I leant back in my chair and started looking for patterns in the cellophane stained glass. The third-grade dean stepped on to the stage and presented the scroll to the principal. The principal turned and walked slowly back to the podium. He carefully unfurled the scroll and cleared his throat.
At that precise moment the school music teacher started playing the piano. It was a slow, sad tune that I had heard her rehearsing for weeks. I looked to my left and found that Mr Higo had burst into tears. Somewhat surprised, I tried to ignore his weeping and and resumed my cellophane stained-glass viewing. I heard sniffling to my right and noticed that Mrs Hotta was crying. I looked around in confusion. Most of the teachers in my row were sniffling, and the first student had only just received his certificate.
As the students walked up to receive their certificates, most were in tears. I surveyed the rows of third-grade students in front of me. All had their heads bowed and many were sobbing.
The piano teacher reached the end of the song and launched straight into another. I recognised the tune immediately: it had been played on the school’s loudspeakers every lunch break for a fortnight. ‘Sayonara, daisuki na hito’ is a love ballad; the title translates as ‘Goodbye, my favourite person’. This song produced a new wave of tears from my colleagues, and I pinched my wrists to keep myself in check.
The sad music continued, song after slow, sad, tear-jerking song: the music teacher seemed to know every morbid piano piece ever written. All the teachers were crying now, and the students were loudly whimpering and sobbing. My own lips were quivering and I was inflicting painful nail marks on the webbing of my hands to keep my tears in check.
Fumio had graduated.
Hiroshi Yamaguchi had graduated.
Asuka had graduated.
The naughty boys, Nobu, Kazu and Sugitani, had graduated.
The airheads from English Elective class, Waki, Mayo and Yuki, had graduated.
The student lists of four of the five homeroom classes had been read out, and the respective certificates presented. Suddenly, Jun Fujita’s name was announced. I looked up, and felt a stinging sensation in the bridge of my nose.
Jun leapt to his feet and stood as stiff as a rod, his chest puffed up and eyes fixed proudly ahead. I saw his chest rise as he took a deep breath.
He paused. Something flashed in his eyes, a sudden realisation perhaps, and his face collapsed in panic. His frightened eyes darted about. His deep breath was trapped in his tense shoulders. His arms hung stiffly by his sides, but his fingers twitched wildly.
The music was still playing, but I could no longer hear it. Jun Fujita was not moving.
People looked around. I saw Mrs Hotta’s knuckles whiten as she realised Jun was on the verge of crying. The principal paused, and read out Jun’s name again. ‘Move, Jun, move!’ I heard myself yelling inside my head. ‘Go and get your damn certificate!’ My eyes were now wells of moisture. The bridge of my nose felt as though it were on fire.
Jun stood stone still. His eyes shone with terror and confusion. It had just dawned on him that his life was about to change dramatically. He had spent the last three years in happy, familiar surroundings. He had made friends. He had spent his lunch-times playing table tennis. He had decorated the waka-ayu classroom with pictures of Pikachu and other Pokémon creatures. He knew all his teachers by name and they were always kind to him. He felt at home at Kanan Junior High School, yet he was now being forced to leave.
Jun would not continue on to a normal high school with his classmates. Instead, he had been enrolled in the local special-needs school. His lunch-time table tennis friends would not be joining him. He would no longer have the freedom to decorate the walls of his classroom with pictures of cartoon animals. His exposure to normal schooling was at an end.
His chest rose and fell as he took another deep breath. He stood rocking on his feet for a few seconds and I wondered if he was going to sit down, or perhaps turn and run away. The shy boy with curious eyes, who had hidden behind a pot plant when he met me, now had eight hundred people looking at him.
The principal called Jun’s name a third time. Somewhere in the deep recesses of Jun’s mind these two words struck a chord. His face relaxed, and his eyes again focused on the stage. He rocked back on his heels, and with a look of great pride he called out ‘Hai!’ in the loudest, clearest voice I had ever heard him utter. This single word reverberated around the school gymnasium, and I burst into tears.
Jun walked to the front of the assembly hall and steadily climbed the steps to the stage. He smiled as he accepted his certificate and bowed politely. His face, which only moments earlier had seemed lost and bewildered, was now lit up by his wide grin. Jun turned and waved at the crowd. A small murmur went up.
Jun walked proudly back to his seat and flashed a smile at the teachers as he passed our bench. A lone tear had rolled down his face.
A few minutes later the ceremony was at an end. I filed out of the gymnasium feeling dazed and emotionally spent. Groups of students were standing with their parents in the bright sunshine, taking photos and talking excitedly. Several approached me, and before I knew it I was part of family pictures. Nobu and the cool boys gathered me up for a series of hip-hop photos. Asuka and pretty girls lined me up for ‘V for Victory’ shots.
Suddenly, I felt a timid tap on my shoulder. Jun was standing next to me, looking up shyly. ‘Mr Hamish, this is my mother.’ He beamed.
I smiled and shook her hand. ‘Thank you for teaching my son,’ she said. ‘He always enjoys your classes and tells me all about them.’
Jun blushed and giggled. I laughed as well and gave Jun a clap on the shoulder. We shook hands and Mrs Fujita took our photos.
‘He’s one of the best students in the school,’ I said, and added in a confidential whisper, ‘The waka-ayu is my favourite class.’ Mrs Fujita smiled and Jun’s chest puffed up with pride.
I saw Jun only one more time. Nearly a year after he graduated, he dropped into the Junior High School on his way home from special school. He had grown considerably taller and was slightly fatter. He still had his hair clipped short and his shy, curious eyes were still as bright and cheerful as I remembered them.
He had brought me a present. He had won a table tennis tournament at his school and had been awarded a T-shirt as a prize. Alas, the person who had chosen the T-shirt must have done so under the influence of a mind-altering substance: the T-shirt was at least five sizes too big. Jun had decided it was best suited to the biggest person he knew, namely me. I was deeply moved and gave him one of my Japanese Spice Girls’ collector cards in return.
Jun thanked me for all the happy memories from his young minnows’ class and shook my hand. I escorted him back to the locker bay where we had first met, and tried not to chuckle as he hopped around on one foot putting on his shoes.
He bowed politely and walked out of the school.
I had not seen Mr Tokunaga and my friends from the Board of Education for some time and decided to give them a call. Sadly, it was midday and everyone was either at a meeting or out on business. The office ladies promised they would let Mr Tokunaga know that I had phoned.
The Japanese do not often indulge in pointless social chats over the telephone, so I should not have been surprised by Mr Tokunaga’s frantic call twenty minutes later, desperately wondering what was wrong. When I said I was simply wondering how he and the rest of the Board of Education were, and if they were keen to go out for a pint of beer and an octopus tentacle, he hummed and coughed. At length, however, he agreed that a catch-up drink was overdue, and agreed to talk to the others.
I returned home early from work, and began setting up a computer desk I had just purchased. The phone rang. It was Mrs Oki; she wanted to know if I could go to her house for dinner the next Saturday. When I said I had other plans, the phone call was cut off mid-sentence in typical Oki fashion.
I had just managed to correctly install the sliding drawers into the desk, when the phone rang again. This
time it was Mr Tokunaga. He asked if he could come round and see me at once. ‘Sure,’ I said, secretly worried as to what could be so important.
He turned up fifteen minutes later, carrying two huge shopping bags full of food. Fresh vegetables, steak and an assortment of expensive condiments that I could never afford for myself were hastily unpacked on to my kitchen bench. Mr Tokunaga then asked if it would be all right for him to eat dinner with me. He apologised profusely for not having paid me enough attention lately: the cold winter months must have been a lonely and difficult time for me.
I tried to assure him that nothing could be further from the truth. Undeterred, he shrugged and apologised again. He assured me that he would take better care of me this year, bowed, and proceeded to wash and prepare the vegetables.
Mr Tokunaga had spent an obscene amount of money: there was enough food for five meals. While he whipped up a gigantic stir-fry of chicken, carrots, onions, green peppers, cabbage, rice, and large, expensive shiitake mushrooms, I was in charge of frying two massive steaks. Our vast meal was accompanied by beer and orange juice. Meanwhile, I tried to make a point of talking about all the adventures I had been having and the numbers of friends I had made in an attempt to assure Mr Tokunaga that I was not lonely or suicidal.
At the end of the evening, Mr Tokunaga apologised again, sadly informing me that all the other members of the Board of Education had plans for the coming weekend. He wondered, however, if I would be interested in a camping trip in his recently repaired campervan. I accepted and he coughed happily. The date was set for the coming Saturday, the first day of the spring. I was not to worry about a thing: he would plan and prepare everything.
Saturday morning dawned and Mr Tokunaga arrived at my apartment fifteen minutes early. He had decided to take me camping in the mountainous back country of Okayama Prefecture, five hours’ drive northwest of Osaka. As chance would have it I had come across a tourism brochure for Okayama the previous week, been captivated by the picturesque valleys and crisp mountain rivers, and had put the place on my ‘must visit’ list.
Mr Tokunaga had also decided to invite a woman to come with us. Kimi Kuriyama worked in the town publications section at the town hall. She spoke good English, and had helped me translate tax statements, medical receipts, insurance forms and other baffling documents.
I had also worked closely with her on my monthly article for the town magazine. These articles, usually only half a page in length, were accompanied by a photo of me out and about in Kanan Town. They got my name and face into the home of every person in Kanan Town, and I would often receive a wave in the street, a handshake in the supermarket, or a friendly comment from an elderly passer-by. Kimi’s assistance in translating the articles into correct, colloquial and humorous Japanese had contributed greatly to my acceptance in Kanan Town.
Kimi was, however, yet to venture into the great outdoors and try her hand at camping. Mr Tokunaga had been aghast when he heard this, and had demanded that Kimi accompany us so she could experience the true meaning of life by spending a night in a tent.
Kimi was sitting excitedly in the passenger seat of Mr Tokunaga’s camper van, scouring maps and camping brochures, and planning the day’s schedule in meticulous detail. I sat in the back seat, and as Mr Tokunaga navigated the rats’ nest of Osakan streets I soon dozed off. I woke up as we entered Okayama Prefecture, and was amazed at the change in scenery. On my right, an emerald river flowed slowly. An old man sat patiently fishing in a wooden canoe, his head shielded from the sun by a rice-paddy hat. On the left, a steep mountain towered over us, clad in dense bush. Everything seemed magically untouched, unlike the manmade forests that clung to the hillsides of south Osaka in perfectly straight lines, or the ubiquitous concrete-lined rivers.
We continued driving for another hour, before stopping at an all-you-can-eat barbecue lamb restaurant for lunch. Mr Tokunaga had read about this restaurant, and had a made a detour to get there so I could eat food that would remind me of home. Touched by this, I decided to take full advantage of Mr Tokunaga’s kindness and ate several large helpings of lamb chops.
I was feeling on top of the world. The next stop of the day was a refreshing dip in a hot spring. I was fast becoming a fan of Japanese communal baths and hot springs. My own bathtub was pitifully small and I had long ago given up trying to use it. Unfortunately, though, my shower had also been designed for someone half my height, and I needed to bend in half in order to wash my hair. During the midst of the evil winter, I had often ventured out to the local bathhouse in search of a piping hot tub in which I could simmer and unwind without needing to chop my legs off.
A Japanese public bath is, for most Westerners, initially an embarrassing ordeal. Men and women are segregated into separate bath areas. The bather then strips completely naked, and using the showers provided scours and washes their body until it is red, raw and sparkling clean. This ritual is painstakingly observed, and to enter a public bath without bathing first is an unpardonable crime, as no chlorine or other chemicals are added to kill germs.
I would often observe rows of men sitting on the small plastic stools, furiously soaping and scrubbing their bodies, lathering their heads in shampoo, shaving and clipping their toenails in preparation for their bath. Some men even bathed in pairs, helping to scrub each other’s backs.
I would sit by myself on a stool in the corner and shower timidly, while trying to hide my private parts from any onlookers. I would then march briskly to the nearest bath, nonchalantly covering these same private parts with a face cloth, and slither in. With no bubble-jets to disguise nakedness, shyness and self-consciousness needed to be rapidly overcome.
My inaugural trip to a Japanese bathhouse took place shortly after I arrived in Japan. My English assistant, Mrs Isoi, had suggested that I visit a public bath with her and her family. After we arrived, she and her daughter had disappeared off to the women’s area, leaving me with Mr Isoi and their eight-year-old son, Ryohei.
The three of us had shuffled off to the men’s changing area, where I had reluctantly shed my clothes. Young Ryohei had been introduced to me for the first time earlier that day; before this, he had never encountered a Western male. I did my best to hide in the corner and cover myself up with a handkerchief-sized face cloth, but Ryohei stared at me fixedly.
I could feel my face burning with embarrassment, and tried hiding further away in another part of the changing area, praying that my face was the only part of my anatomy that had turned beetroot red. Mean-while, Ryohei continued to stare, and even craned his neck to get a better view.
Mr Isoi was taking an eternity getting undressed, and I was beginning to lose patience with his voyeuristic son. Finally though, Mr Isoi slowly removed his last sock, folded it carefully into thirds, and placed it tidily inside his shoe. His perfectly stacked pile of clothes was then delicately placed in a locker, and a rogue sock that had fallen on to the floor during the process was slowly and carefully refolded.
Mr Isoi pointed to a closed door ahead of me. ‘The bath is through there. Please, go first.’ I raced to the door, keen to get away from Ryohei and his inquiring gaze. I flung open the door and froze in shock. A young woman of about my age stood fully clothed in front of me.
My face cloth was clasped tightly in the hand that was clutching the door knob. I was completely exposed. ‘Where the hell am I?’ I cried inwardly, terrified that I had inadvertently wandered into the women’s changing area.
The young woman did not even blink. ‘Welcome to the Sakai bathhouse,’ she trilled. ‘Would you like a face cloth?’ I had just met the bath attendant.
I spent an uncomfortable half-hour in the bath. Ryohei continued to stare at me, and I was completely unable to understand the reason for a fully clothed twenty-one-year-old female to be present.
This incident did not put me off public bathing forever, and as it turned this was the one and only time I ever encountered a woman inside the men’s area of a bathhouse. After several trips to the
local Tondabayashi bathhouse during winter, I started to become used to being naked in a pool full of equally naked men, and discovered that a warm hot bath in the middle of the icy winter months was extremely therapeutic.
And so Mr Tokunaga’s suggestion that we spend the afternoon in the Okayama mountain spa was very welcome. Once we had soaked in the bath, dressed again, and Kimi had finished drying her hair, we proceeded to the camp ground. It was beautiful, and much more spacious than I had imagined. There were no vending machines, no power lines and not a hint of concrete. For a few moments, I forgot that I was in Japan.
It was already late in the afternoon, and Mr Tokunaga was eager for us to start preparing for dinner. He proudly produced his gas barbecue from the back of the campervan, but within minutes we discovered that the gas bottle was empty. We quickly took stock of the situation. An array of food needed to be cooked: Mr Tokunaga had spent up large on beef steaks, lamp chops, sausages, potatoes and an assortment of green vegetables. The nearest shop that might sell a gas bottle was at least an hour’s drive away.
‘I’ll build a fire!’ I announced heroically, and raced off into the undergrowth. Kimi was terrified. ‘Mr Hamish,’ she called after me, ‘be careful! You might get lost! Don’t fall and hurt yourself!’
I emerged unscathed, carrying a heavy log. ‘There’s lot of good wood in there,’ I declared. Mr Tokunaga smiled, but Kimi was still worried. ‘Oh, that wood looks sharp! Don’t cut your hands!’
I spent the next twenty minutes scouting out suitable-looking wood. Mr Tokunaga stacked the logs, and triumphantly returned from the campervan with a tube of lighter fluid. This terrified Kimi even further: she seemed convinced that Mr Tokunaga and I would ignite a large forest fire.
Mr Tokunaga distracted her by handing her the bag of potatoes and requesting that they be washed, peeled and sliced finely. She set to at once. Meanwhile, Mr Tokunaga and I erected the two tents and got the fire going.
Kimi surveyed her tent nervously, unsure if it would protect her from the elements, or marauding farm animals. She then swept both tent floors and scrubbed down all the foam mattresses in case they were covered in dust. The camp fire was now roaring happily and Kimi insisted she also cook the entire evening meal. After enjoying our second hearty barbecue of the day, we sat back and enjoyed the warmth from the fire, before turning in.
Under the Osakan Sun Page 12