Free Ghostwritten by David Mitchell

you going home.’
    ‘Don’t let – no, you’re not. Erm, I. Take your time. Please. Come in.’
    ‘Thank you.’ The her that lived in her looked out through her eyes, through my eyes and at the me that lives in me.
    ‘I—’ I began.
    ‘This—’ she began.
    ‘Go on,’ we both said.
    ‘No,’ I said. ‘You go on. You’re the lady.’
    ‘You’re going to think I’m a nutcase, but I came in about ten days ago, and,’ she was unconsciously rolling on the balls of her heels, ‘and there was this piece of music you were playing . . . I can’t get it out of my head. A piano and a saxophone. I mean, there’s no reason why you should have remembered it or me or anything . . .’ She trailed off. There was something odd about the way she spoke. Her accent swung this way and that. I loved it.
    ‘It was two weeks ago. Exactly. Plus a couple of hours.’
    She was pleased. ‘You remember me?’
    I didn’t quite recognise my own laugh. ‘Sure I do.’
    ‘I was with my revolting cousin and her friends. They treat me like an imbecile because I’m half-Chinese. My mother was Japanese, you see. Dad’s Hong Kong Chinese. My home’s in Hong Kong.’ Nothing apologetic about the way she spoke. I’m not pure Japanese and if you don’t like that you can stick it.
    I thought of Tony Williams’s drumming in ‘In a Silent Way’. No, I didn’t think of it. I felt it, somewhere inside.
    ‘Hey, that’s nothing! I’m half-Filipino. The music was “Left Alone” by Mal Waldron. Would you like to hear it again?’
    ‘Would you mind?’
    ‘’Course I wouldn’t mind . . . Mal Waldron’s one of my gods. I kneel down to him every time I go to the temple. What’s Hong Kong like, compared to Tokyo?’
    ‘Foreigners say it’s dirty, noisy and poky, but really, there’s nowhere like it. Not anywhere. And when Kowloon gets too much you can escape to the islands. On Lantau Island there’s a big buddha sitting on a hill . . .’
    For a moment I had an odd sensation of being in a story that someone was writing, but soon that sensation too was being swallowed up.

    The cherry blossoms had come and almost gone. New green leaves, still silky and floppy, were drying on the trees lining the back street. Living and light as mandolins and zithers. The commuters streamed by. Not a coat in sight. Some had come out without their jackets. No denying it, spring was old news.
    The phone rang. Koji, calling from the college canteen. ‘So. Who is she?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Stop it! You know perfectly well who! The girl at Mrs Nakamori’s last night who sat there swooning on your every note! Let me see . . . Her name began with “Tomo” and ended with “yo”. What was she called I wonder? Oh yes, that’s right. Tomoyo.’
    ‘Oh, her  . . .’
    ‘Don’t give me that! I saw you two making eyes at each other.’
    ‘You imagined it.’
    ‘You were making eyes at each other! The whole bar saw. A sea-cucumber would have noticed. Her father definitely did. Taro noticed. He came up to me afterwards and asked me who she was. I’d hoped that he could tell me. He said to grill you. And what Taro wants he gets, so I’m grilling you.’
    ‘There’s not much to tell. She came into the shop four weeks ago. Then she came in again last week. We got talking, just about music, and we went out on a date or two last week. That’s all.’
    ‘A date or seven you mean.’
    ‘Well, you know how it goes.’
    ‘Not that I want to be nosey or anything, it’s just that I didn’t get the chance to interrogate her last night. But, er, so have you, y’know, snipped her ribbons and unwrapped her packaging yet?’
    ‘The girl’s a lady!’
    ‘Ah, yes, but every lady is a woman.’
    ‘No. We haven’t.’
    ‘You always were a slow worker, Satoru. Why not?’
    ‘Because . . .’ I remember her body wrapped inside my duffle-coat as we walked along, sharing the same umbrella. I remember spending the whole movie holding her