Under the Osakan Sun

by Hamish Beaton

  A few trumpets blasted.

  We waited …

  The next player managed to make a quick dash to first base.

  A few plastic clackers sounded.

  We waited …

  The innings wore on, and we continued to wait expectantly for some drunken silliness to spice up the action.

  Nothing.

  The innings ended and the fielding team raced off to the dugout. At this point the chant leaders leapt to their feet and blew their whistles. The crowd responded immediately, and thus began one of the most bizarre displays of cheering I have ever seen.

  The entire crowd stood and began singing the Hanshin Tiger’s team anthem at the top of their lungs, complete with weird hand gestures, vigorous salutes and pretend swings of the bat. They rocked and swayed in perfect unison. At the exact moment the players took the field for the second innings, the singing came to an end.

  Each innings was much like the first: tediously slow baseball, punctuated with an occasional trumpet blast or plastic clack. The supporters seemed content to limit their cheering to the breaks, and it was the break at the end of the seventh inning that produced the most comical moment of the night. Throughout the innings, stadium officials had been circulating and handing out balloons. I had come close to throwing mine away, but a man sitting next to me had assured me I should hold on to it.

  The innings came to an end, and everyone stood up. A voice from the loudspeakers instructed us to prepare our balloons and wait for the countdown. I inflated my balloon and looked around; a stadium full of grey- and yellow-clad baseball fans stood clutching inflated balloons. A countdown sounded, and on zero everyone released their balloons. The balloons spiralled and zipped through the air. Universal applause.

  The voice from the loudspeakers resumed, politely asking us to take a few moments to bend down and pick up any balloons near our feet. The baseball game halted for five minutes while the stadium full of spectators did their civic duty and picked up slobbery second-hand balloons to dispose of in the rubbish.

  The chorus of whistling balloons had had a magical effect on the Hanshin Tigers. Their batsmen were suddenly able to hit the ball, and at the end of the ninth innings the final batter hit the ball out of the stadium to win the game with a dramatic home run. The seven-game losing streak was broken and the ecstatic fans politely filed out of the stadium and made their way home.

  The following day, the Isoi family invited me to go to a baseball batting centre with them. I readily accepted, although I was still not comfortable around eight-year-old Ryohei and his inquisitive gaze.

  The invitation had come at a fortuitous time: Mr Higo, who doubled as the coach of the school baseball team, had scheduled a staff v. students’ baseball game for the final day of term. With my cricketing ability, I had pictured myself effortlessly belting the ball out of the park and reducing the lead pitcher to tears. The truth was, though, that I had never swung a baseball bat. What’s more, after I had secured my place in the team I had learned that the students’ star pitcher was one of the best in his age group for South Osaka, and could pitch the ball at speeds of up to 130 kilometres per hour.

  The trip to the batting centre started out well. Despite the temperature being 37 degrees and Ryohei constantly hugging my leg, I was in fine form, and with the ball machine set at 80 kilometres per hour sent numerous balls zipping into the ‘home run’ target plate.

  Mr Isoi then cranked the ball machine up to 90 kph and I missed every single shot. There was no way I’d be able to hit a ball travelling at 130 kph. It seemed my only options were to visit a local temple and pray for the opposition pitcher to hurt his arm, or lie a little and say that it was my first time holding a bat, in the desperate hope that the pitcher would take pity on me and toss a slow ball.

  The day of the game rolled around. It was scheduled for one o’clock, the hottest part of the day. The temperature was in the mid thirties. We were playing on a dry dusty field and there was not a hint of a breeze nor a glimmer of shade.

  The teachers’ team batted first. Mr Higo managed to get to second base with a brilliant shot into the outfield. Mr Terada followed up with a cheeky bunt and managed to steal first base.

  I was amazed at my new-found knowledge of baseball lingo and inwardly commentated the game to myself. Sadly, though, this was not enough to help me hit the ball. I was struck out most embarrassingly by the substitute pitcher, and Mr Terada yelled insults at me from first base for having swung and missed three balls that had been well outside my strike zone.

  I spent the fielding innings out on the boundary ropes with Mr Doi, who ranted about his glory days playing high-school baseball, and how he was able to pitch the ball at over 140 kilometres per hour.

  Overhearing this, Mr Higo asked him to pitch for a while. Delighted, Mr Doi strode to the pitcher’s mound. Unfortunately, his glory days were well and truly at an end, and he struggled to throw the ball more than a metre. He was dispatched for two home runs in quick succession, and Mr Higo sent him back to join me on the outfield.

  I played little better than Mr Doi, and was struck out a further three times at bat. As a team, however, we managed a 9–3 victory, although this could have been attributable to the students giving their weaker players a turn. My only achievement was to turn slightly brown in the heat. In reality, though, my newly acquired tan consisted largely of dust and dirt from the baseball diamond. Within days it had faded and disappeared.

  Thus ended the school term. The summer vacation rolled around once more, and I was free from teaching English and associating with the magnificent Mr Doi for a blissful six weeks.

  11

  Foreign devil

  The newspapers may have been trumpeting doom and gloom about Japan’s economic health, but in Kanan Town the education business was booming. The mayor and the education superintendent had put their heads together and decided the town needed another foreign English teacher.

  The town’s junior high school was being well catered for by Mr Hamish from New Zealand, but what of the five elementary schools? The town’s young people needed to start learning English younger, so they would have a head-start at junior high school, and later be able to leap-frog into prestigious universities. Another foreign teacher was required, and so Rachel Brown from Northumbria, England was hired.

  Mr Horrii, my supervisor at the Board of Education, requested that I accompany him to Shin Osaka station to meet the new teacher. I was happy to do so. I was looking forward to having a single female living just around the corner, and anticipating delightful summer afternoons out and about in Tondabayashi, and bike rides for two in the paddy-fields of Kanan Town.

  Mr Horrii and I spent an awkward hour on the train ride to Shin Osaka Station. I had never really clicked with Mr Horrii as I had with Mr Tokunaga. He seemingly had no interests outside work and appeared oddly jealous of my exciting social life. ‘I have to work long hours,’ he would complain. ‘You are lucky. I am not lucky. I have no time to enjoy with my friends.’ I decided that this was because Mr Horrii had no friends.

  We waited awkwardly at the station for Rachel to arrive. Mr Horrii stared at his cellphone and constantly checked his watch. I whiled away the time at a newspaper kiosk, flicking through comic books I didn’t understand.

  Finally the train arrived. Rachel’s pale brown hair and wan face stood out in the crowd. She looked tired.

  Mr Horrii greeted her. ‘Hello, Rachel. I am Mr Horrii, your new boss. Ha ha.’ He laughed nervously.

  Rachel laughed and frowned at the same time.

  ‘And I’m Hamish,’ I chipped in. ‘I live round the corner from your new apartment.’

  ‘Hi.’ Rachel had a strange, slightly whiney accent. ‘It’s so hot,’ she said. ‘I can’t stand it.’

  ‘Yep.’ I laughed.

  Mr Horrii shuffled away to buy our tickets to Tondabayashi.

  ‘It’s like this every day,’ I continued. ‘Over thirty degrees. It gets cool in the evenings though – maybe
twenty-eight, twenty-nine degrees.’ I smiled.

  Rachel’s shoulders slumped. ‘It sucks.’

  I laughed again, trying to keep the mood cheery. ‘Don’t worry, it should start to cool down some time round October.’

  Rachel’s frown deepened and her mouth pursed into a pout.

  During the train ride, Rachel and Mr Horrii started to make conversation. It turned out that Rachel had neither spoken nor studied a word of Japanese in her life.

  Back in Tondabayashi, Mr Horrii and I showed her around her new apartment. Mr Horrii had decided that Rachel, being female, would be too delicate to withstand the first-day treatment to which I had been subjected. Her only duty would be to stroll a hundred metres down the road to the local restaurant for a ‘Welcome to Japan’ dinner hosted by the board and attended by the staff.

  When I informed her of this, Rachel shrugged her shoulders haughtily. ‘They better not expect me to eat anything strange. I’m a vegetarian. I don’t eat fish.’

  I assured her that the restaurant had a huge assortment of different foods on the menu, but suggested it would be in her interest to try one or two local dishes.

  ‘Humph, I’m not eating anything raw. That’s gross.’

  ‘Have you eaten raw fish?’

  ‘No way. It’s disgusting. I’m never gonna eat sushi. And why don’t I have an oven? I need an oven to bake things with.’

  There was a huge turnout for the welcome party. By the time we arrived, the special room at Wasshoi pub was packed. The Board of Education and Social Education Department were in attendance, and even the office ladies had turned up. A few other dignitaries had also been invited.

  Everyone bowed reverently when Rachel entered the room, and the education superintendent stood and said a few formal words of welcome. Rachel’s eyes widened in alarm: she had noticed the food. The tables were laden with fried noodles, fried chicken, fried rice, salad and assorted vegetables.

  I had sent word that Rachel was a vegetarian and unable to eat anything that contained meat or seafood. Vegetarianism is a foreign concept in Japan. Restaurants never have a vegetarian selection, and most soups or sauces have some form of seafood stock or flavouring. Even the most harmless-looking salad will be complemented with fish flakes or seafood dressing. I had therefore lied a little and said that Rachel was allergic to meat and fish. She could, however, eat chicken.

  It soon became apparent, however, that Rachel would not eat chicken, or very much else. ‘I’m not eating any of this!’ she hissed at me.

  The party was in full swing, and people were mingling and talking loudly.

  ‘Why not?’ I replied, concerned at the potential damage she was about to do to her reputation.

  ‘I dunno. It just doesn’t look very nice.’

  ‘Are you joking?’ I asked in surprise. ‘This place serves great food. It’s really tasty. I eat here all the time.’

  ‘It looks gross. I don’t know what any of this is.’

  ‘Rachel, Rachel, please try some.’ Mr Smiles interrupted us. He was red-faced, had his necktie around his forehead and was already very drunk. He had prepared Rachel a plate of fried noodles.

  ‘No thanks, I don’t like noodles.’ Rachel did not bother to smile.

  I translated.

  Mr Smiles blinked in surprise. ‘No noodles? Hmmm, fried chicken perhaps?’

  I translated.

  ‘No. I only like roast chicken.’

  I translated.

  ‘Oh.’ Mr Smiles seemed shocked. I suddenly realised that he had ordered all the food.

  ‘Hmmm, maybe fried rice?’ Mr Smiles mimed a happy person enjoying a big feast and getting a fat stomach.

  I translated.

  Rachel’s pout grew an inch bigger. ‘No, it looks greasy.’

  I translated.

  Mr Smiles snapped his fingers and called for the menu. ‘Mr Hamish, please help translate the menu. We must find some food for Rachel.’

  I set about painstakingly translating the menu dish by dish. There were over sixty dishes.

  ‘Rachel, Rachel, would you like a drink? Would you like beer? Wine? Sake? Orange juice?’ Kindly old Mr Fujimoto had joined us. He was carrying a pot of sake and a pint of beer.

  ‘No. I don’t like alcohol. Just water for me,’ Rachel bleated.

  I translated this for Mr Fujimoto. He seemed sad and shuffled off to get a glass of water. I quietly relieved him of the pint of beer.

  Finally we reached the bottom of the menu. Rachel had turned her nose up at fifty-nine of the sixty dishes. Most of them were apparently either gross or yuck.

  ‘Baked potato!’ Rachel pointed stubbornly. ‘Is that like baked potatoes back home?’

  I was tired and irritable. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll have that then.’

  I looked up and noticed my drinking mentor Magnum PI in the corner. He was eyeing Rachel suspiciously. Our eyes met and he nodded supportively.

  Mr Fujimoto returned with Rachel’s glass of water.

  ‘Humph,’ she pouted.

  I translated. ‘Rachel says thanks.’

  Mr Fujimoto smiled. ‘Mr Hamish,’ he began, ‘could you recognise Rachel easily at the train station? Was the passport photo I showed you enough?’

  ‘Yes. Her hair is a little different now. She had straight hair in her photo, but now it’s a little curly.’

  ‘Ah yes, so it is.’ Mr Fujimoto smiled and looked at Rachel.

  Rachel’s ears pricked up. ‘What’s he saying about me? I heard my name!’

  Mr Fujimoto smiled, unable to understand a thing. ‘He asked if I could recognise you,’ I explained. ‘I told him that your hair is curly now, but that it was straight in the passport photo attached to your application letter.’

  ‘Are you saying I’ve got frizzy hair!’ Rachel glared at me.

  ‘Ah no, I was saying your hair is different to that in your passport photo.’

  ‘I can’t believe you think I’ve got frizzy hair.’ Rachel’s voice was loud and whiney.

  Mr Fujimoto took a step back. Mr Smiles stopped smiling.

  ‘That’s not what I said.’ I suddenly disliked Rachel Brown immensely.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Mr Fujimoto seemed worried.

  ‘No, no, she’s just asking what I think of her hair,’ I said in Japanese.

  ‘Oh.’ Mr Fujimoto seemed confused. ‘Would she like another glass of water?’

  I translated.

  Rachel pouted and shook her head petulantly. ‘Rachel says no thank you,’ I replied in Japanese.

  I had had enough of babysitting Rachel and mediating her rude responses, and decided to leave her to her own devices. She stood in the corner, sullenly eating her baked potato with the office ladies.

  I spent a sleepless night, guiltily worrying about Rachel. Her apartment’s air-conditioning unit was not scheduled for installation until the following week, and Mr Horrii had not managed to arrange for her to have an electric fan in the meantime. I, on the other hand, had a fully functional air-conditioning unit and two large electric fans, one of which I rarely used.

  Early the next morning I rose, showered and began carrying the two-metre-tall electric fan four hundred metres down the road to Rachel’s apartment. The sun had already risen, and heat was shimmering above the concrete surface of the footpath. The fan was surprisingly heavy, and its height and bulky ends made it awkward to carry. Sweat gathered on my forehead and I could feel my shirt sticking to my back.

  I staggered awkwardly up the stairs of Rachel’s apartment building. The fan was too long to fit around the tight corners, and I constantly had to readjust my grip and carrying angle. By the time I arrived at her apartment door I was exhausted.

  I rang the bell. Rachel blearily answered the door. She frowned at me suspiciously. ‘You’re early. We still have ten minutes until the bus leaves.’

  ‘Yeah, hi, good morning. Hope you slept all right.’

  ‘No, it’s bloody hot. It sucks.’

  ‘Y
es, I thought you could borrow my electric fan for a while. It’ll keep the place cooler.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Rachel pouted. She paused, as if unsure what to say. ‘You know, I’m still mad about what you said about my hair last night. It was so unfair.’

  I stared at her in disbelief. I felt like an idiot for having lugged the fan all that way. ‘Are you ready to leave?’ I said. ‘If you hurry we might manage to catch an earlier bus.’

  We rode the bus in silence. I turned up the volume on my MD player and looked out the window. Simon and Garfunkel’s greatest hits were a pleasant soundtrack to the wavy rice paddies.

  At the town hall, Rachel was greeted warmly. Mr Smiles asked if she had slept all right. I translated. Rachel shrugged. ‘Her apartment is a little hot,’ I replied in Japanese.

  ‘Did you enjoy your baked potato?’ Mr Smiles asked keenly.

  Rachel shrugged, frowned and grunted.

  Mr Smiles looked at me expectantly. ‘Yep, she enjoyed it,’ I said in Japanese.

  ‘Good, good. Do you eat many potatoes in England?’ Mr Smiles was overjoyed: conversation was finally flowing.

  I translated. Rachel shot me an acidic glare. ‘I dunno. I guess so. Why does he care?’

  ‘Rachel is not sure,’ I told Mr Smiles.

  ‘Oh.’ He seemed a little hurt. Rachel’s body language spoke volumes.

  I was sick of Rachel Brown. I excused myself and went and spoke with Magnum and Mr Fujimoto. Mr Smiles also excused himself and went back to reading his newspaper.

  A few minutes later I noticed Mr Horrii attempting to inform Rachel that she was to meet the mayor in twenty minutes.

  Rachel stared up at him blankly.

  ‘Yes, twenty minute after,’ Mr Horrii repeated himself.

  ‘What?’ Rachel’s voice echoed in the quiet office.

  ‘Ah.’ Mr Horrii cleared his throat and looked nervous. ‘Ah … twenty minute after, you meeting with mayor – town boss. Ha ha.’ Mr Horrii laughed his nervous laugh and blushed.

  ‘What? What do you mean – twenty minute after? I don’t understand you.’ Rachel’s pitch increased.