Free Ghostwritten by David Mitchell

cased the joint like a bodyguard looking for escape routes.
    “Yes. I drank a bit too much. That’s why I overslept.”
    Taro guffawed. “He’s a good lad, that Koji. He’s got his shit together. Meet any chicks?”
    “Only ones who want to know whether your sports car has tinted windows.”
    Taro harrumphed. “Brains aren’t everything in a woman. Ayaka was saying only this morning, a lad your age should be stoking the poker more, it’s not healthy to—”
    “Taro, put Satoru down.” Mama-san smiled at me contentedly. “Aren’t the cherry blossoms outside a picture? Taro’s taking me on a shopping expedition, and then we’re going to see the blossoms in Ueno Park. Mrs. Nakamori’s girls have invited oursalong to a cherry-blossom party this afternoon, so we’re going along to make sure they don’t get up to too much mischief. Oh yes. That reminds me. Mrs. Nakamori asked if you and Koji might be free to play in their cocktail lounge next Sunday. Apparently the trombonist in their regular band was involved in some sort of accident involving a bent pipe and some zoo animals. I thought it best not to pry. The poor man isn’t going to be able to unbend his arm until June, so the band has had to cancel their fixtures. I told Mrs. Nakamori that I wasn’t sure when Koji started back at college. Maybe you could give her a ring today or tomorrow? Come along now, Taro. We must be off.”
    Taro picked up the book I was reading. “What’s this?
Madame Bovary
, eh? That French geezer? Wouldn’t you credit it, Mama-san? We couldn’t get him to study for six years of education, now he’s reading on the job.” He read out a bit I’d underlined: “ 
‘One should be wary of touching one’s idols, for the gilt comes off on one’s fingers.’
 ” He thought about it for a moment. “Funny things, books. Yes, Mama-san. We’d better go.”
    “Thanks for bringing my lunch.”
    Mama-san nodded. “Ayaka made it. It’s broiled eel. She knows how much you like it. Remember to thank her later. Good-bye now.”
    The sky was brightening up. I ate my boxed lunch, wishing I was in Ueno Park too. Mama-san’s girls are fun. They treat me like a kid brother. They would have spread out a big blanket under a tree and would be singing old tunes with made-up words. I’ve seen foreigners get drunk in bars out in Shibuya and places, and they turn into animals. Japanese people never do that. The men might get friskier, but never violent. Alcohol lets off steam for Japanese. For foreigners, alcohol just seems to build steam up. And they kiss in public, too! I’ve seen them stick their tongues in and grope the girl’s breasts. In bars, where everyone can see! I can never get over that. Mama-san always tells Taro to tell them we’re full, or else she stings them for such a whopping cover charge that they never come back.
    •  •  •
    The disc finished. I ate the last morsel of broiled eel, rice, and pickle. Ayaka knew how to make a good boxed lunch.
    My back hurt. I’m too young for my back to hurt. This chair has become really uncomfortable lately; I can’t sit still. When Takeshi gets over his present financial crisis I’ll ask him about getting a new one. Looks like I’ll have to wait a long time, though. I wondered what to play next. I burrowed through a box full of unsorted discs that Takeshi had left on the floor behind the counter, but there was nothing I didn’t already know. Surely I could find something. We have twelve thousand discs in stock. I realized I was scared of not needing music any more.
    It turned out to be quite a busy afternoon. A lot of browsers, but a lot of buyers too. Seven o’clock came round quickly. I cashed up, put the takings in the safe in the tiny office, set the alarm and locked the office door. Put my lunch box and
Madame Bovary
in my bag, a Benny Goodman CD that I was going to borrow that night—a perk of the job—flicked off the lights, and locked the door.
    I was outside