Three blocks east of Glasgow, I take the subway to avoid walking through downtown. After all the mess I went through three months ago, it's best not to push my luck with the japs.
Sitting between a businessman in his 50s talking loud on the phone with headsets on and a young fellow in his 20s staring at me from time to time from the edge of his hoodie. The idea of getting a car crossed my mind again.
But it's merely an idea. I got an international driver's license but I can't remember the last time I was behind the wheel. Never did have the chance to buy or drive a car when I was still another fool running around the city like there was no such thing as mortality. And after watching too many folks getting whacked while they're driving or just getting lit up with the whole car. The idea of cornering yourself in a metal box seems impractical in all kinds of aspects.
Vera agreed with me on autos for different reasons. Mainly because they're easy to track, way too loud and obvious so when they absolutely need one usually it will be stealing someone else's (Mainly by Viviane) and burning the car afterward (Mainly by Vera) like the night I met them.
The guy in the hoodie is getting on my nerves but thankfully as the metro reaches the station I could disappear in the flock of physically and mentally exhausted men in suits and get off the subway.
They're like a school of fishes surrounding each other, creating an ecosystem and society of their own. When two men are both moving towards a set of door at the same time, they will immediately notice it and quickly take a peek at the other person, taking his appearance, apparel, age, and general sense of presence into account before deciding whether to turn down your pace out of politeness or ignoring the person completely. A sight that greatly reminds me of my trip during the past three months.
Following swirls of businessmen, office workers, secretaries. Girls in brown flax vests, oversized white shirts, and sunglasses. I slowly approach the stairs with nonslip pads.
A ray of ultraviolet squeezed through the small angle between the metal canopy and the stairs itself, falling on my chest. Like the angry white eye outside is squinting to see if it's me.
I grip the violin case harder and harder, I fix my jacket to make sure my stuff is still safely hidden under the fabrics, and I pull my pants higher so no one will notice the big chunk of iron. Every time I'm in downtown or business center the uncanny intuition appears, warning me this is not where I should be, I don't belong here. This is not the lawless land like Noch.
When the angry eye in the sky is able to cast its full malevolence upon me. I enter another world.
***
Two streets north of Via Martinase, couple miles south of Monclea. It's the business center of Euforia, Saint Elisha. But most of the people besides the politicians in Congress still call it Mosquetero Street or Manche Mousquetaire.
Passing by a statue of 16 screaming men in various poses, I turn right and follow the crowd into 'Encrucijada'.
Skyscrapers from downtown shine in the distance an extreme comparison to Saint Elisha. Because of the conservation of historic buildings, the reconstruction of the exterior is prohibited. Since this area was the first to be developed in Faust, there is a considerable amount fits the category.
Therefore walking on the streets of Saint Elisha, especially on 'Encrucijada'. You'll notice how the heights of buildings are very inconsistent. A five-story high, marble historic court could be standing right next to two 40-story high, glass business buildings of foreign corporates.
Completely different from the damp and bumpy asphalt pavement of Noch. Saint Elisha is the front of Faust, the place where foreign brokers and companies reside. Most of our taxes went to the white and gold marble pavements and Victorian-style dark green lamp posts. Even the air taste much fresher.
I make another turn and start heading south toward downtown. Bright street, wide pavement, the unavoidable sound when my shoes step on marble ground...
Some say this part of the city is second next to Monclea as the most 'pleasant' neighborhood in Faust but all I can think of is the lack of cover or alleyways to hide and how every single window above me has a set of eyes staring at me.
The outspread avenues made my eyes wander around from the edge of the wall to the opposite side of the street. A hint of pressure in the back of my head kept signaling to me I'm in an open area with too many blind spots.
God fucking damnit. I could use a puff right now....
The idea flashes through my mind. But remembering I almost faint last night, I shake my head slightly and rub my temples.
A 40ish man in an impeccable full suit tilts his eyebrow while walking past me, an unnoticeable smile made the corner of his mouth curl upwards. A glint of delight in his eyes like he made all kinds of assumptions about me in his mind before reaching to an amusing conclusion.
Three blocks more down south, the historic buildings and sculptured marble pillars are slowly taken over by glass giants made out of rebar. The closer I am to Via Martinase, the younger the age of pedestrians become.
To be honest, with the lowest crime rate. Folks in Saint Elisha's are generally just old man in suits or brown wool coats and husbands in blue golf shirts with their wives in cardigans. Occasionally some poor college kids on bicycles working part-time jobs too.
But I sure ain't going to let my guard down ever again like what happened three months ago.
The buildings on both sides are going through dramatic changes it's like I'm not walking on marble pavements but the thread of time.
Streets narrowed down, buildings got taller and taller, and full glass skyscrapers in all shapes and purposes rise up towards the sky pointing their lighting rods at the angry eye above as if it were a declaration of war.
Wonder which will come first? The judgment day or when the guy upstairs decided to do another Tower of Babel incident.....
It's almost 2 o'clock, and even with my sunglasses on the sunlight still pierced my eyes and the full-glass business buildings doesn’t help.
Boutiques and scaffoldings reaching the apartments above shops tell me I'm getting closer and closer to Via Martinase. Nariyaki's shop is about four streets away from here.
Strange, usually close to this part there should be some of the...... fuck.
Three sarakin walks out of a rusty metal door next to a food joint. The first one is holding a plastic garbage bag, the other two follow behind closely. All three are wearing biker jackets.
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I can't tell if they're affiliated or not. Might be small fishes but I'm not going to risk it. I press the sunglasses on my face and keep my hand on the bridge of my nose while lowering my head.
When I walk past them the one holding a garbage bag knit his eyebrows. I double down and place my right foot directly in front of my left foot and 'tripped' in a dramatic motion while making my body face his opposite side, acting as clumsy as possible while narrowing my shoulders.
The guy let out a silent hum and moved away his line of sight. The two followed closely behind him. I watch them be on their way in the side mirror on a car by the road, after making sure they've moved on I pull my jacket upright and resume walking normally.
***
Few miles north of Via Martinase. I make a right into an empty alleyway parallel to the ring. Passing a row of rickety bikes parked by a sign stand with a giant arrow put together by neon tubes pointing at the stairs bu the wall.
I'm slowly walking into a minefield. The back streets here, downtown, and the financial district I just went through are infested by the boryokudan. And they're still infuriated after I expiated for their casino which I may or may not have trashed.
I walk past a concrete roadblock sign in the middle of the road stating no cars, motorcycles or bikes can enter and the asphalt trail starts getting narrower until two men can not walk side by side in this alleyway. Continue down the back street of Via Martinase for another 2 blocks give or take (it's pretty hard to tell in an alley).
Another left turn took me to a dead end, a Korean with a sketchy face is leaning on the wall while chewing something. He's wearing a green army jacket over a band shirt with chinos and boots. About 28 or older.
The man gets off the wall when he sees me approaching. He takes two big steps forward putting he's hands in jacket pockets, mouth stops moving. I take off my sunglasses and raise my head. He stops, and a reptilian smile creeps onto his face.
His left foot steps back, heel on the wall. Body spins 90 degrees counterclockwise, left hand extended towards the small set of stairs next to him, his right hand behind his back. Giving me an invitation.
"It's been a while since I last see you, sir." I nod at him while thinking how many times does he say the sentence a day?
His eyeballs rotate slowly as I walk past him. The smile is still there, so is the hand. I take out my wallet and tip him three times more than normal, plus three cigs.
He spins his palm and curls his fingers. The money and the cig slides inside his sleeves in the blink of eye. Once a thief, always a thief.
The guy is a kobun in the clan, but not much committed to the ideology of respect, honor, they value. And he wouldn't mind slipping a wanted merc in the organization to their business property. In Xiao's words, he's a 'Bie San'.
As I walk past him and descend down the stairs he's smile never fades away.
The stairs are lit by red and blue neon tubes. Glittering from time to time since their cables are wired to the shops on Main Street. Some poor manager's probably wondering why their electric bills are expensive as fuck in all seasons.
Two sets of stairs later. Graffitis of all languages starts appearing on both sides of the wall.
A portrait of a girl from the side with blue-green hair and a striped sweater, she's holding a bouquet of flowers, covering her face unconsciously. A giant green 'LSD' spelled in the ugliest font I've seen. A tendencia rotar helicopter carrying five bleeding hearts in the air while a load of people opens their mouths to an unnatural extent on the ground, trying to taste the blood dripping down the hearts......
All manners of 'art' in people's eyes left a mark on this stairway. The colors collide with each other, stepped on each other, fight and merge with each other. Under the dim neon lights, together, they created harmonious chaos.
But if you take a closer look(probably going to need a flashlight). You might just catch a glimpse of what a specific work carries or what the artist was thinking.
***
Three more sets of stairs straight down. I enter one of the 'Jile jie' or 'little Kabukicho'. Much like the real one in Japan, this place looks damn deserted in the daytime with only a tattoo parlor with.... concerning hygiene problem since a rat just springs out of it with a bald Japanese man following behind trying to stomp it is opened right now.
The pachinkos are turned off, rows of rolling doors hide the hostess clubs and bars behind their cold metal.
The place used to be a metro station left unfinished just like many others around the city because some pigs in the congress realize this is the easiest way to ask for more funds for 'local modernizations'.
Time passes, and if I remember correctly, the senator that first issued the plan and a few with her were busted for graft. With the fingerprints of yakuza all over the place.
By the time she was arrested, the place had been abandoned for 6 years, the congress decided they need to 'fill the holes the rats made' and 'stop meaningless expenses' so all the underground metro stations across the city became white elephants.
And the japs made good use of them downtown and financial district. Underground casinos, pachinkos, private banks(loan sharks), and a shit load of hostess clubs and karaoke.
Got to hand it to them, those fellows single handily created Kabukichos all over the city and made them extremely popular amongst business men and fatigued office workers because their bosses will occasionally take them to these places for a drink or two.
Of all the gangs in the city, these guys can be considered the most far-reached of all. Their strings go from the top of encrucijada to the leather seats of congress since these guys were businessmen in bones and achieving what they did in their homeland is much easier in a depraved, vigorous, and young country full of potential like Faust. Some even called them the new colonizers.
They work in a more discreet way compared to everyone else but never the less they are a force to be reckoned with, the Italians test it themselves during the darkest decade.
And I got on their bad side for reasons I don't even remember....
I walk passed the seventh row of rolling doors and finally see Dojo’s shop. The sound of my steps sounds extra loud in an empty underground street even if I soften my steps. The light tube which sways on top of me glinted as if signaling my presence.
Nariyaki's place is not exactly a shop. More like a food stand that got stuck between two store. The hallway which was originally designed to lead to public toilets is rearranged by him.
Seven stools by a wooden counter are the only seats in this place. Steams slowly flow out from inside. The guy even went through the trouble to install traditional noran curtains to block out unwanted prying eyes as it perfectly hides whoever sits on the high chair's upper body.
A wooden sign hangs outside which reads 'Open for business' in Japanese. In all my years of visiting this restaurant, I've never seen the owner flips the sign. The joint is always open.
I take off my sunglasses and move the curtain aside. The smell of soy sauce and charcoal mix with a distinctive sweet materialized. The borer in my stomach is having a blast.
"Irrasashaimase!"
A 50-ish man in a deep blue tracksuit greets me behind the counter with a hand in his pocket and the other holding a food clip. A small piece of his full body tattoo peaks out on his neck. I nod at him and pick the seat second closest to the bottom of the place and rest the violin case by the wall behind me.
"Four on plate, one bowl."
"Hai........chotto matte kudasai." The cook raises his eyebrows as he sees me picking that seat and says. "Kare wa sugu ni kimasu."
"Wadashi wa isoide inai." I shrug as he puts a new grill grate on the burning charcoal.
Fancy not seeing Nariyaki in his usual spot.
The whole place is narrow and so poorly lit you can only see your own food. Four or five lanterns sparing whirling shimmers to this small ramen shop. Behind the seats, the left wall is full of black and white photos of 'Bozozokus' from the past. Under the lantern lights and the steams, they seem somewhat melancholy.
Only when I say down on the wooden stool(uncomfortable as hell) and rest my feet on the footrest do I realize how sore my legs are.
Walking around the city is a good way to see the changes in the atmosphere and situations of different regions, plus it gives me reasons to skip leg days, But every time I take a break the lactic acid can be a bitch.
10 minutes later, the chief brings me a plate of yakitori. Old habits die hard. 2 minutes later, I've finished them. Soy sauce in my mouth leaves a dried and sticky texture, the sensitive cook hands me a glass of tea before resuming to move the noodles to a Tebo. After draining the water he pours them in a ball of soup and brings it in front of me.
Another 8 minutes passed, I've finished my noodles but Nariyaki is still nowhere to being seen. Bored out of my mind and don't want to smoke right after lunch, my mind drift to the tailor Ivan mentioned.
"Give them a bit of hint about who you are they will also provide you some....extra services. With your reputation, they wouldn't block you.....
Hope he was right or else I'll be walking into a tailor with a bunch of cold steel.... My hand unconsciously moves to the dagger Qin Yan gave me. The pommel makes it easy and comfortable to hold while reverse gripping, I’m willing to bet this thing was designed to be held like this.....
The sound of leather shoes on tiles came from outside. I move my hand out of my jacket and turned around. A man in full black walks in. He's rocking a long slick back haircut with way too much wax making it look like he's wearing a shiny helmet. His leather jacket makes a squeaky noise every step, complaining about it doesn't fit him.
"Kyodai!" He opens puts his index finger on the middle of his right palm which is missing a pinky.
"Hai, bosu."
The man moves passed my violin case with effort and sat down next to me on the first chair to the left, the stool made a crying squeak.
"Mata sete gomen." The owner of the shop turns towards my direction and slightly lowers his head with a smile.
"Taking your time is a virtue Nariyaki-san. It means you'll never be bonded. Not even by the most primordial limit of man." He smiles, looking like a potato with a knife cut. The tattooed koi carp on his neck squint its eye.
"So..... what can I do for you.... Mr.Lee?" Cracking his knuckles, he leans forward on the counter.