I was enveloped in curious stares and intoxicated hugs. Bowing deeply, the older members of the crew asked if I would care to join their procession. I tried politely to refuse, but there was no way through the crowd and I could not get around the float without falling into the deep roadside gutter.
I locked my bike to a lamppost. I was now part of the Tondabayashi West danjiri crew. I danced along with a group of high-school students, who were keen to teach me their team chant. Judging from their response, I seemed to be doing well. When we passed a convenience store, a drinks break was called and the group swarmed in to buy beers and snacks. I bought some beers for the guys who had invited me on to the team. They were spellbound by my generosity and each bought me two beers in gratitude.
I was then ushered into the middle of the crew. A few minutes later, a panting, red-faced man appeared and presented me with a pristine hapi coat. I was slapped on the back again, and everyone chanted the team song. I was instructed to climb into the helm of the danjiri and lead the crowd in the chant. Once there, I squeezed myself into a nook that could have been designed for Mrs Oki.
I was passed a pair of cymbals, the drinks break came to an end, and the danjiri crew got into position. A young man on my left sang into a microphone and I banged on my cymbals. People in the crowd approached the front of the danjiri, calling out greetings and waving. I smiled and waved back, feeling like royalty. The master of ceremonies draped his arm over me and gave me a bear-hug. ‘You are a good man, very cool!’ he yelled in broken English into my left ear.
‘You sing! You sing!’ He thrust the microphone into my hand and pointed to the crowd. ‘Sing! Sing!’ He yelled the chorus of the team chant, and I haltingly blurted out a few words. ‘Yes! Yes!’ Another bear-hug. I stammered out a few more words, my voice crackling through the speakers.
‘My name is Masashi,’ my English-speaking friend shouted. I shouted back that he should call me H, not wanting to get into the rigmarole of explaining how to pronounce my name. ‘Hello, Mr Echi,’ he smiled. ‘Let’s sing.’
A small crowd of dancing teenagers was now leading our procession. We developed a routine where Masashi chanted half the chorus and the left half of the dancing crowd echoed it. I then called out the remainder of the chorus, and it was echoed by the right half.
The procession carried on for hours, and I became aware that we were travelling in some sort of loop. In the midst of the singing and clanging and firecrackers and dancing, I noticed that we were again approaching the convenience store. My bicycle was nearby and I decided to make my exit before the procession disappeared into unknown territory. Another drinks break was announced and I said goodbye to my new team-mates.
When I finally slumped on to my futon my clock read 2.37. I had just witnessed the greatest festival in the world.
I had chosen the worst possible week to begin with a hangover. The school’s sports day was on Wednesday, and the staff and students were to spend Monday and Tuesday outside practising for the big event.
Formalities commenced with an intense hour-long assembly, in which the students repeatedly practised lining up in perfectly symmetrical ranks. Warm-up stretches were performed to perfection, and the school anthem was sung to death. Once the teachers were convinced that the students were able to line up with military precision, the entire sports day itself was acted out, including mock races, mock high-jump events and mock shot-put displays. The weekend’s cool weather had disappeared, and it was again baking hot.
Tuesday was an exact repeat – lining-up practice, warm-up stretching practice, school anthem practice, and practice sports events. I noticed that Hiro from waka-ayu was the anchor runner for his team in the first-graders’ relay race. Looking nervous and awkward, he waited for the baton to be passed to him. The stress of the occasion took its toll, and as he dashed out of the blocks he tripped over and fell flat on his face. The other three runners sprinted past, and by the time Hiro picked himself back up he was last.
He had scraped his arm and cut his chin, and was in tears as he bravely struggled across the finish line. Mrs Hotta was ready and waiting for him, and shepherded him away to the sick bay.
Mr Higo approached as I stood idly at the side of the race track. ‘Mr Hamish, would you like to make a team with me?’ I was a little unsure what he was talking about, but he quickly explained his intention to form a teachers’ team to run in the third-grade boys’ 1500-metre race.
The idea appealed instantly. A good performance in the teachers’ team would be a perfect opportunity to boost my popularity with the students. I would run competitively with the leading pack for most of the race, and then humbly let the leader win in a close sprint-off at the finish. I was already smugly anticipating the awed respect my performance would engender.
Mr Higo was very happy to have me on his team. So far only Mr Urao, the young woodwork teacher, had expressed any interest. Mr Higo confided that all the other teachers were too old and the race would be too hard for them. My smugness increased.
On Wednesday morning I woke up feeling confident. The sun was out and the sky was clear. The 1500-metre race was scheduled as the culmination of the day’s events. By the time it arrived, I was feeling even more cocky. I stood at the starting line and surveyed the competition. Apart from Mr Higo, nobody came close to my shoulder height. This was going to be easy.
The runners bent forward to take their starting position. I bent my knee slightly: no need to exert myself too early on. Mr Terada, the physical education teacher, raised the starter’s gun. A tingle of nervousness coursed through my body. The race started and everyone sprinted off.
I had expected this. School races back home had always started with everyone sprinting at the start due to nerves. I stayed with the pack, waiting for them all to grow tired and drop off.
By the first corner they were all still sprinting. The second corner flashed by and still nobody had slowed down. If anything, they were now running even faster. We passed the 200-metre mark and then the 400-metre mark. Nobody was slowing down.
By lap three of seven my lungs were burning, but I was still holding my own. I tried sneaking glimpses of the crowd. The parents were on their feet, clapping and cheering. The students had spontaneously invented a ‘Mr Hamish!’ chant, and a roar went up when I passed the spectators’ stand. Mr Tokunaga and the other men from the Board of Education had snuck across the road from the town hall and were also waving proudly.
I passed the special dignitaries’ stand. The mayor was on his feet cheering me on. I felt like an Olympic superstar. Then reality cruelly caught up. I had never sprinted for one and half kilometres in my life. The teenage students, meanwhile, were all members of the school track and field team, and practised long-distance running every day of the week. They arrived at school at dawn and ran around the block. After school they ran an arduous cross-country circuit through the rice paddies. They then spent their weekends competing in athletics events.
My workout regime, although admirable, was poor by comparison. I cycled languidly to school. I recovered by drinking Coca-Cola and eating chocolate and steamed buns. I then sat idly writing emails and reading trashy novels. On a good day, I would walk to the convenience store and buy an ice-cream.
Back in my reputation-building race, my body was starting to give way and I felt as though I were ready to die. Slowly, I slipped backwards into last place with Mr Higo. Eventually, we were lapped by everyone except Mr Urao.
As soon as the race was over, I staggered away and collapsed in the shade. Mrs Takaoka came over to congratulate me on a ‘brave attempt’. My entire head, she said, had turned purple.
6
Adult entertainment
It was now autumn, and I was spending my Wednesday afternoons in the Yamaguchis’ lounge, eating potato chips, chatting with Hiroshi, and hoping to catch a glimpse of the lovely Aki. Sadly, Aki had made only fleeting appearances since our initial meeting and I was starting to lose hope of our ever being together.
> Another family member who never seemed to be present was Mr Yamaguchi, the head of the household. Being a typical Japanese salaryman, he was forced to devote most of his waking life to his job, and hence had little spare time for himself or his family. Mr Yamaguchi’s office, I had learned, was situated in the centre of Osaka, and he worked there until well past eleven o’clock every night, before catching the last train home to Tondabayashi Station, a two-hour journey. I was resigned to never meeting him.
One day, however, I arrived at the normal time and found Mr Yamaguchi standing in the lounge. He was a tall man with a large smile, round glasses and a loud laugh. Mrs Yamaguchi introduced us, proudly pointing out that her husband had once been a national karate champion. I gulped and decided not to publicly declare my intentions regarding his daughter.
Mr Yamaguchi insisted that I conduct my lesson with Hiroshi as usual, and stood quietly in the corner of the room, eavesdropping and trying to repeat the occasional word that he was able to pick up from our conversation. Mrs Yamaguchi had prepared a special meal, and asked if I would like to stay for dinner. I gladly accepted, and we all sat down to the first course, clam chowder. Aki was out for the evening, and I was miffed to have missed this great opportunity to woo her with my charms.
Hiroshi and I chatted about life in New Zealand, and Mrs Yamaguchi eagerly inquired about the price of vegetables and the abundance of fruit. I was in fine form, making up all sorts of facts and figures about farm life, economic development and export commodities. Mr Yamaguchi seemed very impressed and slowly leaned forward to ask a question. I paused in my explanation of current New Zealand exchange rates and waited for Mr Yamaguchi’s question.
‘Mr Hamish,’ he began seriously, looking me straight in the eye, ‘what kind of porno do you like?’
My head snapped back, and my jaw melded into a confused triple chin. ‘I’m sorry,’ I gagged, daintily snorting clam chowder through my nose. ‘What did you say?’
Mr Yamaguchi ignored my sudden expulsion of soup and repeated his question, his eyes never leaving mine. ‘Mr Hamish, what kind of pornography do you like?’
My brain scrambled to find a less embarrassing translation of the word porno. Surely, I thought, he’s talking about some sort of Mexican banking system.
But no, despite having travelled to Mexico with his family the previous year, Mr Yamaguchi held no interest whatsoever in Central American economies or financial systems. ‘Mr Hamish,’ he repeated, ‘what kind of pornography do you like, Japanese or foreign?’
I could feel my scalp turning red. ‘Ahhh,’ I stammered, ‘I don’t… ahhh, I’m not… ahhh… hmmmmm…’
Mr Yamaguchi ploughed on. ‘Mr Hamish, do you prefer Japanese or foreign pornography? I am a collector of pornography. I like pornography very much. I have a machine that removes the blurred bits. In Japan, pornography movies have naked parts blurred out. My machine can remove the blurriness. What kind of pornography do you like?’
I sat dumbstruck. I looked imploringly at Hiroshi. He smiled up at me. ‘It’s all right, Mr Hamish, Dad and I watch porn together all the time. I like porn. What kind of porn do you like, Japanese or foreign?’
I blinked in disbelief and looked across to Mrs Yamaguchi. ‘Ahhh… I don’t ahhh… I’m not ahhh… hmmmm…I don’t, ahhh, think I should have this conversation with one of my students.’
Mrs Yamaguchi understood my predicament immediately. She leant forward sternly. ‘Hiroshi, whatever Mr Hamish says is secret. Don’t tell any of your friends at school.’
My confused blinking was now causing my head to wobble. ‘Ahhh… that’s not… ahhh… I don’t… I’m not… ahhh…’
Mr Yamaguchi perked up. A look of comprehension dawned. He leant forward again, smiling. ‘Perhaps you didn’t understand my question. Let me repeat it slowly. What kind of porn do you like – Japanese or foreign?
It was as if time had come to a standstill. I could feel my mind racing, trying to think up an answer that would maintain my dignity, not embarrass my hosts, and stealthily change the topic of conversation with a witty rejoinder.
‘I… ahhh… I don’t ahhh… I’m not ahhh… I don’t know much about porn.’
‘Aha!’ Mr Yamaguchi exclaimed. ‘I knew it – he likes Japanese porn.’
Hiroshi was ecstatic; the riddle of the century had been solved.
‘No… no…’ I turned to Mrs Yamaguchi again, giving her an imploring look. ‘Mrs Yamaguchi, surely you don’t like your husband and son discussing pornography at the dinner table?’
She seemed taken aback. She looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Mr Hamish, we are an open family. I like porn. What kind of porn do you like, Japanese or foreign?’
I slumped back in my chair, completely beaten. There was no way of weaselling out of this conversation. I took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know much about porn. I’m not a collector.’
A hush descended on the table. The questioning ceased immediately. Mr Yamaguchi rose and silently walked from the room. I hunched forward and sipped my soup, staring at the tablecloth. It seemed that I had deeply offended my host. He was probably now off getting changed into his karate suit, preparing to kick me out the gate for not appreciating the finer aspects of the adult entertainment industry.
The door opened and Mr Yamaguchi stepped back into the room. I breathed a sigh of relief: he was holding a bottle of tequila and smiling from ear to ear. ‘Mr Hamish, thank you for teaching my son English. This is a present for you.’ He sat down and handed me the bottle. The conversation reverted to the economic state of New Zealand, the strength of the dollar and the cost of flatting.
Main course was served, hearty steak fillets, and dessert followed closely behind. By the end of the meal, most of the redness had drained from my face. My armpits, however, were still very moist and I badly wanted a shower.
Solemnly, the Yamaguchis gathered to farewell me. Mr Yamaguchi shook my hand and thanked me once again for teaching his son. Mrs Yamaguchi presented me with my weekly shopping bag of groceries, and then she and Hiroshi walked me to their car.
Mrs Yamaguchi drove, Hiroshi sat in the passenger seat, and I sat pensively in the back seat, contemplating the bizarre choice of dinner topic. We passed the Junior High School, and Mrs Yamaguchi took an unusual route through some backstreets to avoid traffic.
Suddenly, Hiroshi piped up and pointed at a black shape as it flashed by in the darkness. ‘That’s a row of porn vending machines. I can buy magazines and videos there, Mr Hamish.’
‘Congratulations,’ I said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Good stuff.’
‘Hiroshi!’ Mrs Yamaguchi snapped. ‘Don’t buy porn there!’
I sighed. At last, some common sense.
She continued, ‘No, don’t buy porn there! It’s too expensive. I buy my porn in town.’
I closed my eyes. Surely an American TV host was about to pop out of the glove box and tell me it had all been a joke. But no, I arrived back at my apartment and the Yamaguchis bade me goodnight. I lugged my bags of groceries up the three flights of stairs, dumped them on the kitchen sink and transferred the lettuce and tomatoes to the fridge, the bread to the bread shelf, and the ice-cream to the freezer.
Strangely, the bags still seemed quite full. I rummaged through the remaining groceries and struck a hard plastic layer. Eight pornographic videotapes stared back at me.
My fear that Hiroshi Yamaguchi would reveal the details of my new video collection to the school fortunately came to nothing, and I was able to continue teaching with an unblemished record. Although I was, technically, working only seventeen hours a week as a teacher – while being paid for forty – there were always school events to be involved with.
I was requested to act as a judge for the third-grade singing competition, in which each class would perform both a traditional Japanese anthem and a contemporary pop song. The town auditorium was booked for the big event, and invitations were sent to parents and grandparents, inviting them to come and witness s
ome spectacular singing. The students had been practising for a month, and I had overheard some fairly terrible performances as I wandered through the hallways.
The singing competition was, in the event, a shambles. All the classes were horribly out of tune, and most of the singing sounded like cats fighting. One class daringly sang an English song, of which I did not under stand a single word until Mr Higo pointed out to me that it was a Celine Dion number. Sadly, all the other judges made glowing and encouraging comments, and my negative misgivings were swept under the carpet.
The only bright spot in the whole tedious affair was the third-grade naughty boys. Somehow the three naughtiest ones in E class had convinced their classmates to allow them to be the pianist, conductor and drummer. Nobu, Kazu and Sugitani strutted boldly on to the stage and took up their positions. Nobu sat at the piano and gave the audience a cheeky grin. He seemed full of confidence. His scruffy friend Sugitani, who had his shirt defiantly untucked, started to conduct, at which point it became apparent that Nobu had never touched a piano before in his life. While Sugitani flapped his arms around madly, and bobbed his head up and down as if listening to rock music, Nobu made tentative one-finger jabs at the keyboard.
The red-faced music teacher rushed on stage and escorted Nobu to the wings. Meanwhile, his bewildered classmates started singing, but the initial shock had put them out of time with the backing tape. Simultaneously, Kazu let loose on the drum kit and drowned out the lot. I gave E class my highest score of the day, but sadly this was not enough to save Nobu, Kazu and Sugitani from an afternoon in detention.
When they were not being held back after class to be told off, the three naughty boys also made regular appearances at the touch rugby games that I had started organising during the lunch breaks. These games had proved popular. Hiroshi Yamaguchi, who was always the first on the field, loudly proclaimed he was going to live in New Zealand and play rugby every day.
Under the Osakan Sun Page 9