The phone above sits in a small sushi restaurant down a narrow alley that leads from the neon hinterland of Shibuya. The restaurant is owned by a married couple. He cuts the fish with magnificent aplomb to deliver mouthfuls of ocean that you would never have imagined. She fills drinks with a cool warmth to counter whatever season you left outside the sliding door. They speak no English. I speak no useful Japanese. I don’t know their names, nor they mine. We are friends. Kyoko says he speaks with an intonation that is specific to the men of downtown Tokyo. The older generation. A pattern of honour that defies emotion.

The phone is a relic of a past age. Only marginally older than the air of an unknown Tokyo that still hangs thick in the smoky bar today. It is left in place as a memorial to the Emperor Hirohito who died in 1989. In this magical den of fish, beer and intrigue the telephone stands testament to the passing of the Showa age. A beautiful anachronism that bursts alive with a shrill ring to punctuate the end of the evening.