The Rising Sun.

[MANICHAEAN]

The Rising Sun.

Chapter 1. The Prologue.

There is always a beginning, even for an event as definitive as an end. It was therefore both appropriate and applicable to Liam's frame of mind, that as he set out early that August morning, fate would probably determine as to whether this would be the last of his life's journeys.

Was there a sense of sadness in this? Perhaps. When mortals attain greater clarity as to the inevitability of said mortality, by definition it is sad. Is there also a sense of
apparent failure in not achieving such a thing as a finality in desires and in hopes? I
don't know. I just seek balm to my soul in the likes of Robert Browning.

"My own hope is, a sun will pierce
The thickest cloud earth ever stretched
That after Last, returns the First,
Though a wide compass round be fetched;
That what began best can't end worst,
Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst.

But enough of this depressing line of thinking. Liam was undertaking a new journey, a
fresh adventure at a time when his dotage should have confined him to early nights and
regulated living, wrapped up in an illusion of retirement.

Retirement, my butt. Nearly five months had passed since he had finished the last assignment. Five months in which he had; painted the house, done the garden, put the dog out and brought the cat in, (or is it the other way around?), and sorted out all those papers that needed sorting. He had got, as is termed,"his affairs in order," and now realised that he missed the action. Even a series of trips to foreign climes that he had never visited before, but had promised himself, he recognised for what they were, namely a series of short term fixes.

It was therefore with no hesitation that; when the offer came through to take up a position in Japan for one year, he needed but a fraction of a second to express his affirmation in a barely suffused ardency that would have done credit to a series of Judgement Day hosannas.

[DATo]

Hark!!! A Titan is stirring !!!! *LOL*

I'm very much looking forward to the rest of this story MANICHAEN.

... he needed but a fraction of a second to express his affirmation in a barely suffused ardency that would have done credit to a series of Judgement Day hosannas.

LOVE IT !!!

[MANICHAEAN]

Yes. And I was sober when I wrote it!!!

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 2. British Airways.

There used to be a certain mystique about British Airways, but then there has always been that about anything quintessentially British to those not born there. America has its cowboys, Arabia its deserts and the Eskimos their igloos, but to the Brits themselves, as to putting their finger on that mysterious essence of being British, it is equally elusive. So why do British actors, in the minds of US film moguls make the best villains, yet one could never contemplate James Bond being an Italian, or God forbid, even a Frenchman?

Like British Airways, (the subject to which I now return), it's to do with the art of; understatement, reserve and an inbred assumption left over from halcyon days of Empire as to being somehow outside the rest.

Liam checked in at Terminal 5, Heathrow for the daily flight from London to Tokyo Haneda. None of the chaos of Lagos airport, the oppressive security and watchfulness of Riyadh, or the laid back "soon come" torpor of Kingston, Jamaica.

Quietly Liam was processed through like a Swiss yoghurt; immigration, security , business class lounge, boarding gate, and connecting corridor to the plane door itself. The stewardesses' dark blue and white attire, infused with a splash of red neck scarf was smart, the smiles seemed genuine and Liam was directed to his seat.

At this juncture things started to unravel somewhat. For those of you lucky enough to be acquainted with really top drawer airlines, it's not so much the quality of the food or the wines on long distance flights, (though this can be important,) as to the fact that when you will be up in the heavens for eleven hours non-stop, through the night, you want to be comfortable. Liam, like so many of his ilk was 6 feet 4 inches vertically and not, (it must be noted,) insubstantial horizontally either. The chair / reclining bed, was two such pieces of furniture joined in tandem facing in different directions, with something called a " modesty screen" in-between. This, (far from ascetically pleasing,) functional feature, allowed cabin staff to pass meals and drinks across from the aisle seat to the window
seat where the two incumbent passengers basically faced one another at a slight angle in the shortest of distances. Now, some of you may be cognisant of the fact that Englishmen do not start up conversations with strangers, unless to make reference to the weather; a factor in this instance somewhat remote from being hermetically sealed and above the clouds at 60,000 feet. Even more so, when one considers that Liam's opposite twin was Japanese, a race that exceeds even the English in a lack of eye contact or unrestrained banter.

The British Airways mystique evaporated rather quickly after that. Lunch over and lights dimmed, it was tolerably comfortable; that is if one did not expect to change position and have the audacity to try and slumber on one's side.

Breakfast was served in these airborne coffins about two hours from touchdown in Tokyo; a choice between sushi or a full English breakfast. At least to Liam's mind they tried, but the commercially inspired layout of anchovies in a tin kept intruding upon his consciousness. Now, Singapore Airlines or Qatar Airways, they knew how to design a bed, but that would have to wait for another trip.

Strangely enough, about three days later in the Yokohama office, an e -mail was received from BA asking Liam to contribute to a survey regarding the flight. Every aspect was asked for, from; check-in, food, staff helpfulness etc, but not a word on the beds. I wonder why?

[DATo]

Anticipating chapter 3.

[AuntShecky]

duplicate post

[AuntShecky]

I like it so far!

Couple of comments: I may be wrong (and if so, it won't be the first time), but when quoting a stanza or successive lines of poetry, I believe that you only have to use one set of inverted commas at each end. You don't have to enclose every line in its own quotation marks. An alternative is to set the passage in italics.

Lose the apostrophe in the "its" for the possessive case. "America has its cowboys, Arabia its deserts. . ."

"Quietly Liam was processed like a Swiss yoghurt through" Put the "through" closer to "processed." "Liam was processed through like a Swiss yoghurt." BTW, is that how the Swiss process yoghurt-- "quietly" ? Maybe when they process chocolate, there's more loud commotion. Oh, I kid.

Eagerly awaiting more.

Your fan,
Auntie

[MANICHAEAN]

Thanks for the corrections Aunty. All taken on board.
Best regards
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 3: Japan.

Instances of culture shock for Liam, might be too numerous to expand upon at this initial stage, but a few might be noted to give a flavour. He was for example, mildly surprised when a slice of lemon was inserted into his beer one night at the bar, and moderately confused when confronted by food labelling in Japanese characters, each of which he understood could have multiple meanings, ( assuming that is that one could read them in the first place.) At the weekends in the malls and on the broad streets of Yokohama, slim women in traditional kimonos appeared, in apparent indifference to nearby spiked haired teenagers in confusing alien combinations of: leggings, oversocks, skirts and granny shawls.

Eye contact was minimal, which his boss explained was a sign of shyness, not rudeness. The bowing was continuous: junior to superior, shop assistant to customer, even continuous nodding in agreement when listening to someone speak. If ever a race was different from the common herd of mankind, it was inhabiting the Land of the Rising Sun.

The apartment he was allocated was nearby to the office; fifth floor, modern and spacious. Outside to the west, Mount Fuji could be discerned in the distance. To the south, the view was dominated by occupied apartment monoliths and those being currently constructed. At night as viewed from his bed, it was a comforting, sparkling metropolis of soft domestic lights and the red blinking beacons atop construction site cranes.

He had brought with him, and started to read Stendals "Scarlet and Black," which confused his daytime perceptions even more. How could one read a novel on French manners and character set in a time when Napoleon had been overthrown, and then venture forth into a society that was at such a variance? Or was it? Depending on one's interpretation of that particular book, it wwas either a contrast between a world with the sky above and the mire below; or as a mirror of the social superiority of the "ancien regime," comprised predominently of royalty and the Church. If there were linkages with Japanese living as percieved to date; then as such, they were subtle, obscure and open ended.

Finally, there was he realised, something a little unnerving in the eyes. They rarely laughed, nor blinked, just looked; but in a way that seemed to absorb visual information to be stored away for a purpose unknown, and perhaps of a sinister nature. And yet, intermittently the mask dropped. Women's eyes were delicately lowered and remained hooded; almost as an adverse reflex for displaying interest or emotion. The leashed bird of prey on the falconers raised arm awaiting both the command and the release. Slender ivory fingers cool to the touch, the fragile whiteness of an Oriental profile, the desirable but gently unobtainable East.

"One careless look on me she flung,
As bright as parting day,
And like a hawk from coven sprung,
She stole my heart away."

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 4: Settling In.

To let the words flow, words enthroned atop waves that will lap with soft rythmetic heatbeats into the shores and jetties of Yokohama Port.

The initial step is both inviting and obscure. One month has passed since Liams arrival; the routine, (so essential to ones sanity) has been established, and now instinct wanes, whilst purpose comes to the fore.

It was still an alien culture and he knew he stood out, but at least he had overcome the basics; where to shop, where to eat, the interchange of work and rest, weekends full of almost childlike excursions and work days now beginning to border on tedium.

Life had reached a stage where money was no longer the driving force. He had already made it, and all additions to his personal wealth from now on were like the fabled shoes of Emelda Marcos, brought but rarely worn.

No, something new was needed. Some stimulus to his existence, for the singularity of existence was not to his mind an option. Thats why, he had come out of retirement to seek that last adventure, that last hurrah of a mortal man.

But at least he was busy, at least occupied in what a general perception might envisage to be an interesting job in an exotic location.

Luck had it, that in the office one day he bumped into a Japanese colleague with whom he had worked before in the Middle East. When enquiring as to where he could buy a traditional Japanese “ukarta” or cotton dressing gown and some antiques, an offer was politely extended to show him some local shops, and they met one weekend. It was a very successful day. Initially the ukarta purchase was a problem, due to his size and the fact that the Yokohama summer was coming to an end, with stocks not that plentiful. However, eventually they stumbled across a corridor of a shop off the main highway, where an indigo blue ukarta, large enough to accommodate his girth and height was obtained. Koi goldfish that intertwined with reeds and disappeared in and out of folds of an Oriental cut provided a pleasing theme.

The antiques purchasing likewise proved to be initially problamatic in so far as Japanese society seemed to have made that bold leap from the comforting old to embracing the stimulating new. Antiques therefore as such were relegated to second hand goods shops where international bric brac rubbed shoulders with sumari swords and supurb old ceramics. Shelves of unappreciated cast offs proved rich pickings for the trained eye. He eventually brought a selection of small rose wood containers for his daughters and an elaborately designed dinner plate, deep and substantial enough to accommodate the family roast upon a future return to the UK.

The jewel in the crown however was the small family restaurant he was introduced to. They did not speak a word of English, but the standard and presentation of the assorted lunch on that day was in a class of its own; chilled cuts of sushi soaked in a pickled vinegar, sticky rice wrapped elaborately in thin wafers of seaweed, miso soup and small cups of green tea. Liam had his friend explain to the owners that, on future occasions when he came in alone, (possibly after work), it was to be left to the discretion of the owner to recommend the cuisene of that day, as long as it was washed down with a cold Kirin beer. Amidst much bowing, the deal was struck.The location and set up of this establishment appealed to him. Its anonimity, its shelter, a place to reflect on words and phrases that crowded into what he trusted was an imaginative awareness.

Outside, taxis drove by with drivers in white gloves; neon signs unintelligible to the Western eye seemed to fill every spare space, and dusk imperceptably gained a foothold over both the peak of Mount Fuji and the streets of the nearby metropolis sprawl.

[DATo]

Very nicely written chapters and a VERY interesting and convincing description of Japan and the Japanese culture. Your writing gives one a realistically crafted impression of what the main character is experiencing. I am looking forward to reading more.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 5: Scottish Laser.

Strange name for a pub, but by now I have ceased to be surprised by a lot of things in Japan. Actually, once you are cognisant of the owner being Japanese and his wife, a red headed Scot from Glasgow, it begins to make sense. The significance of the word “laser” I leave to the readers imagination.

I am drawn back there by being stood up on Sunday. First time in my life I’ve been stood up by a woman; a salutary experience and an unfamiliar one. Its normally the other way round I’ve been led to believe. It stings all the more having been a bar girl, a breed I thought I understood. One offers, (as discreetly as circumstances allow), a degree of financial help and she says “I don’t know how I’m ever going to repay you.” For those of a nomadic existence its as essential as the oxygen you draw into your lungs.

I leave the apartment at about two o’clock, proceed three stations along on the Yokohama tube, and am but a short walk away from Motomachi Street where the bar is located.

Its empty save the two staff behind the counter. I’m not sure what I would have done if she had been there. In theory I suppose I hold the moral high ground in being the aggrieved party, although likely there would have been a touch of tension.

I start with Guinness, (my first in-country) and its surprisingly sweet tasting, but then, thats a prejudice like so many in life that one can overcome. If its a dive you feel comfortable in and you throw in an exotic location, it gets the mental juices going. After all Hemingway thrived on them; his favourite watering holes in Havana. A few pints later with single malts taking up the slack and I’m even day dreaming of the great man myself. After all, I’m telling myself, I’ve reached that age and undergone the trammels of a life apprenticeship. I’ve even got the white beard.

But deep down, I know that tomorrow its the hangover with its partner-in-crime, the reality of of recognizing my own verbosity and confused thinking. Apparently, I’m even moving with remorseless accelleration towards the abyss of tautology.

Surmounting the altar of drinks are two TV screens showing a Hollywood film. It makes a change from Japanese TV with its period dramas and game shows, but thats as far as one can make a judgement. Its a sci-fi Manhatten apocalypse drama whose main characters comprise: Thor (complete with hammer), the Incredible Hulk looking like an Emerald Isle body builder on steroids at last orders, a masked Captain America complete with a single starred shield, (perhaps Texan?) and a very sultry Tatiana, presumambly fresh from the conflict in the Ukraine.

Dear Lord, why can’t this place be transformed into a scene from Casablanca? Why can’t my future and my destiny walk in?

“Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.”

[DATo]

Still reading. Still enjoying. I like the well-timed pace and feel of this story as well as the style in which the narrative is being delivered.

Looking forward to reading more.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 6: Missing In Action:

The morning had passed and his Texas collegue had still not appeared at the office. The Japanese sub-department head was getting restless. Odd sounds at intervals emanated from him, as if to express his internal disquiet at this unscheduled deviation from the natural order.

On Liam’s part, he just presumed that when James had refused to share the taxi home on the bridge near Ishikawatchu Junction last night; that he was intent on an instinctive bender. He had been already in his cups when they had split, but seemed destined on further drinks, along with a visit to an alluded “Kit Kat Club.”

The evening had originally started well enough. They had left work dead on 6pm, traversed three stops on the metro and were seated at the “Laser Rush Bar” with drinks in their hands before a subsequent hour had slotted into place. Liam had demolished a huge plate of turkey Caesar salad, washed down with two pints of Guinness, a gin and tonic, and finishing off with a Drambuie. "Well," he thought "he was finished," until the Lone Star State representative commenced the, (by now), usual exposition to all assembled personnel of it being Liam’s birthday. It was becoming embarrassing for Liam riding shotgun with this guy. Every bar they entered in Yokohama, he proclaimed Liam’s birthday. Invariably free drinks were proffered, (in this case Suntory whiskey), but Good Lord, how long could it go on? Either they would be arrested as con-men, or have to start drinking in Tokyo, having run out of bars in Yokohama.

Outside in Motomachi, the last of the tiny pet dogs dressed in tarten style jackets were being exercised by their owners, and the mostly ritual Japanese team building sessions were coming to an end, as sober suited business men proceeded to catch bullet trains home to their families.

Liam had suggested a change in venue, another bar he had discovered last weekend during daytime hours and which at the time had been closed.

Paying the bill at the Laser, they had proceeded about two streets along to an aptly named “X Bar.” An empty beer keg with a faded sign at the side of a small restaurant, gave a mystic clue to an adjacent steep flight of stairs. At the first landing to the right, a substantial thick glass panelled door provided a portal to the next chapter of their evening. Inside, a long bar curved its way the length of a room. Partially coloured windows at one end gave a view out onto the street, whilst inside a tasteful, warm ambient lighting graced lines upon lines of bottles; not limited to shelves alone, but upon the bar itself. There were places in Africa that Liam had remembered, where beers were passed out to patrons through metal bars. Here, it was akin, a professional drinkers buffet.

Liam’s canon of faith had it, that the first drink in a new place gave a definitive indication as to the standards of both the drinking establishment and its bar staff. Wherapon two gin and tonics were subsequently and suitably approved of. But then it had started to get silly, as it so often does when one comes up against the basic limitations of all flesh.

James had started on double tequilas, followed by Cuban rum & coke. To Liam it initially became somewhat amusing as his friend declared that “For Whom The Bell Tolls” had been written by Edgar Allen Poe. When informed that he was misinformed, a mixture of bewildement and hurt filled his face. Sensitiveness both separates us and unites us, as we are all created by the fatality of our temperament into a unique and individual universe.

“Are you sure?” he had asked abruptly, for percieved criticism is but a dead hand laid upon a living thing, unless it is a genuine response to the object criticised, or something reciprocal in us.

“I’m sure,” Liam had responded and proceeded to the toilet at the rear. On the wall above the cistern a photo of Marlon Brando as “The Godfather.”

He was reminded of the saying:
“You must excuse my son. He talks when he should be listening and he listens when he should be talking.”

Back at the bar, James had taken an unhealthy interest in a samarui sword which had been resting on two wooden stool supports high up on a wall, and he was now asking the barman to show it to him.

Liam had got there just in time to prevent a potentially dramatic unsheathing akin a “Kill Bill” fight scene.

The blade had been slightly drawn and the brightness of an overhead light on the exposed steel raised apprehension as to what this increasingly drunk "Geiging" would do next. If he had started waving it around, other dark suited customers and their smart female appendages, might have started throwing themselves down the one and only staircase.

As it was, Liam had managed, on the pretext of examining it closer, to gently take possession, and thus returned it to the watching, noting, and grateful barman.

“Right, thats it,” Liam had exclaimed.

“It’s been a good night. Lets get back now.”

“I was thinking of the Kit Kat Club,” James had responded, still with a glint of the Alamo in his eye.

“Nope, thats it, I’m finished. Still got work tomorrow.”

Soon after they had parted company, Liam home by taxi to the apartment, James off into the Yokohama night.


Which brings us back full circle to today. The Japanese boss is increasingly making noises similiar to a chicken prepared to lay an egg, whilst out there somewhere, one of our aircraft is still missing.

[DATo]

Sorry it took me so long to respond to your latest installment. I am only now recovering from the bender I acquired in Chapter 6.

Nice description of Japanese bar hopping - brings back memories of my youth ... which upon consideration ... scare the hell out of me *LOL*

The plot thickens. Awaiting the next installment.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 7. The Second Visit.

She asked if she could talk. A lovely combination of vulnerability alternating with strength and stubbornness. She apparently worked in the restaurant downstairs but was friends with the barman who she thought handsome. He had laughed. Apparently he was the owner and older than he looked. She had talked frankly, as one can to a stranger. Unhappy marriage, little show of emotion in the relationship, no children. He noted that she drank but not heavy, and smoked also. Great skin and hid her laughter behind long fingers when embarrassed. He had shook hands with the barman when he left, but in her case she did not rise and seemed uncertain. It had been his intention to hug her, but he limited himself to rubbing her back gently.

But I get ahead of myself. When I had originally entered, there had been a small group of Japanese up by the street window end, and one woman up to the far left. I had wanted to get a closer look at the swords from my previous visit and so sat nearer, (but not conspicuously so) to the woman who, seemingly detached, did not make eye contact or show attention.

The barman had asked after my Texan friend from the other night and I had apologised as to us having been a bit drunk and loud. There had been a mutual humorous appreciation at the prospective irony of a "Kill Bill" scene.

He explained that he had been a keen racing cyclist, and pointed out photos on the wall to that effect. It had struck me at the time as complex; both his demeanour and the way his bar was organised; very much a reflexion of himself. Bottles of high class booze gently lighted and arranged, guns in shadowy outline on the shelves, a fish tank with a bluish tint, pictures on the wall from the Godfather, and even one in the toilet from "Casablanca" with Bogart and Bergman.

The bar man had drifted down the counter to attend to other customers and it was then that the lone woman had asked if they could talk. Hesitant at first on both sides, they had opened up on whatever had come into their heads. Every now and then she would verbally collapse with the effort of trying to hold an English conversation. She had spent some time in Boston but admitted, that like so many Japanese, she had been basically shy and afraid of making mistakes. It had not been a success and she had felt out of it. She had explained how Japanese women were now so much stronger than their men, a fact he had increasingly acknowledged the longer he had spent in the country. She felt that her friends, who were few, did not recognise her as a good person, but he had not quite been able to put his finger on that one.

They had talked of tattoos on women,(apparently they do have them but vey small), of women in Japan being at ease in going into a bar or restaurant on their own. They had swapped views on the different values of their respective cultures, whereby in the West one generally questions everything, but the Japanese just accept what they are told. She had seemed to find this, (which to him was a truism,) both a revelation and fascinating.

Perhaps it had been the hunter in him, but he had then spoken of the need of all women to be hugged, whether aged seven or seventy and of a woman's sensitivity to male emotions, whether extremes of anger or tears.

He had looked closely. The skin was clear, her teeth perfect, the eyes inquisitive. He wondered if she moaned when she made love.

Before leaving, he had examined one of the swords more closely. She had said they were fakes, but to his mind they were still objects of beauty. When he had handed the sword back to the owner, the recipient had cradled it respectfully in two hands, raised it as if in a salute, and bowed.

It had been a cumulative moment in appreciating the traditions and style of this strange country, and he had been sorry at the prospect of leaving and moving onto a new assignment in Singapore.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 8 : One of Our Aircraft is Missing.

The call came through to the apartment on the Saturday afternoon.

“Liam san. What happened?”

The abruptness and almost accusatory tone unsettled him.

“Sorry Sagawa san, I dont know what you are talking about.”

The response was more moderate, though still decidedly factual.

“James san was arrested by the police last night on the other side of Yokohama, perhaps for fighting.”

It came as a shock. He had left the Texan after drinks in the Hard Rock Cafe and they had then proceeded downstairs near the station for a pizza and a beer. After that Liam had left him to walk home.

“Had he been drinking?” asked the Japanese boss.

“Of course he bloody had,” Liam thought. “Do you go to a bar to buy a Hershey bar?”

“Yes Sagawa san, a few but nothing excessive.”

“Was he drunk?”

“No,” Liam responded, “ A bit loud, but certainly not looking for a bar brawl.”


The week-end passed with no news. The Texan had been due to fly with the Japanese boss to Houston on the Sunday on a business trip.
Liam entered the office Monday morning. Sagawa san was sitting there at the end of his section.

“I thought you would be flying to Houston on your own?” Liam asked enquiringly.

“Cancelled,” was the brief retort.
“Cancelled in order to sort this out,” came as a supplimentary.

“They are pissed,” Liam thought. “Dont push it any further.”


As the week progressed little was learned. At the local police station Liam was politely told that no information could be given.


Little by little it came out from one source or another. The Texan on leaving Liam had gone on a bender for reasons only known to him and His Maker. As to how the night progressed, no information could be discerned. But gradually the final act became clear. He had been refused entry to one bar on the basis that it was members only. This had not gone down well with the Lone Star State indigine and a fracas had ensued. The police had been called and to date, as noted before “One of our aircraft is still missing.”

[108 fountains]

Very interesting, MANICHEAN.
The descriptions of the expat experiencing,and learning,the Japanese culture are spot on.
Looking forward to more.

[DATo]

It occurs to me that I had read this latest installment when it was first posted but did not comment. Perhaps, because it was short, I had anticipation of another soon-to-follow segment.

I look forward to finding out what has happened to The Texan ... a nice touch of mystery to an already interesting read.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 9.

He had been sleeping restlessly of late. None of that really deep sleep that takes away pain, percieved or otherwise. The nights alternated between the bed and the couch until the dawns inperceptably crept in from the Pacific. Feverish tiring thoughts ran through his brain, and in the mornings the bed sheets were dank with the odour of sweat and resembled tight irregular wave patterns upon the cotton fabric.

That was until one morning, when for reasons unfathomed in human semi-consciousness, he had found himself walking with a young fresh girl with short fringed hair. They were hand in hand, touch upon touch, unaffected and spontaneous. Acceptance in a childlike manner of a mutual need.

He had put his arm around her waist and she responded and kissed. It lifted so much off him, that the experience was still alive and vital in his mind as he awoke.

“Perhaps thats it,” he reasoned,
“The growing old with nothing new to love any more. And yet, just to feel those emotions was to live, whether they were opposite extremes of joy or sadness.”

The weather was turning cold, and looking out he noted that what he initially thought was white cloud, was in fact snow atop Mount Fuji to the west.

Walking the eleven minutes into work from the apartment, the smart professional set of Yokohama could be discerned; unemotive, even those taking their young kids to school.

Entering the office building the pace quickened. Older Japanese businessmen in dark suits emerging from the metro, merged like liquid humanity into their younger fellow worker bees, alternately attired in short sleeved shirts and carrying leather shoulder pouches. He reflected that the incongrinuity crept in even more so at the weekends, when was added the feminine ingredient attire of subtle yet exotic kimonos.

The boss was in when Liam attained the 32nd floor. Back from the business trip to China he looked more serious than usual, and it was all to come clear when an internal meeting was held later that morning.

It was outlined that the Texan was due to be released from police custody that day, but that he was restricted from leaving Japan until all financial compensation, (plus whatever civil fines applicable), had been agreed and paid. In the meantime, notice was to be served both on himself and his apartment.

It was a mess, an absolute bloody mess, as is so often the case when things go pear shaped in another mans country. In the meantime Liam was told that the Texan’s wife was flying out from Houston.

“Time to get the wagons in a circle,” came to mind.

[Dreamwoven]

I came into this story late, but enjoying it more and more.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 10. Jail Time.

When one has attained a nadir of personal misfortune, there is an imperative to share emotions, albeit sometimes with the most unlikely of people. Unless that is, for the few, fortunate to have reached such a high plane of spiritual self-containment, that nothing of the material world can touch their inner peace.

The Texan, despite being representative of the physical toughness of his breed, yet still, the mental resilience waivered as the days relentlessly progressed in that Yokohama police cell. While routine just deadened hope, basic confinement eroded the very essence of normal existence. He remembered very little of what he was accused of; fighting in a bar, causing damage to the premises and injury to the owner. What he did know though, was the strange reality of a cell shared with three Japanese inmates, none of whom spoke English or shared a common culture.

The guards were polite but firm. He was given two blankets, one of which served as a pillow for when they nightly removed their futons from lockers. The floor was wooden on which they sat, and behind a clear glass partition, (designed presumambly to prevent suicides),was situated a toilet. Thus were they both contained and watched.

Each of the men was in their own way, quite distinctive. One of the Japanese, a lot taller and thinner than the Texan had scaled dry skin that he tried not to look at. The second, he named “Three Finger Joe”, as it gradually transpired through a combination of improvised sign language and the observation of his various “irezumi” tattoos, that he had somehow been an unsuccessful member of a Japanese “yakuza” gang. Somewhere in this unpromising career, there had been an apparent unspecified transgression. They had deemed it necessary to have him perform “yubitsume” by removing the tips of two fingers from his left hand as a form of penance or apology. The last inmate, the Texan named “Crazy Charlie” and not without reason. He never spoke, but made incoherent noises and would sit for days and nights in the corner staring at a spot in the wall. Other times at two o’clock in the morning, he would collapse, loudly and without reason in the toilet, shocking the recumbent forms of his other inmates into immediate consciousness.

It was three to four days before the Texan’s normal medication for diabetes and blood pressure arrived. He knew that somewhere in that period he lost it; that his mind had gone; that the pressure had overcome his defences leaving him exposed to an unrelenting confusion of dreams bordering in and out of consciousness.

Each day, at set times, four sets of food were passed under the door at. Miso soup for breakfast, bread and a banana for lunch, rice and whatever for dinner. He had little or no appetite, but whatever he did not eat was wolfed down by the other three. Exercise was fifteen minutes a day, and on the way to the small yard, a faucet in the corridor was passed, where one could wash without removing ones clothes. A quick splash under the arms beneath a raised T shirt to inadequately remove an accumulation of sweat in clogged pores, whilst down below, a clammy area of unchanged underwear that itched and seemed to clog into a no go zone, where one reluctantly cultivated a fear of examining in any great detail.

It was on the second week that the Texan discovered the rules of confinement allowed, (subject to payment), for a Sunday order in from a local restaurant. He chose uncomprehendingly from a plastic Japanese written menu, and to the astonishment of the guards was not backward in coming forwards regards portions and quantities. It was a strange sight, these four characters sitting cross legged on the floor. The Texan, still without appetite, tasted of the meat balls, the noodles and dishes unrecognisable to a Western eye, whilst his companions eyed nervously the food laid out, until, as was his generous nature, he bade them to indulge.

After that, a new priority was set. The Texan no longer cleaned the floor daily with the others. That was done for him. Likewise he was accorded choice of sleeping position and whatever other small favours they were able to extend.

On the streets of the city, the chill of October took hold and the leaves dropped lifeless from trees to lay damp and sodden on grey wet pavements. But within a Japanese cell, there evolved between three Japanese and one American inmate, a hierachy and inter-relationship, not unlike primates in the wild, yet uniquely in todays world, a bonding of East and West in conditions of shared misfortune.

[DATo]

i sense we are about to veer on to an interesting new avenue in this story. Looking forward to finding out what happens next.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 10 The Catchup.

The reader must be excused if he thinks that the tale has, like the effects of a hoar frost on premature flowering, killed off this particular recounting of events in the Far East. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. For reality had been such, and events had moved so rapidly, for the narrator only now being able to regroup his thoughts sufficiently to resume.

For this I must apologise, and relate a hasty summary, of what at the time might have been expounded upon in greater detail and more assiduous reflection.

To start with, the Texan was eventually released from the police cell in Yokohama, albeit; unwashed, fatigued, confused and generally unrepentant. The compensation to the bar owner was vaguely agreed upon, and, not being under any formal restraint from the authorities, he made his grateful way to Narita airport, thence to Houston and freedom. The last news was that he had landed a good job back in the States, straying no further from home than Philadelphia. It had been a strange, transient episode.

For a time, the Japanese back at the office put up the pretence that all was normal. No mention was made of the Texan, and though, within a small group, all knew he had gone, to maintain face, he was still copied on all correspondence.

His section of responsibility, inclusive work on the Chinese Mainland was allocated to Liam, and with this in mind, the latter was soon assigned a one week visit to Quingdao on the Eastern seaboard. If one is prone to understatement, then this trip would have been described as " interesting." In effect, it was fascinating and stirred the juices tremendously. Old China, that one reads about in the history books was no longer there as far as he could see, only the odd dwelling place incongruously swamped by high rise concrete dwellings and flyovers. But the people were so much more open than the Japanese and genuinely hospitable. The food was unbelievably good and healthy and he developed a passion for the black tea and the traditional ceramic appendages used in the process of drinking it.

The other item of note was the massage establishments. He was dubious at first as to their genuineness and security, but was reassured one night in a bar behind the hotel by a Norwegian expatriate worker, that there was nothing to fret about regards security and professionalism.

And so it was he indulged, initially in the moderately advertised "foot massage for seniors." The young lady administering this treatment was diminutive in both height and bodily stature, but she might well have been a welder in her spare time judging by the strength of her hands. After placing his feet in a tub of hot water mixed with unknown herbs, she proceeded to tenderise his shoulder muscles with her elbows; somewhat akin a
piece of steak being softened up. This expanded via the use of; thumbs, fists and feet to kneld and pummel his back and arms. Eventually, with some trepidation on the part of the recipient, she got around to the feet, (which if one's memory still served correctly) was the initial objective of the exercise. The lower extremities were likewise shown no mercy. Unconditional surrender was finally declared when she produced with dramatic effect, suction cups and a taper flame to heat parts of the feet. He declined as gracefully as he could with appropriate hand gestures; having reached the parameters of inquisitiveness as to the mysteries of this aspect if Chinese culture. That night he felt as bruised as any boxer after a hard fight, but the next day was remarkably more flexible.

In China, one perverse and slightly irritating aspect of everyday life he found was the tardiness, if not downright non-functioning of lines of current day communications, especially e-mail messages, which did not help when news eventually came through that his Filipino wife of twenty years had cervical cancer and was in hospital.

At the end of the week he flew back to Japan, to be informed that he was to be transferred at short notice to Singapore. This he quickly changed, explaining that compassionate leave to the Philippines was required. At first obdurate, the Japanese eventually relented on the basis that after such leave he proceeded direct to Singapore.

[Steven Hunley]

Sensitiveness both separates us and unites us, as we are all created by the fatality of our temperament into a unique and individual universe.

...for percieved criticism is but a dead hand laid upon a living thing, unless it is a genuine response to the object criticised, or something reciprocal in us.

There were places in Africa that Liam had remembered, where beers were passed out to patrons through metal bars. Here, it was akin, a professional drinkers buffet.

Outside in Motomachi, the last of the tiny pet dogs dressed in tarten style jackets were being exercised by their owners, and the mostly ritual Japanese team building sessions were coming to an end, as sober suited business men proceeded to catch bullet trains home to their families.

This stuff, the details and the observations, just get to me. I've missed some of these entries and see I've been depriving myself of fun. Whoa be to he who deprives himself of this much fun. I should know better.

The details, separating the fiction from the truth in these images and wondering what the percentages of each are in any given line, is downright entertaining! Keep it up by all means!

[108 fountains]

Unbeknownst to Liam, several friends and acquaintances - not his closest friends, but people with whom he occasionally corresponded online, people from around the world - awaited with concern and sympathy to hear any news. While none of them knew his wife, they knew Liam well enough to know that, while he had seen much of the world and had made it through many previous trials, this was going to be a difficult time. He would make it through this trial, too, they knew, but it would tell on him. Although they were too far away to offer any real support or solace, they wished him to know that he had their best wishes and warmest regard.

[Lee]

I have lurked on this forum for a long time and have always enjoyed reading your stories, but you never seem to completely finish one before starting another.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 12: The Last Goodbye.

When he landed at Naga Airport in the Bicol Region of the Philippines all was familiar; yet the nature of his journey this time isolated him from sights that were normally balm to his outer tiredness. The palm trees seemed not to sway so with the breeze, the mountains to blend so harmoniously in the distance; a backdrop to flooded rice fields couched in a distant haze of heat.

The eldest Joel was there with the pick-up truck.

He tried to appear cheerful but Liam sensed the inner tiredness and desperation.

“Right son, what exactly is the situation with your mother?”

He reached across his father and into the glove compartment handing across the results of two scans.

“Cervical cancer that had spread to other parts of the body” was the basic translation of all the medical terminology contained therin.

“Mum is at the faith healers now, here in town.”

They proceeded in silence to a house set back in a barangay warren of alleys, chickens, kids, rubbish and washing being dried.

“She is inside Dad. Go in.”

Liam entered. There was an improvised alter, almost as if in church in front of him. Numerous women seemed to be there as onlookers and then he focused his attention at a huddle of figures and forms to the left.

He did not recognise her initially. The body had wasted, the face drained, but it was the eyes that were the nexus; even more so than the large growth on her neck. The eyes, like trapped orbs, staring out, recognition and fear combined.

He knew then that it was too little, too late.



The next two weeks were in retrospect a haze despite the drama of outside influences. Typhoon Ruby came and went, first the wind and then the rain and he lay each night next to a dying woman who had been the nearest thing he had known as a wife for the last twenty years.

All seemed to be imploding and relentlessly draining whatever reserves he thought he possessed. And yet it was the women that showed the strength, caring for her around the clock; daughter, in-laws, sister, neighbours, even grandchildren. Death was not something to be tucked away discreetly in a corner, but faced cheerfully as best one could on a daily basis.

The first night was perhaps the most difficult, even more so than the final goodbye.

She was still lucid at the time and it was as if she had been storing those precious words, cradling them in her very being, until he had returned.

“I’m sorry darling” was spoken softly to him, as if the illness was her fault.

It was perhaps the last real conversation they were to ever have.

[DATo]

I think anyone who has participated in a death watch can identify with the feelings expressed in the last installment. The scene and the mood is described casually but with the recognizable sound of an iron bell tolling in the distance which draws ever nearer. I think you captured this mood very well in the last chapter. The events (or perhaps I should say the tone) of the last chapter also brings the hectic pace Liam has been experiencing to a screeching halt. I sense that this part of the story contains the climax which will season the remainder of the story ... just a guess.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 13: Chinese Gardens

It was six o'clock on a Sunday evening at the Kai Xiang Seafood joint down by Chinese Gardens in the Jurong District of Singapore. For those of you not familiar with this city, it is dotted with semi open air food outlets that serve a mixture of different quite exotic ethnic foods; in this case strangely enough everything from; Hong Kong duck and pork, to Vietnamese dishes. Then of course, the inhabitants being nearly ninety per cent Chinese, all the noodles, dum sum and other delicacies are on call.

This particular establishment was becoming a favourite with Liam. Although usually the only white face there, he was becoming recognised and more importantly acknowledged. When he strolled in, (this being the weekend) in shorts, T-shirt and flip-flops, his Carlsberg beer was already on it's way from one of the waitresses before he had even sat down.

To one side the range of tables opened up onto an expansive green space with lush grass, and in the background beyond, towered the high rise apartments, so indicative of the housing infrastructure in a country so short of land and living space.

Through the laid out tables, almost as an afterthought ran a pedestrian walkway, and it was a great place to watch the world go by: skinny flat chested Chinese girls, overweight paunchy Indian men, odd individuals on bicycles ringing their bells and the occasional
Malay in traditional attire.

A rather pretty girl from the beer stall came across to top up his beer. Around him the big reserved tables were getting ready for the family bookings so prevalent in this society. Young executives from something in IT smartly dressed but casual, wife, kids, grandmothers all together enjoying the ambient heat and spicy food. The fans revolved overhead. Everybody seemed to be talking in either loud Mandarin or Singhalese, incomprehensible to Liam, whilst on more secluded tables sat lone individuals nursing a beer or an Indian tea; ultra sweet and thick from a liberal addition of condensed milk.

It was time to reflect. That morning after a swim to clear his head, Liam had phoned the Philippines and was told by the son that the doctors in Manila had refused to operate on his wife. She had gone back home to the provinces to die.

It was a transient stressful period for all concerned; waiting for the final act, but at the same time to Liam, it was so alien that it had not hit home yet. Perhaps the grieving would come later.

It was disturbing to him also that he did not feel guilty; that he was not blocked up with emotion. Was he cold in his feelings, having simply gone to visit, say his final goodbye and leave? He knew deep down he would not have been able to cope with the remorseless daily ritual of deterioration and pain he had witnessed, almost as if it was in someone he did not recognise any more. Two weeks had been enough and it had taken it's toll.

It was now that those, of a more sensitive and courageous disposition were administering the last remnants of: expressed love, succour and care.

In the meantime he was back at work in Singapore; albeit at the moment sitting in a
mental twilight, spiritually isolated and surrounded by strangers that knew not of his life, nor of the depth and the components that lay therein.

[108 fountains]

I liked this installment of The Rising Sun for it's subtlety and understatement and for its irony. The story has taken a dramatic shift in that the narrator, Liam, rather than being the observer and describing people and events taking place around him, has now become the main character. There is a subtle and understated inner struggle, as he continues to describe his surroundings and then reluctantly allows the reader a glimpse into his inner thoughts. There is an irony in his inability to remain in the Philippines and yet to think about nothing else. He has removed himself from the woman he has loved and her family, but still feeling a need to be among people, finds himself in the midst of other families speaking languages he can't understand and thus more alone than if he had stayed in the solitude of his room. It is the utter loneliness of someone who cannot remain where he feels he should stay, who cannot do all that he thinks he should do, and cannot feel all that he thinks he should feel.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chinese Gardens 2:

Singapore had proved to have been; both a twilight interlude and a spiritual void. Two months had passed, and Liam had neither engaged fully in the life around him, or in the customary quiet dialogue enjoyed previously with his Maker. The East had lost its magic and he was tired for home.

The blessing, (for he saw it as such), arose out of that age old aspect of mankind's evolution, namely political infighting. The details were in reality quite mundane and of no significance. No, the interest lay in that he was to be reassigned to another project, possibly in Vietnam. In the meantime he was in a position, perhaps as early as the end of next week to fly home and touch base.

It had been seven months away; a long personal journey, that although exotic in manner, had lost its substance in the loss of Fatima.

And so, on the last day of the Chinese New Year, he sat once again in the view of strangers. It was though of choice and there was no feeling of self pity, for at that period of time, limited intimacy struck him as the correct balance.

The sweet hot tea went down well. Chinese men sat around in groups drinking Tiger beer, whilst at one outlying table a solitary drinker had fallen asleep in his chair, head lolling forward, his expansive stomach comfortably supporting his linked hands.

Part of the Jurong market area had that day opened up for business despite it being the weekend, and further down from the open air cafe, the masseuse from the "foot reflexology "establishment was hard at it, kneading the lower limbs of masochistic patrons. Liam had himself indulged yesterday. Perhaps having had pain inflicted from a good looking Chinese woman with muscular arms, was just what he had needed to bring him out of himself. She had, as was her custom, childed him with her latest advice on his physical well being, and in fact he had, over time learned to listen attentively. The instructions had at original sessions related on the specific need to abstain from peanuts and cold beer; but the strange thing was, it worked! Tender heels were now a thing of the past and he had even managed to lose some weight.

"You drink hot lemon, honey and water every morning ka? You hear me?" she said in her sing song voice.

"Yes my dear," he had replied, gasping for control as she proceeded to run a thumb deep along an external tendon."

"Ha," she had proceeded, oblivious to his situation, "Hot lemon and honey, it make you strong ka? and give you good -----" At this juncture, she had paused to raise one erect finger in the air, it's meaning all but plain, even to those of a retired disposition.

The white seated Budda sat at its nearby shrine, viewing impassively the flickering candles in his honour and the fruit offerings for any mortal sustenance he might have contemplated. Liam wondered if this deity had ever divined the need of humor, even in circumstances that on the face of it were dire?

[108 fountains]

Glad to see an update on Liam's adventures. It will be interesting to see where he goes and what he does next.

[MANICHAEAN]

Terminal 2 Business Lounge in Changi Airport was as good as it gets after ten weeks living too near to yourself. To Liam it was irrelevant that the flight to London was fourteen hours and took off from Singapore at one o'clock in the morning. That was the whole point of it; the break from the conventional, of being the odd man out.

In fact it was almost like completing boot camp. To sit, to drink good expensive brandy, to reflect, perchance to dream. Already he was making plans; to cook a roast leg of lamb for the family, watch the Six Nations Rugby, to immerse himself in that timeless, immutable, ritual of a pint of beer with a Ploughmans at a country pub. God, it had been too long and as hunger is reputedly the best sauce, so is extended absence from a country that raised you.

On a nearby screen, Islamic fundamentalists were applying sledgehammers to Assryian statutes in a Syrian museum ; today's blinkered barbarians with not an original thought between them. In the US, presidential candidates already positioning themselves, Donald Trump no less. Mind you Liam was appreciative of the latest wife he had acquired, and remembered the *****y phrase that some Americans have the best taste that money can buy. But no, that's unfair and is really only the Courvoisier talking.

It had been a roller coaster ride, this trip, but then once started, you were obliged to play the cards as they were dealt: Yokohama, Batangas, Qindao, Iriga, Manila and finally Singapore. A wife lost, a romance tasted then shunned, a clutching at illusions so transient that even The Almighty would have been found lacking.

Tiredness; a tiredness of thought and emotions and dreams and hopes, that in the end all
would be well.

Tonight those angels in oriental sarongs would serve him dinner at forty thousand feet, he would drink copious amounts of champagne and hock, and eventually through a dissipating exhaustion, be obliged to extend the seat horizontally and sleep with those other celestial Angels at the very gates of Heaven.

[Steven Hunley]

I like the continuity of this and, as usual, the authenticity in both place and character. I got a little nervous there when James handled the sword.

[MANICHAEAN]

Mother Russia.

Liam had been back in the UK but three days when the first mail came through regards the new position in Vietnam. There had apparently been a death on the project, but at this stage it was still undetermined as to whether it was accident related or of a non work cause. All this he had learned from a friend in Yokohama where alarm bells had already begun to ring in a predictable corporate manner.

He knew he had to go literally "on the run," before being sucked into an all too familiar progression of; contract negotiations, acceptance, medicals, visa applications, flight tickets and then prematurely being sent off again on another assignment. So shooting off a quick response; that whereas all other conditions were fine, but the offer of economy seats in the proposed contract was unacceptable due to his size, he additionally informed them that he was leaving the next day on a brief holiday.

Pressing the send button and going into town, he proceeded to do just that. He had never been to St Petersburg before and it had just that touch of the unknown about it, especially in the current tense political climate. Also it was the reality of a Russian winter that attracted him; such a change from the heat and humidity recently experienced in Singapore.

Flights from London to St Petersberg were only just over three hours, but for some unknown motivation he hankered after a train ride. Perhaps it was the prospect of something less frantic, a pace more sedate. Thus he ended up booked flying to Domodedovo International Airport in Moscow, from whence he could traverse the capital and take the overnight Red Arrow train from Oktyabrskaya Station arriving in St Petersberg at eight twenty five the next morning.


It was just before midnight and in the corridor at the end of the first class carriage, the silver samovar of hot tea was faintly shaking; a light steam evolving around cup holders and glasses. The "provodnik" attendant had earlier drawn a cup of black Russian tea for him when providing him with his sheets and blankets; a strange hangover perhaps from the days of equality fostered by the Revolution; but it amused Liam in having to make his own bed. But then, he was quickly to learn that one thing you get plenty of in Russia, no matter what your economic circumstances, is irony.

The train pulled away on its journey north, and out there in the dark were: farms half buried under snow, disused factories, mile after mile of birch forest, frozen lakes, and a hinterland that was cold, brooding, sad and romantic. It had been the place of final limbo retreat for the spies; Kim Philby, Donald MacLean and Guy Burgess; and now, in all its unknown potential, the hearth of Putin's thinking on a new Cold War strategy.

The two berth sleeping compartment was snug, the progression of the train over icy tracks of a soft clanking rhythm. Triple locks secured the door, the curtains were drawn and the night light overhead emitted the softest of clarity to the interior. Liam rolled from his back, onto his side and slightly raised his legs as if like a child in the womb. Perhaps tonight he would gain that real sleep he so desperately sought; the sleep of oblivion, of switching off from all thoughts and emotions that seemed to crowd and jostle his waking hours.

[MANICHAEAN]

Mother Russia 2.

What was the quote from the Duke of Wellington about knowing what was on the other side of the hill? Whatever it was, Liam upon arriving in St Petersburg was up for it; not that he was intending to fight any battles locally; but that a new city, like a new woman in your life was there to be explored.

He had booked into the Corinthia Hotel in the Nevsky Prospect; an imposing pristine structure; the interior of which seemed to comprise a predominance of white columns, tall ceilings, and interspersed with brown wood features. The doorman looked sinister with an overcoat that seemed too big for his frame. Images of "Hotel California" and remnants of the song came inexplicably into Liam's thinking. "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave." But then that is just Russia; everything is possible and nothing is for certain. A week ago an opposition MP had been shot dead when crossing a bridge with his girlfriend within sight of the Kremlin walls, most of the population was living on a dollar a day, the army had not been paid for months, sanctions were taking their toll in remorseless price rises. It was the "new Russia," the offbeat, bad, and very dangerous to know successor of the old Russia. It was kind of exciting.

In the evening, Liam upon leaving the hotel spoke to the doorman requesting a recommendation for a local nightspot. Initial appearances had been deceptive, as said doorman, Nikoli by name, turned out to be quite gregarious bordering on mercurial. He gave the name of one "Ostrov Nightclub" where his cousin, also a doorman was in attendance. Nikoli said he would ring ahead that Liam was coming and to look after him.

The place was busy with expensive cars parked outside and a group of what appeared to be young students huddled against the cold trying to negotiate entry. The phone call had worked as the individual on the door, big, bordering on huge in a dark blue suit beckoned him forward through the metal detector to undertake a thorough, somewhat intrusive pat-down and frisk. Another call and another friendly appeared to lead Liam up thickly carpeted stairs, vibrating from loud techno music into the interior.

The obligatory chilled vodka arrived at the main bar where he sat and Liam surveyed the scene. The decor was modern black and chrome with recessed lighting. The mood was a mixture of extremes. The occupants were there to enjoy themselves, but it was certainly under control. Well dressed women in short skirts and backless dresses looked on from their tables, expressionless behind carefully applied makeup and faultless grooming. Their male friends definitely Russian, with hard features, low brows and the eyes of underwater predators, intermittently threw back their shots and talked among themselves, the women largely ignored. This to Liam's mind was something he could never do, for they all appeared tall, long-legged, mostly blond, with high cheek-bones, spectacular breasts and cold, cold eyes. Forgetting the old Soviet era stereotypes of Russian women being like broad in the beam "babushkas," or Olympic shot put monoliths, he had not seen such attractive examples of the opposite sex before. Warm and cuddly they were not, but all the more fascinating beneath the veneer they so efficiently displayed.

[MANICHAEAN]

Mother Russia 3.

The police raid when it happened was both unexpected and disturbing. Men in dark rigid uniforms appeared amongst the clientele, their faces serious, their demeanor formal. Liam was asked something brusquely in Russian and was unable to coherently respond.

The policeman scowled. "American?" he asked.

"Niet, English."

The scowl intensified and more Russian was directed at Liam. He looked confused.

"He wants to see your papers," said a voice to his left.

Liam turned and saw a woman and man together two stools along down the bar.

"I don't have papers, only a passport and that's back at the hotel," he informed her.

An exchange took place between the woman and the police, not sharp as such, but not bon-homie either.

"He says you must pay a fine of thirty rubles," the woman told Liam.

"But my passport is valid, what do I do?" he asked.

Quietly she told him, "You don't understand. The papers are never valid, just pay him."

Liam complied.

The Russian couple paid up as well, she handing over money as if she were parting with nuclear codes.


When the police had completed their shake-down, the club returned to normal, almost as if this was a regular interlude in the course of a social evening.Liam offered to buy his new acquaintances a drink, which was accepted and more vodka appeared. It turned out that she was called Tatania and was with her cousin Alex.

If one could fall for a woman who reminded one of Peter O'Toole, this was Tatania. She had presence, was imaginative and articulate, one of life's survivors and a hard drinker to boot.

A few rounds later and Liam was invited to dinner. Exiting the club she barked back " I live this way," and the two men followed obediently. It was an uninviting-looking workers' block, with thick graffitied concrete walls, and dark hallways. Access was by climbing up a flight of unswept, unlit stairs.

The apartment was cramped but somehow receptive; despite the cracked linoleum floors, Sputnik-era TV set and a smell of boiled cabbage. As the two men sat, Tatania busied herself in the small kitchen, and she still kept up a steady patter of conversation, jumping back and forwards in whatever language she was comfortable with at the time. Alex on occasions tried to fill in any gaps, though his English language skills were minimal.

A big bowl of "borscht" appeared along with soured cream and black bread. She went to the freezer and an unopened bottle of vodka materialized.

"Does no one drink water in this country?" Liam inquired half jokingly to Alex.

He looked serious.

"Not advisable," he responded. "The tap water here in Russia is very bad and would make you ill."

At the time of their relatively early deaths, if research statistics are to be believed, three out of every five Russian men have been found to have blood-alcohol levels that are excessive. Not that it was drink that killed them, but that they just happened to be drunk when they met their demise and their Maker. By the end of the evening, Liam was a believer.

The drinking seemed to be undertaken in ritualized group shots; during which process a number of not totally coherent toasts were made for all to participate in. Food seemed to help maintain an element of equilibrium; but the toasts, even equating with eating, seemed
to remorselessly occur every twenty minutes. To Liam's mind, endeavoring too late at this stage to engage in rational thinking, that was about as fast as the human system could absorb the alcohol, whilst retaining a semblance of verticality, whether sitting or standing.

When Liam left, just after midnight, Tatania had kissed him warmly on both cheeks and Alex had offered to hail a cab. It was dark and extremely cold outside and the snow crunched unevenly underfoot. When a cab drew up, Liam had difficulty both opening the door and negotiating an entry. Alex gave the driver the name of the hotel, where upon arrival the sinister doorman called for help to half carry him to his room; as befits the standard service of a five star hotel anywhere in the world.

All in all, it had been a most enjoyable evening and Mother Russia had been a perfect hostess.

[108 fountains]

You really paint a vivid picture, MANICHAEAN. I'm looking forward to more.