Slow Boat

^{BOAT FIVE} ALMOST LIKE PERPETUAL MOTION

Doesn’t look like rain’s coming after all. My prophecy: Christmas Eve, 2002. You shall not know rain. Then the dark sky looks down on me, taunts me. That’s right. Feel the cold—feel it all over. Can’t you see what’s coming? I’m still trembling like I was before.

I make my way over Teleport Bridge. On one side, Tokyo Teleport Station on the Rinkai Line. On the other, Odaiba Seaside Park Station on the Yurikamome Line.

It was ten minutes to noon when I woke up on my stalagmite. Meaning I was out for a good two hours. That long? Something’s definitely calling to me. But it’s not time yet. That’s why the dream cut me out.

Let the memories come. Let them dig in.

Think archaeologically.

I’m standing in front of DECKS Tokyo Beach. Not a real beach. It’s a building made to look like a cruise liner, but it looks more like a ghost ship to me. Time for a little detour. What does Odaiba look like to you? A resort? A glimpse of the near future? A celebrity hotspot? All those images crumble before me as I make my way up the coastline.

I head towards Rainbow Bridge. I follow Shuto Expressway 11 as it veers to the left.

I step into Daiba Park.

Look. This is where Tokyo ends.

The park sits just a few metres above sea level—on a stone-wall embankment. This is the third daiba. There used to be six. No. 3 and no. 6 are the only ones left. What’s a daiba, you ask? An artillery battery built for coastal defence in the late Edo period. To keep the Black Ships at bay. Construction began in the summer of 1853, when Commodore Perry sailed into Uraga. All six daiba were ready for action within a year and three months.

Six stations with cannon. That’s what “Odaiba” means.

See? Fuji TV wasn’t Odaiba’s first station.

This is the front line. On the waterfront. Man-made stations for defending Edo—the city that became Tokyo.

Daiba 1-10, Minato ward. The present address for the third daiba.

Black pines stand on the bank, continuing their meaningless guard. They sway in the wind and shadow—just like they have since the Edo period. Behind the trees: the remains of a barracks, a few ammunition stores. Other traces of war: anti-aircraft guns. (Or “high-angle guns”, depending on who you ask… The army and navy had different names for them. Fucking idiots. Looks like the Japanese have been the Japanese at every point in history.) A story forms in my head. That all of this is left over from the Pacific War. Odaiba’s daiba remanned. Back to your stations, men—America’s coming back.

The front line comes back to life. To defend Tokyo once again.

Tokyo’s history is called to arms. It comes in waves.

And my own history—it’s the same story.

The smell of salt hits me. Shards of memory pierce me.

They dig into me.

And my train fails to arrive at its destination.

I leave the third daiba and get on the Yurikamome Line. Aim for Shinbashi Station, the end of the line. But I’m freezing-cold, so I stay on the train, where the heater is. We cross Rainbow Bridge, but I’m too cold to lift my head up to look for the sixth daiba, adrift in the sea below. I curl up like a ball. To warm up. My brain is moving now—set in motion by unearthed memories. I draw a map inside my head. Almost like I did with the Yamanote Line when I was nineteen. But, this time, I chart the flight of the Yurikamome. The elevated track traces the shape of Odaiba—like a giant U turned on its side. To the north-west, the line crosses Rainbow Bridge, then circles around. It forms a head. The 800-metre bridge is like a long neck. Making the sideways U… a body? Ariake has to be the tail. A dragon’s tail? The second I see the dragon shape in my mind, I fall asleep.

I fall. Suddenly into sleep.

The automated train pulls into Shinbashi Station, stops there for a few minutes, then heads back to Ariake again. But I don’t wake up—because I’m already somewhere else.

There. In that dream.

Back in that “room”.

The one in my memories. That hotel room. I wake up same as last time. I wake up as a character in that world. Am I seeing things from the same angle? Just off the ground? Hard to say. But I’m back in that cabriolet, same as last time. It feels like I’m living the scene over and over.

It feels the same—but it’s not.

Last time, I was leaning back in the chair. This time, I’m leaning forward. Like I was when I fell asleep on the train. Like… like I broke through the wall just like that. The thick wall that divides reality and dreams.

Channel your senses, I tell myself. Get a good look at the place.

This world. This “room”.

Where’s the CD? Back on the desk—like last time?

I know it’s important. I can feel it in my bones. I train my eyes, and there it is. The yellow jacket. The man with the saxophone: Sonny Rollins. The dust is thicker now—like the volume’s been turned up. Is time moving? Is the “room” getting older? I grab the CD from under the dust. Déjà vu. I take the dream’s generous gift in my hands. I’m surprised by how thin the case is—same as last time.

I flip it over. White letters on black background. Same thirteen tracks as before. In the same order—at least I think so. Which means, I reason, this CD really exists. It still begins with “The Stopper” and closes with “I Know”. But only one track jumps out at me (even though I don’t know why—not yet). It’s the same one that brought me back from sleep on the stalagmite. “On a Slow Boat to China”. It overpowers the other titles—all of which begin to blur.

“On a Slow Boat to China”.

I let the words sink in. “Slow”, “Boat”, “China”. Right—I can feel the story they’re making. That’s what pulls me in.

I get out of the chair.

Where am I?

Look around.

There are parts of the “room” I still haven’t seen. Like, where’s the door? And where’s the bathroom? They have to be around here somewhere, right? Over here? Beyond the left side of the desk—a carpeted hallway. This new part of the “room” comes into focus. I see the door. I head right for it. I want to open it and get out of this place…

I grip the knob, but it won’t move.

It’s like a wall made to look like a door. Like a fake door. Is it fake?

Maybe. But it won’t get me down. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be that easy. My history is called up. I’ve known doors like this before. Doors I tried to open—only to be yanked back, beaten senseless. My past knows what the future holds. It asks: What if the door won’t open? Are you gonna lose your shit?

Nope. I tell myself: This isn’t the way out. Calmly.

I don’t have any emotions in the dream.

The bathroom’s next to the door. I take a look inside. Tiny. The shower curtain has lost most of its colour, like the dull coat of an old lion. There’s the toilet. Lid down. Next to that, the sink. The mirror is murky. I can’t even see my own reflection.

A sign by the faucet, written in red: DON’T WASTE PRECIOUS WATER.

I turn to head back to the desk, but—right when I turn around—I can see that something’s changed. Something small, but significant. On the other side of the chair, there’s a round table that I’m sure wasn’t there before. I get closer. There’s an ashtray on top. Full of dust—no butts.

I don’t smoke.

This is a weird table. It’s weirdly low… and the legs are screwed to the floor. To keep it from moving.

Looks like neither of us are going anywhere.

All of a sudden I feel tired, so I lie down on the bed. I’m looking down at my feet when I feel it. The vibrations. What’s shaking? The floor? Maybe the bed? It’s constant—but without rhythm. Almost like perpetual motion.

No, it’s not the bed. Not just the bed.

Everything’s vibrating now. The ceiling, the walls, the floor. The “room”.

Or maybe it was always vibrating. Maybe I just didn’t notice.

I look up at the ceiling.

Is this place really a hotel? Whatever this “room” belongs to. Whatever it is, it feels like it’s changing. Because I caught on.

It’s forming. I can feel it.

That’s where I wake up.

I wake up.

The train is about to arrive at yet another final stop—Ariake Station. I don’t see any other passengers around. I try to get my bearings, but I have a hard time wrapping my head around falling asleep in a dream and waking up in “reality”.

I’m not shaking any more. Thanks to the heater.

Maybe I’m still forming, too.

But what does that mean?