Chapter 15 – Kyoto

I stood at the Taxi Noriba (taxi stand) outside Kyoto Station. I didn’t know where Kyoto Hilton was. I knew a taxi would cost a goddamn fortune, but there were no other options. I hailed a taxi, which was a moot point, since they were all lined up and waiting. I got in, saying, “Kyoto no Hiruton hoteru kudasai.” (“Kyoto Hilton hotel please.”) The driver nodded and the door shut by itself. Modern technology; this was Japan after all.

Kyoto neon flickered in the night as the taxi made its way to the hotel. Kyoto was a lot smaller than Tokyo and had a lot less people and neon. ‘Their electricity bill must be negligible next to Tokyo’s,’ I thought.

Soon enough, we arrived at a towering building, by Kyoto standards: the Kyoto Hilton. I paid the taxi driver and got out the taxi. As the taxi pulled away, I noticed a black car with tinted windows pull up to the curb nearby. I didn’t like the look of it. Not one iota. My fears were further justified when the doors opened and out stepped two Japanese men in black suits and dark sunglasses. ‘Who the heck wears sunglasses at night?’ I thought. ‘Besides the Yakuza!’ As that final thought reached my mind, my legs had already kicked into action and I found myself sprinting into the hotel lobby. I didn’t need to look behind me to know the men were in hot pursuit.

I decided to forget the elevator and went straight to the stairs, legging it two steps at a time upward. I hoped to get to the 6th floor before I was caught by the Yakuza or my heart exploded. I was up to the third floor before I heard the distant echoes below of following footsteps. Fortunately for me, I had been a champion runner in my youth and I had no trouble bounding up the stairs with redoubled momentum and endorphins. The fear of impending death also helped somewhat.

I reached the 6th floor well ahead of the competition, opened the door and sprinted down the corridor to room 619. I knocked on the door softly but urgently. There was no answer. I started to panic. “Chihiro!” I hissed at the door, knocking again.

The door swung open lazily, as if in slow motion, revealing a slim and beautiful Japanese woman in her early 30s (I was guessing, I wasn’t good at telling ages, especially when the threat of having my butt sliced off by upset Yakuza was on my mind). I dived into her, my keitai already defensively in my hand, knocking her to the floor, as my foot, by some freak coordinated feat, kicked the door shut behind me.

She was about to say something along the lines of “What the hell are you doing!” but I clasped my hand over her mouth and silently whispered, “Yakuza!” Her eyes went wide and she nodded.

We lay like that for what seemed an eternity. I heard no more sounds of footsteps or pursuit so I relaxed a bit, removing my hand from her mouth. She smiled up at me shyly, the way that Japanese girls always seem to. Now that I had a chance to have a good look at her she seemed strangely familiar. My curious expression seemed to amuse her and she let out a soft jovial laugh. Something clicked in my memory: it was the woman from the night at the izakaya.

- End of Part I -