Under the Osakan Sun

by Hamish Beaton

  It was pitch-black, and the sudden lack of light was disorienting. I slept little, but Mr Tokunaga dozed off almost instantly and snored like a bulldozer until dawn. The next morning Kimi was up early. By the time Mr Tokunaga and I had put the tents down, she had served breakfast, swept the camp site, packed all her belongings into the campervan, and washed and polished Mr Tokunaga’s frying pans and cooking pots until they gleamed.

  Mr Tokunaga was a great boss. As well as showing me around town, escorting me to festivals, arranging pub outings and taking me camping, he turned a blind eye when, for the next three weeks, I disappeared without explanation. It was the spring holidays and I travelled round Thailand, Cambodia and the Philippines with my foreign English teacher friends without using up any of my precious annual leave. But my luck was about to change.

  I returned home in mid April from my secret holiday with the cunningly formulated cover story that I had been at the public library for three weeks diligently studying Japanese. Hopefully nobody would notice my newly acquired sun tan, or test me on my ‘vastly improved’ knowledge of Japanese.

  On the first day of the new school year, I cycled off to work early, intending to drop in and say hello to my friends at the Board of Education on the way. At the town hall I bounded up the stairs to the third floor and strode towards Mr Tokunaga’s desk.

  It seemed remarkably different. A chubby, nervous-looking man was sitting in the chair. What was going on?

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ Magnum chimed. ‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘At the library,’ I replied timidly.

  ‘Ah, really? Hmm. There is some big news. Have you heard?’

  I shook my head, suddenly feeling worried.

  Magnum frowned, and his moustache drooped. ‘Aah, you have a new boss. Mr Tokunaga is gone. We had a farewell party last night. We tried to call you, but you weren’t there. You have a new boss.’

  He pointed at the chubby man. ‘This is Mr Horrii.’

  Every year during the spring holidays, the Japanese government decides to stick its oar into things by transferring civil servants to new postings, sometimes in completely different institutions. I felt guilty. While I had been trekking around Angkor Wat and swimming in tropical seas, Mr Tokunaga had been packing up his belongings and moving to a new position as vice principal of an elementary school in Tondabayashi.

  Just like that, my life in Japan had changed. I did not realise it yet, but more unpleasant changes were in store.

  9

  Magnificent Mr Doi

  I arrived at the school fashionably late as always, locked my bike in the rack and hurried into assembly. The students seemed to have shrunk. The lanky third-graders from the previous year were nowhere to be found. Jun Fujita was now across town in his special-needs school. Hiroshi Yamaguchi was in Dunedin. I imagined him sitting in a drafty house, eating pies and feeling far from home as he was now unable to watch porn with his father.

  One hundred and fifty-three new students had entered the first grade. They were short, scrawny and oily-faced. Oversized school blazers hung limply on their skinny bodies, and sleeves and trousers legs seemed three sizes too long.

  Stern teachers patrolled the grounds, barking orders and yelling at any student not standing perfectly in line. After a formal welcome from the principal, the assembly came to a close, and I sauntered slowly to the staffroom, where a meeting had been called to welcome newly transferred staff. The meeting was short and to the point. The new teachers stood and introduced themselves. They then bowed, and promised they would do their best to be good teachers and hoped that we would all think fondly of them. The lukewarm reception I had received on my first day was recreated. The new teachers received blank stares, a few frowns and a couple of scowls.

  There was a new English teacher. Ms Domae, the nervous young woman who had helped me prepare my welcome speech at last year’s summer assembly, was gone. Her desk was now being occupied by Mr Hioki. Mr Hioki was in his early forties. He wore a grey tracksuit and had a bowl-shaped haircut.

  There was a new minder in the young minnows’ class. Mrs Hotta was gone; her role was to be filled by one of the former PE teachers.

  There was a new PE teacher, Mr Tanaka, who looked like a fairly cool dude. He had a fashionable haircut and trendy horn-rimmed glasses.

  There was a new maths teacher, Mr Shimizu. He had a crew cut, and eyebrows like Bert from Sesame Street.

  And lastly there was a new woodwork teacher. Mr Doi was middle-aged, and wore a checked flannel shirt with the collar turned up, and enough buttons undone to display the neckline of his crisp white T-shirt. The cellphone in his shirt pocket was ingeniously secured by a bright orange, stretchy plastic cord.

  Mr Doi exuded self-confidence. He strutted about the staffroom, keenly talking about himself and promoting his own magnificence. The other teachers tolerated his booming voice, hoarse laugh and loud cellphone jingles. They did not, however, appear to enjoy talking to him, and whenever he appeared they would leave the room or suddenly need to make an urgent phone call.

  Less skillful at these avoidance tactics, I soon became easy prey for Mr Doi. ‘Excuse me,’ he boomed, towering over my desk. ‘I speak English. I think I will speak English with you.’

  ‘Ah, hello,’ I replied. ‘My name is Hamish.’

  ‘Hem? Heim?’ he stammered. Arms tightly folded, he eyed me suspiciously. ‘I do not know that name.’

  ‘My nickname here is Hame.’

  ‘Hame? Where did you come from?’

  ‘New Zealand.’

  His eyes narrowed further. ‘So you are not American?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmm.’ A frown creased his forehead. ‘You are not from England?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmm. I do not know New Zealand. Do you speak good English there?’

  ‘Yes, we speak the Queen’s English.’

  Mr Doi’s frown deepened: he did not appear to understand that particular term.

  ‘So, not American?’

  ‘No, I am from New Zealand.’

  Mr Doi seemed disappointed. ‘Can you speak Japanese? I think you find it difficult to live here.’

  ‘I can speak Japanese a little,’ I replied curtly. I was not keen to make conversation time with Mr Doi a regular event.

  ‘Hmm. I think I speak English better than your Japanese. Ha ha. I live in Wakayama. Have you been there?’

  I nodded and Mr Doi rattled on. ‘I am new at this school. I would like to learn English. I think you can teach me. I think you are a great man. But I think you find it difficult to live here. Do you have a car?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, I don’t need a car. I can take the –’

  Mr Doi was not listening. ‘Why don’t you have a car? Can’t you drive?’

  His arms were even more tightly folded now. My reputation as a great man was suddenly in jeopardy.

  ‘Yes, I can drive but I don’t need a car in Japan. I have a bicycle.’

  Mr Doi laughed. ‘Bicycle. Ha ha ha. Do you know that I was once a racing-car driver? I can drive very fast.’

  I shook my head and looked for an escape route.

  Mr Doi’s phone beeped and his chest vibrated. The conversation was thankfully at an end.

  I was now on my own with the waka-ayu team. The absence of Jun, Fumio and Mrs Hotta was a real loss. Hiro seemed sad and lonely. There were no more random outbursts of laughter or croaky sniggers. Instead he sat quietly, his head down.

  Yurika, meanwhile, had spent the holidays studying, and had been promoted back into the mainstream English class. She was, however, skipping one science period a week in order to continue to attend special English with Mr Hamish. She sat eagerly to attention next to Hiro, and had her hand up and all questions answered well before I could finish asking them.

  Then there was Teru-Chan. Teru-Chan had started the new year vowing to attend school each day and take part in class. Sadly, though, this amounted to n
othing more than lolling in her seat, looking scared, homicidal and confused – all at the same time.

  Mrs Hotta had been replaced by Mr Omura, one of the PE teachers, but unfortunately he was busy during first period on Fridays and unable to attend my class. He did, however, seem to have a good rapport with Teru-Chan, and I often saw him joking with her in the corridors and even making her smile. I prayed his comedic routines would continue to find favour, as they were possibly all that was keeping Teru-Chan from killing someone with the paper scissors.

  Apart from Yurika, the young minnows seemed to have forgotten everything we had done in the previous year. Hiro, for example, had forgotten all the English numbers and couldn’t even count to ten. He had started learning them two years earlier.

  I was both annoyed and happy about the collective amnesia – annoyed because I had wasted my time, but happy because I would be able to re-use the class plans from the previous year without anyone noticing.

  I spent no time preparing for the following Friday’s class. Hiro’s lack of enthusiasm, Teru-Chan’s scariness and Yurika’s irritating chirpiness had knocked my fondness for the team. Snakes and Ladders sat in my top drawer, ready to be taken out and played for the umpteenth time. The bell for first period chimed and I mentally prepared myself for a mind-numbing hour.

  ‘Mr Hame, I think you have young minnows’ class now.’ Mr Doi was standing next to my desk, arms folded. ‘I will come to class with you. I want to see your lesson. I think we should make English club. We can have English conversation for one hour.’

  I shuddered inwardly. ‘Sure, Mr Doi. What would you like to talk about?’

  ‘Hmm, what do you usually talk to the students about – current affairs maybe?’

  I struggled not to laugh out loud. ‘That might be a little difficult, but let’s try.’ I gave Mr Doi a jolly thumbs-up and the cheesiest grin I could manage. I ferreted through my drawers and pulled out page one of the previous year’s ambitious English passport project. ‘Let’s go,’ I announced cheerfully.

  Without Jun’s spirit and Mrs Hotta’s calm influence, the class fell flat within seconds. Hiro struggled to remember the alphabet and needed assistance writing the letter Z. Teru-Chan struggled to say her own name, and left her passport page untouched. I won three games of Snakes and Ladders in a row.

  Mr Doi sat sullenly at the back of the class, conversation about the Japanese economy and New Zealand weather patterns temporarily on hold. His attempt at getting English lessons on the sly was not going to wash with me.

  The following week’s class was even worse. Mr Doi’s attendance forced me to attempt to teach something in order not to appear lazy, so I took along worksheets that involved colouring in cartoon faces and learning the words for ear, mouth, nose, hair, head and face.

  Jun and Hiro had ripped through these the previous year, with Jun clapping and giggling and covering his eyes in glee. This merry atmosphere was, sadly, not to be recreated. Before we even started, Teru-Chan refused to pay any attention, and stared at the ceiling. This made Yurika upset; she tugged on Teru-Chan’s arm. Teru-Chan picked up a handful of felt-tip pens and spent several minutes colouring in her pencil case. Yurika started crying. Hiro, meanwhile, sat quietly, head bowed, unsure what to make of his female classmates.

  I gave up on the worksheet and pulled out the Snakes and Ladders board. Hiro, Yurika and I played a subdued game for forty minutes until the bell rang. Teru-Chan stared at the ceiling and refused to take part.

  As I was leaving the class, Mr Doi strutted over coolly. ‘I think the students’ level is very low,’ he observed wisely.

  ‘They’re a little quiet at the moment,’ I admitted. ‘Last year they were a lot more energetic.’

  ‘You have a different accent to American people. I am not sure if your English is as good as American people.’ And with that Mr Doi strode off to the staffroom, leaving me fuming and grinding my teeth with rage.

  The young minnows’ class may have been exasperating, but it was nothing compared to what lay in store for me with the new English teacher and the first-grade students. Mr Hioki got our professional relationship off to a flying start by making me sing the ABC song to the class, solo, forty-eight times in four days.

  Not content with inflicting this ritual humiliation, he insisted that I make a tape recording of myself singing the song so he could play it to the students when I wasn’t around. The students therefore spent their first fortnight of English education doing nothing but singing the ABC song. Mr Hioki scolded them when they didn’t sing loud enough, and gave several boys detention for not getting into the spirit of things.

  The following fortnight was even more tedious. Mr Hioki decided the children now needed to have the greeting ‘How are you? I’m fine’ drilled into them if they were to succeed in life.

  His lesson plan went as follows:

  I stood at the front and asked myself, ‘How are you?’

  I paused, and then answered my own question by saying, ‘I’m fine.’

  The students were then instructed to repeat these two sentences three times.

  This monologue, which made me look like an insane person, was repeated at least twenty times during the hour-long class.

  Mr Hioki seemed oblivious to any suggestions for changes or additions to his lesson plan. At one stage, however, a small miracle occurred: he agreed that I could play a word game with the students during the final ten minutes of class. This window of freedom closed when, only moments into the game, a boy spoke out of turn and we were all forced to sing the ABC song as punishment until the bell rang.

  After a fortnight Mr Hioki decided to take the novel approach of involving his students in the lesson plan. ‘I will choose one of you at random,’ he announced, ‘and ask you an English question, to which I expect a response.’

  ‘This,’ he declared, ‘is what it would be like if you lived in a foreign country.’

  Mr Hioki surveyed the pale faces and pointed at a sleepy-looking boy. ‘How are you?’ he demanded.

  The boy looked confused.

  ‘HOW ARE YOU?’ Mr Hioki thundered.

  The boy sat completely still and looked straight ahead.

  ‘HOW… ARE… YOU?’ Mr Hioki’s face was now an angry red.

  The boy looked at his desk and bit his tongue.

  An awkward silence descended. The boy burst into tears. He continued to cry for the ensuing thirty minutes until the bell rang.

  I took refuge from my increasingly soul-destroying job by packing my weeknights and weekends with activities. Mr Tokunaga and I caught up regularly for drinks and dinner at the local Korean barbecue restaurant. He was finding his new job difficult and stressful, and was spending more and more time at the office.

  I visited the Okis at least once a month, and we would usually dine at fancy sushi restaurants. Mrs Oki remarked on my choice of clothing and wondered if I was hot, what classes I taught, and how my mother was.

  Hiroshi Yamaguchi’s departure to New Zealand had brought an end to my Wednesday visits to the porn family home, and I never saw Aki again. I did, however, make contact with several other families in Kanan Town and was occasionally invited around for midweek dinners or cups of tea.

  I chatted with my neighbours on the way home from work each day. Fu-Chan had started school and was keen to show me the books she was reading. Old Mrs Okuda continued to ask if I were living alone, and was overjoyed and impressed to find out I was. Young Mrs Okuda continued to provide me with seasonal vegetables and fruit and to remark on the contents of my grocery bags.

  I spent a lot of time on my bicycle as well. The warm spring days were perfect for long bike rides, and I would often meet up with my friend Justin and go cycling in the rice paddies and mountains. In the weekends my friends and I visited numerous inner-city bars where we had become regulars, even having our photos on the wall. I had become accustomed to Japanese alcohol and had developed an appreciation and love of warm sake. However, I was still unable to touch
chuhai.

  Mrs Terauchi was the spokeswoman for a group of elderly Japanese women who called themselves my Japanese mothers. She had appeared at my desk in the staffroom one day in late April, sweeping past Mr Kazama, who was attempting to greet her politely, and jabbered at me in quick-fire Japanese.

  ‘Oh sensei,’ she exclaimed, referring to me as ‘teacher’ in Japanese, ‘I’m so glad to finally meet you.’

  I blinked in surprise. I had absolutely no idea who this crazy-looking woman might be. I suspected she might be the representative of a religious cult.

  ‘My name is Hiroko Terauchi,’ she continued. ‘I represent a group of local ladies. We have read about you in the Kanan Town magazine. We enjoy your articles very much. We wish to learn English, and would like to invite you to one of our homes for dinner. Would you be kind enough to visit us this Thursday afternoon, sensei? I will pick you up.’

  Dumbfounded, I simply nodded.

  Mrs Terauchi laughed. ‘Oh, thank you, sensei, thank you. We are most happy. Oh, thank you so much.’ She clapped her hands together and smiled at me. ‘I will meet you after your school finishes on Thursday.’

  The following Thursday at 4.15 sharp Mrs Terauchi materialised at my desk and insisted we depart immediately. ‘My group of ladies will be waiting. Please, sensei, we must go.’

  A few moments of confusion followed. I tried to get Mrs Terauchi to wait while I shifted my bicycle out of the bike racks, as these were locked at six o’clock each night. I tried to explain that I would need to cycle home after dinner.