from the front, stopping her. Driver must open, he said. If you open, mechanism breaks, very expensive. The driver gave Gomi Boy change. Chia thought Gomi Boy would tip him, but he didnt. The driver reached down and did something, out of sight, that made the door beside Chia open.
She climbed out into the rain, dragging her bag after her, and looked up at the source of the white glow: a building like a wedding cake, HOTEL DI spelled out in white neon script edged with clear twinkling bulbs. Masahiko beside her now, urging her toward the pink ribbons. She heard the cab pull away behind her. Come. Gomi Boy with the plaid bag, ducking through the wet ribbons.
Into an almost empty parking area, two small cars, one gray, one dark green, their license plates concealed by rectangles of smooth black plastic. A glass door sliding aside as Gomi Boy approached.
A disembodied voice said something in Japanese. Gomi Boy answered. Give him your card, Masahiko said. Chia took out the card and handed it to Gomi Boy, who seemed to be asking the voice a series of questions. Chia looked around. Pale blues, pink, light gray. A very small space that managed to suggest a hotel lobby without actually offering a place to sit down. Pictures cycling past on wallscreens: interiors of very strange-looking rooms. The voice answering Gomi Boys questions.
He asks for a room with optimal porting capacity, Masahiko said quietly.
Gomi Boy and the voice seemed to reach agreement. He slotted Chias card above something that looked like a small pink water fountain. The voice thanked him. A narrow hatch opened and a key slid down into the pink bowl. Gorni Boy picked it up and handed it to Masahiko. Chias card emerged from the slot; Gomi Boy pulled it out and passed it to Chia. He handed Masahiko the plaid bag, turned, and walked out, the glass door hissing open for him.
He isnt coming with us?
Only two people allowed in room. He is busy elsewhere. Come. Masahiko pointed toward an elevator that opened as they approached.
What kind of hotel did you say this is? Chia got into the elevator. He stepped in behind her and the door closed.
He cleared his throat. Love hotel, he said.
Whats that? Going up.
Private rooms. For sex. Pay by the hour.
Oh, Chia said, as though that explained everything. The elevator stopped and the door opened. He got out and she followed him along a narrow corridor lit with ankle-high light-strips. He stopped in front of a door and inserted the key theyd been given. As he opened the door, lights came on inside.
Have you been to one of these before? she asked, and felt herself blush. She hadnt meant it that way.
No, he said. He closed the door behind her and examined the locks. He pushed two buttons. But people who come here sometimes wish to port. There is a reposting service that makes it very hard to trace. Also for phoning, very secure.
Chia was looking at the round pink furry bed. It seemed to be upholstered in what they made stuffed animals out of. The wall-to-wall was shaggy and white as snow, the combination reminding her of a particularly nasty-looking sugar snack called a Ring-Ding.
Velcro made that ripping sound. She turned to see Masahiko removing his nylon gaiters. He took off his black workshoes (the toe was out, in one of his thin gray socks) and slid his feet into white paper sandals. Chia looked down at her own wet shoes on the white shag and decided shed better do the same. Why does this place lookthe way it does? she asked, kneeling to undo her laces.
Masahiko shrugged. Chia noticed that the quilted International Biohazard symbol on the plaid bag was almost exactly the color of the fur on the bed.
Spotting what was obviously the bathroom through an open door, she carried her own bag in there and closed the door behind her. The walls were upholstered with something black and shiny, and the floor was checkered with black and white tiles. Complicated mood-lighting came on and she was surrounded by ambient birdsong. This bathroom was nearly as big as the bedroom, with a bath like a miniature black swimming pool and something else that Chia only gradually recognized as a toilet. Remembering the one back in Eddies office, she put her bag down and approached the thing with extreme caution. It was black, and chrome, and had arms and a back, sort of like a chair at the stylists. There was a display cycling, on a little screen beside it, with fragments of English embedded in the Japanese. Chia watched as (A) Pleasure and (B) Super Pleasure slid past. Uh-uh, she said.
After studying the seat and the ominous black bowl, she lowered her pants, positioned herself strategically over the toilet, squatted carefully, and urinated without sitting down. Shed let someone else flush that one, she decided, while she washed her hands at the basin, but then she heard it flush itself.
There was a glossy pink paper bag beside the basin with the words Teen Teen Toiletry Bag printed on it in swirly white script. It was sealed at the top with a silver stick-on bow. She removed the bow and looked inside. Lots of different little give-away cosmetics and at least a dozen different kinds of condoms, everything packaged to look more or less like candy.