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one of Tokyo’s red light districts. Tyler had smiled uncomfortably, fitted his fingers together, scratched his poorly shaved chin, collected his check, passed across the table the sealed white envelope of color photographs which documented just what the wife had been doing for three days and three nights in the Nikko Hotel, and pretended to be as amused by those photos as the banker strove to be—gleam of spectacles, gleam of teeth, wide carnivorous mouth! Then the banker said: What do you usually say to the client under these circumstances?—Oh, I don’t know, Tyler muttered, rubbing his chin. I remember this gal who sent me to check on her husband. She calls in tears at eleven at night, her life’s destroyed. Just, you know, I’m not a shrink, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry it happened. I guess that’s what I usually say . . . —He never saw the banker again. That had been good money, with which he’d bought a new computer, coaxed his car into compliance with the smog inspection, reduced two of his most pressing credit card debts and paid rent for two easy months. Kabukicho thus offered good associations, not to mention good food. He also liked the polite, well-ordered bustle of the place. The clocks were sashimi dashboards and everything was neat, Asian businessmen flipping open their cellular phones, earnest young white social-democratic couples singing out: Thank you very much! as they went out the exit, squeezing past the line of rich and hungry folks sliced multiply by the blinds through which could be seen pink and green neon reifications of Tyler’s loneliness across the street.
    The sign said: SORRY—NO RESERVATIONS ACCEPTED. Tyler led his date to the head of the line and said: Excuse me; we had a reservation for two. —The waiter studied him without comment until Tyler drew from his wallet an embossed silver card which the Japanese banker had given him. The waiter accordingly clasped his hands and led them to the far end of the sushi bar, where a potted bamboo obscured them from the cardless vassals whom they had cut. Irene giggled with pleasure and squeezed Tyler’s arm.
    I love you, darling, he said.
    Love you, too! she whispered, kissing him again.
    She had dressed up for him, and her long brownish-black hair fell warmly down to her shoulders in a spill of glorious asymmetry which dominated her gold necklace and the careful leather buttons of her long red dress. Impassively cleaning his glasses, he imagined his mouth on her cunt for the rest of their lives. How long could that be under such circumstances? A week? Just as a sashimi barman must continually wipe down the counter, so Tyler felt compelled to touch this woman as often as he could, in order to thereby scour away the sooty gloomy thoughts that blew in upon his shining mind. He would not think about the ordinary, unforgivable sadness of the world for as long as he could be next to her. She ordered flying fish roe, a salmon skin handroll, some yellowtail, unagi, and octopus. To give him pleasure, she ordered a beer for herself; she knew that it made him happy when she drank with him.
    Did you work today? she said.
    Yeah, still with that crazy rich guy from Missouri, he said as the barman’s knife began flickering across the translucent windowpanes of fish, cutting them into shutters.
    What does he want from you?
    Oh, he wants me to find somebody in the Tenderloin.
    Is it dangerous?
    Not at all. It’s kind of interesting actually . . .
    You look sad, she said.
    Sometimes I get so goddamned sad, so sad for everybody. Well, sad for myself most of all, I guess, since I’m as selfish as the next guy, but you know, Irene, all the time in my job I see people hurting themselves, hurting each other, pissing on each other, sleeping in their own piss. I wish I could help just one of them, but I don’t know how.
    You’re an angel, Irene said. You really are. I feel so selfish compared to you. All I ever worry about is my own little