Once again Yoshi had surprised Sam: he hadn’t guessed that Yoshi was from a farming family – he seemed so much of the city, at home in the urban sprawl of Tokyo.
“Do you want to go into farming, Yoshi?” asked Sam, curiously.
“Yes, certainly, Sam-san,” said Yoshi, seriously. “My father expects me to be farmer. I will not disappoint him. What your father want you to be Sam-san?”
Sam looked away. “I wouldn’t know. I never knew my father.”
Yoshi looked sad. “Is hard thing not to know your father, Sam-san.”
“That depends on the father,” said Sam.
Most of the bars surrounding the capsule hotel were noisy and full of foreigners. They avoided those and found a quiet izakaya that the locals used. Yoshi insisted that Sam try the fresh crab, dressed with Hokkaido’s famous butter. Then he spread out a large map on the table and they spent a pleasant evening planning their route, Yoshi pointing out the places of interest and the famous outdoor onsen in the mountains that Sam was particularly looking forward to trying.
Then they wandered companionably back to the capsule hotel and climbed into their little Perspex coffins.
Getting into the capsule was a bit like playing a game of Twister. Sam rotated himself 180o with some difficulty and managed to slide out of his clothes: a manoeuvre he’d perfected on camping trips in tiny, one-man tents. The capsule, by comparison, was luxurious, if slightly more claustrophobic. He hoped they’d be turning on the oxygen sometime soon.
Alone in his capsule, Sam’s thoughts inevitably returned to Tara. He wondered if she’d read his letter yet – and what her reaction might have been. A more worrying thought struck him: would she still be there when he returned from this trip? He almost climbed out of his capsule to find a phone, but in the end decided that Tara wouldn’t want to be dragged out of bed at nearly one o’clock in the morning. Discretion seemed the better part of valour as he waited for sleep to take him. It occurred to him that if he couldn’t put things right with Tara, Julie might still lose her bet, not that he cared about that anymore.
Dawn came early in the northern summer and soon other customers were climbing – or falling – out of their capsules and queuing patiently for the showers, colourful in a range of rented yukatas, all wearing the ubiquitous paper slippers that were dispensed for indoor use. That was something of a problem for Sam, his European feet being so much bigger than the locals. Luckily the capsule hotel was used by enough gaijin for a range of larger slippers to be available. Plus, a person was expected to change into a special pair of slippers on entering the lavatory – almost always of a size that allowed him to push in a couple of toes, then totter dangerously towards the yawning pit. Lovely.
He saw Yoshi, eyes half closed, several places behind him in the shower queue. He looked a little the worse for wear.
After a quick breakfast of rice and fish at a small café, they headed for the bus station. Sam bought the tickets, pleased that he’d managed the transaction without needing Yoshi’s help and, if he’d understood correctly, been informed that the journey would take about two-and-a-half hours.
Like everything else in Hokkaido, the scenery was a surprise. If it hadn’t been for Yoshi sitting next to him, describing the history and people of the island from the Ainu to the present day, Sam would have sworn he was in southern France, passing field after field of lavender and rolling hills populated by sleek cattle.
“Is good agricultural land,” said Yoshi, nodding. “Many food and vegetables are grown here: Hokkaido is bread basket of Japan.”
Sam felt oddly at home in the green landscape: it was good to be free of the city, at least for a while.
Furano itself was the usual assortment of modern concrete buildings with the sweeping roof lines of old Japan.
“In winter is important ski resort,” said Yoshi, proudly. “In summer, big for hikers. You will see, Sam-san. Aah! Here is my sister, Yumi.”
A battered Honda rattled to a halt in front of the bus station. The passenger wing mirror was hanging off and the bumpers decorated with an array of battle scars. Not what might be called an auspicious start for the next leg of the journey.
Yumi was short and slight and with the same round cheeks as Yoshi but she wore a studious expression, intended to impress strangers with her seriousness of purpose. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw Sam and her mouth popped open softly. But she greeted her brother formally and they bowed to each other, then Yoshi introduced Sam in English.
“Sam-san, this is my sister Yumi-chan.”
He used the diminutive reserved for children and younger siblings; Sam couldn’t help noticing that Yumi’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she kept them respectfully on the ground during the introduction.
He was surprised that Yoshi and Yumi didn’t hug each other but figured they could be feeling inhibited by the gaijin’s presence. Or maybe that was their usual behaviour; he couldn’t decide.
Sam was given the best seat in the car, that is, the seat next to the driver. But by the time Yumi had taken several blind corners at speeds of over sixty whilst arguing strenuously with her brother, Sam really wished he was in the back – preferably with a set of Kevlar body-armour. Yoshi didn’t seem to notice: so it was little surprise to Sam when Yoshi casually announced that Hokkaido had one of the worst records for automotive accidents in Japan – and Furano had the worst records in Hokkaido. He said it with a look of complacency on his face. Sam broke out in a sweat at the thought of riding a motorbike whilst drivers like Yumi were on the road.
Finally they turned off the highway and made their way up a bumpy, unmade track, Yoshi keeping up a detailed commentary the whole way.
The Satos’ farmhouse looked more like a Swiss chalet than the image Sam had had in his head. The main house was two storeys, whitewashed with a sharply sloping roof of red slates. A series of long, low barns lay behind the farmhouse and a white picket fence surrounded the property. Fat, black-and-white cattle grazed in the nearest fields and in the distance, blue mountains reared up towards the sky.
There was just so much space.
“It’s beautiful!” Sam breathed softly.
His words stopped Yoshi’s torrent of information as a delighted smile spread across his face.
“Thank you, Sam-san! You do my family great honour.”
Sam twisted round to look at Yoshi. “No, I’m the one who is honoured. Thank you for inviting me, Yoshi-san.”
Yoshi blushed with pleasure and Sam detected another small smile on Yumi’s face.
Sam was escorted towards the house, to be introduced to Yoshi’s parents.
He removed his shoes and coat at the entrance, watching Yoshi out of the corner of his eye to check he was making the right moves. A pair of guest slippers had been provided (size large) and Yoshi invited him in to meet his parents.
Mr Sato was thin-faced and serious; he looked more like an accountant than a farmer. Mrs Sato, however, was an older version of Yoshi, cheerful and welcoming, with eyes that crinkled warmly when she smiled, which was often.
Sam bowed slowly and deeply and presented them with a packet of English tea and the traditional words, “tsumaranai mono desu ga” – please accept this boring gift.
He hadn’t had a chance to get anything more elaborate, but Helen had provided him with a small ribbon to tie around it, insisting that a well decorated gift conferred more prestige.
Yoshi assured him that a gift of English tea was perfect. And the Satos seemed delighted, smiling and bowing, ushering him into their living room. Of course, it would have been horribly rude to have behaved otherwise or to have spurned a guest’s gift. Sam had a fleeting memory of the first and only time he’d met Elle’s parents; he couldn’t help smiling at the comparison.
The room was unusually large, certainly when compared with the flats of most Tokyoites – or Londoners, come to that – with a low table of dark wood in the centre. Tatami mats covered the floor and flat cushions were provided to relax
on. Mr Sato invited Sam to sit and Mrs Sato and Yumi bustled into the kitchen to bring out the lunch. Dish after dish of fried fish, seafood, rice and steamed vegetables arrived, along with miso soup, tofu and dipping sauces. Yumi staggered in under the weight of a heavy-looking tray, laden with an enormous teapot and tiny, egg-sized teacups. Sam rose to help her but to his surprise Yoshi grabbed his elbow and pulled him back to the floor.
“It is her honour, Sam-san,” he said, quietly. “You will offend her if you help: hmm, how to explain? It would be as if you think she say you causing her too much trouble, so that she need extra help. When we have guest, we must look busy so guest knows everything is taken care of. Guest can now be easy.”
Sam could see in Mr Sato’s face that he had committed a faux pas. He bowed his head to apologise.
“Sumimasen. Wakarimashita.” Excuse me. I understand now.
Mr Sato bowed back and suddenly let out a shout of laughter. Yoshi bellowed, too. Sam was nonplussed.
“My father like you, Sam-san. He think you funny fellow!”
Sam smiled wryly. “Glad to be of service.”
Neither of the elder Satos spoke English and Sam also found their unfamiliar accent quite hard to understand. Yoshi’s accent was noticeably stronger, too. Conversation was necessarily limited and Yoshi did most of the translating. It became clear that Yumi’s English was also good, perhaps even a little better than her brother’s, although she had not yet left school.
The meal was delicious and Sam and Yoshi ate with good appetites, which pleased Mrs Sato enormously. She fussed over her eldest child in a way that reminded Sam of Sylvie, and patted Yoshi’s stomach, implying that he’d lost weight since he’d been from home. Sam found that a little hard to believe as Yoshi seemed to live on a diet supplied primarily by Mr Donut.
There was just one uncomfortable moment during the meal, when Yoshi was momentarily absent from the room. Sam asked Yumi what she was planning to study at university the following year. It seemed an innocent enough question.
“I am political woman, Sam-san,” said Yumi, her voice low and serious. “I will study politics. I wish to go in government and stop all inappropriate erections.”
Sam blinked. “Er, pardon?”
“Too many inappropriate erections!” she insisted.
Light dawned. “Oh, I think you mean ‘elections’,” said Sam, a faint blush increasing his embarrassment.
“Correct word is ‘election’?” said Yumi.
“Yes, that’s right,” he said.
“What is ‘erection’, please?”
Sam ran a hand through his hair and looked down. “It means a building… among other things,” he mumbled.
He was glad Yoshi hadn’t been there to hear his sister’s comments: it would have been a lot more embarrassing and Sam was pretty sure Yoshi would have laughed like a drain.
The women folk cleared away the table and Mr Sato disappeared to his work. That left Yoshi to show Sam around the farm.
He was enthusiastic and knowledgeable and seemed very happy that at the end of the year, he would be returning to help his father run the family business.
“I have big plans, Sam-san,” he said. “Diversification is our future. We will change this barn into rooms for guests, like English b-and-b. We will offer authentic Japanese experience but with English-language spoken. You think guests will come?”
Sam nodded. “That sounds like a great idea, Yoshi. It would certainly take away the fear-factor.”
Yoshi looked puzzled. “You fearful?”
“The British aren’t known for being good at languages,” explained Sam. “I reckon more people would come to Japan if they weren’t so worried about not understanding – or being understood.”
Yoshi nodded. “Yes, I think this, too. I will make website for English tourists. You help me, Sam-san?”
“No problem,” said Sam. “I could write about my experiences here on a blog, if you like. Help you edit the text – anything you like.”
“Thank you, Sam-san,” said Yoshi. “You are good friend.” He paused and seemed embarrassed. “I have another favour to ask, Sam-san,” he said, at last.
“Sure, what is it?”
Yoshi stared at the distant mountains. “You have good success with women, Sam-san,” he said softly. It was a statement, not a question.
Sam blinked, then winced as he thought of Tara’s face when she hit him. “Not so you’d notice.”
Yoshi shook his head in disagreement. “Yes, women like you, Sam-san. Even Yumi, who likes no person. What is secret, please?”
Sam raised his eyebrows.
“Yoshi, mate, if I knew the secret of pleasing women, if I knew what women wanted, I would be the richest man on earth.”
Yoshi processed this. “There is no secret?”
“Nope,” said Sam, sketching a smile. “All I can say is, be yourself; don’t try and be anything you’re not. The women I know can spot a fake from a thousand yards.” He shrugged. “That any help?”
Yoshi shook his head slowly and sighed. “Is not Japanese way, Sam-san. Saving face is more important than to be self. Family is important: self not so important. We Japanese prefer to lose as a team, than win by ourselves.”
It didn’t take long for Yoshi to shake off his bout of introspection: he was designed for happiness, and his enthusiasm for life quickly bubbled over again.
“Tonight we meet my old friends,” said Yoshi. “You will like them, I think.”
The plan was to meet Yoshi’s friends in town, where they would collect the motorbikes for the trip, then go for dinner and drinks. Yumi was meeting her friends, too, and Yoshi had reluctantly agreed that they could all eat together.
As they walked over to one of the barns to collect the car, Yoshi confided his misgivings about the joint celebration that evening.
“It is better without women,” he said, shaking his head.
Sam raised his eyebrows. “You don’t mind when Helen – and Tara – come along.”
“That is different, Sam-san. You gaijin. Is different in Japan: men and women do not drink together like this. You will see.”
“I can’t wait,” said Sam, trying to keep a straight face.
Yoshi drove them round to the front of the house to wait for his sister, who had been upstairs getting ready for some hours.
Yumi tripped out of the front door wearing a mini-dress, long, stripy socks and something similar to Converse trainers. Sam tried not to stare at the thick application of cosmetics that made her look like a cross between a Kabuki actress, a child who had raided her mum’s make-up bag, and a hooker. The result was unsettling and mesmerising at the same time. Yumi seemed pleased with the effect on Sam, spectacularly misreading his expression. She certainly didn’t seem much like a serious ‘political woman’ anymore, although Sam figured she might have more luck with inappropriate elections.
Yoshi’s driving was just as bad as Yumi’s. His spacial awareness was particularly lacking: Sam made a mental note that they’d need to include a first aid kit in their luggage before they headed off. If they made it to the following day: which seemed far from certain.
He winced as Yoshi took the dirt track at fifty, bouncing over the potholes in a way that made the whole car frame tremble, and the transmission appeared in danger of having a nervous breakdown. Not unlike Sam, who gripped his seat tightly.
The white-knuckle ride ended when Yoshi screeched into a small car park behind a hotel in downtown Furano, and abandoned the car in a space that approximated a parking spot. Sam unlocked his fingers from the seat whilst Yumi trotted off to meet her friends.
Yoshi had parked alongside two large 650cc Kawasaki motorbikes fitted with substantial side panniers and top boxes. With a bit of luck it would mean that Yoshi wouldn’t get his legs crushed if, or when, he fell off.
He introduced Sam to his friends. Isamu was tall and thin with a long fringe that flopped artfully across his face. He nodded briefly at Sam, then stared in the
other direction, sucking hard on his cigarette. Masao was shorter and friendlier, shaking hands with Sam and trying out a few words in English. Sam replied in more fluent Japanese and Masao beamed.
“These hogs for us, Sam-san,” said Yoshi, pointing towards the motorbikes. “We have much fun, I think!”
“Er… do you actually know how to ride one of these?” said Sam, staring doubtfully at the heavy machines.
“Sure thing!” said Yoshi. “You worry too much, Sam-san.”
Masao threw a set of keys to Sam and one to Yoshi. Yoshi dropped his. Sam really hoped that wasn’t an omen.
They relocated to a bar in the hotel where Yumi and her friends had already sequestered a booth. The two girls, Aya and Miho, had identikit pigtails – and the requisite short skirts and heavy make-up. They giggled when Yumi introduced them to Sam. They giggled when he sat down. And they giggled when he tried to speak to them in Japanese. Unable to get a single sensible syllable from them, he gave up.
“You see, Sam-san,” muttered Yoshi blackly. “It is no good having women to be social with. Better they stay silent office flowers.”
He was interrupted furiously by Yumi. From the few words that Sam caught in the torrent that followed, Yumi was berating her older brother for his old-fashioned ‘furukusai’ opinions. He answered angrily as Yumi’s friends looked on, giggling behind their hands. Another fountain of words erupted from Yumi.
Yoshi sighed and Sam grinned at him.
“Suck it up, mate,” said Sam, laughing, “It’s the way of the future. Trust me: I’ve been there.”
Yoshi shook his head and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.
Isamu didn’t have much to say for himself in any language, seemingly content to stare off into the distance, dedicating himself to the art of being cool. Masao, on the other hand, chatted eagerly to Yumi and it was clear, to Sam at least, that there was a mutual attraction. Sam didn’t mention it to Yoshi, who seemed oblivious: it was one of those cases, he thought, where less was more.
Plus it was something of which he had personal experience: it had been bad enough meeting some of the men his older sister had dated over the years – he couldn’t imagine how it would have felt if Fiona were his younger sister.
The New Samurai Page 19