A Bit of Jazz A Bit of Love

Shoko sent me a text that read “I miss you.”
If ever there was a more clear invitation to meet again this was it. I was unclear as to how she felt towards me. I, on the other hand, liked her immensely. She was sexy, funny, and warm-hearted and, given the chance, I would attach myself to her like a leech. This may be a disgusting image, but it was how I felt.
I wanted to take her to a nice restaurant with a laid back atmosphere, leaving us the opportunity to talk and enjoy each others company. I did a quick google-search on the internet for possible ideas. After much scrolling through the clutter, I found an interesting restaurant in Osaka called the Royal Horse. It was a restaurant which served good food and hosted live jazz. I like jazz and I like food, so I was sure nothing could go wrong.
I didn't want my reservation to be lost in translation which might cause me and Shoko to end up eating our food from a wheelbarrow in a toilet so I asked Shigeho to book me a table in advance.
“Two?!” Shigeho cooed.
“Yes, two,” I said.
“Is this romance?”
“No, no, it's just me and a friend,” I said, trying to squash her excitement.
“A girlfriend?”
“She is a girl and she is a friend, so yes,” I said.
“I will, how you say, play maker-match,” she said as she phoned up the restaurant to book a table. When she hung up, she had a thoughtful expression before saying, “Would you like me to book a double bed for you and your girlfriend at a hotel?”
I declined Shigeho's embarrassing offer and phoned Shoko to let her know the time and day to meet in Osaka.
When we met outside Osaka train station in the evening, Shoko jumped onto me, wrapped her legs around my waist and swathed me with kisses.
“Nice to see you too,” I said after a rest bite from the kisses.
She held my hand as we walked through the dense Osaka streets. There was an awkward silence between us. Shoko clearly had something on her mind. I was silent because I was hopelessly lost and was trying desperately to find the road that led to the restaurant using the rubbish map I had printed from the internet.
“I've been thinking about you recently,” she said.
“Oh yeah?” I said distractedly as I scanned the street names around us.
“I think I really like you,” she said.
“That's nice,” I said, looking at my map.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Are we near the Sonezaki area?”
“Sam!”
“Sorry.”
“I'm telling you I like you a lot,” she said, clasping my hand in hers.
I put my map away, and stared deep into her eyes.
“I like you too. I like your smile, your eyes, your....HORSE!”
“What?!”
“The Horse. The Royal Horse, over there!”
Shoko followed the direction of my pointed finger and saw a dark lit restaurant with pictures of jazz musicians adorning the window.
I grabbed Shoko's hand and together we walked to the reception area of the Royal Horse.
I understood that what Shoko had to say to me was important, but I couldn’t really respond soberly because I was so hungry that I could have eaten a horse - royal or not.
I was surprised, however, to find nothing related to the name of the restaurant. If you’re going to call yourself The Royal Horse then at least plonk something in the room relating to this. Heck, just shove a saxophone playing horse dressed up in a zoot suit to keep asshole customers like me happy. But the fact the restaurant had a void in all things horse-related troubled me greatly. I mentioned this to Shoko who couldn't care less. Yet I wouldn't let this drop.
"Why is this place called the Royal Horse?" I asked a pony-tailed waiter as he took our drink orders.
"I don't know, sir," he bashfully replied.
"Sure you do," I said through a mouthful of peanuts. "You work here don't you?"
"I'm sure the manager will know the reason," he said.
"Well I'll be sure to take it up with him," I sternly said.
"Very good, sir," he said as he walked off, no doubt uttering "prick" under his breath as he did so.
Our table was a few feet away from a low-level stage which had a grand-piano, fiddle and guitar resting on top of it. I guessed the live music was going to be of the gypsy- knee-jerking variety.
I poured Shoko and myself a glass of wine and asked how we could still see each other if she was going to work as an air-stewardess in Hong Kong.
“I know,” she said with a sigh. “But I want to do the job because I want to live abroad and travel for a year.”
“Where can I fit in?” I said.
“I can come to visit you.”
“I will be in England by the time you get the job.”
“I can see you there. My airline flies to London four times a day. I'm sure I can see you often.”
I toyed with my napkin thinking about this.
“What if you are not scheduled to fly to London, I won't be able to travel to Hong Kong.”
“Yes you can,” Shoko said.
“I'm not made of money, love.”
“If I am an employer I can nominate one person for a 90% discount. I want to nominate you.”
I dropped my napkin.
“90%! I can fly every weekend for that price!” I yelped.
“You can also fly to different destinations around the world at the same price,” Shoko said smiling.
“I can go to places like New York? Paris? Mumbai?” I asked, getting carried away.
Shoko nodded.
Before I pumped my fist in the air, I realised that I was in danger of blowing this wonderful opportunity and sought to retain this discounted privilege.
“Shoko, I won't go anywhere if you're not there with me,” I said with passionate eyes.
Shoko smiled and kissed me.
Sign, sealed and delivered. I could now travel the globe for a bargain price and continue seeing the most gorgeous girl I had ever set eyes on. Life, for now, was wonderful. I ordered another bottle of wine and toasted the night with Shoko.
On my fourth glass, three cheerful looking fellows walked onto the stage to raucous clapping. On guitar was guy named Haroki - a chiselled jawed chap with unkempt hair; on the violin was Jumpey - a cheeky looking guy wearing a backwards cap; and on piano was Amani - a portly pony-tailed maestro who flexed his fingers above the piano keys like a magician about to conjure a trick.
As they warmed up with jaunty jazz rhythms, our pony-tailed waiter asked for our food order.
Resisting the urge to order horse, I opted for pasta.
"Still no sign of the horse," I laughed as he noted down our orders.
"No. Clearly not," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on his note-pad.
"Don’t worry, I'll find it," I chuckled drunkenly.
"Very good, sir," he said with a fake laugh, and walked off.
The band signalled to the lighting man that they were ready to begin. On this cue, the lights dimmed in the already dark room, making it impossible to see what was on our table. I noticed that up on stage a technician was assembling recording equipment indicating that this gig was being recorded. The band said hello to the crowd before launching into a blistering rendition of Django Reinhardt’s Minor Swing and the place was tapping along to the twitchy guitar licks. When the tune finished, the fiddle player took centre stage and delivered a wonderfully mournful solo performance. Unfortunately, this heartbreaking performance occurred at the moment when I was scraping my fork on my plate whilst trying to lift up my pasta.
This eating technique caused quite a disturbance to the beautiful performance taking place a few feet away. As the piano player and guitarist quietly chimed in with a few gentle sounds to accompany the fiddler's soaring solo, a horrible SCRRREEEECHING sound was emitted from my plate as I scooped up the pasta. Understanding that this gig was being recorded, I imagined the sleeve notes would read Haroki on guitar, Amani on piano, Jumpey on violin and Sam Holtmon on the fork.
After one hour the band walked off stage for the intermission. Our pony tailed waiter came back to take our drink orders. I had had quite enough by that point of the evening, but gladly ordered a whiskey on the rocks. As the waiter was noting down our order, I saw a busy man, who also had a pony-tail, talking to some of the customers. I asked our waiter if this was the manager. He gave me a sullen stare and said it was. I stared back.
"You're still thinking about the horse, aren’t you?" he asked.
"Yup," I said as I excused myself from the table and staggered in the direction of the manager.
I greeted him with a lopsided smile and applauded him on the fine entertainment and great food. He thanked me and asked if it was the first time I had been here. I said it was but I would love to come again. He said I would be welcomed any time.
I should have left it there, but horses were galloping around brain.
"Jushht a quick queshhhtion," I slurred. "Why are you called the Royal Horse?"
Before I could let him answer, I belligerently continued.
"It would have been far better to call this place something relevant like The Royal Jazz or....," and I looked at his hairstyle, "or, the Royal Ponytail."
His mouth didn’t move but his eyes said, "Go fuck yourself."
Shoko dragged me out of the restaurant before the manager slapped me with his pony tail.
It was now late, and shops were closing for the night. The only places available were for dancing or drinking, and seeing as I was in no state for both we avoided going to these places.
My mind may have been a murky alcoholic pit at this point, but I still deduced Shoko and I were mildly intimate with each other. I felt it not unreasonable to suggest going to a hotel to progress our intimacy.
Shoko felt this suggestion too mild.
“Let's go to a Love Hotel,” she said with a purr.
I had heard about this Japanese quirk. A hotel distinctively catered for couples to go and screw the night away. For me, an ordinary hotel performs this function so I wondered why Love Hotels would be any different. With this, and the promise of sex, in mind, I snapped up this offer in a millisecond.
Shoko, who knew Osaka well, found a street lined with Love Hotels. Each hotel was relatively small with opulent exteriors. There were vines weaving across the walls of one hotel, twinkling lights adorned another, and another hotel had a gushing water fountain illuminated with blue flood lights. Each hotel had a sign offering rates for a Rest (quickie) or a Stay (indulge).
We picked the first hotel we came across. It was a medieval looking hotel, complete with an iron gated entrance and giant candles resting on the windows. We walked over a small mote on a pathway, which led to the reception. We were the only ones there at this point and were met by a smiling old lady, who looked more like a librarian rather than the gate keeper of sex rooms.
Shoko and I said hello to her and asked for a room. She pointed to a wall which pictured various rooms and asked us to pick the one we wanted by pressing a button next to the room we desired.
There was a 'wild' room with leopard skin silk sheets, stuffed animals hanging along the wall, and painted images of warriors fighting with dangerous animals on the wall. There was a 'Gothic' room with a black velvet bed, spider patterned sofas and candles illuminating red walls. Shoko and I decided to pick the 'Tudor' room because it seemed opulent without appearing too flashy or gimmicky. There was a wide doubled bed, lanterns dotted around the room, and paintings of Tudor couples involved in amorous trysts. I was happy with this arrangement except for a disturbing portrait of Henry the Eighth hanging on the wall above the bed. Having sex whilst the eyes of an obese, bloodthirsty king are upon me was likely to puncture any libido I had. Despite this peculiar feature we chose this room. The old lady nodded and told us to wait whilst she retrieved our door key in the staff room next door to the reception.
Little did we realise that the old lady would take 10 minutes before returning with the unfortunate news that she could not find the key for the 'Tudor' room. She told us this information within ear shot of the half-dozen couples queuing behind us, who had emerged whilst we had been waiting for the receptionist.
With the news that our favoured room was no longer available, we had to pick a room quickly. We didn’t want to hold up the queue even longer. Shoko pointed to the 'wild' room.
“We'll take that one,” she said.
I noticed a girl behind me cocking her eyebrow with a so-your-that-type-of-girl expression.
“I'm afraid that's unavailable,” the receptionist said.
“We'll take that one then,” I said and pointed to the Gothic room.
A man further back in the queue made a werewolf sound.
“Unavailable,” said the receptionist.
I was going bright red.
“What is available?” asked Shoko.
The receptionist pointed to a picture of a colourful room.
“What the hell is that?” I asked
“The Space Room,” the receptionist said dramatically, waving her hands about.
Shoko and I looked at each other with resignation whilst the other lovers laughed behind us. One guy in the queue whistled the Close Encounters theme.
“Fine, we'll take that one,” I said, looking with confusion at the picture of the strange room.
“You guys beaming up to get there, ja?” a German man said behind us.
“Fuck off, Klaus,” I said, and took Shoko by the hand to our Space Room.
Once inside, it appeared even worse than in the picture. There was a picture of the solar system on the ceiling, with stars flashing on and off amongst the planets. There were silver, metallic looking sheets, with silver plated bed posts. The walls were adorned with Amazonian women riding huskies through space. The hotel staff thoughtfully left a dildo machine next to the bed and a packet of condoms on our cushions where a mint would normally be in a hotel. There was also a DVD collection underneath the TV. The most bizarre aspect of this room was seeing Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone nestled amongst the porn movies.
Shoko and I surveyed our surroundings in detail, and burst out laughing simultaneously.
“Have you got any mood music?” Shoko asked, as she went to the bathroom.
I did have a CD I bought that day but I wouldn't have called it 'mood' music. It was an experimental Tom Waits album. I put it on regardless because to have no music would subject me and Shoko to the sound of the couple next door screwing like screaming banshees, or to the progress of Harry Potter during his first year at Hogwarts.