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  Apart from the details, Kazumi Miura, sadly, is lost in the story. The murder was one thing; the “follow-up” was another.

  Crimes involving Japanese abroad are big news in Japan. While still in Los Angeles, Miura was holding interviews with the press from his hospital bed. He was an immediate media favorite and national hero for the fortitude with which he bore his pain and loss. Like a good Japanese, he even sent letters to President Ronald Reagan, the Governor of California, the Mayor of Los Angeles and the U. S. Ambassador to Japan decrying the violence of the American way of life. He even had photos of his daughter distributed, bearing the caption, “Give Me My Mommy Back!”.

  For two years Miura was off scot-free (and rich). In the autumn of 1983, thanks to a tip concerning the insurance payment, a team of reporters from the weekly magazine Shukan Bunshun began to investigate him. The following January it ran a series of articles detailing Miura’s past, which included: three marriages; seven years in prison for more than one hundred petty robberies; assorted other crimes (arson, assault, possession of a sword); and the story of a former employee and lover who had suddenly “disappeared” after having received 4.3 million yen in a divorce settlement. (The money had been taken out of her account shortly after she had “left the job” in March 1979; her body was later found in May 1979 in Los Angeles).

  The police reopened the case.

  The articles were called “Bullets of Suspicion.” Miura responded with a book called “Bullets of Information.” From then on there was no let up. Articles and interviews flowed back and forth. Miura courted as much as he evaded the media. It was a mutual affair. He was said to have charged anywhere from five to fifty million yen per interview. He signed an exclusive contract with one television network to film his latest marriage – he was engaged within six months of Kazumi’s death – in Bali in April 1985. He even played himself in a movie. As one Los Angeles detective remarked, Miura was “pouring gasoline on the fire.”

  Finally in September 1985 Miura and the porno actress/would-be murderess were arrested for the August 1981 murder attempt. The arrest was broadcast live on television. (As many arrests are in Japan, the police tipping the media off shortly before.) The woman confessed. (She received two-and-one-half years.) In May 1987 Miura was finally sentenced to six years. In October 1988, after further investigations by the LAPD, Miura was charged in Tokyo with the murder of Kazumi. (So too was his accomplice, the man in the white van who did the actual shooting. He was eventually acquitted for insufficient evidence.) Now the Miura-media tug-of-war grew in fury. He began to sue newspapers and magazines for libel. And not only did he defend himself, he usually won. He even sued one paper for writing that he sued too often! By summer 1994 he was involved in 230 different suits. Of the first hundred cases, of which he won seventy, he was awarded more than thirty-three million yen in damages.

  Unrepentant and litigious to the end, Miura blames all his misfortunes on the very media whose willing darling for a time he was.

  ***

  Yes, I believe it’s perfectly alright if he loves the city as he says he does. Who am I to doubt him, or to deny him? No love can be judged. I can’t agree with Roberta, for example, who simply calls him “mad.” But then perhaps she is intending a pun. I don’t know, but in this case I do doubt. No, I only wonder what the nature of his love is (again, without in any way judging it). It can, after all, be as rough a city as it can be a tender one. And we know that while he usually treats us all rather fairly – I really have few complaints, and most of those small – he can, well, have his moods. But can his love match the city, then? Can his love be strong, consistent over the years and adapt to the changes that must inevitably occur? Is he a faithful partner? (He does say this has been his most successful relationship – his relationship with the city, that is.) Is he capable, by my standards, of loving the city lightly, softly? It does seem to me sometimes that he is a bit too aggressive in his declarations of love, as if he were afraid of any doubt making itself known. Perhaps even an unconscious doubt. He seems occasionally to press his love, to forward his suit, to crush the city to his heart. Well, we shall see. In the meantime, too, the evidence of his love lies all about us. – So the kindly Kazuo.

  ***

  Hiromi and friends had begun somewhere around sunset, somewhere east of Kanda, on the way to Roberta’s. They finally made it to Tokyo Station without too much discomfort. Then to Marunouchi where she sometimes worked at the Palace Hotel.

  –Ohh, give me the huddled homeless ’stead of all these three-piecers.

  –So, this is where they all come from, eh?

  –All those banks we just walked past, rich Japan – ecch!

  –Bricks for brains.

  –Yeah, but some of ’em are gold-bricks.

  –No way!

  –Sure, why do you think they call us rich?

  –Whadda’ya’ mean, call us rich? I ain’t rich, you ain’t rich.

  –I mean we Japanese.

  –We Japanese?

  –Ok, the country.

  –But the station is kinda’ nice, you can take a bath after watching a porno movie. And it’s made out of brick. Kind of Euro-looking.

  –Gee, just think of it too, the old man – just over there – asleep for a thousand years –

  –No, that’s that monk guy on Koya-san.

  –Whatever, still the Emperor …

  –???

  –… asleep, I tell you, for a thousand years. Strange family.

  –Yeah, and all that money.

  –And he can’t spend it! It’s all locked up somewhere.

  –Him too – locked up at home.

  –Hey, Michiko-san!

  –Yeah, Michiko-san, wanna play tennis with us?

  –Hey, Michiko? Comeon out and play!

  –Oh, why doesn’t she answer?

  –Who’s that knocking?

  –Go away! Go away!

  –We’ll blow your door down!

  –Michiko!

  –Michiko-o-o-!

  –Think of it, guys, we’re just walking around here, lighting cigarettes, making stupid talk, and Michiko’s over there all alone –

  –– trying on her hats.

  –One after the other.

  –Hat after hat.

  –All of ’em the same.

  –But to her, don’t ya’ think, they’re all different?

  –Could be.

  –Do you think she knows how to rumba?

  –Michiko-o-o-o-o-!

  ***

  Jeez (VZ thinks to himself), they just pee all over the place. There’s this lady in my neighborhood, everyday, the same time she takes her dog out for a walk. They always stop at the same spot, she lays some tissue down on the sidewalk, the dog shits on it, she wraps it up, puts it in a plastic bag, puts that back in her purse, and walks the dog home. Really, I’ve seen it. I also saw a woman jack her dog off once. And you’ve heard about how mothers relieve their sons when they’re tense about their exams? A-fucking-mazing. Jeez.

  ***

  The Way

  clouds are torn

  a skirt is worn

  sentences form

  live near the sea;

  sleep before sunrise

  ***

  “What is this shit? This movie isn’t moving!”

  And thus Roberta created the great wall in her relation with Van Zandt. For two or three years they’d talked at least three or four times a week about his Tokyo film. She’d seen him overcome every financial and linguistic disadvantage that the city could offer; seen him hire his small staff (the photographer’s assistant who took the lead, and whom he never touched); helped him choose the twelve select sites; had even provided him with his title. And tonight he was finally showing the film. He’d chosen a small gallery in Yanaka, wanted to be near the River and away from the uptown artsy crowd. Many friends had come, plus the few art and film people he respected in Tokyo. And then her shout, exactly thirty-six minutes into the 144-minute film
. He shut the projector off, mumbled an angry apology-cum-explanation (“The point is that the excitement of the city is in the stillness of the images, the man, the woman and their location in the various sites are both a praise and a critique of the city”) – and made his exit. Roberta and Van Zandt didn’t speak again for a month. No one could intercede. She felt horrible, of course, but stood her ground – “The film really was not interesting. I only wanted to excite him, to make him go further; really, he could have done so much more. That wasn’t a city he’d filmed, it was two machines – three if you include the city,” she explained herself too late. When they did meet again, he smiled her apology away. They didn’t speak of the film again, or what new project he might be working on.

  And work on he did. Stealthy, alone. (The photographer’s assistant stayed enlisted, however. She was beautiful in that early 80s Tokyo sort of way, that slow, smooth walk; that curt pout that belied a real friendliness; that readiness to help on any experiment.) He remade the film, all of it, new locations, new setups; it was the same film as before but different, new. It premiered in Amsterdam, and then made the circuit of competitions and festivals. He figured she’d come across an article about it someday, and then the regrets would flow – and the pride, and friendship, restored. And so it came to be. (And she did see it when it played six weeks at Euro-Space.)

  He called it

  Guys and Dolls

  A VZ Film

  It’s shot in black and white on color stock. It’s stark, radiant (bright blue and gold aureoles around some images), sometimes bursting into flames at frames’ edges, the film falling apart as it reassembles itself, with briefly caught glimpses of texts and maps in the background. The story may be about a woman trying to find a man in some buildings; or a conversation among friends (the only dialogue in the film, and in color); or maybe it’s about sexual (re)union; or even possibly irreparable separation and the impossibility of union and conversation. Or maybe it’s just about two people walking around the city, looking at this or that building. But it is Tokyo –VZ’s Tokyo – Tokyo as film.

  The “story” is simple enough. As is the structure: twelve scenes, each twelve shots and minutes, preceded by a brief prologue, and with an interlude between scenes Six and Seven. But this structure is not so very strict, as there seem to be some “miscellania,” unaccountable items scattered about that at first mislead the viewer, but are in fact a somewhat charming chaos that alleviates the order.

  PROLOGUE

  We see the feet and hands of people on a not very crowded train at about two in the afternoon; glimpses of magazines, of dozing heads at shoulders; print advertisements all about, flapping in the train’s aisle; the soundtrack is the regular rhythm of a Tokyo train, like the sound of any Ozu train. A station name is called; the train comes to a halt. We see the torso of a man (somehow we recognize that he is a foreigner) suddenly jerk awake, he quickly gets off the train, leaves the frame, and we see in his now abandoned seat, a large, black portfolio. Cut to a Japanese woman, slightly tall (by Japanese standards), dressed in a black Commes des Garçons suit with white blouse; short, bobbed hair; a round face, big cheeks. an almost childish face but for her eyes that speak experience. Her movements are lithe and determined. About 27 years old, she has had some experience of Europe, and is not wary of foreigners. She quickly reaches for the portfolio and then calls to the man (“Excuse me!”, we see her lips say), but too late, the doors have closed. She opens the B-4 size portfolio, leafs through the black and white photographs quickly – twelve photographs of twelve different buildings, or Tokyo “sites” – notices there is no address or further identification, but seems to recognize most of the places, and then – close-up – makes a determined face: she will find her man!

  The camera slowly zooms in on the first photograph.

  SCENE ONE: RIKUGIEN GARDEN

  The Woman enters the garden, after losing her way somewhat. Left or right? It is obviously one of those gardens that requires a certain knowledge of the Chinese classics. With its wayward paths, its “empty center,” hills and valleys, and its ease and immediacy, it is like a miniature and metaphor of Tokyo: if the city were a garden, she thinks, it would be Rikugien. It offers refuge – a bench; transport – some stepping stones; memory – elderly couples; plus an occasional sight of the buildings and madness just outside. She crosses the thin stream of legend, reads the old poem (“wakasekogakubekiyoinarisasaga ...”), sheds a wistful tear (she has a grasp of the classics) – and knows that she is alone. It’s closing time; the attendant tells her that a “tall, foreign gentleman” has just left.

  ***

  And then I thought to myself of those many unexpected signs – a chance meeting, an appointment cancelled, a woman’s rejection in so few words – and time is given, restored, a surprise and display of something quick and solid; the path redirected, honest now – I never expected the meeting, was unprepared for the appointment, didn’t really want the woman – and for a moment joy, an opportunity, as if I have been promised something more now, and the path is that much more – just a bit, but oh so much! – opened. And I stop and wonder to myself, am I equal?

  ***

  The costs of confusion notwithstanding, Arlene thinks, where did I read that? Someone complained that the city seemed to be built like a cow’s wandering path. Hey, that isn’t unnatural. Don’t all our footsteps trace the pattern of the universe or spell the name of god or something? I’ll take the cow’s path anytime. I know my way around. The city milks me.

  ***

  All she knew. She knew he loved her, she loved him, and love was strong. Wasn’t it?

  Hiroko tells him, “My head is not a hatstand.”

  A new alliance, the trembling widow. Her wing, her heart, her hair.

  ***

  Where oh where oh? And with whom and when oh? So deeply ponders Hiro. How long – that’s the easy part. I had to fight for the extra three days. Fight? Hey, I surrendered; that many more hours come October. Well, it’ll be worth it. Bye-bye Tokyo. But where? One of the islands? Guam or Okinawa, Thailand, Bali. I guess they’re pretty used to Japanese tourists, so I shouldn’t have too many problems. The beaches, the bungalows. And those enormous Germans and Australians. People wonder how sumo wrestlers do it – they should ask how two sumo wrestlers do it, that’s what those couples look like. Australia, that’s an idea. Maybe a whole week on a beach, no matter how much sex. Besides, the islands aren’t known for their clothes boutiques. Hmm, maybe Australia. Nice cities and beaches, I hear. But Australian women, I don’t know. Pretty big women; noisy too. And all that hair, like Americans. They might think me small. Of course, some older women like young guys. Fifty-fifty. No, when you come down to it, our own yamato-nadeshiko really are the best, the true Japanese girl. Neat hair, nice clothes, and they don’t mind serving a guy no matter how unruly he is. And those huge cans of beer. Maybe another time, when I have a girl to go with and who speaks English. “Gu’dai!” Maybe better, Hawaii. It’s half Japanese anyway, and then I wouldn’t have to worry about speaking English. I’d better think about that too, otherwise I’m never gonna get anywhere in this company, no matter who my father is. Hawaii, sure. Beaches, girls, good shopping: Japanese!

  ***

  –Hmmm ...

  –… mmm ...

  –They really are nice ...

  –Yes, yes they are.

  –Ohhh ...

  –Hm?

  –Oh, it would be so nice if they could stay together.

  –Hmm ...

  –Wouldn’t it?

  –Yes, of course.

  –If they could – then who could ever be apart?

  –Hm?

  –If they could, who could ever be apart?

  –You mean –?

  –Hm, I just mean that, well, I wish they could stay together, and then I’d feel better about ...

  –About?

  –Oh, you know – any one of us ...

  –Us?

  –Mm!
<
br />   –And if they don’t, or can’t?

  –Hm. Well, we all try all the harder then.

  –All?

  –Of course.

  –Then let’s hope ...

  –That’s what I’ve been saying –

  –Oh.

  –But, I mean it – really hope – for all of us. After all ...

  –After all?

  –We’re all a part of it; after all, they, Roberta and Lang, love us – and we love them.

  –Us?

  –Oh, Kazuo! We can’t abandon them. Nor we one another.

  –You mean ...?

  –No, I don’t – you should see what I mean.

  –Sorry ... You’re right.

  –?

  –But I don’t.

  –It doesn’t matter. The important thing is that no one abandons anyone in this. We are together; I see it now – radiantly – even if no one else does. And that’s all I have to say.

  –That’s all?

  –Well, not quite. I must speak with Marianne – oh, she is so odd! – but lucid in her way. She’s told me so much already. For example, did you know this?

  –What?

  –Lang hadn’t wanted to come to Tokyo; but once he got here – well.

  –No, really?

  –Yes. Marianne told me. Roberta and Van Zandt have also, sort of, said similar things.

  –Yes, he certainly behaves it sometimes.

  –Yes, but he did come here – for her sake, or at least that of their relationship – he did come here, let’s not forget that.

  –Yes.

  –Yes – we have a lot of work to do.

  –Oh?

  –Yes – the work we have to do, Kazuo, if successful, should bring and keep us all together. My sweet embraceable … In the meantime ...

  –Yes? No, I know: to work! Oh, what an odd couple!

  –Kazu – I thought you were fond of them?

  –I’m referring to ourselves, Kazuko.

  –But –

  –Oh, here you talk of the foreigners’ shenanigans, and ... What did Van Zandt tell me once? That Americans have to be reminded every twelve hours that they are loved; and we Japanese say it once and it’s supposed to last forever.