I’m borne along on a tide of chatter and fantasy. All day we’ve trawled over spreadsheets and haggled percentages in both pounds and yen. I want nothing more than to slope off to my hotel room and slide back into the dream that none of this matters. But my companions are eager for cocktails and company, and so I descend with them into this glittering fantasyland—Kabukicho by night. Bronze, brass and iron masks cloud the walls and gilt framed mirrors reflect the sparkles of the chandeliers in this underworld bar in Tokyo’s pleasure quarter. I take the offered menu and without opening it, ask what is good. “Oh, all of them,” my associates reply, bubbling with laughter. Their faces alight with cheer. “See what takes your fancy. It’s not busy. You should get your choice.” I open the leather bound pages, expecting to struggle with a sea of indecipherable kanji. My spoken Japanese is much better than my script. But there are few words to read. Instead, it is a book of faces.
