Record No: ACR_1228670N4 "Exile"

When Finbarr Stoltenberg stepped through the doors of the UFJ bank near the train station, it was a quarter past two in the afternoon. The interior of the bank felt like a freezer after the merciless summer heat outside. The sweat running down his back under his blue business suit began to grow cold, intensifying the artificial chill of the air-conditioning units merrily humming away above the automated doors. Finbarr took a few moments to relish the drop in temperature, ill effects on his health be damned, and then stepped up to the counter. The woman sitting behind it was young, Finbarr guessed maybe 24, barely out of college. She smiled at him and bid him welcome. Self-conscious about his limited language skills, Finbarr said, in staggering Japanese:

"Good day. I would like to… um… Speak to a Mr. Taki… no, Mr. Takahashi, please."

The woman looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled again, a smile Finbarr had seen on many faces since starting to work in this peculiar country. The one which meant that he was in for yet another bout of misunderstanding and/or poor communication with the locals.

"Please wait one moment." The woman said in rudimentary English, making "moment" sound almost like "Mormon". Finbarr smiled back and nodded. Clearly wishing to be more hospitable, but lacking the necessary words – six years of studying English and this is it? Finbarr thought – the woman once again said "Please, one moment", indicating a row of chairs lined up by the window. Finbarr thanked her and took a seat, watching her hurry off to speak with her manager. A pretty little thing, Finbarr thought, looking at the woman's behind as she scurried along as fast as her high heels would allow. The women over here sure know how to take care of their looks. If only they had something in their heads, too. Then again, who does?

With a wry smile, he watched as the woman went behind the decorative screen obscuring the administrative part of the bank from public view, and leaned back in the chair. He could have killed for a smoke, but even a borderline illiterate like him could understand the sign with the crossed out cigarette fastened to the wall next to the door. They sell the damn things in vending machines in the street, but God forbid if you actually smoked them. In an attempt to distract himself from the craving of the good ol' nicotine, Finbarr produced from his pocket the one piece of Japanese culture he had really embraced, and got going.

The item in question was a kendama, a ball attached to a hammer-shaped handle with a string. It resembled a ball-in-a-cup, but had three indentations in which to catch the ball. Two of these made up the head of the "hammer", while the third was at the bottom of the handle. There was also a protrusion at the top of the head, which could fit into a hole in the ball. Finbarr had first seen one of these toys while visiting an acquaintance at his house, and had become smitten immediately. He had purchased a few for himself, and always carried one with him when travelling. Countless hours of practice had made him quite skilled, and he could consistently pull off most of the easier tricks, and was starting to learn a few more advanced ones. Back home, he would have been extremely self-conscious about playing with a child's toy in public, but since people here already stared at him just walking down the street, what harm could it do? Besides, it made for quite a good ice-breaker, and had actually gotten him some tail on occasion. But most of all, it served as a perfect distraction when boredom or, anxiety, threatened to suffocate him.

Now he sat there in the chair, playing with his kendama and waiting for the woman, she of the funky pronunciation and apologetic smile, to return with Mr. Takahashi. Finbarr was not sure if Mr. Takahashi would be willing to cooperate, but it was worth a shot.

The wooden ball landed in the base cup with a click. Finbarr tossed it up again and turned the handle to catch it in the next cup, while contemplating the best way to convince Mr. Takahashi to invest in Finbarr's company. He was well aware that his method of approaching potential investors was unorthodox, and had tasted his fair share of bitter rejection and sometimes outright ridicule over the years. But, as his father had been known to say: Winners never quit, and quitters never win. So Finbarr had simply decided never to quit. When Gerald had invited him to join his venture in Japan, to "carve our own path" as he so eloquently put it, Finbarr had seen it as a challenge, a way to prove to himself and to everyone else that he was indeed a winner. No way was he going to quit now. Deep down, he saw a very tragic side to his life. Yes, he, Gerald, and the other two headstrong young entrepreneurs who comprised the newly formed company had started to become quite successful. Yet he somehow felt like none of it really counted, as though any progress he made in his career over here would disappear like so much dust in the wind once he left the country to go back home. And what did he have to come back to? A senile old wreck who had once been his father, ever inspiring and sharp, now a mere shell of a man who spent his days reminiscing about a past that never was and occasionally pissing himself? A dead-end job at some two-bit consulting company? A suffocating sense of being useless and unappreciated? Hell, maybe even some reverse culture shock, feeling like an alien in his own hometown? Take your pick.

No fucking way. He had more or less sealed his fate the minute he stepped onboard the airplane four years ago. Trying to get big in Japan, leaving on a jet plane, get rich or die trying, a suitcase full of nothing in his empty hand. Insert your favorite appropriate song lyrics here. He was not that big yet, not exactly rich, but he sure as hell was not dead either. He was dead set to keep on trying, though. His father might have been reduced to just another gomer in the old folks' home, but the memory of his old teachings lived on. Winners never quit. Right you are, pa.

Clack. The ball landed dead center on the spike. Finbarr smiled, and his face brightened like a 60-Watt light bulb. It was a smile of genuine happiness, and it took several years off his features, prematurely aged with stress and exhaustion. Before he could realize that one of the few things (hell, just about the only thing) that could make him feel so truly satisfied these days was a successful trick with a small wooden toy, he suddenly noticed the man standing in front of him.

"That's impressive!" the man said in English, with only a trace of an accent. Finbarr guessed he must have spent a few years abroad, in Australia maybe. "How long did it take you to learn that?"

Finbarr, still smiling, feeling relieved that the man he came here to see could speak English, answered: "About a year, give or take. I always keep it with me. Gives you something to do, you know?" He put the kendama back in his pocket and stood up. The man extended his hand, which gained him Finbarr's immediate approval. So many of these people seemed terrified of human contact. He shook firmly. "Finbarr Stoltenberg, pleased to meet you."

"Kengo Takahashi. Welcome. I hope everything went well on your way here."

"No problem. I've been here a few years now, so I can get around." He smiled again. "Still can't get used to the heat, though." Takahashi chuckled.

"Nobody can, Mr. Stoltenberg. Please come this way to my office."

Takahashi led him to a fairly large and modestly lit office, where Finbarr felt right at home. It reminded him of his own office, where he always had the blinds drawn. Takahashi pulled up a chair for him, and they both sat down, facing each other across the desk. A young woman, slightly older than the one who had greeted him before, entered with two cups of tea on a tray. She set it down on the desk, bowed, and left the room quietly. Finbarr produced his business card and handed it to Takahashi, who took it in both hands.

"I'm sure you've read about our company in the e-mail we sent you a few days ago. I'd like to thank you for taking the time to meet me today."

Takahashi looked up from the business card and smiled. "Not at all. It's my pleasure, Mr. Stoltenberg."

Finbarr was just about to start his sales pitch when he heard the bells. A few moments later, a deafening crash shook the building, followed by screams and panicked voices from outside. Finbarr grabbed onto the desk to steady himself. Takahashi leapt up from his chair and bolted to the window to look out.

"Is it an earthquake?" Finbarr asked. Takahashi shook his head, still looking out the window. The sound of bells was growing louder by the second. To Finbarr, it sounded like church bells at a wedding. The screaming and yelling did not fit the image.

"What is going on then? What's that sound?" He joined Takahashi by the window and peered out into the street. He could see people frantically running, all in the same direction, as if they were fleeing from something. The door to the office burst open, and the young woman from the counter stumbled in, speaking rapidly to Takahashi in Japanese, obviously terrified. Finbarr could not quite keep up with the exchange, but he thought he heard her mention terrorists, and danger. Less than two years after 9/11, and with festivities in Iraq in full swing, those two words alone were enough to make the most hot-blooded American cowboy reach for his security blanket. Sure enough, Finbarr found himself anxiously touching the kendama in his suit pocket as he watched the two people in front of him.

And those damn bells would not stop. Their sound grated on his nerves, howled through his bones, and seared his brain. He had to get out, run away, put an egg in his shoe and beat it, as they said when he was a kid. Anywhere was better than here. Anywhere that damn ringing would stop. He made for the door.

"Mr. Stoltenberg, wait!" Takahashi grabbed his arm. "We don't know what's happening. We should stay here and wait for word from the police."

Finbarr yanked his arm free and shook his head violently.

"No way. I gotta get out of here. Can't you hear it?" Takahashi winced, as if Finbarr had reminded him of something unpleasant. The woman had covered her ears and assumed the fetal position. Finbarr opened the door. The building was empty. Apart from Takahashi and the woman, everyone else must already have left. Finbarr intended to follow their example. He walked hastily to the automated doors and waited for them to open. The summer heat washed over him like the tides of hell, bringing with it a flood of noise. People screaming, car horns honking, a metallic screech as a taxi forced its way past a van parked on the side of the street. And the bells. Louder than ever, they filled the world. There was no discernible rhythm or melody to them, just a mad cacophony of church bells, like Sunday mass in Purgatory. Clapping his hands to his ears, Finbarr walked out onto the sidewalk in a daze. People zipped past him, weaving out of his way, all of them with empty eyes, looking at nothing, like panicked rats leaving a sinking ship. Finbarr looked the other way, in the direction the people were fleeing from, and his hands dropped powerless to his sides without him ever noticing. Then, as if drawn by an enormous magnet, he began walking against the flow of people, towards the incredible source of the deafening sound, still not believing his eyes. Not thinking about getting to safety. Not thinking anything at all.

"I hear… a sound." he whispered.

The bells rang loud and oppressive throughout Shinjuku, Tokyo. It was June 12th, 2003, and it was the beginning of the end.