Dance Dance Dance

And now we were losing each other.

I could see Kiki. What was that all about? But was Kiki dead, covered with dirt, in the ground? Like my Kipper? Ultimately, Kiki had to die. Strange how I couldn't see things any other way. The skin of my soul was no longer tender. I tried not to feel anything at all. My resignation was a silent rain falling over a vast sea. Even loneliness was beyond me. Everything was taking leave of me, like ciphers in the sand, blown away on the wind.

So another person had joined the group in that most bizarre chamber of my world. Four down, two to go. Sooner or later, bleached white bones ferried to that room via some impossible architecture. Death's waiting room in downtown Honolulu, connected to the dark chill lair of the Sheep Man in a Sapporo hotel, connected to the Sunday morning bedroom where Gotanda lay with Kiki. Was I losing my mind? Real events, under imaginary circumstances, filtering back, wild, distorted, bizarre. Was there nothing absolute? Was there no ... reality? Sapporo in the March snow could as easily not have been real. Sitting on the beach in Makaha with Dick North had seemed real enough—but a one-armed man cutting bread in perfect slices? And a Honolulu call girl giving me a phone number that I later find in the anteroom to the death chamber Kiki leads me to? Why isn't that real? What could I reasonably admit into evidence without caus­ing my whole world to shake at its foundations?

Was the sickness in here or out there? Did it matter? What was the line now? Get in step and dance, so that everyone's impressed. Keeping in step—was that the only reality? Well, dance yourself to the telephone, give your pal Gotanda a ring, and ask him casually: «Did you kill Kiki?»

No way. My hand experienced sudden paralysis. I sat by the phone, numb, shaking, as if I was in a crosswind. Breath­ing grew difficult. I liked Gotanda, I liked him a lot. He was my only friend, he was part of my life. I understood him.

I tried dialing. I got the wrong number, every time. On the sixth try, I hurled the receiver to the floor.

I never did manage to call. In the end it was Gotanda who showed up at my place.

It was a rainy night. He was wearing a rain hat and the same white trench coat as the night I drove him to Yoko­hama. The rain was coming down hard, and his hat was dripping. He didn't have an umbrella.

He smiled when he saw me. I smiled back, almost by

reflex.

«You look awful,» he said. «I called and called but never got an answer. So I decided just to come over. You been under the weather?»

«Under is not the word,» I said.

He sized me up. «Well, maybe it's a bad time. I'll come

back when you're feeling better. Sorry to come by unan­nounced like this.»

I shook my head and exhaled. No words came. Gotanda waited patiently. «I'm not sick or anything,» I assured him. «I just haven't been sleeping or eating. I think I'm okay now. Anyway I've been wanting to talk to you. Let's go some­where. I haven't eaten a full meal in ages.»

We took the Maserati out into the rainy neon streets. Gotanda's driving was precise and smooth as ever, but the car now made me nervous. The deep soundproofed ride cut a channel through the clamor that rose all around us.

«Where to?» Gotanda asked. «All I care is that it's some­where quiet where we can talk and get decent food without running into the Rolex crowd.» he said. He looked my way, but I said nothing. For thirty minutes we drove around, my eyes focused on the buildings we were passing.

«I can't think of any place,» Gotanda tried again. «How about you? Any ideas?»

«No, me neither.» I really couldn't. I was still only half present.

«Okay, then, why don't we take the opposite approach?» he said brightly.

«The opposite approach?»

«Someplace noisy and crowded. That way we can relax.»

«Okay. Where?»

«Feel like pizza? Let's go to Shakey's.»

«I don't mind. I'm not against pizza. But wouldn't they spot you, going to a place like that?»

Gotanda smiled weakly, like the last glow of a summer sun between the leaves. «When was the last time you saw anyone famous in Shakey's, my friend?»

Shakey's was packed with weekend shoppers. Crowded and noisy. A Dixieland quartet in suspenders and red-and-white striped shirts were pumping out The Tiger Rag to a raucous college group loud on beer. The smell of pizza was everywhere. No one paid attention to anyone else.

We placed our order, got a couple drafts, then found a

table under a gaudy imitation Tiffany lamp in the back of

the restaurant.

«What did I tell you? Isn't this more like it?» said Gotanda.

I'd never craved pizza before, but the first bite had me thinking it was the best thing I'd ever tasted. I must have been starving. The both of us. We drank and ate and ate and drank. And when the pizza ran out, we each bought another

round of beer.

«Great, eh?» belched Gotanda. «I've been wanting a pizza for the last three days. I even dreamed about it, sizzling hot, sliding right out of the oven. In the dream I never get to eat it, though. I just stare at it and drool. That's the whole dream. Nothing else happens. What would Jung say about pizza archetypes?» Gotanda chuckled, then paused. «So what was this that you wanted to talk to me about?»

Now or never, I thought. But come right out with it? Gotanda was thoroughly relaxed, enjoying the evening. I looked at his innocent smile and couldn't bring myself to do it. Not now, at least.

«What's new with you?» I asked. «Work? Your ex-wife?» «Work's the same,» Gotanda said. «Nothing new, nothing good, nothing I want to do. I can yell until my throat gives out, but nobody wants to hear what I have to say. My wife —did you hear that? I still call her my wife after all this time—I've only seen her once since I last saw you. Hey, you ever do the love hotel thing?» «Almost never.»

«I told you she and I have been meeting at love hotels. You know, the more you use those places, it gets to you. They're dark, windows all covered up. The place is only for fucking, so who needs windows, right? All you got is a bath­room and a bed—plus music and TV and a refrigerator—but it's all pretty blank and anonymous and artificial. Actually, very conducive to getting down and doing it. Makes you feel like you're really doing it. After a while, though, you feel the claustrophobia, and you begin to sort of hate the place. Still, they're the only refuge we got.»

Gotanda took a sip of beer and wiped his mouth with the napkin.

«I can't bring her to my condo. The scandal rags would have a field day if they ever found out. I got no time to go off somewhere. They'd sniff it out too anyway. We've practi­cally sold our privacy by the gram. So we go to these cheesy fuck hotels and ...» Gotanda looked over at me, then smiled. «Here I go, griping again.»

«That's okay. I don't mind listening.»

The Dixieland band struck up «Hello Dolly.»

«Hey, how about another pizza?» Gotanda asked. «Halve it with you. I don't know what it is with me, but am I starv­ing!»

Soon we were stuffing our faces with one medium anchovy. The college kids kept up their shouting match, but the band had finished their final set. Banjo and trumpet and trombone were packed in their cases, and the musicians left the stage, leaving only the upright piano.

We'd finished the extra pizza, but somehow couldn't take our eyes off the empty stage. Without the music, the voices in the crowd became plastic, almost palpable. Waves of sound solidifying as they pressed toward us, yet broke softly on contact. Rolling up slowly over and over again, striking my consciousness, then retreating. Farther and farther away. Distant waves, crashing against my mind in the distance.

«Why did you kill Kiki?» I asked Gotanda. I didn't mean to ask it. It just slipped out.

He stared at me as if he were looking at something far off. His lips parted slightly. His teeth were white and beauti­ful. For the longest time, he stared right through me. The surf in my head went on and on, now louder, now fainter. As if all contact with reality was approaching and receding. I remember his graceful fingers neatly folded on