‘Don’t worry about it,’ Wij smiled. ‘You can pay for my dry-cleaning though.’
‘That was some birthday present.’ Justin had joined us. ‘I think you’d better get a new chat-up line if you want to get a girlfriend. That projectile vomiting isn’t going to get you anywhere.’
13
Winter blues
My gums had been bleeding for the past two months every time I brushed my teeth. This was getting out of hand. I needed to find myself a dentist.
I delayed. The gammy, crooked smiles of my students and the silver-plated grins in the staffroom had done nothing to instil confidence in Japanese dentists. Then one night I had a terrifying dream that all my teeth crumbled to dust and fell out of my mouth. I was suddenly a toothless young man with flapping gums who struggled to make himself heard and could no longer pronounce the word ‘sausages’.
This was the clincher. I called the local dental surgery and made an appointment for the following Saturday afternoon. After I had waited in his furnace-like reception area for forty minutes, my new dentist, Dr Shimano, got around to seeing me. His surgery was spotlessly clean and reeked of disinfectant. I was puzzled to notice two other patients already reclining in dental chairs and being attended to by dental nurses. It seemed that Dr Shimano was going to treat all three of us at the same time.
Dr Shimano had a quick look around the inside of my mouth and then disappeared to consult his dictionary. He returned looking sombre, and in a grave tone announced, ‘You have a disease.’
‘Hmm,’ I thought, wondering how I would explain this to my mother.
‘Yes, you have gum disease.’
I was suddenly very sweaty. What this would mean here in Japan, land of prehistoric dentistry?
‘Ah, Mr Hamish, you have a disease,’ Dr Shimano repeated in halting English, ‘so I will need to perform PMTC on you. Do you know what this means?’
Alas, I did not, but nor did I like the sound of it.
‘Yes, Mr Hamish, I will perform PMTC, Professional Mechanical Teeth Cleaning, on you. It will take one hour and it will hurt. Maybe.’
I was getting a lot sweatier now and asked him to turn the heater off.
‘Please,’ I begged, ‘is there no other option? A new toothpaste? Some medicine? Or perhaps even a bag of antibiotics?’
Dr Shimano shook his head gravely. Unfortunately there was no other option available. ‘Ah, Mr Hamish, this will take one hour, but when the pain becomes unbearable please raise your left hand.’
I looked at my watch. One hour equalled sixty seconds, counted slowly sixty times. I could handle that, surely. I inquired as to what drill he would be using, so I could gauge whether he would be able to fit the damn thing in my mouth.
‘Oh no,’ he replied, ‘I will use this.’ I sighed with relief as he pulled out the old-fashioned pointy scraper that dentists use all over the world. Dr Shimano then proceeded to scratch away at my teeth in the usual painless dentist fashion. A good seventy minutes later the procedure was over and I had not raised my left hand once.
And so my first, and hopefully last, trip to a dentist in Japan was over.
It was mid November, and I was being drawn into staffroom politics. Mr Doi, the deranged woodwork teacher, was slowly but surely losing his sanity, and had become the laughing stock of the entire school as he roamed the corridors in his checked flannel shirts with his trademark cellphone and bright orange plastic cord bulging beneath his woollen vest. His abrasive nature and cocky attitude had earned him a fearsome reputation, and everyone went to great lengths to keep well clear of him.
I took no pity on Mr Doi. However, it seemed he had taken some sort of shine to me. He constantly appeared at my desk, trying to chat me up.
‘Mr Hame,’ he announced loudly, keen to show all and sundry that he was able to speak English with me, ‘what are you doing now?’
I looked up grumpily from my Harry Potter novel. I was halfway through the third book in the series and not in the mood for interruptions.
‘I see that you have free time now. Why not speak English with me?’
Why not indeed, I thought to myself. ‘Ah, Mr Doi,’ I replied, ‘what, may I ask, are you currently doing on this pleasant autumn morning? As you can see, I am busy reading this English novel while at the same sipping some bitter coffee that is still too hot for my poor delicate tongue.’
Mr Doi blinked. He had absolutely no idea what I was talking about.
‘Ha, ha … yes,’ he replied. My long-winded and rapid-fire English had not deterred him. ‘I am thinking … I have many cars. I have four cars. Did you know?
‘Yes, I have four cars,’ he continued. The volume of his voice increased. ‘I have a Toyota.’
He looked around, a cocky smirk etched on his flounder-like face. The neighbouring teachers were ignoring him.
‘I have a Volkswagen.’ He paused. Nobody showed even a flicker of interest.
Mr Doi looked nervous. ‘I have a BMW.’ His voice rose expectantly.
Somebody coughed and turned further away in their chair.
‘Ah, and I have a Mercedes. It is a new car!’
Nobody cared.
Mr Doi turned back to me quickly. ‘Do you like my cars?’ he asked pleadingly.
I shrugged. ‘I have three bicycles,’ I replied. ‘Two of them have baskets.’
Mr Doi blinked. He was still struggling to understand my kiwi accent and rapid-fire responses.
‘Ah yes, I think you can use my BMW any time, Mr Hame.’ Mr Doi smiled greasily. ‘But I am not sure that you are a good driver. Before I give you my BMW I want to see you drive. Yes, why not go for a drive with me sometime?’
It was my turn to blink in surprise. ‘Pardon?’
‘Let’s go for a drive, only you and me. Are you free now? We can go for a drive in the countryside.’
I coughed in alarm. ‘I am very busy. I have many classes to teach.’ I grimaced. In reality I had a four-hour break until my next lesson, and had been planning to eat chocolate and write an email to my family.
‘But I know you want my BMW. It is a great car. I will give it to you. You will enjoy it.’
I stopped smiling. ‘Mr Doi, I have three bicycles. I do not want a car. I am happy with my bicycles. Thank you for your kind offer, but I do not need your BMW.’
Mr Doi shrugged. ‘Tell me when is your free time. We will go for a drive then.’ And with that he departed.
Mrs Takaoka, the friendly second-grade English teacher, leaned over to me quietly. ‘Mr Hame,’ she whispered, ‘I do not think you should go for a drive with Mr Doi.’
I nodded in agreement. ‘He’s very strange.’
Mrs Takaoka smiled. ‘I never talk to him. I always hide when he is in the room. The other teachers think he is strange too. Mr Terada thinks he has mental problems.’
Mr Terada was the head PE teacher, and more powerful and influential than the school principal. All the teachers admired him greatly, and the students loved and feared him. He was the funniest teacher in the school, yet at the same time chillingly strict. Because he was very fair, everyone respected his decisions and judgments.
Mr Terada exuded coolness. In his late thirties, he looked at least ten years younger. His intelligent face was accentuated by a devilish goatee and razor-sharp haircut. He wore the latest fashions and knew more about Japanese pop culture than any of his students.
I had long ago realised that success as a teacher at Kanan Junior High School depended, in part, on being accepted by Mr Terada: it was like getting the blessing and protection of a mafia godfather. Students who misbehaved in your class would be dealt with in PE class by Mr Terada, who would make them run extra laps of the school field, or put them on cleaning detail during their lunch breaks. At the same time Mr Terada would rave about his preferred colleagues to the students, thereby giving those teachers a golden seal of approval.
I had managed to make a good impression on Mr Terada from the start. He had seen me playing tennis with the
boys’ team after school, and had taken me under his wing.
Sadly, though, Mr Terada’s speech was peppered with colloquial Japanese slang and he was possibly the most difficult-to-understand person I had encountered in Japan. He was completely unable to speak English and so we struggled to communicate at anything more than a basic level.
Be that as it may, we had developed a slapstick routine that Mr Terada insisted we perform whenever any students were nearby. We would talk loudly at each other in our respective languages and Mr Terada would laugh loudly, proudly exclaiming that he understood every word that I had said. The students would cheekily call him a liar and he would respond by speaking gibberish at them, which he claimed was fluent English. The students would explode with laughter and Mr Terada would pat me on the back.
Mr Terada’s opinion of me had grown fonder following the recent staff party where he had nicknamed me ‘dark horse’, and he made sure everyone knew what a ‘cool guy’ I was.
To be offside with Mr Terada, then, was not something to be taken lightly. Mr Doi was in trouble.
Over the next few weeks, Mr Doi’s visits to my desk and attempts to arrange a romantic drive for two in his BMW became more and more frequent. He stepped up the pace by inviting me into his office in the woodwork room to sit on his new couch and talk about computers.
I took refuge with Mrs Takaoka and other neighbouring colleagues. They sadly informed me that until Mr Doi was fired, committed or pushed under a bus, there was little any of us could do except listen to him drivel on about his prowess with a saxophone, or how he used to be a great racing car driver.
By mid December, my list of grievances with Mr Doi stood as follows:
Telling me I couldn’t pronounce English ‘plopery’.
Telling me that I should buy a (faulty) computer from him for $6,000.
Constantly inviting me to his house so that his children could have someone to speak English to.
Wiping the school computer’s network server so the school was two weeks without internet access.
Patting a visiting seventeen-year-old Czech exchange student on the leg and telling her I was a nice guy, and that she and I would make a great couple.
Patting another male teacher on the leg and telling him I had a big penis.
As December approached, the temperature in south Osaka gradually dropped through the floor. Winter had come early to Kanan Town, and the barrages of sleet felt straight out of Siberia.
My apartment’s air-conditioning unit was now switched to the heat setting, and tirelessly cranking out hot air. I was sleeping beneath four thick blankets, including my old pink favourite, and never ventured outside without a woollen hat and gloves. I spent numerous evenings huddled under a blanket on my sofa, eating takeaways and watching English movies from the local video store.
I was now well-known at the local eateries. The Chinese takeaway store near the train station served generous helpings of sweet and sour pork. The ‘hot lunch-box’ shop next to the video store sold a great barbecue beef and deep-fried potato meal. The convenience stores had their own brands of steamed meat buns, to which I had developed something of an addiction. And at least once a fortnight I braved the elements to dine on fresh tuna or marinated eel sushi at the rotating sushi restaurant about ten minutes’ walk from my apartment.
At school, the teachers huddled around the two oil heaters in the staffroom. These belched out such overpowering paraffin fumes that it felt as though we were working in a petrol station.
I had a particular problem. My desk was situated closest to the staffroom door, which was constantly left open by scurrying students and less than thoughtful colleagues. Icy winds raced down from the mountains, across the frost-covered school grounds, into the school’s entrance hall, along the corridor, through the staffroom door, and up my trouser leg.
I eventually took matters into my own hands and posted a stern bilingual ‘Keep shut’ sign on the door. My students pointed at my scribbly Japanese handwriting and giggled until Mr Terada overheard and gave them a good telling-off. From then on the door remained firmly closed at all times.
Conversation about the weather was always a popular topic, but never more so than during my sessions with my Japanese mothers. Mrs Tanaka had caught a cold, and all sorts of home-made remedies and medicines were prescribed. Some, such as mixtures of garlic and pickles, sounded extraordinarily unpleasant, but the mothers assured me that their concoctions were much more successful than the swags of antibiotics dished out by doctors.
Mrs Kiguchi, our polite host, was slowly becoming more confident in her use of English. She would quietly inquire about winter conditions in New Zealand, and what everybody did to keep warm. At this point, Mrs Terauchi would inform everyone that winter was a very hard time in New Zealand as we often had no electricity, and occasionally no food, and walked through the snow to work.
I was becoming less concerned by such misinformation, as it seemed that no one took any notice of Mrs Terauchi’s opinions. However, her eccentric nature caused me some distress on the day of our final conversation class for the year. It was raining heavily and bitterly cold, so I had decided to take the bus to work instead of cycling. Mrs Terauchi had promised to pick me up and ferry me to the class.
When school finished, I waited in the rain at the pre-arranged place. Time passed and the rain plastered my hair to my scalp. Mrs Terauchi had chosen an exposed pick-up point, but I had not expected her to be late.
Twenty more minutes passed. Mrs Kiguchi’s house was only five minutes’ bike ride from the school and downhill most of the way. I decided to take my chances and jogged off down the road.
I arrived at the elegant Kiguchi residence fifteen minutes later, dripping wet and resembling a drowned rat. Mrs Kiguchi hurriedly ushered me in, fussing about my wet hair and clothes. Fresh towels arrived, hot tea was prepared and chocolates and sweets produced.
A shrill voice called out from the living-room. ‘Sensei, why are you so wet? Why did you go outside in the rain?’ Mrs Terauchi shook her head disapprovingly. ‘You should have asked me to pick you up!’
The mothers were keen to prescribe all sorts of sticky medicines and putrid hot drinks. ‘Sensei,’ they implored me, ‘you must take care of your health. In this cold and wet season you can easily catch a chill. You must stay warm and dry.’
I smiled wanly. Yes, I certainly needed to stay warm and take things easy. Life in frozen Osaka would be the death of me. I needed a tropical holiday. Meanwhile, though, I had been invited to the local kindergarten to play Santa Claus for the second year in a row. I wondered what unfortunate events would befall me this time.
The first disaster was completely unforeseen. No crying children or violent audiences, but something much, much worse: Rachel Brown had also received an invitation. She was to play the part of Mrs Claus.
I had been managing to avoid Rachel exceedingly well over the past couple of months. The first part of my strategy had been to screen all incoming telephone calls. I no longer answered my phone, and had instructed all my friends and family either to leave a message or call my cellphone, which had caller ID. Despite this, Rachel had made persistent efforts to contact me and had peppered my answer machine with whiney problems and bleating requests.
In mid September, she had left a message inviting me to a local café for a cup of coffee. Suspicious of her motives, I had left a message informing her that I was unfortunately preoccupied for the entire fortnight. She had called back and explained that she had wanted me to bring my dictionary and a pen and paper to the café to translate the menu for her. Later she called again, asking if I would lend her my dictionary.
In October she had left more messages, asking me to lend her my microwave oven. ‘I’m making cup-cakes’ she informed me, ‘and my microwave is too small to make suitable batches.’
I ignored these requests for two weeks and hoped the matter was resolved. At seven-thirty on a Wednesday night, however, my door bell rang. I opened it wi
thout thinking, expecting the visitor to be my landlady or her daughters bringing me fruit or chocolate.
A bedraggled and sour-looking Rachel Brown stood pouting on my doorstep. ‘I’ve come for your microwave,’ she snarled without any form of introduction.
‘Sorry, I’m using it at the moment.’
‘I’ll come back tomorrow then. I need it for Friday. I’ve got friends coming round and I need to bake cup-cakes.’
I shrugged. ‘Okay, come round about seven.’
Rachel stuck her head nosily over my shoulder. ‘Have you finished that Harry Potter book yet? I want to read it after you.’
‘Sorry, I’ve got ages to go,’ I dissembled, ‘and my friend Justin wants to borrow it after me anyway.’
‘Right. Well, I’ve got it after him then.’
‘Sure,’ I said coldly. ‘Sorry Rachel, but I was asleep. I better go.’
‘But it’s only seven-thirty.’
‘Yeah, I’m tired.’ I bowed in polite Japanese fashion and closed the door.
Rachel called out from behind the door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then?’
Since this episode I had managed to completely avoid Rachel. The kindergarten visit was going to make for an unpleasant reunion.
‘You’re in my bad books at the moment.’ We were sitting at our desks in the Board of Education, dressed in our Santa suits, and Rachel was pouting at me.
‘Why’s that then?’ I asked in a bored voice.
‘This is all your fault,’ she hissed. ‘I don’t want to do this stupid kindergarten visit.’
‘But it’s fun,’ I protested.
‘No it’s not. This sucks. I look ridiculous.’
‘At least you don’t have a fake beard,’ I muttered. ‘And at least your suit fits you.’ Rachel had been given a perfectly sized Santa suit and comfortable black gumboots. I, meanwhile, was again wearing my pint-sized doll costume and rubbish-bag shoes.
‘You’re weird! This sucks. I didn’t want to come, but Mr Horrii said that since you were going I had to. This is all your fault,’ she repeated.
Under the Osakan Sun Page 20