If You Follow Me

by Malena Watrous

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “He will find it.”

  “Hello,” Miyoshi-sensei says, squatting beside us. He is wearing his suit and a celadon green tie and he looks upset, his eye twitching, his face pale, and his body tense.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “Maybe American mayor won’t sign sister-city contract.”

  “Are you serious?” I ask, and he nods. “Because of the power plant?”

  “Ano ne…” he stalls. “After visiting the high school, he expressed some reservations to send American students to study abroad at Shika High School. He is afraid we do not celebrate diversity here.”

  “What diversity?” I say. “Everyone here is Japanese.”

  “I know,” he says. “I try to explain we have no diversity to celebrate, but he is not convinced.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Have you told your father?”

  “Not yet,” he says. “My father is upset about something else. He said that when they entered the technical boys’ classroom, you were forcing a condom into Nakajima’s hand. He could not understand his eyes.”

  “I was trying to teach him how to put it on a banana,” I say sheepishly. “It was part of my sex-ed lesson. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to teach it without you.”

  “Probably not,” he agrees.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I ask.

  “I think you have done enough,” he says. He tells me that it’s time for the festival to begin and I should come up front to the judges’ table. There is going to be a short sumo demonstration before the speech contest. I take a seat at the table beneath the stage alongside the local dignitaries: gray-haired men in gray suits under a gray cloud of cigarette smoke. Across from me sits the American mayor, who is trying to help his wife with their fussing baby. Her cries are so loud that it’s hard to hear Miyoshi-sensei when he gets up on stage and speaks into a microphone, explaining the rules of sumo for the Americans. “There are three ways to lose in sumo,” he says. “Number one, if you step outside the ring. Number two, if you touch the ground with anything but a foot. Number three, if you try such cowardly fighting practices as pulling hair, kicking or punching.”

  The American mayor isn’t listening. Their baby is arching her back and crying, her wails growing louder and more insistent. “I think it’s all the cigarette smoke,” Kathy says. “I’ll take her for a walk and see if I can get her to fall asleep in the pouch.”

  “Should we wait for you?” Miyoshi-sensei asks, covering the microphone.

  “Don’t bother,” she says. “I’ve never been a big wrestling fan, but Ben Junior loves it. He’s on his middle school team. This should be a real treat for him.”

  Two high school girls rush onto the stage and spread a round, black rubber mat across the floor. Then they retreat and Miyoshi-sensei calls the wrestlers to come on out, but the stage remains empty. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, his microphone from hand to hand, glancing at his watch, scanning the crowd, looking everywhere except at Lone Wolf, who is narrating into his own microphone while his cameraman films the empty mat. “Where are the wrestlers?” His amplified voice fills the air. “The crowd grows restless. Everyone is bored. Will there be no sumo match today?”

  “We’re here,” says Nakajima, panting as he runs up the stairs, dressed in a black sweatshirt and baggy jeans, his Afro-perm puff ed out bigger than ever. He is trailed by Haruki Ogawa, who is wearing his school uniform.

  “You’re late,” says Miyoshi-sensei. “Why aren’t you in your mawashi?”

  “Kieta,” Nakajima replies. They vanished.

  “Really,” Miyoshi-sensei says, looking at Haruki.

  “Honto ni!” Nakajima insists. “Right out of our bags!”

  “Fine,” Miyoshi-sensei says. “You can wrestle in your clothes.”

  “No way,” says Nakajima. “That’s no fun. Sumo is about bodies.” His pants are so huge that he can pull them down without undoing his fly. Then he yanks his sweatshirt over his head so that he’s wearing just his boxer shorts, which are green with bright yellow frogs. The crowd goes wild. Girls giggle and shield their eyes. Boys whistle and clap each other on the backs. Old men chuckle and old women shake their heads. For a moment their reactions puzzle me. The mawashi is far more revealing than this, a narrow strip of white cloth cutting a swath between the butt cheeks. But it’s a uniform. The crowd hoots and calls for Ogawa-san to take his clothes off too, and when it’s clear that they’re not going to relent, Haruki moves in his usual slow motion, stripping as if there were a gun to his head. Dressed only in a sad pair of tight briefs, he looks like the real sumo wrestler, meaning he looks like a giant baby. His upper body is so fat that his arms seem to float, buoyed by the rings of his chest. His thighs are so big that he has to keep his legs spread.

  “Those are the two boys that are going to wrestle each other?” the mayor asks me.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “That doesn’t look like a fair contest.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “It won’t be.”

  Miyoshi-sensei puts the whistle in his mouth, nods at each boy, and then blows. Nakajima squats, lifting one leg in the air and then the other while Haruki remains frozen. Only when Nakajima lunges does Haruki bolt, running downstairs, and through the crowd.

  “What’s going on?” the American mayor asks me. “Why won’t he fight the kid?”

  “He’s scared of him,” I say.

  “That’s crazy.” He sounds furious. “I can’t just sit here and watch the boy get ostracized. Go on, Ben.” He nudges his son. “Wrestle with the brother.”

  The brother?

  Before I can speak, correct this mistake, the boy is already walking onto the stage, taking off his own sweatshirt. The crowd applauds. The boy grins and waves at his mom, who has returned with the sleeping baby. He still has the chest of a little boy, sunken and sweet, with tiny nipples the pale pink of pencil erasers. His brown skin is just a shade darker than Nakajima’s, his curls just a little less tightly coiled.

  They could in fact be brothers.

  “I got the rules,” he says to Miyoshi-sensei, who looks nervous as he backs slowly away. Nakajima shows the boy how to do the squatting and leg lifting thing. They lock eyes, and when Miyoshi-sensei blows the whistle, they charge at each other and the littler boy wraps his arms around the bigger one.

  Nakajima doesn’t let the boy win, but he does allow himself to be pushed around the circle a few times before he nudges him out of it. When they bow at each other again, both wear grins as wide as bananas. Nakajima offers to wrestle anyone else in the crowd, and a bunch of junior high school boys take him up on his offer, all stripping to their underwear before climbing up onstage. I’ve never seen Nakajima look this happy. Like the rest of us, he just wants to be good at something, left to do this thing.

  When I climb up onstage, his smile wavers.

  When I begin to unwrap my obi, he looks downright uncomfortable.

  “Sumo not for girl,” he says, but I only smile, stretch out the moment, slowly opening the kimono, easing it off one shoulder and then the other.

  “Dangerous-o!” Lone Wolf howls into the microphone.

  The crowd is silent.

  Catching sight of Miyoshi-sensei, who is covering his mouth with one hand and shaking his head with perceptible horror, I quickly slide the kimono off to reveal my tank top and shorts. Everyone claps and laughs, even Nakajima. “Teach me,” I say, so he shows me how to warm up. Then we lean into each other, shoulder to shoulder. As I push against him, he matches my force exactly. This is just what my dad used to do when I was little and we’d arm wrestle. It drove me crazy, the way he could hold his arm steady while I exhausted myself, pushing without progress. It was his way of showing love. He wouldn’t let me win, but he didn’t want to crush me either.

  Nakajima shifts, trying to throw me off balance. I manage to stay within the ring, bending down to grab hold of his ankle. He twists easily out of my grasp
. “Nakajima gets around,” he whispers. When I start to giggle, he seizes my own leg and holds it in the air while I hop backward, laughing even as he pushes me out.

  “Okay,” Miyoshi-sensei says. “I am sorry, Miss Marina, but Nakajima is still undefeated sumo champion!” Everyone claps and whistles and calls his name, “Nakajima! Nakajima! Nakajima!” But suddenly the chant shifts. “Ogawa?” yells one of the senior technical boys. “Ogawa! Ogawa! Ogawa!” It’s more jeer than cheer.

  As Haruki climbs the stairs and takes his place in the ring, members of the audience place bets over which boy will win. The one with the sumo title, or the one with the sumo body. Once more Miyoshi-sensei raises the whistle to his lips, and this time both charge, ramming bodies like big animals battling for a small territory. Haruki bears down on Nakajima, using his chest to push him to the far side of the ring. But then, at the last moment, Nakajima swivels out from under Haruki, throws him off balance and seizes his ankle, uprooting his massive leg. Haruki freezes as Nakajima starts shoving him toward the edge of the ring, moving him like something inanimate, a piano or a refrigerator. I can’t help but feel disappointed. If this were a Hollywood movie, Haruki would have to win. He’s the underdog. He has the physical advantage and the motivation to beat his former bully. And what a thrill it would be to defeat Nakajima at his own sport, in front of an audience, and on TV.

  “Unbelievable!” Lone Wolf intones. “The fat one appears to be losing!”

  Haruki breaks the first rule of sumo, kneeing Nakajima in the groin. As Nakajima doubles over, Haruki throws his whole weight on top of him, clamping his hand around his throat. They roll over each other and off the edge of the stage, and even after they hit the ground Haruki doesn’t stop punching and kicking, as if he’d been saving up all of that stillness, storing all his wild energy for just this moment, just this chance.

  A couple runs through the crowd, prying the boy off Nakajima. The woman is wearing the jade green uniform of the grocery store, and she takes off the jacket, using it to soak up the blood streaming from his nose. These must be Nakajima’s parents. I recognize the man from behind the window of Shika’s one barbershop, which serves a clientele of plant workers. He has a perm too. They guide their limping son through the crowd, propping him up with their arms, ignoring Haruki who is sitting with his forehead pressed to his knees. Miyoshi-sensei takes off his own suit jacket and sets it on the boy’s shaking back.

  “Is he okay?” I ask.

  “I should probably take him home,” Miyoshi-sensei says.

  “It looked like he wanted to kill Nakajima.”

  “He wanted to win,” he says. “Of course it’s not the right way. He should not have broken rules. But for once he was not a stone, ne? Maybe next time he takes a better risk.”

  “Is he going to be suspended from school?” I ask.

  “This would not be punishment for Haruki.”

  “No,” I agree. “I guess it would be a reward.”

  “It would be giving up,” he says.

  He helps Haruki to his feet. His suit jacket flaps like a tiny cape on Haruki’s huge body. With snot streaming down his face and eyes of glass, the boy looks like a refugee, someone who has lost his home and has no idea where to go.

  Lone Wolf and his camera crew position themselves in front of the stage as I take the microphone and announce that it’s time for the English speech contest. I wish I were still wearing the kimono instead of this tank top and shorts. “If any of you would like to make a speech in English, now’s the time!” I repeat once more, but again no one steps forward. The SMILE members scattered throughout the crowd avoid my eyes.

  “Tsumaranai,” I hear Lone Wolf mutter to his cameraman. This is boring.

  “Wakaranai?” I ask the crowd. Do you understand me?

  “Wakaranai?” a familiar voice echoes.

  From the back of the lawn, I see Keiko and her boys making their slow way toward the stage. Fumiya is rubber-kneed, trying to wriggle away from his mom, who is holding him by the elbow, dragging him forward while Koji pushes him from the back. When the three of them finally straggle up onstage, I try to give Fumiya the microphone but he swats at my hand, so I place it in the stand and step aside.

  “It’s Jyabauokki time,” Keiko says to Fumiya, who just looks at her and giggles.

  “’Twas brillig,” I prompt him, clapping once.

  “Wittttthhhhhh,” Fumiya blows into the microphone. The sound crackles through the PA system and he widens his eyes and jumps, frightened by the echo of his echo.

  “Twas brillig,” I try again.

  “Witttthhhhhhh,” he says again before scratching his chin with the microphone, then lowering his hand to his crotch. He laughs but no one laughs with him. Even Lone Wolf is silent, his cameraman standing beside him, capturing everything on film.

  “’Twas brillig,” Koji speaks suddenly in a loud, clear little voice.

  “Mo ichi do,” Keiko urges her younger son, who moves forward to stand next to Fumiya, reaching for his hand. For once the older boy doesn’t recoil from touch. He looks down at his little brother and beams. You can tell how much he loves him. “’Twas brillig,” Koji says again, “and the slithy toves, did gyre and gimble in the wabe.” This time, when he pauses, a voice repeats after him, a uninflected voice from the crowd. At the dignitaries’ table, the mayor, Miyoshi-sensei’s father, is standing up. As he repeats after the little boy, the sound coming out of his voice box is slightly robotic but clear and easy to follow.

  “All mimsy,” Koji starts the next line.

  “All mimsy!” Fumiya yells, and everyone laughs.

  “Were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe,” the mayor finishes.

  And this is the segment that ends up on Lone Wolf’s variety show, not the story of two mayors signing a sister-city contract—which they do, later that same day—not the story of two rice farmers driving tractors across the Noto Peninsula in search of brides, not even the story of two boys using sumo wrestling to settle an old grudge, but the story of two real brothers, neither of whom can answer the question “How are you?” in English, who nonetheless managed to memorize Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky and recite it in front of everyone in town, with the help of a man whose own voice had all but vanished.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  chiru: (V.) to fall; to scatter; to dissolve; to break up; to die a noble death

  On the Monday morning after the festival, I arrive in the faculty room and find Miyoshi-sensei waiting for me at my desk. He has a cup of tea in each hand. “Thank you for yesterday,” he says, handing me a cup.

  “You’re welcome,” I say, “but I didn’t do much. I’m glad it wasn’t a disaster.”

  “Me too,” he says.

  “Did your father have fun?”

  “I think so. All night, he continued repeating this poem, over and over. I don’t know why he likes it so much. Maybe it’s memory lane trip for him. But memory of what?” I laugh, then stop as the principal enters the faculty room, addressing Miyoshi-sensei in formal Japanese. “Principal has some important thing to discuss,” he translates, “concerning Miss Marina’s special methods for teaching English.”

  “Okay,” I say, braced for the worst. No doubt he wants to discuss the class he walked into on Friday, the posters on the wall, the condom I shoved into Nakajima’s hand. The air in the principal’s private office is already dense with smoke, as acrid as an airport smoking lounge, but he lights up another cigarette before sitting down. He pulls a piece of paper from his desk drawer. I can’t see through the haze, but I’m sure it must be my sex-ed worksheet. I’ll bet that he’s going to ask me to explain my own risky behavior before he sends me packing.

  “Last year in August,” Miyoshi-sensei says, “I became your supervisor. This means I am responsible for you. Also, this means that if you do something, bad or good, then it reflects on me and I look bad or good as well. It’s Japanese way. This is why I feel so nervous when you don’t follow rules, like breakin
g a gomi law. Do you understand?” I nod, looking at his hands, which remain steady as he takes the sheet of paper from the principal, then presents it to me. But it’s not my sex-ed worksheet, or a letter detailing my latest errors. Instead it’s an official-looking document on thick and creamy card stock, covered in vertical lines of Japanese characters, with a bloodred seal at the bottom. “Principal and I agree. Here at Shika Koko, you have found many ways to make English useful. Useful and fun.” The principal nods, although I suspect he has no idea what’s being said. “This is a contract. Principal would like to invite you to renew, to teach for one more year here.”

  “Really?” I say. “Even after the sex-ed lesson?”

  “Yes,” he says. “I explained usefulness of this lesson, without naming a name, and principal came to understand why you taught such a thing. But he would rather you did not repeat this lesson.”

  “Wow,” I say, thinking how brave he was to come to my defense. “Still, I’m surprised he wants me to keep teaching here.”

  “To be truthful,” Miyoshi-sensei says, “probably he would offer contract renewal to anyone. It’s kind of routine procedure. It’s so tiring to explain the rules to a new foreigner over and over, always answering the same questions. Like having a new baby every year. But he sincerely hopes that you will accept this offer.”

  “Do you?” I ask, trying to catch his gaze through the smoke.

  “My desire is not relevant to this matter,” he says, accepting a cigarette from the principal. “Would you like one?” he asks me.

  “Thanks,” I say, “but I think I finally quit. At least I’m trying.”

  “Good for you,” he says. “It’s very difficult, I know well. I’ve tried many times.”

  “I can help you,” I offer. “My mom sent me another huge box of Nicorette. Whenever you have a craving, just ask me for a piece and I’ll give you one.”

  “Ah,” he says. “Well, this would be difficult too.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he says, “I have been transferred to a new high school. Nanao Koko, on other side of peninsula.”