Chapter Ten:

The streets were clogged with people when she finally left the hotel – far more than she could have imagined. Shibuya was a sea of colour and hair and determination. Quinn slipped in behind a businessman who was walking with such effort that she wasn’t sure she could keep up. Her legs always felt a little uncertain for the first hundred metres of any walk, as though they had to remember exactly what it was they were doing and how to go about doing it. A group of six or seven were dressed in cosplay, depicting their favourite characters to great effect as they worked their way through the streets to the train station, undoubtedly making their way to the ongoing festival in Roppongi. 

Shibuya station was at the centre of the madness. People flowed in and out of the immense building – their bags bumping against the ticketing machines to the sound of sonorous beeps that echoed and created a futuristic background soundtrack to the clacking of shoes and the constant drone of voices. A girl wearing a backpack that looked like a panda was attempting to help some English speaking tourists with which direction they should be heading. Quinn considered jumping in, but before she reached them the girl had sent them on their way. 

At the great Shibuya intersection – probably the most popularised place in all of Tokyo for the western world – Quinn found herself quickly surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of people preparing to traverse the immense crossroads. A street seller who spoke in deliberately broken English tried to get her to donate two thousand yen towards the opportunity to scribble her wish for world peace on a piece of card. When Quinn asked him in Japanese to tell her what he was talking about he lost interest in her and went in search of other men and women he might confuse into making a hasty deposit. On the far side of the intersection, bathed in blindingly bright sunlight, was Tsutaya. Embedded in its upper windows were panels for displaying advertisements and videos which were all obscured by the blazing sun overhead. Quinn could make out the glowing green letters of the Starbucks cafe on the second floor and when the mass of people around her stepped forwards into the breach, she walked with them.

The ground floor of Tsutaya was awash with CD racks and posters of the latest bands trending through Japan. K-pop kings and queens were represented with life-sized cutouts surrounded by a mountain of their newest releases. Quinn navigated the elaborately coloured store, edging between teenage boys and girls talking excitedly about their latest interests. The floor was crowded and the thump of music made Quinn feel a little light-headed. She noted a caucasian man lustfully eyeing a life-sized singer that was standing in an evocative pose and she overheard a pair of girls talking about which members of various pop groups they most idolised. A single-file escalator lead to the second floor up a thin metallic hallway with exposed wires and piping overhead. 

Starbucks was packed with bodies – men and women made a queue twelve people long while they waited to be served by several teen-aged staff members. They looked so flustered that Quinn wasn’t sure she would have trusted them to get her order right. She stepped out of the bustle pouring off the escalator and looked around the long, thin, cafe. The space was baking in the harsh glare of the sun and it took several seconds for her eyes to adjust.

All of the seats and tables were taken. She wondered why Robert Chaff’s gallerist would have chosen such a busy place to meet. Could it have just been a lie to make her leave the gallery happily? Had the woman chosen Starbucks because she knew it would be busy and that would easily disguise Robert Chaff standing her up? Why would an artist give her, a nobody – a sick and pathetic fangirl – the opportunity to have coffee with him? What had she been thinking?

Just as she was starting to convince herself that she was crazy to have believed she would have the chance to speak with the artist face to face, she saw him. He was sitting alone by the window in a navy check shirt and what looked like a pair of brown chinos. 

Her heart started to pound. 

She made her way towards him slowly, like a bird-watcher edging through brush, afraid that any noise might startle her interest into flight. An American man bumped into her, almost knocking her over in his urgency to greet another caucasian man in loud masculine bluster.

When she had composed herself and turned back to the artist he had spun and seen her and he was standing – his attention entirely on her. The sound in the room faded for a second when her eyes met his, and in her mind she felt the whole world drop away around her – a flash white washing the room into nothingness. She moved forwards without stepping, her feet seeming to glide across the void between them. His outstretched hand greeted hers and she fumbled with his fingers a little because she felt like she couldn’t look away from his face – if she looked away he might disappear like everything else, leaving her abandoned and alone like she often was. His lips cracked into a charming smile, but something lurking in the blue of his eyes was searching her. She felt disarmed and naked – immediately nervous and fragile, but also safe like she was reuniting with some old friend who she knew so intimately but had never really met. When their hands were finally connected, the artist’s left hand reached out and gripped her elbow firmly, escorting her carefully into the seat he had kept for her by the enormous windows. 

Without warning a cough took her off-guard, and the magical quality of their meeting was erased – the rush of Starbucks slammed back into reality around her. Outside, thousands of people intermingled as they migrated from Shibuya station into the shopping districts and back. Quinn covered her mouth, embarrassed, but the man only smiled and told her not to worry. She looked down at the table, unsure what to say to him, and when she glanced up he asked her if she would like a coffee of some kind. Quinn nodded, not trusting her voice, and he stood waiting for her preference. She realised with awkward horror that she would have to speak but it was as though she had forgotten how to. 

“If it’s any help,” he murmured with a smile, “I’m going to have a black espresso, I think they call it an ‘Americano’.”

Quinn didn’t drink coffee. Her expression must have hinted at the discomfort she was feeling making her idol wait to place his order. She glanced at the menu above the counter and scanned it without really considering what was there. “Chai tea?” she asked in a mousy whisper.

“Of course,” he nodded briskly and left to join the queue.

Quinn didn’t know what they were going to talk about. She had thought that topics of conversation would just come to her once she sat down, but she felt too childish and inexperienced to say anything of meaning to the Robert Chaff. He was a presence – someone enigmatic and wonderful, someone she foolishly believed she could identify with. He was someone who had achieved things, made his mark on the world – touched thousands, maybe millions of people with the subtle truths hidden in his work.

The sun glared down against the glass beside her and Quinn was thankful for the air-conditioning that Starbucks had set ridiculously low in an effort to combat the crowd. She rested her head on her hands in an attempt to cool her flushed face. What was she going to say to him? She wanted to be more than a fan. She wanted him to like and respect her.

Robert sat down beside her and placed a hot pot of tea between them. His own coffee was completely black and steaming, the smell of it filled her nostrils before the sweetness of the chai edged its way in. She thanked him in Japanese without thinking and then repeated the phrase in English. After several seconds of silence where they both looked at their beverages, they spoke at the same time.

“I loved your–”

“How long are–”

Quinn laughed, embarrassed and covered her mouth, and Robert Chaff sat back in his chair and ran a hand over his face. Again she thought she glimpsed something unsettled about him. He appeared to be struggling with something behind those luminous eyes, hiding whatever it was behind a mask.

“Is something bothering you, Mr. Chaff? If you need to do something or be somewhere you should go…” She didn’t want him to have to be somewhere other than with her, but the words came out anyway.

“No, no…” His eyes met hers and there was the faintest residue of pain in them that she watched him wrest under control. “Please,” he continued, “call me Robert. Only people who frustrate me call me Mr. Chaff.”

“Okay… Are you sure you’re okay, Robert?” Her voice felt tiny in the noise of the cafe but he heard her.

“It has been a– difficult morning. That’s all. Some… frustrating business developments. My advice,” he leant forward over his cup, “don’t trust anyone you don’t know.” At that he took a sip from his coffee and redirected the conversation. “So, you’re from Australia?”

She smiled self-consciously, wanting to know about the business deal that had so disturbed her favourite artist, but she knew it would have been rude to pursue it. “Yes,” and then she realised that she hadn’t introduced herself at all. In a flurry of movements where she almost upended her tea, she stood and bowed slightly, extending her hand. “I’m so sorry! My name is Quinn Bishop.”

He took her hand gently and urged her to sit again. “I know. Misaki…” his voice trailed off, and it seemed like he had completely left the table for a moment. “My Gallerist, or Dealer, mentioned who you were last night. I have to apologise if it was one of the artworks that caused you to faint. Sometimes I don’t think of the effect the ‘Ego’, the glass hall you had been in, can have on people. It still makes me uncomfortable and I know exactly what it is!” he said with a genuine smile.

She wanted to ask him how he had known her name when he first saw her, but he had chosen not to mention it and for the second time she felt rude to push him on the matter. Instead, she told him what a beautiful show it had been – what she had seen of it at least. 

“I… I don’t mean to be presumptuous but, your old work – when you were mainly painting – seemed more focused on the loneliness of life. But what I saw last night looked more preoccupied with how fleeting life is… Am I seeing it right? Was that your intention?”

“You’re seeing it right… The work you saw last night is over two years old now–”

“All of it?”

“Yes… But that’s a different story… Japan is a beautiful country and there is a respect within it that I never saw when I lived in Melbourne or London. It’s not that I don’t think western countries respect the world around them – it’s that the respect they feel is obscured by so many other tangible factors.” He paused and looked out the window for several seconds – long enough that Quinn wondered if he had forgotten about her. “This exhibition was designed to explore those boundaries, whether they’re historical, sociological, or personal. I’ve made so many mistakes in my life where I’ve desperately sought to live in the moment because I’ve been so certain that whatever I did would matter. But then I came to realise that the world spins regardless of what I do. I suppose, I wanted people to think about what was really important. I’m not trying to tell them to live a certain way. No… I just wanted people to think about it.”

Quinn opened her mouth to speak, but the words disappeared before she could utter them. Instead, she looked out the window in the silence between them and sipped her tea.

“How long are you in Japan for, Quinn?”

“Two more weeks. Stevie and I – Stevie came with me from Brisbane – we’re planning to travel across to Kyoto and then maybe all the way out to Hiroshima. But we haven’t really organised it all yet. Once I realised that I’d be here when your show opened… Well, I really just wanted to see that… I mean, I’ve always been interested in Japan, but when I found out about the opening I had to convince my mum to let me come here for it.” She blushed. Robert kept his eyes in his coffee.

“Surely you didn’t need permission to travel?”

“No… Well, sort of. I mean, I’ve never travelled before. So this was kind of a big thing.” She almost added that she was unlikely to ever travel again, but she managed to hold her tongue before the words came out. 

“Your mum is overprotective?”

“Sure. But it’s not just that. I’m all she has left… My dad died a few years ago and my… I’m kind of all she’s got…” 

She felt suddenly very sad for her mother. What would her mum do when she was gone? She could feel her eyes filling with water and she looked away from Robert, back out the window, to compose herself.

Robert was observing the people in the cafe when she turned back to him. He looked to be scrutinising each of them very carefully as though he was looking for someone in particular. The room was a little less busy than when she arrived, but she didn’t want to imagine the panic that would accompany a fire alarm with so many people in such a confined space. 

“I have to ask,” he said slowly. “You’re young and I could use a little perspective today–”

“I’m twenty,” she blurted. The words sounded indignant and childish and she grimaced with immediate regret. She just wanted him to view her as an adult.

Robert let out a surprised laugh and replied that he had meant no offence. “I… It doesn’t matter. Forget it. You said that–”

“No, I want to… know… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you,” she bowed her head dejectedly. “Please, ask what you were going to ask…”

“It’s okay, I probably shouldn’t talk about it anyway.” 

As he spoke he scanned the room again. His eyes moved systematically, like if he just looked hard enough he might make something appear or like he was really eager to pretend that she didn’t exist.

“I want you to ask. Whatever it is, I don’t care. I’m just a bit, sketchy today… I’ve been in love with your work for so long that it’s weird for me to sit down with you and talk. Ask and maybe we can both relax a little.” Quinn leant on her hand, all of her attention focused on him.

“Alright… Could you explain cosplay to me? I feel too old to make sense of it, and the festival in Roppongi is both fascinating and strange. I thought maybe you could shed some light on the phenomena.” His eyes didn’t meet hers when he spoke, they continued to flick around the room between the different Starbucks customers.

“Ask me what you were going to ask me before,” she said flatly, a little frustrated by his apparent disinterest. She squinted at him and flashed an ‘am I boring you?’ smile when he finally turned and gave her his full attention again. “You might not have been insulting my age before, but you’re insulting my intelligence now!” She said the words in a heated whisper that caused the artist to look down at the table self-consciously. 

Quinn didn’t want to make him feel bad but she was desperate to have an honest and open conversation with him. A part of her feared what meeting him might be doing to her fascination with his work. Their discussion had done little to support the resonance she felt when looking at, or when in the presence of, his art and she was afraid of losing the piece of herself that found meaning in his work. 

Robert eyed her cautiously before leaning forward across the little table and waving for her to do the same. When their faces were less than ten centimetres apart he turned his to have access to her ear. Her heart was pounding in her chest again, and for an idiotic moment she thought he was going to kiss her and she wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. Her throat closed, holding her breath while she waited for him to speak. What would he say? What secret was she about to be made privy to?

“I–”

A chair rattled against the floor beside them and Robert pulled back in shock. Quinn thought she was about to burst but when she glanced across at the disturbance she found herself facing a muscular Japanese man in his late twenties. He wore a very thin white long-sleeved shirt over a grey singlet and black jeans. His face was hard with an angry grimace that made Quinn eager to get away from him.

Robert showed no signs of recognition which made Quinn even more afraid and his eyes flicked to her to check whether she knew the stranger. She shook her head minutely. The man leant forward in the seat he had dragged beside them and raised his elbows to rest them on the table. As though the movement was well-rehearsed, his unbuttoned sleeves slid away from his wrists in what felt like slow motion. Dragons writhed and twisted, intertwined in scales and flames down his carefully exposed forearms. His fingers interlocked with menace, the wiry muscles in his hands and arms flexing with each movement. 

“Mr. Chaff, do you know who I am?” The man asked his question in Japanese with excruciating slowness, each syllable dripping with threat.

Quinn wanted to run but she didn’t want to leave Robert in danger. She didn’t understand the situation and when she looked at the artist she didn’t think he quite understood what was happening either.

The man between them was Yakuza. 

She knew it. 

She could tell by the tattoos. They marked him as the son of someone important within the organisation. She desperately tried to remember anything that she had read about the secretive group but her memory had been contaminated with too many Hollywood misrepresentations of the Japanese syndicate. 

In response, Robert shook his head slowly and tilted it to one side for the younger man to explain.

“My sister was last seen with you and now no one can find her.”

The man was clenching his hands into fists and Quinn could see the skin grow taut and then slack with each movement. Her mouth had gone completely dry and the tips of her fingers started to tingle. 

“Where is Misaki Tachibana, Mr Chaff? Where is my sister?”