by Timothy Lea
‘You haven’t brought your nieces with you,’ I say, stating the obvious.
‘No. They fly back to Japan.’
‘I don’t expect they needed planes,’ murmurs Sidney, ‘not unless they had a lot of baggage.’
‘Not bad news, I hope?’ I say.
‘Oh no. Quite reverse. They selected for Japanese ladies volley-ball tour of Russia.’
‘May God preserve Tamara Press,’ I say. If those two manglers cannot get a regular place in the team, what can the rest of them be like?
Because it is our last night Sid and I have booked ourselves into the Grand and we grudgingly take Ishowi back there with us. He is no sooner through the door than he starts practising little karate chops. ‘I read in browny that there is sauna here,’ he says. ‘I think I try.’
‘“Browny”?’
‘Small guide.’
‘Oh yes. Look, Mr. Ishowi, I’d like to have a word with you before you take that sauna.’ And Sid leads Mr. I. away towards the tea lounge. When they return there is a very thoughtful expression on the wily oriental’s mug and he is shaking his head.
‘I think I do business with English gentlemen,’ he says sadly. ‘I very surprised you behave like this behind my back.’
‘I have no wish to talk about the matter at further length,’ says Sidney with commendable dignity. ‘If you want your money you will have to do as I say. Tomorrow we leave for Blacksea.’
Blacksea is a seaside resort about thirty miles away where Truscott is introducing the Nugget to his luckless field force. We arrive there about midday. Sid has hired a coach and the scene when we leave the Grand is quite amazing. A crowd of middle-aged men, some with damp towels over their arms, throngs the foyer, a few sobbing uncontrollably. The sight visibly affects Sid, mainly because it is another reminder of the loot he has lost out on, and he does not say a word all the way to Blacksea. The girls sing the Eton Boating Song without stopping to draw breath, turning it into my least favourite song after the first half dozen miles.
Ernest Truscott is a small, fat man with a leaking mouth he is trying to plug with a small, fat cigar stub. He is wearing a beautifully cut suit and is pretty well cut himself.
‘Ee, what a loovely bunch of tarts,’ he says as the girls trip off the coach. ‘Which way does it go then, eh? I bet you can tell me that now?’ He nudges Sid in the ribs and winks at me and I bet that all the birds at Funfrall Enterprises went out and got pissed the day he left the building for good.
‘Good to see you again, Ernie,’ says Sid unconvincingly. ‘Got all your lads lined up, have you?’
‘They’re arriving after dinner. We don’t want them all blotto with booze, do we?’ says the last of the big spenders. ‘I thought we’d have a little roon through and then I’d buy the ladies a drink. You can tell me—er, which—er, woon—er, you know?’ The elbow goes in a few more times and we all wink at each other to confirm that we know it is not just used for stirring your tea.
Truscott conducts the rehearsal with a large scotch in his hand and is dead keen on playing up the Japanese bit. He decides that the conference should open with a gong being bashed and the Daughters of the Blossom doing an oriental soft shoe shuffle. When the audience has been lulled into a relaxed frame of mind, another bash on the gong will introduce Mr. Ishowi. He will come leaping on to unveil the Nugget, wearing his Samurai kit and swinging his sword. After a few grunts he will hand over to Sidney who will demonstrate the product. I like the sound of this very much because it means that I am not going to have to do anything, and the way Mr. Truscott is rabbiting on this caper sounds like amateur night at Deptford Rep. – something to be avoided like a dose of the how’s your father.
Eventually Truscott is satisfied that everybody knows what they are doing – or more precisely, what he wants them to do – and trips off to the bar to bore the knickers off the nippons, while Sid and I retire to check over the Golden Nugget – the only one we have ever found that works. It still seems to be functioning to a standard beyond the manufacturer’s wildest dreams, so we leave well alone and join Truscott at the bar for a pre-conference sup-up and suck-up. He is stumbling fitfully into top form and quickly slips his arm round Spring Fragrance’s waist.
‘Eh, darling,’ he says with a round of winks, ‘do you know what “jig jig” means?’
‘Yes,’ she says disdainfully removing his hand, ‘it is crude euphemism for “fuck”.’
Most men might have been a bit taken aback by that but Truscott thinks it is marvellous. He is the kind of bloke who reckons a girl fancies him if she only tells him to piss off. He goes on getting more and more plastered and by the time lunch is over he is staggering about like a dying buffalo – or in his case, overweight doormouse. He must be the only bloke in the room who would have to stand on a soap box to give Spring Fragrance a goodnight kiss.
A section of the dining area is screened away behind a curtain and, when I peer through, I can see rows of chairs which are beginning to fill up with what are obviously salesmen. You can tell that by the expression of bored resignation that haunts their dead eyes. They are men who have heard it all before and know they are going to have to listen to it again.
‘Right. Into battle, lads,’ says Truscott, slopping half a glass of brandy onto the carpet. ‘I’ll say a few words and then it’s on with the dancing girls, eh? Your Jap bloke gone to put his creamola on, has he?’
‘Yes, he’ll be down in a couple of minutes,’ says Sid looking at me for confirmation. I nod.
‘Well, I’ll get on with it then.’ He is about to push through the curtains when he turns and puts down his glass. ‘Don’t want the lads to think I’ve been drinking,’ he winks.
The ‘lads’ are probably able to come to this conclusion without the aid of props because Truscott trips over the curtain as he makes his entrance and staggers into the lectern which topples over slowly to hit the floor with a loud crash. Truscott’s restraining hand arrives seconds too late. Two salesmen crack their heads together scrambling to retrieve the lectern and Truscott raises his hand for the silence which is already his own undisputed property.
‘Right lads, I’ve got a few surprises for you today and that was one of them. Now, I expect some of you are saying, “Hello, here cooms old ugly mug with another load of rubbish about getting your calls in and using your point of sale material”.’ Truscott looks into his audience’s faces enquiringly. ‘Well, you are, aren’t you? It’s no good saying nowt. I know what you boogers are thinking!’ The expression on their faces does not change. ‘Well, it isn’t rubbish! This firm spends a fortune on point of sale material and I expect you to use it. Not light bonfires with it, or give it to your kids to make patterns with. Anyroad, it’s a subject I’ll return to later so don’t think you’ve heard the last of it. Now, for those surprises I was talking about. As you know I’ve always prided myself on my eye for a product with sales potential and I think that what you’re going to see in a minute will persuade you that I’ve coom oop with another winner. I cood go on for hours about it but I’m certain you’re getting tired of my voice – who said that? ! !’ His eyes probe the room. ‘Watch it! Watch it! It’s not a good time to be looking for a job, especially with the references I give.’ He glares at his audience for a full minute before continuing. ‘Now, if you’ve all got yourselves under control, I’d like to introduce you to some charming young ladies who have a few things they’d like to say to you.’ He waves an arm behind him and the Daughters of the Cherry Blossom come on singing the Nugget song.
The audience’s reaction goes through a stage of amazement to one of delight and I confirm this fact to Mr. Truscott who has surrendered the stage and is swigging brandy beside me.
‘They’re great, aren’t they? Great!’ he says. ‘Tell you who’s going to like them – Sam Hideyoshi.’ He indicates the third row of salesmen and I see that there indeed is a besuited, bespectacled male nippon looking so like his fellows that I would have failed to notice that he was not
a son of Albion unless it had been pointed out to me. ‘He’s my best salesman that one. Works like a black—eh! Did you hear that? No, but seriously, he’s a good ’un. Hard as bleeding nails. He’d slap his own moother in the clink if she got behind with her payments. Sometimes, when he’s messing about with the lads, he’ll pile half a dozen competitive products on top of each other and cut through the lot of them with one swipe of his bare hand.’
‘Fantastic,’ I say admiringly.
‘Aye, it is. Hello, look who’s here. It’s your old Japanese Samovar. Did you see that picture on the telly? Marvellous. I fell asleep, mind you, but it was very good. They put them on too late, you know.’
Ishowi is looking mean as a one-penny tip and I notice that his jaw is twitching again. That, and his rolling eyes could make you decide not to hire him as the entertainment at your kiddy’s birthday party.
‘Eeh, but he looks a proper caution, doesn’t he?’ says Truscott giving me a playful dig in the ribs. ‘He’s going to wake them up all right.’
I do not know it then, but Truscott has just uttered one of the great understatements of history.
‘Alright lad, you’re on,’ says Truscott, shoving Mr. Ishowi towards the stage. ‘Get out there and wow them!’
Ishowi crouches like a crab and putting one hand on the scabbard of his sword, clasps the hilt menacingly with the other.
‘Yu! Yor! Yoo! Y-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-w ! ! !’
As the battle cry wells up from his belly he launches himself through the curtains and I watch the eyes of everybody in the first three rows open wide with terror. Well, nearly everybody in the first three rows. Sam Hideyoshi merely leans forward unbelievingly in his seat.
‘Yoh huh! ! Yoh huh! ! Yoh huh! !’ Ishowi is now hacking lumps out of the air and puffing himself up like a lovesick bullfrog. Beside me, Sidney clasps the Nugget to his bosom and prepares to step forward.
‘YE-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ow! !’
The roar does not come from Ishowi but from row three. Hideyoshi has leapt to his feet and his face is purple.
‘Yor! Yor! Yor!’
At this point things start to happen fast. Hideyoshi charges the stage and Ishowi drops his sword and snatches Sidney’s Nugget. Why he should decide to cast down his weapon in the presence of an enraged attacker is soon explained when Hideyoshi snatches up the sword and connects with a double handed blow that should make Ishowi two different people. Instead there is a noise like somebody being slapped across the chops with a wet flounder and it becomes obvious that Ishowi’s samurai sword is as phoney as an eight-day week. Our boy is much better off with the Nugget and he delivers a nifty backhander that sends Hideyoshi staggering back into the fast retreating audience. Undeterred, Sam rips a steel-framed chair apart with his bare hands and goes for Ishy again.
While this unseemly agro is reducing the room to a shambles both Nippons are screaming at each other at the tops of their voices and the Daughters of the Cherry Blossom are flitting in and out of the action like agitated butterflies. Truscott and Sid are hiding under a table. Quite what is happening is perhaps best described by trying to reproduce the interchange between Ishowi and Hideyoshi as it is subsequently reported to us:
H. ‘YE-O-O-O-W!! Your face is known to me, unworthy dog.’
I. ‘I think there must be some mistake –’
H. ‘You have brought shame upon the land of the setting sun by traducing the words of our most noble emperor and broadcasting calumnies to the running pigs!’
I. ‘Are you sure you haven’t mixed me up with –’
H. ‘You will die!’
I. ‘Now steady on.’
H. ‘Die !!’
I. ‘Let’s talk this thing over like sensible human beings –’
H. ‘DIE !!!’
I. ‘I was only trying to do what seemed best at the time.’
H. ‘DIE!!! !’
I. ‘General MacArthur said I helped to shorten the war by several years –’
H. ‘Die!! DIE!! DIE!! Do not run, dog. Stand and fight like a man.’
I. ‘And save hundreds of thousands of lives. Of course most of them were American but –’
Ishowi ducks and weaves and every few minutes gets into a position from which he can deliver a few words whilst Hideyoshi swings non-stop. Whatever you think of Ishowi, you have to admit that the supplier of the Nogget Nugget is a born survivor. But how long can be keep his bonce out of harm’s way? He is beginning to wilt visibly, whilst Hideyoshi seems to have boundless energy. The same thought must have occurred to Ishy because he makes a last despairing lunge with his Nugget and then turns and races out of the room with Hideyoshi in hot pursuit. Truscott’s salesmen and Hotel staff scatter in all directions. Still clutching the Nugget, Ishowi dives into an office and the key turns in Hideyoshi’s face.
For a moment there is silence broken only by Hideyoshi’s heavy breathing and the sound of Sidney thinking out loud.
‘If we could get the cleaner out we would be able to get on with the demonstration,’ he says.
‘I kill him,’ says Hideyoshi.
‘This is terrible!’ moans Truscott. ‘What’s the matter with you, Sam lad. Have you gone mad?’
‘I’m sorry Mr. Truscott but that man is a war criminal and he must die.’
‘But he helped us,’ I bleat.
‘Precisely.’
‘Could we do the demonstration first, and then you can kill him?’ pleads Sidney. ‘It really is a shame to have got all your men together and –’
‘We can’t have anybody killing anybody,’ gasps Truscott. ‘Think of the publicity. Come on, Sam lad, pull yourself together. Let him out.’
‘He must die.’
‘Oh my gawd.’
‘Better get the police.’
‘Oh no.’
‘That’s the manager’s office,’ says a prune-faced receptionist. ‘He’s not going to like this.’
‘Booger what he likes,’ says Truscott. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Hand the Nugget out of the hatch and no harm will come to you,’ says Sid, speaking through the keyhole, ‘and don’t forget the attachments.’
‘Shoot oop, you fool,’ snaps Truscott. ‘I’m not interested in the bloody cleaner.’
‘But Ernest –’
‘Shoot oop, he’s trying to say something.’
Sure enough, through the door we can hear Ishowi’s voice, clear and unwavering:
‘I, Ishowi Mifune, have been unworthy of the great trust placed in me and have decided that there is only one honourable course of action open to me –’
Hideyoshi nods his head in satisfaction.
‘He’s coming out?’ says Sid.
‘He is going to slit his belly.’
‘Oh, no!!’ Truscott bangs his fist against his head. ‘He can’t do that!’
‘He has found the path of honour at last,’ says Hideyoshi solemnly. Now he can be welcomed into his father’s house.’
‘Oh, my gawd!’ exclaims Sid.
The voice from within the room continues ‘– it is my intention to commit ritual Hara Kiri and to beg the forgiveness of all for my unworthiness. Since the instrument of much of the suffering I have lately caused is within my grasp, I intend to employ that. Excuse one moment while I connect the attachment.’
‘Oh no, he can’t!’
‘Not with a Noggett Nugget.’
‘Think of the publicity.’
‘It’s better than nothing I suppose,’ says Sid thoughtfully.
‘Are you mad?’ yells Trustcott. ‘“Jap uses Nugget cleaner for ritual disembowelment”. What kind of publicity is that?’
‘Quiet please,’ says Hideyoshi holding up a hand. ‘Please respect silence for Hara Kiri.’
‘We can’t just stand here and let him do it. There must be another way in.’
‘Smash the door down.’ But, even as we speak the high pitched whine of the Nugget freezes the words in our mouths.
A black-jacketed manager speeds to o
ur side.
‘What’s happening in there?’
‘A man is killing himself with a vacuum cleaner.’
‘Very tidy of him.’
Truscott winces. ‘This is not a joke.’
‘Ssh!’ says Hideyoshi.
‘I hope this spot of unpleasantness isn’t going to turn you against the product,’ whispers Sid to Truscott. ‘We can soon get another one in. It won’t take –’
‘Give over, will you!’ groans Truscott. ‘I never want to see another cleaner as long as I live. I think I’m going to throw oop.’
‘Typical of our bloody luck that he’d have to take the only bloody cleaner that works,’ snarls Sid in my ear. ‘He could have died of old age before he did himself in with some of them.’
‘Shut up, Sid.’
The Nugget continues to drone on and suddenly there is a disturbing variation of pitch that sets my teeth on edge.
‘It’s taking a long time, isn’t it? I always said the motor on the new batch was underpowered.’
‘Shut up, Sid!!’
‘Grab hold of this!’ A party of Truscott’s salesmen have found a bench and, despite Hideyoshi’s protests that it is very bad form to interrupt, they are preparing to use it as a battering ram. There is no rush to be first man on the bench but eventually we line up across the hall and make a stumbling run at the door. Crunch! The first charge does nothing more than jar our fingers but on the third sortie there is a splintering noise and the door springs open.
‘Well –?’ For a moment I choose not to look. When I do I can see nothing but the Noggett Nugget propped against a chair with its motor still running. There is no sign of Ishowi. Maybe the manager was right. I glance gingerly towards the dirt bag.
‘The safe!’ The manager races towards the open safe. Smoke is rising from the area of the lock. ‘There were the staff’s wages in there.’ We follow his eyes to a small grill above a filing cabinet. It is open.
‘The cunning bastard!!’
‘He used the Nugget to open the safe.’
We all turn on our heels and race to the front of the hotel but there is no sign of Ishowi,