Idoru

23. Here at the Western World

Emerging from Le Chicle’s pink mosaic gullet into the start of rain, Laney saw that the stilt-walking New Logic disciple was still at his post, his animated sandwich-board illuminated against the evening. As Blackwell held the door of a mini-limo for Arleigh, Laney looked back at the scrolling numerals and wondered how much the planet’s combined weight of human nervous tissue had increased while they’d been in the bar.

Laney got in after her, noticing those Catalan suns again, the three of them, decreasing in size down her inner calf. Blackwell thunked the door behind him, then opened the front, should’ve-been driver’s side door and seemed to pour himself into the car, a movement that simultaneously suggested the sliding of a ball of mercury and the settling of hundreds of pounds of liquid concrete. The car waddled and swayed as its shocks adjusted to accommodate his weight.

Laney saw how the brim of Blackwell’s black-waxed hat drooped low in back, but not far enough to conceal a crisscrossing of fine red welts decorating the back of his neck,

Their driver, to judge by the back of his head, might have been the same one who’d driven them to Akihabara. He pulled out into the mirror-image traffic. The rain was running and pooling, tugging reflected neon out of the perpendicular and spreading it in wriggly lines across sidewalk and pavement.

Arleigh McCrae was wearing perfume, and it made Laney wish that Blackwell wasn’t there, and that they were on their way somewhere other than wherever it was they were going now, and in another city, and that quite a lot of the last seven months of Laney’s life hadn’t happened at all, or had happened differently, or maybe even as far back as DatAmerica and the Frenchmen, but as it became more complicated, it became depressing.

“I’m not sure you’re going to enjoy this place,” she said.

“How’s that?”

“You don’t seem like the type.”

“Why not?”

“I could be wrong. Lots of people do enjoy it. I suppose if you take it as a very elaborate joke…”

“What is it?”

“A club. Restaurant. An environment. If we turned up there without Blackwell, I doubt they’d let us in. Or even admit it’s there.”

Laney was remembering the Japanese restaurant in Brentwood, the one Kathy Torrance had taken him to. Not Japanese Japanese. Owned and operated. Its theme an imaginary Eastern European country. Decorated with folk art from that country, and everyone who worked there wore native garb from that country, or else a sort of metallic-gray prison outfit and these big black shoes. The men who worked there all had these haircuts, shaved high on the sides, and the women had big double braids, rolled up like wheels of cheese. Laney’s entrée had had all kinds of different little sausages in it, the smallest he’d ever seen, and some kind of pickled cabbage on the side, and it hadn’t tasted like it had come from anywhere in particular, but maybe that was the point. And then they’d gone back to her apartment, decorated like a sort of deluxe version of the Cage at Slitscan. And that hadn’t worked out either, and sometimes he wondered whether that had made her even angrier, when he’d gone over to Out of Control.

“Laney?”

“Sorry… This place—Rez likes it?”

Past ambient forests of black umbrellas, waiting to cross at an intersection.

“I think he just likes to brood there,” she said.

The Western World occupied the top two floors of an office building that hadn’t quite survived the quake. Yamazaki might have said that it represented a response to trauma and subsequent reconstruction. In the days (some said hours) immediately following the disaster, an impromptu bar and disco had come into being in the former offices of a firm that had brokered shares in golf-club memberships. The building, declared structurally unsound, had been sealed by emergency workers at the ground floor, but it was still possible to enter through the ruined sublevels. Anyone willing to climb eleven flights of mildly fissured concrete stairs found the Western World, a bizarrely atypical (but some said mysteriously crucial) response to the upheaval that had, then, so recently killed eighty-six thousand of the region’s thirty-six million inhabitants. A Belgian journalist, struggling to describe the scene, had said that it resembled a cross between a permanent mass wake, an ongoing grad night for at least a dozen subcultures unheard of before the disaster, the black market cafes of occupied Paris, and Goya’s idea of a dance party (assuming Goya had been Japanese and smoked freebase methamphetamine, which along with endless quantities of alcohol was the early Western World’s substance of choice). It was, the Belgian said, as though the city, in its convulsion and grief, had spontaneously and necessarily generated this hidden pocket universe of the soul, its few unbroken windows painted over with black rubber aquarium paint. There would be no view of the ruptured city. As the reconstruction began around it, it had already become a benchmark in Tokyo’s psychic history, an open secret, an urban legend.

But now, Arleigh was explaining, as they climbed the first of those eleven flights of stairs, it was very definitely a commercial operation, the damaged building owing its continued survival to the unlicensed penthouse club that was its sole occupant. If in fact it continued to be unlicensed, and she had her doubts about that. “There isn’t a lot of slack here,” she said, climbing, “not for things like that. Everybody knows the Western World’s here. I think there’s a very quiet agreement, somewhere, to allow them to operate the place as though it were still unlicensed. Because that’s what people want to pay for.”

“Who owns the building?” Laney asked, watching Blackwell float up the stairs in front of them, his arms, in the matte black sleeves of the drover’s coat, like sides of beef dressed for a funeral. The stairwell was lit with irregular loops of faintly bioluminescent cable.

“Rumor has it, one of the two groups who can’t quite agree on who owns our hotel.”

“Mafia?”

“Local equivalent, but only very approximately equivalent. Real estate was baroque, here, before the quake; now it’s more like occult.”

Laney, glancing down as they passed one of the glowing loops, noticed, on the treads of the stairs, hardened trickles of something that resembled greenish amber. “There’s stuff on the stairs,” he said.

“Urine,” Arleigh said.

“Urine?”

“Solidified, biologically neutral urine.”

Laney took the next few steps in silence. His calves were starting to ache. Urine?

“The plumbing didn’t work, after the quake,” she said. “They couldn’t use the toilets. People just started going, down the stairs. Pretty horrible, by all accounts, although some people actually get nostalgic about it.”

“It’s solid?”

“There’s a product here, a powder, looks like instant soup. Some kind of enzyme. They sell it mainly to mothers with young kids. The kid has to pee, you can’t get them to a toilet in time, they pee in a paper cup, an empty juice box. You drop in the contents of a handy, purse-sized sachet of this stuff, zap, it’s a solid. Neutral, odorless, completely hygienic. Pop it in the trash, it’s landfill.”

They passed another loop of light and Laney saw miniature stalactites suspended from the edges of a step. “They used that stuff…”

“Lots of it. Constantly. Eventually they had to start sawing off the build-up…”

“They still… ?”

“Of course not. But they kept the Grotto.” Another flight. Another loop of ghostly undersea light. “What did they do about the solids?” he asked.

“I’d rather not know.”

Winded, his ankles sore, Laney emerged from the Grotto. Into a black-walled and indeterminate space defined by blue light and the uprights of gilded girders. After chemically frozen frescoes of piss, the Western World disappointed. A gutted office block dressed with mismatched couches and nondescript bars. Something looming in the middle foreground. He blinked. A tank. American, he thought, and old.

“How did they get that up here?” he asked Arleigh, who was passing her black coat to someone. And why hadn’t the floor collapsed?

“It’s resin,” she said. “Membrane sculpture. Stereo lithography. Otaku thing: they bring them in in sections and glue them together.”

Blackwell had given up his drover’s coat, exposing a garment that resembled a suit jacket but seemed to have been woven from slightly tarnished aluminum. Whatever this fabric was, there was enough of it there for a double bedspread. He moved forward, through the maze of couches and low tables, with that same effortless determination, Laney and Arleigh drawn along in his wake.

“That’s a Sherman tank,” Laney said, remembering a CD-ROM from Gainesville, one about the history of armored vehicles. Arleigh didn’t seem to have heard him. But then she’d probably never played with CD-ROMs, either. Time in a Federal Orphanage had a way of acquainting you with dead media platforms.

If Arleigh were right, and the Western World were being kept on as a kind of tourist attraction, Laney wondered what the crowd would have been like in the early days, when the sidewalks below were buried in six feet of broken glass.

These people on the couches, now, hunched over the low tables that supported their drinks, seemed unlike any crowd he’d seen so far in Tokyo. There was a definite edged-out quality there, and prolonged eye-contact might have been interesting in some cases, dangerous in others. Distinct impression that the room’s combined mass of human nervous tissue would have been found to be freighted with the odd few colorants. Or else these people were somehow preselected for a certain combination of facial immobility and intensity of glance?

“Laney,” Blackwell said, dropping a hand on Laney’s shoulder and twirling him into the gaze of a pair of long green eyes, “this is Rez. Rez, Colin Laney. He’s working with Arleigh.”

“Welcome to the Western World,” smiling, and then the eyes slid past him to Arleigh. “Evenin’, Miz MacCrae.”

Laney noticed something then that he knew from his encounters with celebs at Slitscan: that binary flicker in his mind between image and reality, between the mediated face and the face there in front of you. He’d noticed how it always seemed to speed up, that alternation, until the two somehow merged, the resulting composite becoming your new idea of the person. (Someone at Slitscan had told him that it had been clinically proven that celebrity-recognition was handled by one particular area in the brain, but he’d never been sure whether or not they were joking.)

Those had been tame celebrities, the ones Kathy had already had her way with. In the building (but never the Cage) to have various aspects of their public lives scripted, per whatever agreements were already in place. But Rez wasn’t tame, and was a much bigger deal in his own way, although Laney had only been aware of his later career because Kathy had hated him so.

Rez had his arm around Arleigh now, gesturing with the other into the relative darkness beyond the Sherman tank, saying something Laney couldn’t hear.

“Mr. Laney, good evening.” It was Yamazaki, in a green plaid sportscoat that sat oddly on his narrow shoulders. He blinked rapidly,

“Yamazaki.”

“You have met Rez, yes? Good, very good. A table is prepared, to dine.” Yamazaki put two fingers inside the oversized, buttoned collar of his cheap-looking white dress shirt and tugged, as though it were far too tight. “I understand initial attempts to identify nodal points did not meet with success.” He swallowed.

“I can’t pull a personal fix out of something textured like corporate data. He’s just not there.”

Rez was moving in the direction of whatever lay beyond the tank.

“Come,” Yamazaki said, then lowered his voice. “Something extraordinary. She is here. She dines with Rez. Rei Toei.”

The idoru.