Free Woe in Kabukicho by Madelynne Ellis

Like fireflies we’re drawn to this pocket of light in the darkness. I’m borne along on a tide of chatter and fantasy. All day we’ve trawled over spreadsheets and haggled percentages in both pounds and yen. I want nothing more than to slope off to my hotel room and slide back into the dream that none of this matters. But my companions are eager for cocktails and company, and so I descend with them into this glittering fantasyland—Kabukicho by night.
    Bronze, brass and iron masks cloud the walls and gilt framed mirrors reflect the sparkles of the chandeliers in this underworld bar in Tokyo’s pleasure quarter. I take the offered menu and without opening it, ask what is good.
    “Oh, all of them,” my associates reply, bubbling with laughter. Their faces alight with cheer. “See what takes your fancy. It’s not busy. You should get your choice.”
    I open the leather bound pages, expecting to struggle with a sea of indecipherable kanji. My spoken Japanese is much better than my script. But there are few words to read. Instead, it is a book of faces.
    “Are these the chefs?” I wonder aloud.
    “The entertainment, silly. Choose one, or two or three. Taiko always has three.”
    Taiko blushes, raising her hands to hide her embarrassed smile. Most of the other women have already closed their menus, and they gather around me, watching my expression intently as I gaze at the GQ perfect, black and white photographs.
    “What is this place?” I ask.
    “A host bar. Go on. Choose. But not that one.” They rush past one glossy snap of a man with a beard. “That’s a woman. Definitely not your thing.”
    My gaze blurs as my tender Western sensibilities struggle with the concept of picking a companion from a book, and my seemingly old-fashioned notions of gender. Where do onabe —women with beards fit in?
    This all seems hideously taboo.
    “It’s okay.” Taiko places a gentle hand upon my arm. “He’ll just talk and pour your drinks for you. It’s nothing illicit. It’s not crude.” She smiles, a coy girlish smile with her eyes lowered. Her dark hair frames her face. “They are not gigolos. There’s no exchange of money involved. We simply pay for the drinks.”
    Her words reassure me a little, but there is still a part of me that fears what the evening ahead will bring. I’ve flown halfway around the world seeking space, not companionship. Ideally I think I’d like to drink alone. But my companions won’t hear of it. “Unwind. Live a little,” they insist. “Come on, choose.” Their girlish voices twitter around me offering insights into the men’s conversational skills and general cuteness as I flick through the pages. The images are mostly of young Japanese, boys in suits with a few rebels thrown in for variety. They are styled and perfect, all dark eyed and sultry.
    The man I settle upon is called Sky. Taiko shakes her head, but my other companions delight in my choice almost as much as in their own. That is until the men arrive. Then their attention is drawn away by the litany of compliments. Drinks are poured and light-hearted conversations about clothes, shopping and films ensue.
    Unlike the other hosts, Sky takes his time to appear. He’s different than they; I sense it as he slopes through the crowd with long easy strides. He bows before me, and I wave him into the seat at my side. I find that I like him sitting there. The grayscale picture doesn’t do him justice. He is graceful and tall. Far taller than most of the men I’ve seen today, and an outcast among them, but not due to his height. I don’t think he’s pure blooded Japanese, but rather of mixed heritage. There’s something about the shape of his eyes and angles of his jaw—heavier, sharper.
    His hair is dark, ebony shot with glints of red, and when he smiles, his eyes light with a similar mahogany tone.
    However, the first smile he gives me is not altogether honest. There’s a certain amount of tension in it. He’s assessing