‘Hi,’ it read, ‘I’m back from America. I had such a great time. It is a wonderful place. I want to go back some day. How have you been?’
The message ended with a smiley face. I usually detested emails or text messages decorated with smiley faces, but in Yumi’s case I was prepared to make an exception.
‘I’m very well,’ I replied. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed America. I’m looking forward to hearing all your stories. If you want, we can catch up sometime this weekend.’
I pressed ‘send’ and waited breathlessly. Five minutes passed. I checked my list of sent messages. Maybe I hadn’t sent it properly? I frowned. The message had been sent.
Ten minutes passed. I checked the reception level on my phone. Maybe I was out of range?
I wasn’t.
Twenty minutes passed. Still no reply. A hundred reasons for Yumi’s lack of reply raced through my mind. Maybe her phone battery had died. Maybe she was out of range. Maybe she was in the bath. Maybe she was busy unpacking her suitcase. Maybe she was tired from her flight and already fast asleep in bed.
Yumi’s deafening silence lasted the rest of the evening. A complete lack of classes to teach at school the next day did little to distract me from my concern about Yumi’s silence. Finally, at lunchtime I could bear the waiting no longer, and nervously composed a nonchalant text message. I didn’t want to appear desperate, but I didn’t want to wait forever either.
‘Hey, how’s things?’ I began. ‘Hope you’ve recovered from your long flight. My friends and I are going out to a bar this weekend, and I wondered if you’d like to come along. Let me know.’
I waited. Five minutes passed. My phone beeped. Something about the beep told me that I was not going to enjoy Yumi’s reply.
‘Hi there. Sorry, but when I was in America I met a very nice boy. He really loves me, and he wants to come to Japan to be with me. So I can’t see you ever again. Goodbye.’
Justin, to his credit, was initially quite upset. ‘Oh, that’s a real shame,’ he said. ‘She sounded nice, too.’ I thought I could hear him start chuckling to himself. ‘I think you need to write a book about all this. Each girl could have an entire chapter devoted to her. I’d gladly pay money to read it.’
Mariko Kitamura was the loveliest person I had met thus far in Japan. She entered my life on a warm night at a rooftop bar in downtown Osaka. Mariko was good friends with Matt’s girlfriend Naoko, and had recently returned to Japan after four years living in a small town in the South Island of New Zealand. She was intelligent, worldly, fluent in English and incredibly beautiful.
Heads turned when Mariko entered the bar, and my chest puffed up with pride when she took the seat next to me at our table. Naoko had invited her to join us, and I soon got the distinct impression that Naoko was dabbling in a little matchmaking.
The conversation turned to Mariko’s four years in New Zealand, and she and I soon fell into deep conversation. She was missing New Zealand tremendously, and we reminisced about Marmite on toast, Wattie’s baked beans and mince pies. I was mesmerised by her smile and laugh. Her eyes twinkled when she spoke, her cheeks flushed when she giggled, and her nose crinkled when her giggle developed into laughter.
She had returned to university and was studying criminal psychology. She was well-read and had started studying French a few months earlier.
The conversation switched to Mariko’s dislike of urban Japan and her contempt for sexually perverse Japanese males. I recounted the story of my porn-themed dinner party with the Yamaguchi family, and her nose crinkled.
All too soon it was time for Mariko to make her exit and catch her train home. She made Naoko promise to invite her along to our next evening out and waved to us all as she left.
Within seconds Justin and Blake were at my side, slapping me on the back and nodding knowingly. ‘Man, it’s so obvious you like her,’ Justin said. ‘I think she likes him too,’ Blake said.
My ailing love life had become a regular topic of conversation among my friends. It was only a matter of time before bets started being placed on whether or not I would eventually find a girlfriend.
Justin and Blake continued to debate my performance, eventually concluding that I had conducted myself well, and that Mariko was indeed lovely. ‘Top class,’ Blake chirped. ‘Hamo, you have my full endorsement.’
We quickly arranged to go drinking again the following Saturday night, and Naoko was given specific instructions to invite Mariko and to discreetly inquire about her first impressions of me.
I met Mariko for the second time the following weekend. My friends and I were drinking at one of our regular Irish bars, and had arrived early to garner a cozy table in the corner. Chairs and seating order had been strategically arranged. The one empty chair was placed next to me. Blake arrived late and tried to take the chair. Justin and Wij politely told him to sod off.
Mariko arrived shortly afterwards. Heads turned. I felt my cheeks flush. She was looking even more beautiful than I remembered. Light blue jeans complemented her sleeveless white top, which revealed porcelain-smooth arms. Her bright eyes twinkled, and as she sat down next to me she beamed her mesmerising smile.
I suddenly felt under enormous pressure. I stammered away trying to make polite conversation, and was horrified to hear myself start talking about Star Wars movies. Blake cringed. Wij frowned. Justin chuckled. Mariko’s smile widened. ‘I love Star Wars,’ she enthused. ‘Oh, that new movie’s coming out next month. We should go and see it together.’
I gasped. Mariko had just asked me out. What’s more, she had asked me out because I had foolishly jabbered on about Star Wars. Surely she was the perfect woman for me.
I could feel my friends smiling as they sipped their beers and continued their pretend conversations with each other. The rest of the night was a happy blur of mesmerising smiles and delicate, bird-like laughter. Mariko and I exchanged phone numbers and the future of my love life seemed bright.
We arranged to meet for coffee the following Friday evening, even though the release of the eagerly anticipated Star Wars movie was still several weeks away. We spent a charming evening drinking hot chocolate and ploughing gaily through pronunciation exercises in Mariko’s French textbook. I had not spoken French since university, but my Jacques Cousteau accent, flowery hand gestures, exaggerated facial expressions and rolling ‘r’s made her laugh.
The following Wednesday we met for a midweek meal at a Mexican restaurant. A three-piece band was playing in the corner, and I dedicated a song to Mariko. On Saturday evening we wandered through neon-lit streets, poking around novelty stores and trying on fake plastic noses and oversized glasses. We browsed through designer fashion stores, competing for who could find the most ridiculously overpriced item. We took our photos in purikura booths and tried to figure out why anyone would play pachinko.
The following week we met twice, and on the days when we did not meet we called and sent copious text messages. Mariko learned of my tendency to fall apart during sad movies, so the following Friday she suggested we go and watch a newly released tear-jerker so she could see me cry. I managed only a single manly tear. Mariko, meanwhile, wept like a baby, and punched me in the arm when I pointed out that her plan had backfired.
Nearly a month of happy encounters with Mariko had passed, but I was yet to express my true feelings for her. My friends were becoming concerned.
‘You’re going to have to hurry up and tell her,’ Justin warned.
‘Yeah, she’ll start to think of you as a “nice guy” friend,’ Blake added.
‘You have to make some sort of move soon,’ Justin continued. ‘When are you guys going to see that Star Wars movie? You should tell her then.’
‘No, don’t tell her,’ Matt cautioned. ‘You need to kiss her. You’ll never get anywhere just by telling her how you feel. You need to show her.’
My head spun. This was becoming scary.
‘I think he’s right,’ Justin agreed. ‘You can’t be a nice guy. Nice guys a
sk girls out and get told that their neighbour’s house has burned down. Nice guys hesitate and don’t do anything and then the girl disappears. You’re going to have to kiss her.’
I knew they were right, but I was petrified. Kissing Mariko Kitamura sounded like the most difficult thing in the world.
We met the following Thursday evening to watch Star Wars: Episode II at the Namba cinema. I was nervous and sweaty, and barely able to concentrate on the movie. Mariko, on the other hand, was her usual self and did not seem to notice my clammy behaviour.
The two-and-a-half-hour-long movie felt like an eternity while I agonisingly rehearsed my attempt to kiss Mariko a hundred times in my head. Thousands of unpleasant and embarrassing reactions to my kiss replayed themselves over and over in my mind.
The end credits started to roll. ‘Shall we go and get a drink?’ Mariko asked. ‘I want to talk to you about something.’
‘Huh?’ I was a million miles away. ‘Okay, yes, a drink would be good. Where do you want to go?’
I was suddenly very worried. I had neglected to choose a suitable location for my award-winning kiss. I had imagined it would take place somewhere romantic, on top of a tall building surrounded by twinkling lights, or perhaps on top of a mountain while a symphony orchestra played in the background. Now I was suddenly faced with the possibility of having to kiss Mariko in a brightly lit café, or in front of a train-load of Japanese commuters.
‘I know a good café near Amerika Mura,’ Mariko smiled. ‘C’mon, let’s go. I’m thirsty.’
As we strolled to the café I managed to make polite conversation about the movie. Mariko had enjoyed it and eagerly recounted her favourite scenes.
We sat down in the café. My stomach was full of butterflies and my palms were sweaty. We ordered apple juice and I sat back in my seat, mentally preparing myself for my big moment.
‘There’s something I want to talk to you about,’ Mariko said suddenly.
I looked up. She was blushing.
‘I’ve met a guy I quite like.’
My mind raced, and my heart skipped a beat.
Mariko paused, her cheeks burning.
I smiled. Mariko was about to tell me she liked me.
‘Yes,’ she continued, looking up. ‘I’ve met this guy in my French class. He’s from France. He’s really nice, and I was wanting to ask him out for a meal. What do you think I should do? Should I ask him out?’
I felt myself leave my body and spin dizzily around the café. I slurped my apple juice in a frantic effort to compose myself.
Shit, shit, shit! What on earth was going on?
Mariko was looking at me hopefully. I was to give her advice for her romance with this French tosser. I hated the Frenchman. I hated him for being in Japan. I hated him for being from France. I hated his country.
I slurped my apple juice some more. My glass was empty. I needed another.
I paused. It was now or never. I either tell Mariko how I feel about her and hope she will suddenly realise she feels the same way about me, or I watch as she rides off into the sunset with a French tosser.
‘Mariko,’ I said slowly, ‘you do realise how I feel about you, don’t you?’
Mariko looked at me blankly.
‘I mean, you do know that I really, really like you, don’t you?’
Mariko looked confused.
I took a deep breath and continued. ‘I’ve liked you since the moment we met. I love spending time with you, laughing with you, talking with you. I had hoped things might develop further between us.’
My cheeks were burning. I felt foolish, but I had said my piece. There would be no ‘what ifs’ in my mind after tonight.
Mariko sat silently for a few moments. Her mesmerising smile had vanished and she seemed very sad. She opened her mouth to speak, and the evening switched to autopilot.
I had received the ‘just good friends’ speech around thirteen times and in two different languages. Mariko’s rendition was no different to any of the others.
It went something like this:
‘Oh, wow! I never knew you liked me.’ Silence while the speaker looks at the ground or table. ‘Well, I guess I sort of knew you liked me, but I wasn’t really sure.’
More silence.
‘Yeah, well, I’ve only ever thought of you as a friend. I think you’re a really, really nice guy and a really special friend. So yeah, I’ve only ever thought of you as a friend. I always thought you wanted to be my friend too. I really think we should stay as just good friends. Sorry.’
Both the speaker and the spoken-to blush and look down. The activity – usually dinner, drinks, or a conversation in a private corner of a school sports field – comes to an abrupt end, and the two parties depart, never to speak again.
Mariko finished her sterling recital of the ‘just good friends’ speech and we both blushed and looked at the table. I paid for the two apple juices and we walked silently to the train station.
‘I still want to be friends,’ she said quietly as she stepped on to her train.
I smiled wanly. ‘We’ll see.’
Justin was even more upset by my story than I was. Blake was outraged and Matt was furious. ‘Forget all about her,’ they lectured me. ‘There are more fish in the ocean.’
Mariko’s ‘just good friends’ speech had been a bitter pill to swallow. I decided it needed to be washed down with therapeutic sake and copious amounts of beer. I was in luck, as the following weekend provided more than ample opportunity. I was scheduled to attend the school staff party from six until nine on Saturday evening, and Justin’s thirtieth birthday drinks from nine until dawn.
I had decided well in advance that Justin’s birthday was the more important of the two celebrations, and I intended to take things easy at the staff party so that I could still be at my coherent and witty best for the rest of the evening. These good intentions were, however, short-lived.
The Kanan Junior High School staff social committee had spared no expense organising the party. A lavish ballroom had been booked at a swanky inner-city hotel, and everyone except me arrived in formal attire. Expensive sushi and sashimi platters adorned the tables and tuxedo-clad waiters stood to attention, ready to top up beer glasses and replace empty sake jugs. As with all staff parties, the school principal, Mr Kazama, had kindly paid the bill and we were invited to eat and drink as much as we possibly could.
I was seated at a table with Mr Higo and the other young male teachers. Everyone was determined that I should sample the delights and flavours of Japanese beer, and my six red-faced colleagues made sure my glass was constantly topped up. When I carelessly announced that I enjoyed warm sake, Mr Higo quickly dispatched one of the waiters to fetch several jugs of the hotel’s finest rice wine. The PE teachers, Mr Omura and Mr Terada, switched seats and joined our table, bringing Mr Omura’s favourite bottle of whisky. Mr Kazama, who had been sitting at the other side of the ballroom, noticed our whisky consumption and joined us.
After a while I lost track of what I was drinking and how many glasses I had downed. Mr Higo cranked up a karaoke machine in the corner of the ballroom, and he and I slurred out a hideous rendition of a Deep Purple rock anthem. Mr Terada cheered loudly. Someone had recently taught him the English term ‘dark horse’, and he enthusiastically applied it to me for the rest of the evening.
By the time the party ended, I was dizzy and light-headed, could not walk straight, and was cackling to myself demonically. As luck would have it, Justin’s party was taking place at a bar only three blocks away. Mr Kazama was reluctant to let me wander off into the darkness by myself, but Mr Terada assured him that I was a ‘dark horse’ and obviously well used to the streets and drinking holes of downtown Osaka.
I staggered off and joined my friends. They had eaten a large dinner at a Korean barbecue restaurant and, having lined their stomachs sufficiently to see them through to dawn, were alarmingly sober. I bought Justin a drink to wish him happy birthday, and then we all ordered vodka shots
. The bartender turned out to be a fellow Cantabrian and we reminisced about life in New Zealand. After I purported to be a huge fan of the Canterbury rugby team, the Crusaders, he patted me on the shoulder and announced I could drink whatever I wanted for the remainder of the evening free of charge.
I promptly ordered two sambucas, another vodka and a rum and Coke. Justin, Wij and Blake were now on the dance floor, so I tried to make intelligent conversation with our American friends, Jocelyn and Elise. Jocelyn had been having boy problems and had broken up with her boyfriend. I nodded supportively as she told me her tale of woe, and cocked my head to one side so my eyes could focus on her properly.
‘That’s no good,’ I volunteered. ‘You shouldn’t put up with that short of nonshensh. What you need to do is –’
My wise words of advice sadly went unfinished. My head lolled to one side, I toppled backwards off my bar stool and landed heavily on my back.
I picked myself up. Where was I? I had to get out into some fresh air. A burly bouncer stood in front of the door. I staggered up to him, swayed for a few moments, vomited at his feet and passed out.
I awoke several hours later. I was sitting on the bar’s balcony. My jacket was draped over a chair and my shirt and trousers were covered in vomit. My head pounded. I checked my jacket. It was covered in vomit as well.
‘Ha, you’re alive.’ Wij was laughing at me. ‘That was quite a party trick. Boy, you sure made a mess of the entranceway. You managed to stink out the whole bar. People were coming in off the street, gagging and walking straight back out.
‘The bouncers wanted to beat you up, but Justin and I stepped in and dragged you out here.’
I blushed.
‘No one’s ever going to forget this one. You’ve made my drunken train trips look like child’s play. Thanks, mate. Now you can be the butt of all the drunken idiot jokes.’
‘Thanks for looking after me,’ I said. My cheeks were burning.
Under the Osakan Sun Page 19