The New Samurai

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “Sharing,” offered Sam.

  “Yes!” said Fumio, happily. “Sharing time.”

  The idea was, he’d read, that sharing the large platter supposedly encouraged a harmonious atmosphere – it seemed to be working – and the students were making a big effort to chat in English.

  Luckily Sam had also read up on the correct etiquette; he saw his students watching him out of the corner of their eyes.

  “Please help yourselves to the o-hire soup,” he said. “Itadakimasu!”

  The food seemed to be a mishmash of Chinese and Portuguese-inspired recipes, with a dozen different ways to present fish. It was better than he’d expected. His only knowledge of Portuguese cuisine came from a stag night in Lisbon some years back, which had impressed Sam only as being the land of the salted cod: this was much tastier.

  Sam was able to offer one piece of information from his meagre store of Nagasaki history.

  “Did you know,” he said, “that tempura is originally from Portugal?”

  There followed some heated debate, some of which was in Japanese, enough, in fact, to draw Ms Amori’s eye to Sam’s otherwise cheerful table.

  “Is very strange truth,” Patterson-san, said Kazuo, the boldest of the students.

  It was a polite way, although an unusually direct way (for a Japanese person, let alone a pupil), of telling Sam he was wrong. The other students looked embarrassed, a little shocked even.

  Sam smiled. “I believe it’s true. The word even comes from the Portuguese word ‘tempero’, which is a spice.”

  It could also have referred to the word ‘tempora’, the Latin for ‘times’, meaning Lent. Sam left out that confusing detail.

  The students looked stunned.

  “Gaijin are useful for something,” said Sam, grinning.

  Noboru giggled and Kazuo laughed loudly, earning another look from Ms Amori, which all of them were careful not to see.

  The students happily tucked into the clear soup, sashimi, vegetables and meat and were particularly enthusiastic about the sweet bean soup – end umewan – with salted cherry blossom. It looked a bit garish for Sam’s tastes. Then the meal ended with castella being served to everyone. It was a sticky sponge cake with a dark, syrupy topping. It reminded Sam of school sponge puddings. He knew by experience that anything the Japanese considered a European-style dessert was going to be unbearably sweet, and castella had started life as a Portuguese cake.

  Luckily Noboru was more than happy to have an extra slice, his red face shining in the warm lights.

  By the time the meal had been vanquished, night had fallen, and behind the restaurant the light from small paper lanterns flickered in the garden. Sam strolled out with Kazuo and Fumio and several other pupils. A crescent moon hung above the gnarled and stunted pines and the scent of late flowers hung in the still air. As he looked back towards the brightly-lit restaurant, his eyes caught glimpses of other tatami rooms on different levels, waitresses moving quietly in their exotic kimonos: it was like an eighteenth century ukiyo-e woodblock print – the floating world of Geishas come to life.

  He was surprised to find Ms Amori once more at his side. He had the uncomfortable feeling that she had been watching him for some time.

  “We will take the pupils back to the hostel, Patterson-san,” she said.

  The hostel was basic, giving Yoshi’s capsule hotel a run for its money when it came to amenities, or lack thereof. Sam, Mr Ito and the male students were to sleep in a large dormitory with thin futons laid out on the floor and a chilly shower block behind. It brought to mind something out of Dickens but the room was very clean and the staff cordial. Sam had slept in worse places; he’d lived in worse places.

  To give the teachers some measure of privacy and distinction, Mr Ito and Sam’s futons were each placed behind large bamboo screens, decorated with cranes and ugly, candy-pink fish.

  Mr Ito retired with a nod and soon Sam heard the familiar sound of a lid being unscrewed and liquid sloshing in a bottle.

  Sam headed for the showers, stepping lightly through the dimly-lit dormitory, making a quick head count as he went, from habit if nothing else.

  On his return, the room had slipped into the soft silence of a dozen youthful sleepers – except one was now missing. Sam frowned. Quickly he re-counted: yep, definitely one person had gone AWOL. Damn it!

  He re-dressed quickly and headed for the main door. His plan was to circle the building once, check the tiny garden, and if he found nothing, he’d have no choice but to alert Ms Amori. He really, really wasn’t looking forward to admitting he’d lost a pupil on the first night; if he did, he suspected he’d be jobless by the time he disembarked at Tokyo. Or possibly by morning.

  The entrance was empty, but when he looked through the door to the square of grass behind the hostel, Sam saw the glowing tip of a cigarette. He let out a sigh of relief, his job prospects suddenly improving.

  “Kazuo, what are you doing?”

  The boy jumped to his feet, dropped his cigarette and started to apologise immediately, a look of terror on his face.

  Sam spoke slowly, hoping to calm the anxiety he heard in the boy’s voice.

  “Are you okay?”

  The boy continued to apologise. Sam wondered what he should do: he knew that Japanese law prohibited smoking by people under the age of twenty. He ought to report this – that would be the correct thing to do. But still…

  He sat on the wooden bench and indicated that Kazuo do the same. The boy sat, a wary expression on his face.

  “Did you just come out here for a smoke or…?” Sam slipped into careful Japanese.

  Kazuo nodded.

  “Well, don’t let Ms Amori see you – she wouldn’t approve either.”

  Kazuo looked worried.

  Sam sighed. “I won’t say anything – this time. But don’t leave the dormitory without permission again. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  This time Kazuo gave a small smile.

  “Okay,” said Sam, standing up, “time to get back… unless there’s anything else you want to tell me?”

  Kazuo bit his lip and Sam sat down again, ready to listen.

  “We do juken when we get back,” said Kazuo. “My parents expect me to get top grades and go to top university.”

  He threw a look of desperation at Sam, not waving but drowning.

  “But you don’t?” said Sam.

  “I want to be manga artist,” said Kazuo, his face lighting up in a smile. “I’ve wanted to do that career since I was nine years old. But my parents say it’s not a proper job – not respectable – not a serious job. But it is, Patterson-san! There are many famous manga artists – earning good money, too. I could even get a job in Hollywood one day!”

  Sam hid a smile. If he had a pound for every kid who told him they wanted to work in Hollywood, or be a reality TV star, or a footballer, he’d be rich. Some of the teachers he knew, too, now he thought of it.

  “There are university courses that include manga arts,” he said, thoughtfully.

  Kazuo shook his head. “They say that is not a serious course: they want me to be an accountant or an engineer.”

  His face crumpled on the words.

  “It’s a good back-up,” said Sam.

  He meant what he said: he knew from experience that it was important to have a Plan B.

  “I will kill myself first!” said Kazuo, his head in his hands.

  “No you won’t!” said Sam, quietly but firmly. “Listen, Kazuo: your parents think they know what’s best for you – maybe they do, I can’t say. But if you want to be a manga artist then prove it. Work on your portfolio; send your ideas to film companies and manga publishing houses. If you’re good enough, you’ll start to get work. That’s the only way your parents will take your choices seriously. In the meantime, Accountancy will be useful – especially if you end up running your own manga studio one day.”

  Kazuo’s head was still in his hands but Sam could tell he was listening.


  “It is hard, Patterson-san,” he mumbled.

  “Yes,” agreed Sam. “Life can be hard but.... what is it you Japanese say? If you do not enter the tiger’s cave, you will not catch its cub. It will be hard to study and work on your portfolio – but not impossible. But that way you can please your parents and yourself. Anything else is giving up.”

  Kazuo blinked and looked sideways at Sam, a series of emotions skittering rapidly across his face. His expression cleared slowly.

  “Thank you, Patterson-san,” he said, respect in his voice. “I will try.”

  “Good man,” said Sam. “Now let’s get back to the dorm before they send out search parties. And no more smoking.”

  Kazuo laughed nervously.

  Sam woke early, Mr Ito’s gurgling snores making further sleep impossible. He dressed quickly, picked up his book and headed back to the garden. He found the stub of Kazuo’s late night cigarette, and buried it with the heel of his shoe.

  He looked up to find Ms Amori watching him. He flushed red, knowing he looked guilty as hell. The best case scenario was that she would assume it was his cigarette. But it seemed luck was with him.

  “Did you sleep well, Patterson-san?” she said.

  “Yes, thank you,” lied Sam briskly, gazing at a spot above her left shoulder.

  “No problems with the pupils?” she asked, her dark eyes boring into him.

  “Everything is fine,” he said, blandly.

  If Ms Amori knew something, she wasn’t saying. Perhaps she wanted to play the long game. Sam knew he didn’t have much of a poker face and looked away.

  Then something else occurred to him: Ms Amori was the senior teacher and if Sam made a mistake, that reflected on her competence, too. It was the Japanese way. Maybe if she knew about Kazuo, she would feel compelled to keep quiet. The thought cheered Sam slightly. Very slightly.

  There was an awkward pause before Ms Amori nodded curtly and marched back into the hostel. Sam breathed a sigh of relief, his execution temporarily deferred.

  Breakfast was a quiet affair: everyone felt the weight of history upon them as they prepared for a difficult day. They were to visit the Atomic Bomb Museum: it was the main purpose of the whole trip and although Sam was keen to see it, he was also apprehensive.

  As he expected, Ms Amori set the tone.

  “Today will be harrowing,” she said, “but it is your duty as human beings to visit the Atomic Bomb Museum and to visit the Peace Park afterwards. As Japanese, we will remember our ancestors and will remind ourselves that their loss gave us this wisdom: never to repeat the mistake.”

  The students bowed their heads.

  As they gathered together at the hostel entrance, the atmosphere was tense. Their near-silence on the tram journey to the museum was at odds with the cheerful chatter of other tourists, happy to be in the colourful city.

  The museum was set in large grounds, the mountains blue in the background. Groups of students, smart in their uniforms, quiet in their grief, mingled with more tourists moving in ones and twos. Unlike most museums and other visitor destinations, everyone spoke in hushed tones without being asked. The girls held hands as they drifted past the haunting exhibits: a melted bottle; an aerial photograph of Nagasaki before the bomb, and one with the landscape scoured back to bare rock; a stone staircase that had turned white everywhere, except an area that had once been occupied by a human; a charred doll; and everywhere photographs, endless photographs of the dead, the dying, and the bewildered survivors.

  The statistics were stark.

  Levelled area: 2.59 square miles

  Amount of city destroyed: one third

  Damaged structures: 18,409

  Killed: 73,884

  Injured: 74,909

  Total: 148,793

  Sam felt nauseous as he wandered from room to room in silence, a burning, choking sensation in his throat. His attention was arrested by a simple black-and-white photograph of a pretty young woman. He could see her profile, although her back was turned to the camera. Her yukata had been slipped off one shoulder, revealing the skin on her back – turned black in an odd criss-cross pattern. The information printed beneath it explained:

  “My mother was a hibakusha – a survivor. She did not want me to wear coloured shirts in the summer, only white. She carried the permanent record of all survivors of the atomic blast. When the bomb fell, it had burned her morning’s wardrobe onto her flesh. Heat reflected off white shirts, thus sparing the skin; dark shirts absorbed it, charring the flesh in checkered patterns.”

  Mrs Kakaki touched Sam’s arm softly and he nearly jumped.

  “So sad, Patterson-san,” she whispered, shaking her head. “So sad.”

  For Sam, there were no words.

  By the end of the tour several of the girls were crying quietly, walking with their arms around each other, sharing their pity. They were not the only ones. Mr Ito was wiping his eyes with a small, white handkerchief, although he had seen the exhibition many, many times.

  A part of Sam wondered why the Japanese had gone on to embrace nuclear power with such enthusiasm – it seemed absurd in the present setting.

  A museum curator suggested that perhaps each student would like to make an origami paper crane as a symbol of life – of life that goes on. Sam’s breath was sucked from his lungs when he saw a room full of hundreds and thousands of tiny, brightly-coloured paper birds.

  Mrs Kakaki sat down next to him and showed him, step by step, how to fold the thin paper, and Sam’s blue crane took its place in a room that was devoted to life.

  As they left the museum, the same phrase was repeated in a dozen languages: ‘We must never forget what happened that day’.

  They stumbled out into the subdued sunshine of an autumnal day. But they were not finished yet. Ms Amori led them in a quiet crocodile to the Peace Park. A large, black stone marked the hypocentre – the spot at which, 500 metres above, the bomb had been dropped. A plaque declared that the park stood as ‘a symbol of the aspiration for world harmony’.

  Exhausted, the students sank to the cool grass. Sam stood next to Mrs Kakaki, who looked as drained as he felt. He was expecting a lecture from Mr Ito, as the senior historian on the trip, but once again it was Ms Amori who stepped forward to speak.

  “This morning has not been easy,” she said, her voice unusually rough with emotion, “but it has been necessary. We have seen what can happen when countries go to war and how the people suffer; we have seen the devastation and despair caused by nuclear warfare; and we have seen the resilience of our people and of our nation. We must learn from this lesson, never to repeat it. But we must also learn that harmony between people and between nations is the way forward.”

  She paused.

  “Therefore we are particularly honoured that our English language assistant Patterson-san has been willing to accompany us on this spiritual trip. On such a day, we are grateful for the harmony between our two nations, represented here. On behalf of us all, I thank him for coming to share this moment with us.”

  She turned to Sam and bowed deeply.

  He was stunned – and appalled when he remembered the cynical view he’d had – of why he’d been invited on this trip. And how very wrong he’d been about Ms Amori herself.

  “Thank you,” he whispered and bowed his head.

  One by one the pupils stood and filed past him in silence, each one bowing formally.

  After such a morning, the afternoon was given over to quiet pleasure. Sam took his group on a sight-seeing tour of old Nagasaki. They stood on the Megane-bashi bridge, so called because the double-arched reflection in the still water looked like a pair of spectacles – it was also the oldest stone bridge in Japan; they ate ice cream in Chinatown. They strolled along the marina of Dejima wharf, spending a pleasant hour examining the old Dutch quarter that was once a man-made island for the gaijin, a living museum of the tiny, gated trading community and once Japan’s only contact to the outside world during its long, self
-enforced isolation. It was cramped, the buildings leaning giddily one on top of the other and, in all probability, had also been smelly, noisome and exposed to the elements.

  They followed the Tera-Machi, a winding street lined with wooden temples, and wandered past several cemeteries, snaking up into the forest and the hillside beyond.

  From there they took a tram to Glover Garden, the former home of the Scotsman Thomas Glover who had lived there during Victorian times, and was credited with dragging a medieval nation into the nineteenth century. It was also rumoured that he was the gaijin on whom the sad story of Madam Butterfly had been based.

  Noboru slyly asked Sam which he thought prettiest: Japanese girls or western girls.

  Sam laughed and shook his head. “I’m not getting into that debate!” he said.

  “You are very wise, sensei,” said Jiro. “Noboru has two older sisters – he thinks it is time they married.”

  The students eyed Sam speculatively: Noboru pouted and the others laughed.

  Sam pointedly changed the subject.

  By the time they met up with the rest of their party, the students’ high spirits had been almost completely restored. Mr Ito led them officiously and with precision to an ugly restaurant squashed up against a modern multi-storey shopping centre, to eat the local delicacy: whale meat and champon – a hearty dish of noodles in a pork-based broth, filled with vegetables, bacon, shrimp, squid, and scallops.

  Sam severely disappointed him – and probably offended him, too – by choosing instead chawan mushi, a savoury steamed egg custard, a sort of loose omelette, filled with meat, fish, and mushrooms.

  Mr Ito stared disapprovingly, if myopically, whilst he shovelled large pieces of whale meat between his own jaws, with a rapidity and volume that left Sam’s stomach unusually queasy.

  Sam waved away the offer of more castella cake with a smile, Noboru once again being the happy beneficiary.

  The final entertainment of a very long day was a visit to the opera. Unsurprisingly, they were to see Puccini’s ‘Madame Butterfly’. Sam wasn’t too au fait with opera, which put him in the same position as most of the students.