The silence was palpable. Unsettling, as we sat in the foyer of the club, which felt more like a cell.
I sat on my hands to find some warmth but only found a splinter from the unsanded wooden bench.
Me and the other girls in the cast had been sitting there for what seemed like hours. In reality, was 15 minutes. ‘This is ridiculous, what’s the point of us sitting here?’ Meg, one of the cast dancers turned to me. Shrugging, I didn’t have an answer, neither did anyone else. The Japanese woman that was now awake, looked at me - her pupils the size of saucers. That’s not good. At that moment a guest walked through the front door. He was alone. Mid 40s. Another suit. The club owner reappeared greeting him. They talked and laughed, perhaps they already knew each other. Both men looked all the women like a selection of meats at the butcher. The guest pointed at the tiny woman with the ripped blue skirt. After a few Japanese words were exchanged, she got up and escorted the guest into the club arm in arm. My eyes widened as did Meg’s. The young English translator reappeared; she must have been no older than us. Her black fringe touched the top of her thick glasses. Her eyes suggested guilt, like she had seen things she was unable to speak off.
‘Can you come with me, please.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘Who me?’ ‘Where?’. She just smiled and gestured toward the inside of the club. I turned to the other girls for help. Their faces were white as ghosts and I’m certain mine was too. Should I say no? But then what would happen? I’d run out the front door into the darkness of rice fields in a foreign country? Then what? I gulped and followed.
The club was dark. ‘If you order a drink, you will get paid more. If you order food, you will get paid more again.’ She whispered as we made our way across the musty carpet, through the almost empty audience. Paid more? I couldn’t tell if she was letting me in on a warning or secret. Either way, it didn’t sound good. We stopped in front of one of the circular tables encased in a red booth. Two men sat across from one another. One of them, the owner, and the one that chose ‘ripped blue skirt’? I couldn’t tell by this point. My mind was like scrambled eggs. Sit, sit, sit.’ The club owner instructed. So, he did speak English.........when he wanted apparently. I turned to the translator, in hopes of finding an ally but no such luck. It was clear she was an accomplice when she walked away leaving me. Shit, what do I do? A 19-year-old girl, 2 men and a round table. Oh, holy hell.
As I barely sat on the edge of the pleather seat, my right leg stretched straight out to one side. I kept it straight just in case I needed a quick getaway, I was ready. Drinks arrived. Mine looked like a soft drink, but I didn’t dare take a sip. The Gentleman had some kind of clear potent sake. Looking around, no new guests had entered the club, neither had any of the girls. ‘Ripped blue skirt’, was nowhere to be seen. My toes curled in my shoes, there were no signs of safety. The men at the table continued to chat to one another looking at me every now and again. I smiled, as to ‘act natural’, but it was wearing thin. The guest reached his hand across the table towards me. I paused. It looked like he wanted to shake my hand. Why does he want to shake hands now? I’ve already been here for 5 minutes, drinks have arrived. My knee pulled tight. The quick getaway looked promising. Hesitantly, I reciprocated and reached my hand out. I mean, what else was I to do? As our hands met, he twisted his index finger in between our palms in a way that made my stomach turn. The subtext of that handshake was suggestive and frankly scared the hell out of me. I snapped my hand away quickly. Both men started to laugh in a way that confirmed my subtextual suspicions were correct. Enough! Quick getaway activated! I got up and ran backstage to the dressing room.
It was pitch black outside. The only lights on the road were the headlights of the bus. The whole cast sat in silence on our way back to the apartments. It was well after 1am. We were tired, unable to digest the events of the night. I tried to find thoughts. Reason. Sitting next to me, Meg found them, ‘I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.’ We sure as hell weren't. The wheels of the bus squeaked to a stop as it pulled up in front of our apartment block.
The tiny overhead light was blinding as the door swung open into the middle of winter. ‘You are not safe’. Came a voice from the front of the bus. Sorry. What was that? Motionless the cast looked sideways to one another. ‘You should hide your passports under your pillows.’ It was coming from the bus driver. Through his broken English, ‘you need to get out of here.’ Pause. ‘What are you talking about? We need to get out of here?’ Meg questioned him. All I knew was we needed to get the hell off this bus. Now! I pulled Meg by the arm out of the bus and ran inside.
The whole cast gathered in Meg’s apartment. The sun was peeking through the cheesecloth blinds. It was a welcome reprieve after a night of no sleep. We all sat around together, without help, without answers and without safety. Group meeting. We knew we couldn’t go on like this for another 8 weeks of our contract. I made a cup of tea for the others and myself, grasping at any task that could provide a sense of normality. One orange and pink mobile phone sat on the kitchen bench. ONE! It looked like something a child would play with. Plastic and flimsy. We had one prepaid mobile phone to share amongst 6 of us. This was well before iPhones, social media or Wi-Fi. Contact with friends and family back home was limited. When we first arrived, we spoke to our agent voicing our concerns which he dismissed and said we should consider ourselves lucky to be employed. Since then, things had gone from bad to worse and he had been dodging our calls ever since. ‘But I don’t want to go back home and work retail’, maybe he’s right and we should stay’. One of the young dancers said. ‘We can’t’ stay,’ the bus driver told us to hide our passports! We must go home!’ Meg interjected. I had no idea what to do, when was the last time I had to decide between being an employed artist or working at a Japanese ‘hostess club’ masquerading as a Cabaret venue. Oh that’s right NEVER!! I was beyond my depth.
My phone vibrated in my palm as I got off the train at Town Hall. Agent. I rolled my eyes.
'Hi Aimee, just a quick one. You must pay the agency back everything you earn’t on the Japan contract.’
‘Pardon?’
'Yeah, turns out the Japanese producers want their money back because the cast stole the packets of peanuts and crackers.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense?’
'Yeah, well you did cut the contract short by coming home early and if you don’t pay us the entirety of what you did earn, we will no longer represent you.’
I hung up the phone and walked into my retail job for the start of a new day.