Tsoi Lives/Цой жив Part II (Conclusion)

The concluding part of the novella Tsoi Lives from the book SCHLOCK Featuring Russia Cop

Be sure to read Part I here or none of this will make any sense: Part I

Preface:


As far as I’m concerned, there has never been anyone cooler than Viktor Tsoi. Relatively unknown in the western world, Tsoi was the biggest rock star to come out of the Soviet Union, was of Korean descent, and tragically died at the age of 28. Even during his lifetime he stood out among his contemporaries and decades later nobody has been able to match his unique sound and image.

I had always wanted to write something about him, but a biography was beyond my scope and simply didn’t interest me. I’ve always been more interested in how people who have reached legendary status affect others. That was the genesis of my short story/novella Tsoi Lives.

This specific story can be found in my book SCHLOCK Featuring Russia Cop

I may post one of the other stories on my Substack in the future.

Because I am copying the text directly from the formatted manuscript, Substack makes it look funny here. Sorry about that. Due to its length, I will be posting in two parts.

Before reading the story, here are some of my favorite Tsoi songs:

закрой за мной дверь/Close the door behind me (actual song starts at about 1:20 in)

Фильмы/Films

Видели ночь/We saw the night

Цой жив

Tsoi Lives

I blinked and March became August . . .

The night was sleepless—not so much a matter of me tossing and turning, but of staring at the ceiling as my mind tossed and turned, rapidly looping images in that confused realm of semiconsciousness that contained its own brand of logic that made no sense.

During my school and uni days, my friends and I would congregate and spend hour upon hour of whatever free time we afforded ourselves making “grand plans.” Plans we knew on some level would never come to fruition but nonetheless occupied our minds and hearts for weeks, often months, on end.

The fun, we understood, was in the planning, not the

execution.

I glanced at my bedside clock. Five hours from now, I

would be sitting on a plane headed for Saint Petersburg.

I’d never thought about Russia much. From what I gathered in school, and osmosis, it was big and cold and not very welcoming. Certainly not a place I had dreamed of spending my few precious days of vacation time. I would have preferred to convince the others of a trip to Cuba or Hawaii, or maybe Guam.

But that, of course, would never have satisfied Hirata.

Once Hirata and Yoshiro had started making plans and

drawing up itineraries, the group became obsessed. No one, save for me, could stop talking about the Russia trip.

A trip I feared—and rightfully so—would someday become a reality.

Hirata was already at Narita Airport when I arrived. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had been there a full twenty-four hours in advance. Besides his guitar, he had packed remarkably light, carrying only one small backpack.

Ken, sitting beside him, was the only one among us to bring a Russian phrase book and was presently making an effort to learn some phrases before our departure.

The dread I felt was palpable.

I had never been to an airport before, but I had seen Narita on TV at least a dozen times. Besides baseball, the only television program I cared for was a reality show where a camera crew sought out non-Japanese-looking people disembarking flights, asking them why they came to Japan. Often foreigners had interesting, even strange, stories to share. In some cases, with permission of course, the crew would follow a subject through his or her stay in the country.

On the program, the airport had seemed so vibrant—alive with humanity, buzzing with activity. All I saw now, however, were sterile, uninviting colors and cold, wide corridors.

Ken, Mitsuko, and Hirata sat together on the plane, whereas I was seated next to an elderly Russian couple that smelled, well, they smelled old. As there was plenty of time, I went over my game plan. I had already researched Saint Petersburg’s most romantic restaurants and scenic places to stroll. My strategy was to approach Mitsuko when she was alone, but not to come on too strong. For obvious reasons, it wouldn’t work to set things up like a date, so I planned instead

to let things play out naturally in the hope she would find

pleasure in spending time with me.

After we landed, we were directed to passport control, which turned out to be a stressful affair with signs indicating queues for citizens, diplomats, and tourists. In fact, there were no queues at all, but rather a singular mass of people pushing forward like the tide. When it came my turn, the official stared at me blank-faced, as if I should know without prompting the proper protocol. She spat out something in rapid-fire Russian, and when I responded, confused, she repeated herself—this time faster and louder. After an intense stare down I nodded, smiled, muttered something in English, and she stamped my passport.

One thing none of us had thought through beforehand was where to go once there. Outside the airport, we found ourselves surrounded by a grim landscape that resembled nothing of the splendid canals, boulevards, and churches we had seen in photos. The weather was gray and oppressive. Later, we would learn that Saint Petersburg had only roughly twenty-three days of sun per year, and on that day, the sun had neglected to show for our arrival.

Our hotel, not far from the famous high street Nevsky Prospekt, had a check-in time of three o’clock, and here we were at eleven in the morning, sleep-deprived, hampered with our luggage, and frankly, not smelling too great.

Finding the right vehicle—bus, minibus, or bus-like vehicle—to take us to the city center wasn’t easy, and drivers were none too eager to help. We opted for the bus, and though we were politely quiet during the ride, we drew numerous wary glances from the other passengers. The bus transported us to another depot similar to the one we had come from, and luckily, this one had a metro.

“What happens next?” Yoshiro asked. “Just go to the hotel?”

“The Tsoi museum is several metro stops from here, on another island,” Hirata said. “We should head over.”

“Relax,” Ken said. “The museum isn’t going anywhere. We should get some food and drinks first. Enjoy the sights.”

Hirata’s expression wilted. Had it been up to him, he would have traveled here on his own, with no other souls to distract him or prevent him from going where he wanted when he wanted.

The escalator to the underground went down and down. Endless. To our left, locals ran down the thing, skipping two to three steps at a time with seemingly no concern about falling on the sharp-edged steps. People constantly pushed into one another. No one, in fact, appeared concerned about the congested route they were taking to their destination, much less who they had to push around to get there. The only time people gave us any notice at all was to gawk. All pedestrians looked potentially dangerous. Every single one. Was this all there was?

Needless to say, my initial impression of the country was

far from favorable.

This was the grand city of literature and art and history? Of Hirata’s beloved Tsoi? This sentiment, which had started in the first bus depot, didn’t let up while on the metro.

When we emerged from the station at Gostiny Dvor, I was sufficiently humbled.

The sun, having finally managed to sneak out from behind the cloudy blockade, shone forth, though faintly, but enough to reveal Nevsky Prospekt, with its grand boulevards, canals, and colorful European buildings designed and erected with expert precision.

Manami, overwhelmed by the sheer number of sights in our field of vision, pointed her camera in every direction, taking shot after shot. As the onion-domed cathedral of the Church of the Savior on the Spilled Blood came into view, I sensed the others—most of them, anyway, and Mitsuko, in particular—felt, as I did, the power of this magnificent city.

Only Hirata looked on with indifference.

Simply put, the city didn’t appear real, seeming instead to reflect some fantasy version of what a European capital was meant to look like.

“Even without having read any Russian literature, this place is still remarkable,” Mitsuko said.

“Yes, yes. Dostoevsky. Very nice. Now let’s drink,”

Yoshiro said.

The federal city’s main street, Nevsky Prospekt, along with its side streets, seemed comprised mostly of bars— limitless choices. And like a current pushing out to sea, we were carried down the avenue by a wide throng of curiously tall pedestrians.

Manami, eyes darting left and right, hastened her steps to keep up with us. “Even the women are giants,” she said with a frown. “And look at all the trash. It’s everywhere. It’s hard to enjoy the beauty of this place with so much rubbish tossed on the ground.”

We settled on a place called Killfish because Shin liked

the name.

With luggage in hand, we filed inside and were greeted by a young security guard who seemed to take great pleasure in making the girls empty the contents of their bags. I fought the urge to cover my nose against the foul onslaught; the place reeked of cigarette smoke, stale booze, and body odor. I hefted

my pack up at my side as we crossed the sticky floor en route to the counter. With each table we passed, we drew the suspicious eye of locals tending to their beers.

We managed to squeeze between several patrons, who seemed unconcerned about making room for us. The bartenders, for their part, made every effort to avoid eye contact.

We all turned to Hirata.

“Will you order for us?” Manami asked.

Hirata leaned over the counter, managed to hail a server, and rattled off a sentence or two in Russian. I had little on which to base my opinion, of course, but to me, Hirata’s Russian sounded great.

The bartender, clearly unimpressed, merely stared at him.

When Hirata tried again, the guy replied, in English. “I

not understand you. What does you want?”

“Beer,” Hirata said. “What beer?” “Unfiltered.”

“Do not have.” “Wheat.”

“Do not have too.” “Light beer.”

To this, a slight nod accompanied by a roll of the eyes. We passed him our money, and he handed back a receipt.

While we stepped away and waited, we watched as others came

up to order and then take their receipts and move on. Turned out, there was another, separate counter where we were to retrieve our order—an enormous tank of beer that Hirata plunked in the center of our table.

“This,” Yoshiro said, holding up a half-filled glass, “is the single worst thing I have ever put in my mouth. I didn’t know it was possible to make something this vile. Oh, look at the menu, they’ve got sushi. I can only imagine how good it must be here,”

While Yoshiro gave the menu a once-over, Manami snapped some shots of the bleak establishment, drawing attention I would have preferred to avoid.

A broad-shouldered, Adidas-clad Russian man with a black eye and a crooked nose approached and sat down, resting his elbows on the table. “Nu privet, kitaitsy.”

I glanced at the others. “What did he say?” “He said, ‘Hi, Chineses,’” Hirata answered. “Tell him we’re not Chinese,” Ken said.

Hirata did as requested.

“What is difference?” the Russian said. “I am Artyom.

Because you are here, you will drink with us.”

“Us?” Yoshiro and I asked in unison.

A second Russian, about the same size and shape as the first, appeared and stated that his name, too, was Artyom.

“Tyoma,” Artyom Two said to Artyom One. “What do

you think? Do you fancy Chinese chicks?”

“They say they are not Chinese,” returned Artyom One.

“Okay. Do you fancy Chinese chicks who are not Chinese?”

“Not sure yet.” He returned his attention to us. “You are our guests. Let us drink vodka.”

I leaned close to Hirata. “Do we really want to drink with these guys?”

“As our guests, you”—he pointed a finger in turn at

Hirata, Ken, Yoshiro, Shin, and myself—“are obliged to drink

with us. It is rude to decline.”

“Be men,” said Artyom Two. “Make Peking proud.”

A server appeared and set a full bottle of chilled, cheap

vodka on the table along with seven short tumblers.

Artyom One did the honor of pouring.

That vodka was officially the foulest thing I had ever put in my mouth. Washing it down with the second foulest—the light beer Hirata had ordered—did little to cancel out the taste, and instead produced a toxic combination in my throat.

“So, guys,” Artyom One said, “why you come to Russia?”

We all turned to Hirata.

“Do you know the music of Viktor Tsoi?” he asked. The Russian laughed.

“What is funny?” Artyom Two asked.

“This guy, he asks me if I know Tsoi.” Artyom One downed the contents of his glass and brought it down hard on the table. “Yes, I know Viktor Tsoi.”

“I like his music,” Hirata said. “It’s all I listen to. I play guitar and sing his songs. I wanted to come to his country. Maybe see some places where he played.”

“Tsoi’s music is boring. For old people.” The Russian poured another shot from the bottle and tossed it back. “You want good time, listen hard bass. Many great clubs here.”

“But Tsoi is what I like,” Hirata said.

The Russian sat back with a smirk. “Suit yourself.”

~~~

We had been inside Killfish so long I had forgotten what the

world outside looked like. The sunlight, earlier in the day a hazy affair at best, nearly blinded us as we spilled out onto the sidewalk at three o’clock.

Good and drunk, we made the trek to our hotel and

checked in.

“The girls are tired and so am I,” Ken said as we started for our rooms. “Give us an hour to rest up, huh? Ninety minutes, maybe?”

I nodded. “I’m a bit jet-lagged myself.”

Hirata, frustrated by yet another delay, sulked the rest of

the way to our room.

After we let ourselves in, I dropped my bag on the floor, threw myself belly-down on one of the two beds, and closed my eyes. I didn’t know whether it was the jet lag, the unfamiliar environment, or Hirata’s incessant pacing, but after ninety minutes, I was still awake.

Hirata and I ventured out, getting no response at Yoshiro and Shin’s room.

Manami came to her door, eyes half-open, hair mussed. “I think I’m going to stay in, see if I can’t sleep off this jet lag.”

We tried Ken and Mitsuko.

“Hey, guys,” Ken said. “There’s a restaurant, Art-Caviar, Mitsuko really wants to go to, so the two of us are headed over there later this evening. You guys have fun. We’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

Fuck! Art-Caviar had been on my list of places to take Mitsuko.

“Ninety minutes I waited,” Hirata mumbled.

The place, it turned out, was far from the city center and located on one of the islands. For nearly twenty minutes, we

combed the residential area, which had no distinctive landmarks

to indicate if we were even going in the right direction.

“It was once a boiler house,” Hirata explained. “Do you

know what Kamchatka is?” I shook my head.

“It’s Russia’s most eastern territory on the mainland. This place is named after it. He worked here, three years as a stoker. Eventually he’d bring his guitar and play for those who cared to listen. Soon, he began to develop fans. This was the spot before he became big.”

All the buildings in the vicinity looked the same—gray and drab. I was certain we were walking in circles. We approached a duo of teenage Russian males, smoking cigarettes.

“I’ll ask for directions,” Hirata said.

“Somewhere over there,” said one in English, gesturing

loosely northeast of where we stood.

“Thanks,” Hirata said.

“Where are you guys from?” the friend asked.

“Japan,” I said. “Tokyo.”

“Why you so interested in the Tsoi?”

“His music is the greatest thing I’ve ever heard,” Hirata

said. “Do you like Tsoi?”

The two mates exchanged an amused glance and shook their heads.

“Why not?”

“It is music for old people,” said the first.

“Maybe it is old,” Hirata said. “But does that make it bad? That he was influential matters, yes?”

The Russian shrugged his shoulders.

“The music is too simple, the lyrics too primitive. It’s also derivative of Joy Division, The Cure. The Smiths. I can keep listing them. All better bands.”

“Maybe you guys should listen to modern Russian music

instead,” the second Russian chimed in.

They laughed.

“Don’t listen to him,” said the first. “Only modern

Russian music worth listening to is Alina K.”

This time, before Hirata could argue, I pulled him away.

“Thank you very much.”

Hirata had described the place as a museum, but it wasn’t quite that. It was tiny, for one, only slightly bigger than Takeshi’s restaurant.

Near the entrance was a small counter manned by a disinterested employee—head bowed, scrolling down the screen of his phone. Pinned up behind the guy was a display of T-shirts featuring Russian rock stars, including Tsoi. The walls on either side were littered with DVDs and CDs, all looking to be bootleg—Tsoi’s concerts and other performances, interviews, behind the scenes. There were also newspaper clippings, scraps of clothing, random accessories, and even a guitar.

Behind the museum was a bar and a stage.

I stepped back to let Hirata soak it all in. This is what he came here for. He could take as much time as he needed to get whatever it was he was looking for.

After spending some time in a trancelike state, he approached the guitar, hesitating at first to touch it. He glanced toward the employee, who couldn’t be bothered to look up, and then took a chance, wrapping his fingers around the instrument’s neck. He touched each string, tenderly, one by one.

I was envious. I wish I cared about anything as much as Hirata cared about Tsoi.

He drew his hand away and turned abruptly. “Will you drink with me?”

I nodded.

We ordered two rancid-tasting dark beers and sat on a rickety wooden bench to the left of the stage.

A couple stragglers shuffled in and took seats on an identical bench opposite us. Shortly after that, three guys showed up and began loading equipment onto the stage. The stage was nearly too small to fit it all, but they managed. I could feel Hirata’s heart beating. It was an older crowd—forty-plus— and I knew what Hirata must have been thinking: original Tsoi fans. Those who had, once upon a time, seen the performer in the flesh. Perhaps here, in this very place.

When the band started playing, Hirata became laser- focused, like a cat spotting a mouse.

Several songs in, however, he turned to me and said. “This isn’t a Tsoi song,”

I nodded.

“This isn’t a Tsoi song,” he repeated after the next two songs.

Near the end of the set, which consisted of selections by multiple old-school Russian rock outfits, the band played what turned out to be their one and only Tsoi song. This lifted Hirata’s spirits.

After the band made their way down from the stage, Hirata stood and approached the singer, who also played guitar. The guy was smoking a cigarette in a corner and didn’t seem too eager for human interaction. His shaggy, mid-length hair— meant, I assumed, to create a younger look—only accentuated

his membership in the forty-plus club. His face, red with years of hard drinking, wasn’t doing him any favors either.

“Hello,” Hirata said.

The man gave a weak nod and took a pull from his cigarette.

“The Tsoi song was really great. Do you guys play any more Tsoi?”

The musician shifted uncomfortably inside his ill-fitting jean jacket, trying in vain to adjust his T-shirt to cover what appeared to be a hard-earned beer belly. “Honestly, man,” he said, “we play that song mostly out of obligation. People are tired of Tsoi, and so are we. Akvarium and Nautilus are always a better bet for keeping the crowd with us.”

“I think Tsoi is a genius,” Hirata said. The singer shrugged. “To each his own.” “I play guitar and sing his songs.”

“In Chinese?”

“I’m not Chinese. And no, I sing them in Russian.”

Another shrug.

With the set over, most of the “crowd”—all of fifteen people—left the venue. A few stuck around to chat over drinks. Hirata walked up to a table where a couple of middle-aged rock fans sat. They humored him for a few minutes until the novelty of the young, foreign Tsoi fan wore off and they, too, made to leave.

Hirata returned to our bench and sank down next to me. “Want to drink more?” I asked.

He gave no indication that he had even heard the question.

“Come on,” I said. “The night is still young.”

When Hirata remained despondent, I dragged him out of the place, and we rode the metro back to Nevsky Prospekt.

The boulevard was even more active at night than during the day. Women, in particular, were everywhere. Russian women didn’t much excite me, nor did white women in general, but they were, in any case, a sight to behold. All dolled up and dressed to the nines, almost to a farcical degree: severe makeup, heels so high, and all wearing broad, bushy coats, both long and short, that made them appear like another species altogether. They caught my attention and that of just about every other passerby, with the exception of Hirata.

We ventured onto a side street and, as it happened, into

another realm.

The bright lights of Nevksy dimming in our wake, we moved farther into a stifling darkness that led only to more darkness. Unlike the narrow alleyways of Kabukicho, this was a proper street with plenty of space, seemingly, for pedestrians to walk in either direction.

But for the bodies. A virtual sea of bodies—Russians and tourists, alike. Some conscious, many semiconscious from alcohol consumption, and a few unconscious from what appeared to be severe beatings.

Outside one club, we spotted a meaty bouncer pounding on a scrawny male—Russian, I presumed—as the kid’s friends, and even police, looked on.

Large plastic cups—blue, red, clear—littered the pavement. At one point, I watched a drunk foreigner snag a half- empty cup of beer found at his feet and finish it off. His friends clapped and cheered with approval as they continued on.

There were bars aplenty, all dark and cramped, making it difficult to discern which was more desirable than another. After turning a second corner, we came across a small crowd made up of mostly foreigners drinking and smoking outside a joint alive with music. The bouncer, roughly two meters tall and no less than one hundred and forty kilograms, glowered down at us. The kid getting beat up a few blocks back still plenty fresh in our memories, Hirata and I exchanged a nervous glance before asking, with a slight bow, to be let in. The bouncer, satisfied that he had made us sweat, smirked and stepped aside.

There had to be nearly a hundred people crammed inside the tiny joint. Getting anywhere from where we stood seemed impossible, yet people were moving about, in and out. At the back, people were singing karaoke. Without a beat, Hirata and I locked eyes and grinned, each of us feeling a jolt, seeing that machine in some godforsaken bar in Saint Petersburg.

Most of the patrons were singing along with the drunk woman at the mic. Her friends, sitting at a table up front, were particularly enthusiastic—singing the chorus louder than she, while spilling beer and flicking cigarette ashes onto the floor. Nearby, foreigners were happily chatting up local women—though here not nearly the cream of the crop, like I had seen on Nevsky. Most of the locals in the place appeared to be teenagers.

We ordered Johnnie Walker Red.

What we were served was anything but. Barely even whiskey.

Hirata flipped through the massive karaoke songbook, finding songs of mostly American and British artists. Did Russia not have a catalogue of their own music, or did they simply not care to display it?

When it came Hirata’s turn, he was pushed back in the queue by an excitable group of twentysomething girls desperate, it seemed, to sing Beyonce’s “Love On Top.” He let it slide. After the third time of others skipping ahead of him in line, Hirata lost his patience, pointing a finger and letting out a stream of ire. The patrons just laughed, amused by the frustrated Japanese guy yelling in a language they couldn’t understand.

When finally his big moment came and Hirata took the mic, only a few patrons even bothered to look up before resuming their drinking. Hirata cleared his throat, and his eyes drifted over the heads of those present, perhaps to Leningrad 1989, to an imaginary audience of adoring fans. Over the PA came a familiar opening guitar riff, followed by electronic drums. “Gruppa Krovi” was the band’s most popular song, Hirata had once told me, and the song that had played at the end of that movie we watched, in which it was unclear whether Tsoi lives or dies. The lyrics, like many of Tsoi’s, were politically motivated. Specifically, antiwar. The title translated as “blood type.” A rarity in Soviet Russia, the song became an anthem for its youth at the time.

When Hirata’s vocals kicked in, he drew the brief attention of a local or two, while the foreigners in the place looked either bored or confused.

When the song concluded, Hirata stood.

No applause. Not a single clap.

“Tsoi Zhiv!” One of the locals was on his feet, pointing

at Hirata and laughing.

Hirata’s face turned to stone. He set down the mic and walked out of the bar, breezing right by me without a word.

I downed the last of the wretched whiskey and hurried out after him.

A moment later, I stood on the sidewalk, dumbfounded. Like a ninja, my friend had vanished into the dark depths of Dumskaya. I took off running—up and down streets, in and out of alleyways—weaving my way in and among the drunken masses.

I returned to Nevsky and did the same, to no avail,

before heading back to the hotel.

After finding our room empty, I knocked on Yoshiro and Shin’s door.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Yoshiro said, still half-asleep. “He’ll come back when he’s ready.”

~~~

By morning, there was still no Hirata.

“He’s acting like a baby,” Ken said over breakfast. “Running away and ruining our good time by making us worry. If he turns up, fine. If he doesn’t, good riddance.”

Who even asked you to come?

Mitsuko, at least, accompanied me to the concierge. “If you see him,” she said, “could you tell him to please call me?” She pushed a small piece of paper with her number across the desk, to which the receptionist replied with a smile and nod. “This is a city of five million,” Mitsuko said after we had all gathered in the lobby. “We’re not going to find him by jumping from island to island, shouting ‘Hirata!’”

Yoshiro nodded. “He probably just needs some time to cool down. I propose we go out and do our best to enjoy ourselves. Hirata will turn up when he’s ready.”

Manami’s face twisted in concern. “You don’t think we ought to file a missing person report with the police?”

“Come off it,” Ken said. “He’s just being his usual selfish self. All tortured and morose. He’s fine. Let’s go. I want to see the city.”

I couldn’t enjoy the sights, not knowing the whereabouts of my friend. It didn’t help that I felt somewhat responsible. Add to that Ken’s big mouth, and I was in hell. Our friend was out there alone in a foreign country, and no one seemed all that bothered by it.

When we had walked as far as our legs would take us, Ken and Yoshiro suggested we get drinks. The girls, who weren’t in the mood, went shopping instead, stating they would meet us later that evening. We decided on an establishment of slightly higher quality than Killfish, where the beer, though not good, was somewhat more drinkable.

“Let’s be real.” Ken slurped the foam from the top of his glass. “Do any of us actually like Hirata? More than that, does he even like or care about any of us?”

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“What I mean is, the guy appears not to give a good goddamn about any of us, whether we’re around or not. Sure, his place is cool for hanging out and getting drunk. But all he ever does is play that crappy old guitar and blabber on and on about some ancient Russian rock star. Hirata needs an audience. Doesn’t much matter who that audience is. Get it?”

“Hirata’s my friend,” I said.

“Is he?” Ken narrowed his eyes on me. “Seems you’re a whole lot more loyal to Hirata than he is to you. You didn’t even want to go on this trip.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I sat back and looked away, folding my arms across my chest. “I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Yoshiro said.

Shin looked at the wall.

“I’m sick of talking about Hirata,” Ken said. “I’d much rather talk about how unbelievable the women are here. Is it me or is every damn one of them beautiful?”

Ken scanned the women in the room, as Shin continued

to look at the wall.

“Yeah, if I weren’t already taken,” Ken said, “I’d for sure be chatting some of them up. What are you guys wasting your time talking to me for? Get out there and meet some women.”

“Maybe they’re homos,” Shin said.

Ken laughed and left the table, he said, to order another round of beers. He remained at the bar, however, for well over an hour, chatting up the servers, as well as, I noted, several local women.

By the time the girls got back in touch, suggesting we meet them at a new place, Ken had left the bar. I cared less about his whereabouts than he cared about Hirata’s.

We met the girls outside a restaurant on Rubinstein Street. Right off, Mitsuko asked about Ken. When I explained he had left the bar without us, she walked off in a huff.

I told the others I wasn’t feeling well and went back to

the hotel.

Crack!

~~~

I startled awake to the sound of explosions. Had a war

broken out?

After another round, I exhaled. Only thunder.

It was day four of the trip.

When a bolt of lightning lit up the room, a silhouette

came into view.

Hirata was perched on the edge of the neighboring bed, cigarette poised between two fingers, just like in the photo Manami had taken.

I bolted upright. “Where the hell have you been?” “Moscow.”

“What? How?”

“I took the overnight train.” “Why?”

“I wanted to see the Tsoi wall on Arbat Street.”

“And you didn’t bother to tell anyone. Why?”

He stared at me, mystified, as if he didn’t understand the

question.

I stood and pulled on a pair of jeans. “So?”

“So, what?” He took a long drag and exhaled. “I went to the wall. I left cigarettes and beer. Thought maybe I’d find Tsoi fans there who shared my passion. People I could make a real connection with for once in my fucking life.”

“I see.” The comment stung, I had to admit. “Um, did it never occur to you that those of us you left behind might be worried about you? That some of us might have even wanted to go with you, see the wall too?”

Another mystified stare.

Accepting the futility, I dropped that line of questioning. “So, did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you find anyone there who shares your passion?”

I asked, each word punctuated by my growing irritation—not

that Hirata noticed or cared.

He leaned toward the nightstand and dropped his cigarette in a mostly empty bottle of water. “Not one fucking person. Up and down Arbat I went. Bars, clubs, music venues. I’ll find a needle in a haystack before I find a single fucking Viktor Tsoi fan in all of fucking Russia.” He ran a hand through his hair, which needed a wash even more than it usually did.

“I’m sorry, man.” I meant it.

“What’s the average Russian life expectancy? Forty, fifty? Perhaps Tsoi’s fans all died before he did, or not long after. I feel like I’m the only one in the whole fucking universe who understands the brilliance of his music.”

I dropped down on my bed, opposite Hirata. “There’s

got to be someone else out there.”

“Where? Maybe the receptionist. Cool, let me go down and talk to the receptionist. If not her, I’ll go to the next hotel, then the next one, then McDonald’s. I’ll go to every bar and club and shithole on Dumskaya. As a matter of fact, why wait?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you could—”

He picked up his guitar and stormed out of the room.

I hurried after, tripping over myself as I struggled to get my feet into my sneakers, and followed Hirata at a distance to Nevsky, where I found him at a busy pedestrian intersection. His playing and singing were unrestrained, rougher than usual—voice cracking, fingers slipping, his passion palpable, bordering on desperate.

Unlike other street musicians, there was no open instrument case or bucket to catch the loose change of passersby. Hirata was playing to play, in the hope of discovering his musical soul mate.

Russians walked past, paying no mind. Tourists too. Rain began to fall, and fall harder. The thunder resumed,

accompanying Hirata’s chords. An hour went by, and the sun

came out, pushing the rain away, then disappeared again. Hirata’s voice was growing hoarse, but there was no point, I knew, in attempting to shake him from his quest.

I returned to the hotel and fell back to sleep. When I awoke two hours later, I found Mitsuko sitting alone at the hotel bar.

“Mind if I sit?”

“Do whatever you want.” “You okay?”

“Ken’s cheating on me.”

“Are you certain?”

She sipped the clear contents of her glass; Mitsuko was the lone vodka convert in the group. “He isn’t exactly subtle. Turns his head at every attractive woman he sees. If that isn’t enough, he’s been taking off in the evenings, disappearing until late. Comes home reeking of cheap perfume.”

“That isn’t proof.”

“No, it’s not,” she returned curtly. “But seeing a naked

fucking Russian whore in my bed certainly is.” “Whoa.”

“Yeah.”

“What did Ken say when you found out?”

“He doesn’t know I know.”

“But you just said—”

“Ken must have been in the toilet when I let myself into

our room last night. When I noticed her lying there, bare white

ass peeking out of the sheets, I fled the room before either

knew I was there.”

“Damn, I’m sorry. That must have been really hard.” “You’re telling me,” she said, taking a swig from her

glass. “And if he’s cheating on me here, who’s to say he hasn’t

been doing it all along?” Her eyes filled. “God, I feel so stupid! “Look,” I said, “I can’t imagine there’s anything I could

do or say right now to make you feel better. Maybe let’s try to

enjoy what little time in this city we have.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Come on,” I said. “What do you have to lose?”

“My boyfriend, apparently,” she laughed, despite herself.

“You want to get out of here?” I asked. “And go where?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.”

She studied my face for a moment. “You’re weird.” “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“And therein make my point.”

This time, it was my turn to laugh.

~~~

It was the first time the two of us had ever walked side by side. My plans for scenic strolls and romantic restaurants had gone out the window. But this was good enough.

“Stop walking so fast,” Mitsuko said. “Sorry,” I said, slowing my pace. “It’s okay.”

The evening was young, and I felt positive energy all around us. The people of the city, especially the youth, seemed

in good spirits. But I wondered: Did Mitsuko want to be walking with me or would anyone have done? Better not to know, I decided. What mattered for now was that we were together. I planned to revel in the moment for as long as it existed.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I was thinking that place on Rubinstein Street.”

“Okay.” Her reply was lifeless, passive.

Getting there took us by the intersection where Hirata had been playing. Hours later, he was still there, his fingers bloodied and raw. As it was earlier, people simply flowed past him without even a glance.

Mitsuko came to a halt. “Hirata-kun?”

I explained what had happened and where he’d been. “That’s really sad.” Tears welled in her eyes, then ran

down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t do this.”

My heart sank as I watched her weave her way back down the sidewalk in the direction of the hotel. Despite my disappointment—or perhaps because of it—I continued on toward the pub, texting Yoshiro on the way.

No response.

Once inside and seated at the counter, I tried Shin: Want

to meet me at the pub on Rubinstein?

Sure.

Is Yoshiro around?

Saw him heading out with Manami-chan. Not long ago. I’ll write

him. Okay, bye.

I set down my phone and ordered a beer. Being the only lone patron in the place, I was reminded of my nights spent in the bars of Kabukicho. Back then, I never felt unhappy when

drinking by myself. But here in Saint Petersburg, the loneliness

was bearing down on me.

I sipped my beer, slower than usual, wanting to wait for the others before tying one on. Thirty-five minutes passed. The pub was a fifteen-minute walk from the hotel, at most. Where was Shin? My beer now gone, I waited ten minutes before ordering another. Halfway into that one, I sent Shin another text.

No response.

~~~

Twenty minutes later, in the hotel lobby, I ran into Yoshiro.

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” he said. “I was out with Manami-chan.”

“Didn’t Shin get in touch with you?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“He was supposed to meet me at the pub over an hour

ago, but he never showed.”

We got off the elevator on the fourth floor and rounded the corner. Yoshiro slipped his key card into the slot and, following the click, pushed open the door of their room.

What I saw was something that will be burned into my retinas for the rest of my life. Shin wasn’t only home; he had made himself very much at home with Mitsuko atop his face. It would have been one thing to walk in on them having sex, but what I saw was so unexpected and so strangely intimate that my brain couldn’t process it. They were quite passionately engaged in the 69 position, with Mitsuko smothering him with her ass. It took the happy couple several seconds to even realize others had entered the room, so I saw vividly what kind of lover Mitsuko was. I saw the way she took Shin’s dick in her mouth. For

months I had dreamed up every possible scenario of what sex with Mitsuko would be like. How it would go down, who would initiate what, what her nipples would look like, what things she’d be into. But I never imagined she’d so enthusiastically 69 someone on the very first intimate encounter with that person, and especially not with Shin of all people. When my eyes locked with Mitsuko’s, my stomach lurched and churned. What Yoshiro was feeling in that moment, I couldn’t say. But I didn’t much care.

I ran out of the room and out of the building, heading

straight for the intersection.

~~~

Hirata’s voice was barely audible by now and his shirt smeared

with blood from ragged hands.

Still fuming and troubled by what I had just witnessed, I marched up to him, mid-song. “You idiot!” I shouted. “What the hell are you doing?”

He continued strumming. “Playing the only music that matters.”

“Fucking stop. Just stop! Can’t you see you’re making a fool of yourself, and for what?” I waved a hand toward the passing pedestrians. “This whole thing has been a giant waste of time.”

“Maybe for you.”

“What does that mean? What are you going to do? Stand at this intersection and keep playing music no one gives a shit about until someone acknowledges you?”

“Yes.”

Blood dripped from the thumb of his right hand,

making a teardrop shape on the pavement below.

“Even if it takes a hundred years?”

“Even if it takes a thousand years. I will stand at this intersection for a thousand years playing until someone acknowledges me, and if after a millennium that doesn’t happen, I will go from every intersection from here to Siberia to Sakhalin Island until I find one person who feels what I feel.”

“You’re insane,” I said.

“I’m not, you are. You’re the one who wasted months of his life following someone around when he didn’t even give a shit about him. Pretending to like the music I liked.”

“That’s not fair,” I said.

Hirata jumped out in front of a passing woman. She nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Tsoi! Viktor Tsoi! Ever heard of him! He’s a legend, of

course you have!”

She ran away. He turned his attention to a group of teens. “What about you youngsters? Ever heard of Viktor

Tsoi? You know that song that goes like this?”

He started strumming on his guitar and singing incoherently. The youngsters laughed and walked off.

“Here’s the problem, I should have seen it,” he said. “I am Viktor Tsoi. I am Tsoi reincarnated. I have to struggle as he struggled. Only then will it all make sense. How can I expect these people to know this? Or maybe I have to die again.”

Hirata ran up to a Russian couple holding hands.

“Will you please stab me while I walk away listening to

‘Gruppa Krovi’?”

The couple walked around him. Hirata ran after.

“I don’t think you heard what I’m asking. I want you to

stab me. Once stabbed, I will start smoking and walk off while “Gruppa Krovi” plays. If I live, I’ll walk off forever. If I die, I’ll wake up as Viktor Tsoi,”

The couple ran off. “Stop it you fool!” I said.

“You’re the biggest fool I ever met,” he said.

“How?”

“Let me sing in peace.” “Come home.”

“I’m not going back to the hotel.”

“Not the hotel, to Japan. Let’s get out of here.”

Then he replied in one terse, final tone, “I’m never

going back to Japan again.” I blinked.

~~~

I’m fifty-six years old now. I work for the same company. My boss is no longer the same man who used to chastise me for leaving a pencil or Post-It note on my desk. My new boss is seventeen years my junior. He’s an okay guy, but we have little in common.

I don’t know whether Hirata made good on his promise to remain in Russia. I flew back to Japan immediately following our argument at the intersection. I didn’t tell the others I had exchanged my ticket for an earlier return date.

The first three weeks back in Tokyo, I went to work and went home. Watched baseball highlights. During the fourth week, I took a chance and returned to Takeshi’s—not necessarily hoping, but thinking I might run into Hirata or one of the others. I didn’t.

A year went by, and I stopped in again, asking Takeshi if

he had heard anything from Hirata. He simply shook his head.

That was that. I decided to put Hirata and the rest of them out of my mind.

Time went on. I never realized how oppressive time could be. I was aware of it, saw it passing on the face of the clock, but once I turned thirty, I began to realize what it meant.

By thirty-one, I realized those days hanging out with Hirata at Takeshi’s place, singing the songs of Viktor Tsoi, learning the history of Soviet rock music, were the greatest days of my life. Rarely do people recognize this when it’s happening.

I imagined my greatest days would involve a romance— the kind that occurs in movies. I ventured to believe that it would happen for me. I’d meet a wonderful woman, we would marry, have a couple of kids, adopt a dog, perhaps get a cat. But no. I’m a midlifer now. Never did marry. Seemed like too much effort. Instead, I have devoted most of my time and energy to my work, however thankless. Eventually, the younger guys in the office stopped inviting me to go out—not out of dislike for me, but out of respect, so as not to bother the old man.

It was nearly a decade after the Russia trip when I conceded that the best days of my life had been and gone. Spent gathering at Hirata’s, listening to and talking about music and videos with Mitsuko, Manami, and Yoshiro. That was happiness, pure and simple. Hell, even Shin and Ken didn’t seem so bad from a distance.

I never figured Tsoi for being the most significant part of my life. When I was around forty, by chance, I stumbled across an article on the anniversary of the songwriter’s death. At that time, he had been set to tour Japan and Korea, and

had commented that he preferred the Far East to the West, stating that Western journalists were pompous and arrogant and always asked the same banal questions.

Immediately my mind went to Hirata, wondering if he

had read it.

I’d like to believe that Hirata eventually found someone who shared his passion and deep appreciation for Tsoi. In truth, none of the rest of us did, and none of us ever truly understood Hirata. We liked that we had a place to drink and be together and talk about music videos. How wonderful that was.