No name, Roppongi, Tokyo

Amelia Simmons is the only Fijian who ever picked me up in a Roppongi nightclub. I had arrived in Tokyo three weeks previous to begin my internship at a military newspaper called Stars and Stripes, the voice of America in the Pacific. I was a civilian, 22 years old, surrounded by soldiers. She was to become, and remain, a mystery for me  -- either the daughter of a Fijian diplomat, or a desperate islander doing hostess work in Tokyo; a divorced, childless 24 year old, or a very much married (to a weatlhy young man from Detroit) woman hiding from her husband. That evening in the nightclub I felt her stare, from where she sat several tables away with a light-skinned foreigner. I looked back, not so much a stare as a projection of wonderment. What could this tall, thin, dark-skinned beauty see in me? Soon she abandoned her date and approached the table I shared with three fellow journalists, and introduced herself to me in a completely seductive British colonial accent. She sat, ignoring my friends, and soon I ignored them too. We fell for each other in a matter of moments. Walking back to the miniscule military base where I was staying -- a single highrise surrounded by barbed wire, guarded by Japanese police of some sort, in the heart of the Roppongi district -- we stopped at a street cart where steam rose off a simmering stew. An older man stirred the octopus tentacles, Vienna sausages, and various Japanese pressed fish concoctions with three foot long bamboo sticks. Neither of us spoke Japanese, so the man would pick up morsels and wait for our nod.  The sausages were scary, and we avoided those, but the octopus, tofu, and vegetables were certain choices. I quickly discovered that Amelia, skinny as she was, loved to eat. And so we ate from ceramic dishes, standing on the street, shoulders bumping as we squeezed closer, each bite an infusion of comfort. The guards at the military base had been instructed by the Colonel to allow me to bring in whomever I wanted, yet they glared with surprise as Amelia and I headed towards my elevator. In the morning we walked up towards the train station, stopping at a hole in the wall for breakfasts of salted mackeral, rice and broth, with a side of pickled vegetables. Amelia ate well. For the next 8 weeks we ate well, danced, drank, and passed nights in my room on the miltary base, just down the hall from the military spooks, silent guys who rode the elevator with their eyes on the floor. Often, late, we returned to the steaming cart, standing in the dim light as late night office men weaved along the sidewalk, puddles reflecting the high lights around us, and ate. Then one night I took Amelia out for plates of thick noodles with seafood and beer, and as we left the restaurant, headed to the bar where I kept a bottle with my name written on it in black magic marker, she pointed out that two men were following us. Inside the bar, I called for my bottle and a container of ice, two crystal glasses and an ashtray for the cigarettes. We drank in silence for a moment, and then she said, "Those men are from the embassy. My father does not want me to see you anymore. I've ignored him for too long." The next morning she said goodbye, and I never saw Amelia Simmons again. Now, 31 years later, when Amelia crosses my mind, I see that cart. And when I think of that cart, which happens more often than sanity would allow one to imagine, I know I'm feeling Amelia, and my Tokyo self, never to return.