Hiro looked across at her and glanced defensively at his own pile of cards.
The game continued. Teru-Chan’s confidence grew and she slowly started to win more and more cards.
‘Snap!’ She clutched the final pile of cards protectively to her chest. ‘I won!’ she exclaimed in surprise. Her face cracked into a smile. She sat quietly and started shuffling the cards.
‘I want to play again,’ she insisted and looked at everyone expectantly.
Hiro nodded. He was out for revenge. Yurika looked nervous: her role as class genius was under threat. She nodded slowly. I nodded as well.
Teru-Chan’s smile broadened.
The third round was cut short when the bell rang. Teru-Chan scowled and seemed angry. I checked that the paper scissors were safely out of reach and started packing up the cards. We all stood and bowed to one another, and as I left the room Hiro shook my hand.
The following Friday morning I was busy eating chocolate at my desk while reading a trashy English novel from the local library. There were five minutes remaining before the start of the young minnows’ class and I was determined to finish the chapter.
A large rotund figure appeared in my peripheral vision, and I sensed I was being watched. I turned around slowly. Teru-Chan was regarding me intently.
‘Mr Hame,’ she began. ‘It’s time for class.’
I looked at the staffroom clock. Nope, still five more minutes to go.
‘The bell hasn’t rung yet,’ I replied.
‘But I want you to come now. What will we do today?’ She paused. ‘Will we play cards?’
I smiled. ‘Yes, we can play cards if you want, Teru-Chan.’
Teru-Chan smiled a huge smile and balled her fists with excitement. ‘Yay! Mr Hame, please come to class early. I want to play many rounds of cards today.’
I put down my unfinished chocolate and half-read novel. Teru-Chan’s sudden interest in my classes was somewhat inspiring. ‘Okay,’ I said, grabbing the pack of cards, ‘let’s go.’
The game of Snap produced many humorous moments. Yurika finally managed to win a round, and Hiro and Teru-Chan battled away trying to produce an overall champion. The scores were still tied when the bell rang, and Teru-Chan insisted everyone return at lunchtime to play the deciding round. We agreed, and Teru-Chan was the happy victor. Hiro was good-natured about his loss and happily congratulated Teru-Chan.
I was stoked. All the students were again taking part in class, and their good natures had returned.
Over the next few weeks, I introduced the young minnows to other New Zealand card games, and they taught me several Japanese variations. I also lovingly designed and created a Cluedo murder-mystery game board and playing pieces. I knew it was going to be difficult to teach my three special friends the slightly complicated rules but decided it was worth a shot.
At first it seemed I was being too ambitious. The minnows’ attention seemed to be drifting and they weren’t picking up the rules at all. But slowly, after two weeks of patient explanations and tentative trial runs, breakthroughs were made and the first successful Cluedo game was played. As always, Hiro delighted in rolling the dice and moving a playing piece around the board. Yurika loved the idea of exploring various rooms in a large mansion, and Teru-Chan giggled whenever she had a chance to accuse another person of being a murderer.
I did my best not to win, but the minnows kept dropping their cards, speaking out loud and generally giving the game away. Finally, I could restrain myself no longer: I correctly identified Hiro as the mystery murderer and deduced that he had conducted the sinister act in the ball-room with the dagger.
Yurika laughed gleefully and pretended to sentence Hiro to prison. Teru-Chan, although miffed that she had not won, smiled all the same. Hiro leapt to his feet and pranced around the room, pretending to be searching for an escape route. He eventually gave himself up and returned to his seat to face his punishment. I ordered him to eat a plate of cabbage (his all-time least favourite food) and he clapped himself on the head and wailed with mock misery.
The bell chimed and the children begged me to bring Cluedo to the following week’s class.
My friend Mr Higo handed me the telephone. I was sitting at my desk, reading a newspaper and eating steamed pork buns. ‘I think this is for you,’ he said with a curious grin. ‘I think it’s your friend. I don’t understand what she’s saying.’
I was confused. None of my friends knew my office number, and they would always contact me at home or on my cellphone.
I put the phone to my ear. ‘Hello?’
‘Heymishi!’A familiar nasal voice wafted through the phone line.
‘Heymishi! What are you doing? Why didn’t you answer the phone? Who was I speaking to before? Are you at school? Why aren’t you teaching?’
I opened my mouth to answer, but Mrs Oki carried on at her usual rate of knots.
‘Now then, Heymishi, what are you doing on Wednesday evening? Please come to our house for dinner. Mr Oki will buy sushi. Do you like sushi?
I assured Mrs Oki that I did, and reminded her that we had visited several sushi restaurants together in the past.
‘Hmm … well then, you can come to our house at five p.m. We will have sushi. Do you remember where our house is? Do you know how to get here?’
‘Yes,’ I replied calmly. ‘I’ve been to your house before. How did you get this number?’
‘Good.’ Mrs Oki ignored my question. ‘See you at five.’ The phone went dead.
I frowned as I hung up the receiver. The Okis had figured out how to contact me at work.
I caught a train to the Okis’ residence in Sakai at 4.30 on Wednesday afternoon. I had studied the train schedule and knew that this would get me to their neighbourhood station at precisely 4.57. From there it would be an eight-minute walk to their home. I would only be five minutes late, and figured that no one would notice.
Mrs Oki was waiting feverishly when I knocked on her door. ‘Heymishi, where have you been?’ she asked excitedly. ‘I thought you were lost, or had forgotten to come. I’ve been calling your house. Now then, take off your shoes. I thought you were lost. Come in, come in, Heymishi, I thought you were lost. Do you like sushi? We’re having sushi for dinner. I was worried you were lost. Have a seat in the living room. Heymishi, do you want a drink? I sent Mr Oki to find you.’
I had still not had a chance to say hello. I checked my watch. I was only five minutes late.
‘Sorry,’ I said politely. ‘I didn’t mean to be a problem. Where did Mr Oki go?’
Mrs Oki wasn’t listening. ‘Mr Oki has been gone for five minutes. He went to the station to look for you. I think he might be lost. Shall we wait here or go and look for him?’
I started laughing. ‘Maybe we should wait here. He’ll be back soon.’
Mrs Oki continued to fret. ‘Heymishi, do you like sushi? We will have sushi tonight. Hmm … Mr Oki has been gone for ten minutes. I think he might be lost. Now then, I need to feed the cat. Here puss puss puss.’
She trailed off in search of the Oki feline and I was left alone with my glass of orange juice. Mr Oki returned home shortly afterwards. He had been cycling around the neighbourhood and was covered in sweat.
‘Aha,’ he said merrily, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘There you are. I’ve been looking for you.’
‘Sorry, I was a couple of minutes late,’ I apologised. ‘I hope you didn’t go far.’
‘Huh?’ Mr Oki peered at me deafly. He had forgotten to put in his hearing aid.
‘I said, I hope you didn’t go far,’ I repeated loudly.
‘You went where?’ he replied, frowning.
‘No, no, I hope you didn’t go far,’ I said again. I was well used to dealing with Mr Oki’s hearing impediment.
‘I was on my bicycle,’ Mr Oki said happily.
Hearing her husband’s voice, Mrs Oki scuttled back into the room. ‘Mr Oki,’ she scolded impatiently. ‘There you are! I was worried about you. I thought you got
lost. You were gone for such a long time.’
‘Huh?’ Mr Oki chuckled and slapped me on the shoulder again. He had not heard a word his wife had said.
Mrs Oki seemed satisfied with Mr Oki’s response and turned her attention to me once again. ‘Now then, Heymishi, we will have sushi for dinner. Can you eat sushi? Do you want a drink?’
I nodded at my unfinished glass of orange juice. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘I think you need a beer,’ Mrs Oki lectured. ‘Mr Oki, get Heymishi a beer.’
‘Huh?’ Mr Oki looked on blankly. ‘All right, I’ll go and get changed.’ He rose and left the room.
Mrs Oki had seemingly forgotten about her order to get me a beer. She wandered off to find the cat. It was business as usual in the Oki household.
Kanan Junior High School was now in the midst of a two-week exam period. Mentally exhausted eleven- to fourteen-year-old students sweated and panicked in muggy classrooms as they worked their way through pieces of paper that would decide their entire educational futures.
I, meanwhile, ate chocolate and ice-cream in the air-conditioned comfort of the teachers’ room. As always, my lessons had been cancelled for the exam period, and also for the following week when the papers would be returned and the answers explained to the students. Most days I sneaked out at noon and went shopping. I was growing bored with my blank lesson schedule, and toyed with the idea of buying plastic model kit sets and bringing them to school to make in my abundant spare time.
Outside school hours, though, life in Osaka was eventful. The World Cup Football extravaganza floated around Japan, and I surprised myself by getting caught up in the hype. I didn’t miss a game and even managed to learn a bit about soccer. However, spending an entire month watching soccer games had made me feel like an unemployed slob. By mid July I felt as though I hadn’t done anything productive in years, except for getting paid and eating ice-cream.
With summer approaching, I made a radical fashion decision and had my hair cut short and spiky. I was delighted when students told me how cool I was, and how much I looked like David Beckham. However, my bubble was cruelly burst when Justin, Blake and Matt, who looked nothing like the English football superhero, received similar compliments.
To make matters worse, soon afterwards England got eliminated in the quarter-finals. Suddenly no one cared whom I looked like. Damn, damn and damn.
Although football was certainly the topic on everyone’s lips, PE lessons for the students had, for the past month, focused on swimming. It was again time for the school swimming sports. For weeks, the students had been drilled in the arts of freestyle, backstroke and dog-paddling. The school anthem had been rehearsed methodically and the school swept and polished in preparation for the spectators and dignitaries who would attend the big event. Homeroom classes made banners and composed songs and chants to urge on their peers.
I was looking forward to the swimming sports as well. Despite my almost lethal dose of tonsillitis the previous year, I had managed to swim like a super-powered dolphin and had made a name for myself as a swimming superstar. I was determined to do a repeat performance.
The day arrived. I lounged around in the sun, chatting with colleagues and joking with students, as we cheered on race after race of spluttering swimmers. Finally, it was time for the last race – the third-grade boys’ relay teams v. the teachers.
Mr Higo, Mr Nakata, Mr Shimizu – another teacher from the single male teacher lunch-box club – and I lined up on the starting line. For the second year in a row I was the teachers’ first swimmer.
I took my position on the diving block and waited for Mr Terada to fire the starter’s gun.
Bang! I sprang from the diving blocks and executed an elegant racing dive. Splash! I hit the water at speed.
Shit! My swimsuit had slipped down to my thighs, exposing my round white bottom. I frantically splashed around underwater. After what seemed an eternity, I managed to pull the swimsuit up to a respectable level and kicked off to continue the race.
This proved difficult. Whenever I built up speed, my swimsuit would slip down again, so my stroke was constantly punctuated by desperate snatches at my legs with my free arm.
Finally I managed to complete my length of the pool. I tagged off the next swimmer and surveyed the opposition. Mr Nakata was now half a pool length behind the main pack. We were dead last. All hopes of a teachers’ victory for the second year in a row were dashed.
Minutes later the race was over. I was standing on dry land, wrapped in a towel, my swimsuit tied firmly under my armpits.
Mr Higo smiled as he lamented our loss.
‘Did you see my pants fall down?’ I whispered in hushed tones.
‘No,’ he laughed. ‘When did your pants fall down?’
I looked around nervously. Mr Higo was blaring out my embarrassing news at an indiscreet volume. ‘When I dived in.’
‘Ah! I didn’t see anything. I just thought you were swimming badly. Ha ha ha. I must think up a nickname for you. Ha ha ha.’ He wandered away, deep in thought.
Luckily, if Mr Higo did dream up a nickname for me he never had the chance to use it. The end of the school term was nigh and eight long weeks of summer holidays beckoned. I had probably taught an average of only ten hours a week for the past several months, but I was desperately in need of an exotic vacation.
The following week, to mark our two-year anniversary in Japan, Matt, Blake and I caught a slow boat to Shanghai.
16
The importance of being identical
I got my third year in Japan off to a flying start by achieving something that had, until then, seemed impossible. I found myself a girlfriend.
I was still on the rebound, having not fully recovered from Mariko Kitamura’s ‘just good friends’ speech, and in hindsight I should perhaps have taken things a little more slowly, or been a little more cautious, when I bumped into Chie Matsumoto in an inner-city bar on that fateful summer’s evening. Neither of us were sober, and I lapped up her breathless assurances that I was tall and handsome and looked like Ben Affleck. I handed out my contact details and made amorous promises that we would meet again the following weekend for dinner.
I was still hung-over the next morning when Chie called to remind me of my romantic invitation and to further remind me of just how attracted to each other we had been the previous night. ‘We had so much fun dancing together. It was such a great time,’ she exclaimed in a smoky, raspy voice.
‘Err … okay. So where exactly did I say we would go for dinner?’
‘Oh, I see, you’re trying to tease me. You promised to take me to a Mexican restaurant. You do remember, don’t you?’
I could not remember anything of the sort. ‘Ah yeah, that’s right. A Mexican restaurant. I didn’t promise anything else, did I?’
Chie didn’t answer. ‘Don’t forget, Friday night at Shinsaibashi Station. I’m really looking forward to seeing you again,’ she said.
I sighed as I hung up the phone. All my friends now had girlfriends. I was sick and tired of being the only single guy in the group. Perhaps I should take Chie out for dinner. What was the worst that could happen?
I paused. It was possibly best not to tempt fate by answering the question.
Dinner with Chie turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable. She had dressed up for the occasion in designer clothes, accompanied by a designer handbag and sparkly designer jewellery. We chatted and laughed, and discovered that we had several mutual interests. Chie had always wanted to travel to New Zealand, and she listened intently to my stories about life in Christchurch and holidays in the countryside.
‘I think you’re very handsome,’ she said smokily during the main course. ‘You have lovely eyes.’ She winked seductively and stroked my hand.
I blushed, and stammered out a feeble compliment in return. ‘Ah, you have nice hair.’
We held hands for the rest of the evening, and Chie kissed me goodbye when we parted company. I felt happy and pleased
with myself as I rode my train back to Tondabayashi.
I met up with Chie again the following weekend and we dined at a flash inner-city restaurant. She sported yet another designer outfit and we laughed, drank expensive cocktails, and then danced the night away at a trendy nightclub.
A week later, we met again for our third extravagant meal together. Chie sparkled with diamond earrings and a matching bracelet. We drank fine wine and ate imported seafood.
I was enjoying this experience of high society, and was visiting much more exclusive establishments than I ever would have with my drinking buddies. I was therefore rather unpleasantly surprised when, during our oyster hors-d’oeuvre, Chie suggested we spend the next afternoon on a shopping expedition to a cheap men’s clothing store. ‘I want to buy you some clothes,’ she enthused. ‘I want to give you a present.’
I was tempted to recommend that we instead pay a visit to the local Armani store, where Chie would be more than welcome to select the latest summer suit for me, or perhaps some Italian leather shoes. In the event, though, she choose a pair of skatey pants and a light brown T-shirt, both manufactured in China. I must admit, though, that I rather liked her selection, and felt cool in my new threads.
‘You should wear these next weekend,’ Chie suggested. ‘I want to take you somewhere special. It’s a place called Harvest Hill. It’s a picnic area. I think you’ll really like it.’
‘Sure,’ I agreed happily. It would be nice to spend a summery weekend outside in the fresh air.
‘Great!’ Chie clapped her hands together. ‘I can’t wait. Make sure you wear these new clothes. You’ll be the coolest guy there.’
The week passed quickly. On Friday Chie sent me details of how to get to Harvest Hill and where to meet her at the adjacent train station. ‘Don’t forget your new clothes,’ she reminded me. ‘You look so handsome in them.’
Under the Osakan Sun Page 24