The following day I went swimming with Justin, and the two of us spent the afternoon playing darts on my balcony and eating ice-cream before attending a local fireworks display.
The day after, I watched baseball on television until four o’clock, when the temperature finally dropped below the mid thirties. I decided I should honour my promise to the Board of Education and do some cycling around town. I hopped on my bike and rode straight to the Junior High School to have a swim in the pool.
I had the pool to myself. I completed a few leisurely laps and then attempted to beat my own under-water swimming record. I managed a length of the pool and rose to the surface for a breath.
I gasped. Mr Horrii, Magnum, George and Mr Fujimoto were all standing at the pool entrance. In a stroke of incredibly bad luck, the Board of Education had decided to conduct an inspection of the pool’s plumbing and filtration system.
I panicked. I was about to be busted. There was nowhere to hide, and despite having broken my own underwater swimming record I would be unable to hold my breath for the duration of their inspection.
‘Hey, Mr Hamish, what are you doing here?’ Magnum had spotted me.
I climbed out of the pool, unsure how I was going to get out of this one. Everyone seemed happy to see me – except Mr Horrii. He eyed me suspiciously.
‘Hi guys,’ I stammered. ‘I was cycling in the mountains, but I got so hot I needed a swim to cool down.’
I paused.
‘Excellent, excellent!’ Magnum was happy. ‘So you are using my son’s old mountain bike? How is it?’
‘It’s great,’ I said. ‘It’s so nice to have a bike with gears.’ I wasn’t lying: Magnum’s son’s bike had been a godsend.
‘So, where did you go today?’ Mr Horrii asked, his eyes narrowing.
‘Ummm … I cycled to that temple in the mountains. What’s its name?’
‘Kofukuji,’ Mr Fujimoto answered on my behalf. ‘Very nice temple. I like it very much.’
I nodded enthusiastically. I had visited the temple several months earlier and enjoyed the peaceful grounds and garden.
Everyone was smiling, except Mr Horrii.
‘You must be thirsty.’ Magnum smiled, his moustache bristling. ‘Let’s go to the pub. My treat.’
During the remaining ten days of my summer holiday I did make several adventurous cycle rides around Kanan Town, to places I had never been before, down roads I had never known existed, and to all the tourist attractions that my English-language pamphlet would promote. On one particularly hot afternoon, I stopped and asked directions from an old man on the side of the road. I had been trying to find a large keyhole-shaped tomb and had become hopelessly lost.
The old man shone a toothless grin and said he recognised me as the town’s English teacher. ‘Thank you for helping this town,’ he said.
I blushed.
He looked at me carefully. ‘Sensei, you look hot. You must take care in this heat.’ He looked concerned. ‘Here, please take my towel. Please take it with you and use it to mop your forehead.’
He pressed a fresh towel into my hand. I bowed respectfully, thanked him profusely and mopped my face.
He paused and looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Sensei, you look thirsty. Are you thirsty?’
I tried to assure him that I was fine, but he shook his head. He rummaged around in his overall pockets and produced a shiny 100 yen coin. ‘Sensei, please wait here.’ He crossed the road to a vending machine and purchased a can of Coca-Cola. His toothless grin now larger than ever, he returned and pressed the can into my hand. ‘Here, please enjoy this cool drink. You look so hot.’
I stammered out the most polite form of ‘thank you’ that I knew.
‘The tomb is very close, sensei, just around the corner and down the street. I am happy that you are interested in the history of this town.’ He bowed and shuffled away.
This simple gesture of kindness had put me in a very positive mood. I stared happily at the lush green rice paddies. Rachel Brown and Mr Doi were now distant memories.
12
In search of love
I had been in Japan for over a year and I was still single. I had had no problem befriending and enchanting the elderly female population. My Japanese mothers loved to cook and fuss over me. Mrs Oki called religiously, inquiring what I was wearing to school and how my mother was. Old Mrs Okuda was regularly entranced by the fact that I lived by myself, and old women approached me in the supermarket to thank me for coming to Japan and teaching the town’s young people.
Likewise, I was a hit with my female students. Fourteen-year-old admirers would linger around my desk in the hope of being able to glimpse what I was eating for lunch, or which chocolate bar I preferred. They seemed to be compiling some sort of spreadsheet that listed my horoscope, all my likes and dislikes, my favourite singers and actors, and what cartoon characters I liked.
But while my life was filled with females aged under fifteen and over sixty, there were few in between. In truth, though, I had not been completely alone for the year. In May an acquaintance had introduced me to a twenty-one-year-old solo mother named Tama Chan. Tama Chan had bleached blond hair, a round face with pretty eyes, and a nine-month-old baby girl named Sayaka.
Tama Chan, Sayaka and I embarked on a peculiar romance. Before meeting Tama Chan I had never held a baby, let alone taken care of one. Suddenly I was thrust into an unfamiliar world of nappies, mashed food and chubby little limbs. Our outings required meticulous planning. Train travel was full of problems; long distances would make Sayaka cranky and she would start screaming or wailing, which would bother fellow commuters. Most train stations lacked elevators or wheelchair ramps, so we were forced to lug her massive pram up and down steep flights of stairs. Dining out was an even bigger challenge, as were most normal everyday activities.
Our inaugural outing was a picnic in Nara Park, about an hour by train from Osaka. This was how I learned that Sayaka did not like long train journeys. After only a few stops she was crying and wailing, and had managed to throw her toys and pacifier all around the carriage.
By the time we arrived at the park I was a nervous wreck. We laid out a picnic rug, Sayaka fell asleep, and soon afterwards Tama Chan excused herself to go and find a bathroom. At this point Sayaka awoke, and noticing that her mother had been replaced by a stranger, started to scream her head off.
I performed my very best rendition of ‘Oha!’, but alas Sayaka was not up to speed with Japan’s latest comedic trends. The screaming continued, and passers-by eyed me suspiciously.
I hesitantly tried to pick up Sayaka to give her a calming hug. However, the second I leant forward her screaming crescendoed, and I beat a hasty retreat to my side of the picnic blanket.
I was on the verge of panic. Someone had no doubt called the police. I was probably about to be arrested, Sayaka would be put into foster care, and Tama Chan would not want a second date.
Suddenly I had an idea. I started singing – nothing in particular, just a nonsensical song about waiting for mum to come back from the toilet so we could eat cake and go back to sleep. I borrowed the tune and melody from the early 90s’ hit ‘Don’t cry’ by Guns and Roses. The lyrics got better as I went along, and I even managed to make a few of them rhyme.
Sayaka stopped screaming. I continued singing. Mum was in the toilet, but she was coming back soon and we would have some orange juice.
Sayaka was listening. Her little face crinkled into a frown, and she looked at me as if I were mentally unstable. I was being glared at by a nine-month-old baby.
I added clapping actions and wobbled my head. The wrinkly frown deepened, and the beady eyes followed my every move. At last, Tama Chan returned from her expedition to the toilet, and remarked how peaceful Sayaka appeared to be.
By the end of the picnic I had developed a game with Sayaka that I named ‘rocket ship’. I would hold her in a standing position and count down from five to zero in English. I would then whoosh her upwards into the
air and let her go for a split second before catching her again. Sayaka seemed to love the game and soon picked up the rhythm of the five-second count-down, flapping her chubby legs in expectation of lift-off. Her wrinkly frown was replaced by a wide, toothless smile.
Tama Chan looked on thoughtfully.
A fortnight later, Tama Chan, Sayaka and I met up for another picnic, this time in a local park. Sayaka seemed to remember who I was, and games of ‘rocket ship’ and ‘peek-a-boo’ were a huge success.
Our next outing was to a park in central Osaka. More baby games ensued, and Sayaka began crawling across the picnic rug to be by my side. I was starting to enjoy my novel exposure to babies, but slowly I began to realise that I was more interested in spending time with baby Sayaka than with her mother. Tama Chan was becoming demanding. I was faced with a heart-wrenching decision: break up with Tama Chan and never play ‘rocket ship’ with Sayaka again, or stick around to play with Sayaka and be shackled to Tama Chan and her uncertain temper.
In the end, the decision was not difficult. Tama Chan had also been experiencing misgivings and so, after seven weeks of playing mothers and fathers, we parted company.
I was now again single and fancy-free in Tondabayashi – and, as I was soon to discover, destined to stay that way. My chances of romantic success with Hiroshi Yamaguchi’s sister, Aki, had long since faded. I had barely seen her since our initial meeting, and her appearances during my English lessons with Hiroshi had decreased dramatically since the porn-themed dinner party.
Another local family were more forthcoming in promoting the idea that I date their eldest daughter. Mr and Mrs Hayashi were the donors of one of my three bicycles. (The Board of Education had provided the first, and Magnum the second.) The Hayashis’ generous gift did not, however, come without several strings attached.
Mrs Hayashi’s first request, in exchange for the bicycle, was that I visit her home once a week and conduct cheerful English conversations with her. She had majored in English at university many years earlier, but had never found an opportunity to use her English skills, and had never before met an English-speaking foreigner with whom to converse.
Her second request, after several weeks of cheerful English conversations, was that I spend some time socialising with her wayward daughter, Sachiko. She explained that Sachiko had recently fallen in with a bad crowd, and needed a well-mannered young man in her life to help her get through this rebellious phase.
During my visits to the Hayashi home I had never met Sachiko as she was, presumably, out misbehaving and gallivanting around town with rogues and scoundrels. The following Tuesday evening I arrived ready to sweep her off her feet with some gentlemanly charm.
Mrs Hayashi was waiting eagerly. ‘Come in, come in,’ she enthused. ‘Wait here. I will call my daughter.’ She scuttled out of the entrance hall and I took a seat in the dining-room.
A frowning female appeared at the door. Sachiko regarded me suspiciously. Despite her surly demeanour, she was quite attractive – tall, with a slim elegant face and streaked brown hair. Her ears, however, spoke volumes: they were full of silver studs and rings. She wore torn black jeans and a black ‘Ramones’ T-shirt.
‘This is Mr Hamish.’ Mrs Hayashi beamed joyfully. ‘He’s from New Zealand. He works at the Junior High School. He is the same age as you.’ Mrs Hayashi nodded at Sachiko knowingly.
‘Mr Hamish, this is my daughter Sachiko. At the moment she has a part-time job. She is a truck driver’s assistant.’
Sachiko managed a smile and bowed. I bowed back and said hello in Japanese. Sachiko blushed. My dapper charm was beginning to work.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Hayashi trumpeted quickly, noticing her daughter’s reaction, ‘you two should spend some time together.’
It was my turn to blush. Mrs Hayashi was being a tad forward.
Sachiko smiled. ‘What sort of music do you like?’ she asked. I opened my mouth to reply. I had been a heavy-metal fan during my high-school days, and was about to sweep Sachiko off her feet by reciting an extensive list of alternative music bands and singers.
‘Mr Hamish likes Japanese folk music,’ Mrs Hayashi exclaimed, before I could say a word. ‘We listened to one of my favourite CDs the other week. Mr Hamish is a nice guy. I think he looks like Harrison Ford.’
Sachiko’s smile transmuted into a grimace. I flinched. Mrs Hayashi had just murdered any potential relationship between her daughter and me. The last thing rebellious Sachiko wanted was a nice-guy boyfriend who listened to crappy Japanese folk songs with her mother. I suddenly felt self-conscious. I had come straight from school and was wearing neatly ironed chino trousers and a tidy blue shirt. Sachiko probably thought I was gay.
That was the last time I ever saw Sachiko, and my English lessons with Mrs Hayashi slowly became less frequent, until several months later they ceased altogether.
I would need to take my love life in hand. Waiting for suitable introductions from friends and acquaintances was obviously going to be a long and tiresome road. It was midsummer, the start of the festival season. This, I decided, would be where I would meet some attractive young women.
My good friend Justin delighted in my lovelorn tales of bad luck and missed opportunities. He announced that he would be more than happy to act as my wing man and accompany me to the local festivals.
First on our list was Perfect Liberty’s annual fireworks display. It was a warm summer’s evening as Justin and I squeezed our way into the crowds wedged in the streets surrounding the cult’s headquarters and the neighbouring public golf course, and waited for the sky to darken and the fireworks to begin.
In no time we were talking to two young women. Momo Chan and Rie were university students, majoring in English. The four of us chatted easily. Momo Chan seemed to be laughing at all my corny jokes, and claimed I looked like Tom Cruise. Rie chipped in and said I looked more like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Justin started choking with laughter. Rie said Justin’s long bushy hair made him look like Ludwig van Beethoven. It was my turn to laugh.
The fireworks started and we oohed and aahed at the dazzling explosions and bright colours. When they were over, we escorted Momo Chan and Rie to the local train station. The laughter and happy conversation continued, and Momo Chan shyly inquired as to whether we could all meet up again. She and I swapped cellphone numbers and we made tentative arrangements to go out for a meal.
As Justin and I left our new friends at the train station, Justin slapped me on the back and assured me that Momo Chan had been giving me the glad eye as she left. ‘She’s keen on you, mate!’ he crowed. ‘You’re in with a real chance.’
I, too, was pretty confident of my chances and spent the following week exchanging flirtatious text messages with Momo Chan. I arranged to meet her for a meal in downtown Osaka, but as the big day approached I noticed a slight decline in the regularity and enthusiasm of her communications. I assumed she was busy and brushed off my niggling concerns.
Two nights before our first date, however, Momo Chan sent me a text with the most bizarre fob-off I have ever received: ‘I’m sorry, I can’t meet you on Saturday. My neighbour’s house burned down. Bye.’
I called immediately to check how she was. ‘I’m okay,’ she assured me, ‘but my neighbours are not so good. I can’t meet you on Saturday.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ I said sadly. ‘Are you good friends with your neighbours?’
‘Hmmm … kind of. But I can’t see you anymore. So I better go.’
‘Huh?’ I began. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’
‘My neighbour’s house burned down. I can’t see you anymore. Goodbye.’ The phone went dead.
Justin burst out laughing when I told him. ‘That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard,’ he chuckled. ‘Well, the danjiri festival is coming up again. We’ll see what crappy excuses you can pick up there. Or maybe you can find yourself another stalker.’
I smiled. The previous year’s danjiri festival had provided me with a slightl
y scary admirer. In the weeks following the festival, an odd-looking woman in her mid thirties had started waiting for me outside her house on one of the streets along which I biked to school every morning. She had waved me down one day and gushingly told me how much she had enjoyed chatting with me at the town festival. I had no recollection of this at all but nodded along politely; she seemed slightly unstable and I was keen to make an exit.
Sadly, though, the odd-looking woman continued to wait for me on the street every morning for the following week and waved lovingly as I sped past. I made every effort to avoid her, and deliberately sped up as I approached her house. I was therefore horrified when, several days later, she appeared at the gates of the school as I was arriving.
‘Excuse me,’ she lisped in a slow drawl, ‘would you like to come for dinner at my house? My parents would like to meet you.’
‘I think I’m busy that day,’ I stammered.
‘Oh.’ She seemed confused. ‘But my parents would like to meet you. I’ve told them all about you. You are a nice man. I enjoyed meeting you at the town festival.’
‘That’s very nice, but I’m very busy at the moment,’ I lied. ‘Goodbye.’ I hurried away.
Unfortunately, several of my female students had overheard our exchange, and word quickly spread through the school that Mr Hamish had an odd-looking girlfriend in her mid thirties. I was most unimpressed. I varied my cycle route to school, and took particular care whom I spoke to on the street.
‘Don’t worry,’ Justin assured me. ‘We’ll find you a nice girl at the danjiri festival.’
Sadly, though, the festival turned out to be less boisterous than the previous year. On the first day rain cast a veil, and by the afternoon the rice paddies were muddy. My friends from the Board of Education made only cursory appearances. Mr Fujimoto had caught a cold, and sneezed and coughed violently. Magnum arrived late in the afternoon and then apologised profusely, saying he was very busy with his family for the weekend.
Under the Osakan Sun Page 17