Tokyo Doesn't Love Us Anymore by Ray Loriga

Author:Ray Loriga
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove Atlantic
Published: 2003-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

In a dark area of the car park, I take out my little bag of coke and take a line and straight afterwards take a yellow pill in order to ease the first come down. At the door there are loads of Malayan girls queuing up. Of course I don’t have to wait, my friends the doormen welcome me with huge smiles, while they move the crowd aside to make room for me at the doorway. All very smooth. There’s nothing like jumping the queue of a stupid nightclub in order to make you feel stupidly happy.

I drink a beer and congratulate myself once again on a perfect day. Clean and perfect.

I feel like a murderer after he’s burnt his rubber gloves. Convinced that the fingerprints that may be found on my own life will not be mine.

Trance music with DJs recently brought over from London. Trance music is what kids like now. Dreadfully slow dreadfully good mechanical rhythms. They call it trance music because it gently meshes with the derivatives of morphine, like a tired Pied Piper of Hamlyn, dragging behind it sleeping rats.

Sleeping rats with their eyes wide open, because the new chemical keeps continual small flashes of euphoria under the pillow. Much better than the horse tranquillizers, that used to result in children ending up asleep at the wheel and shortly afterwards, all too frequently, dead against the shining advertising hoardings on the motorway, smashed up against the adverts for their favourite films.

A boy from Kuala Lumpur slips me ten blue phials without having to talk me into it. You don’t need much imagination to know that the old cocaine will outlast the smooth yellow pills and will re-appear at the very end and then there’s nothing better than a couple of blue phials to knock me out, with the smoothness of happy sleeping rats, and from then on to start again with the happy vertigo produced by the first lines of coke until I spin round again and rediscover the fear that is always waiting behind the euphoria, or probably fuck someone and take advantage of someone else’s fear, or probably drink, or probably ride happily in a cyclo to the hotel and then sleep, alone or with one of the friends that I left inside there and who are probably still there waiting, like a soldier’s girlfriend.

Another day on the happy coasts of Malaysia.

Death through repetition.

Chemical reality also has long claws.

In the cheerful nightclubs of Penang the boys dance slowly to their trance music and the Australian rugby players lift up the Malayan girls from the floor as if they were glasses of Bordeaux.

A friend asks me if I want to go up to see his people, so I go up to the second floor that looks down on the dance floor and in one of the private rooms I meet up with a whole lot of Argentinians on a business trip and the Argentinians have a huge selection on a glass table, coke of

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